Casting Shadows

I still have that drawing today. Actually, I still have all his drawings and paintings; and he would give me new ones all the time. I've even been collecting the little scribbles he leaves on notepads or napkins around the apartment, even the ones he throws away. His art is like footsteps, fingerprints, traces of himself that he leaves behind. What he creates and the way he does it makes me want to become part of it. Because it's always meaningful, it's always beautiful. Even the dark and the ugly.

He was shy about it. When my parents noticed the wall next to my bed slowly but surely getting covered in drawings, they assumed I had made them. They asked me about it one night and I said, in a whisper as though I was revealing a secret, 'Gerard made them.' I felt bad for telling but I couldn't possibly take credit for his work. My mom and dad were surprised and curious but when I hesitated to tell them more, they figured that it was something he didn't want them to know. I admired them for that. They realized that it was something he had decided to share only with me and so they waited until he felt comfortable sharing it with them.

For his birthday, my parents got him the newest Faber-Castell watercolor pencil set. The look on his face was priceless, and while my mom and dad acted as though they didn't know about his artistic talents, they couldn't hide a knowing smile. They never pushed. Instead they encouraged. When there was something I was good at, they made sure I knew they were proud of me, they made sure I knew they would support me, yet they left it entirely up to me to find out whether it was something I wanted to pursue or not. They did the same with Gerard and it worked; on Mother's Day, he gave my mom a drawing of a flower. Just like that. Needless to say, it moved her to tears.

The progress he had made in just eight months was remarkable considering what had happened to him in the first seven years of his life. For me, who was so happy and proud that I was able to make it a little easier, that I was able to be exactly what Gerard needed, it was simple to overlook that he still struggled. I was too focused on the good and refused to see the bad sometimes. Or maybe it was because I still didn't understand.

Some nights, after being woken up by a nightmare, Gerard would sneak into my room and sleep on the floor next to my bed. I'd wake up in the morning and almost step on him. I then started sleeping on one side of the bed so he'd have room to lie down on the other but he never did.

He used to hit and bite himself all the time although it did become less frequent after the first few months. Now I know that he did it to bring himself back whenever he started 'losing it'. Back then, it upset me so much that I would start crying. I really don't know if I was just so disturbed by it or if I thought that it would make him stop. Both, probably.

Then one day at school, this boy pulled my hair. Not in a playful way. He yanked it hard, almost making me fall. I yelled at him, calling him an idiot or something. So he pushed me and I landed in the dirt. Gerard came running over and I expected him to punch the boy in the face. I was scared, wishing he hadn't seen what had happened because I was so sure he would lose his temper. Instead, he helped me up and made sure I was okay before stepping toward the boy, his fists clenched behind his back. I couldn't hear what he said to him but the boy turned around and ran away. And he never bothered me again.

*

I don't remember what I said to the boy back then. It also didn't matter. All that mattered was keeping Skeeter safe. And for the first time ever, our roles had reversed. I found myself protecting her. I found myself taking care of her. It was an unusual position I was in but I embraced it. As a child who had been the target of angry and abusive parents, everyone always expected me to be just as angry and abusive. No one would have even blamed me, statistics and all. Sometimes I could literally feel the tension when my foster parents waited for it to happen, but it never did. Even though I never felt the urge to needlessly hurt anybody, my biggest fear was and still is, to be just like my dad. That the violence was programmed into me. That whatever made him sick enough to do the things he had done to me, was in my DNA and it was only a matter of time before the disease took over and then I would do the same things to somebody else. Probably somebody who was just as helpless and innocent as I had been. After all, his father had made him this way too. My nightmares were never about me getting hurt again, they were about me hurting others. Often I was my dad in my dreams, and it was horrifying.

After waking up crying, I'd steal into Skeeter's room. There I'd curl up on the floor, too scared to sleep next to her in bed just in case I'd turn into a monster and hit her. I couldn't let that happen.

Sometimes I was reminded of it during the day and I'd get so worked up about it, it felt as though I was losing my mind. For the sake of stopping a panic attack or an angry fit, I often hurt myself. It was better than hurting someone else, right? And for someone who had fought so hard and so long for survival, I didn't care an awful lot about what happened to me. Yet whenever someone close to me was in danger, even if the danger was completely improbable and irrational, I would feel very protective. Just like Seth and Lucy, yes even Skeeter, had felt protective over me. But instead of realizing that it was normal, I was convinced that it was my way of tricking myself into being a good person, despite my 'disposition'. That I was doing it only to suppress the urge to hurt them. Doing the opposite of what I really wanted to do in order to cure myself of the disease that lay dormant deep inside of me.

The first time I ever tried to explain it to my therapist, I was around ten. I didn't expect her to understand but she did and tried her best to make me see that I was in no way doomed to be like my father. She made me write a list of characteristics I already possessed that distinguished me from him. After a rough start, the list spanned over multiple pages. And yes, I still have that list today. Every now and then I use it as a reminder. Stupid, right? Skeeter says I don't need it, and she's probably right. I can't bring myself to throw it away, although it doesn't always help. I'm still scared. And I realize that it's not other people waiting for it to happen. It's myself.

I still wake up crying sometimes feeling like I should get out of bed and sleep on the floor like a dog. I shift away from Skeeter, moving to the edge of the mattress. But then she grabs me in her sleep to make sure I don't fall.

Truth is, if someone ever hurt or even attempt to hurt her, I'd kill them with my bare hands and without any remorse. And she would do the same for me.

So that's probably what I told the boy. I probably told him that I'd rip his fucking throat out if he ever touched Skeeter again.

Notes

I feel like this is a super short chapter but I'm gonna post it nonetheless because I wanted to update today. You'll get another one on sunday :)

Have a great weekend!