Matching Scars

Matching Scars by Tahmir Brown

My name is Jesse Knox, and I am an alcoholic. (But, I prefer liquor connoisseur). 

“Hello Jesse,” the group says in unison. We all sit in a small circle, our legs crossed, waiting for the next generic speech. Someone will most likely stand up and say how horrible they used to be and how they want to be clean, some shit like that. We are a small cult of drunks being badgered by a square shrink who tells us everything will be okay. Everything will be okay. 

 “Jesse, would you like to share?” Mr. Hall says.

(Uh, absolutely not). I know I am forced to. My mother wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. The same woman who had shoved me into our small car and dumped me here. As the car tugged us here, she lectured with glossy eyes that I couldn’t go down this road. That a twenty-year-old boy shouldn’t be blacked out drunk on a Wednesday morning (which, I would argue, is mini Friday). According to her, I’m ruining my life and I will end up a dead beat. I would argue that my life has already been ruined. My mom was afraid I would turn into something she has seen already. That I would become disturbingly familiar to her. “You’ll turn into…,” She went to say something else but the words never found their way out. The letters trapped under her tongue, forgetting the route to her lips. But we both can taste them.

“Whenever you’re ready, Jesse,” the shrink says, sweeping his hand towards the middle of the circle. “The floor is yours.”

Thanks, Mr. Hall, I give him an ass half-smile. For some reason, I don’t like this shrink. Maybe it’s the way his tie is neatly knotted. A simple blue pattern, one that matches his socks. His mopey wife probably gifted him the tie when they were young and full of glee. Maybe it’s his plastic smile that spreads the rumor of safety. Maybe it’s because Mr. Hall works in a building with a sign plastered at the entrance that reads A New Start! in big glossy letters. Maybe. Just maybe, it’s because I envy him. 

I adjust my legs under the silk pillow and begin my story. I was seven. Snot nose shit just like any other seven-year-old I guess. Just like any other seven-year-old kid, I smashed food into my face. I rolled around in the grass until my jeans were stickered with green accents. Like any seven-year-old kid, I cried when my mom said I couldn’t stay up or when my father pinched me for the times when I cried. I was a seven-year-old who liked coloring outside of lines. A kid who liked laughing until their stomach panged with pain. I liked other kids. Just like any other kid, I had a silly crush on another kid. 

I didn’t think too much about it at seven. I just knew I always wanted to be around them. So they became my best friend. We played together every day at recess, slipping down the steaming metal slide, taking turns catapulting off the swings, and telling each other secrets. We’d whisper in each other’s ear quiet messages. “My mom hasn’t been home for two days,” they’d say. I’d tell them how all my daddy did was drink alcohol. (Well, he called it happy juice). 

One day, at recess, my best friend challenged me to a race. We started at the slide and would finish at the gate that encircled the school. We flew past the jungle gym, hopscotch markings, and the monkey bars (Of course, I won). We clutched our knees with our tiny fingers, trying to gather oxygen. Everything around us had evaporated. It was just us alone (Now that I’m thinking about it, we were pretty romantic at this age). I decided to make a move on my best friend and hold his hand (What, for a seven-year-old, that is a move). I held Dean’s fingers in my hand. I stayed there for a moment, enjoying the warmth of them. He reciprocated, delicately clutching my hand. We stayed still, together for a beat enjoying each other. Being happy little fucks, not hurting anyone. Just being seven. 

I survey the room to make sure everyone is still engaged in my story. They sit comfortably on their pillows with their necks craned towards me. They patiently wait for the traumatizing moment that made me befriend booze (Yes, this is true. Booze is my bestie). They wait impatiently to discover what has landed me here. An immigrant shipped to America promised a new beginning, hoping for one (But let's be real the American Dream is definitely a scam).

I continue my story. Turns out my mother and father had come to get me out early and had seen me holding my crush’s hand, they (as in my father) were furious. I guess holding a boy’s hand is frowned upon.

The car ride home was suffocating. Neither of my parents talked. My mother, who would usually twist her neck toward the backseat to ask me about my day, instead she stared out of the window, trying her best not to pluck open the door and fly away. My father, with both hands, squeezed the steering wheel tightly. Periodically, his eyes lasered in the direction of the rearview mirror and he would grit his teeth, causing the car to shoot down the street. I closed my eyes and thought of a happy place. My mind skipped back to when I was holding Dean’s hand. How I wanted to do it again. How his hand laid on mine and slept peacefully. The thought of his hand quickly squashed by another face, my father’s. I went to sleep.

 I had always been a troublemaker, putting toilet paper in the urinals or writing bad words in a textbook. Standard little shit stuff. Most of the time it would buy me a good scolding from my mother or several lashes with my father’s belt. When we got home, my mother quietly ordered me to my room. Just before I was able to trudge up the steps, she hugged me tightly, my tiny chest drummed into hers. She let go silently as my father yelled her name from another room. My parents rumbled around downstairs while I prepared for some sort of punishment. I was still confused about what I had done. My father stumped up the stairs and shoved my door open. Then he beat me. 

I stop there to let my words sink in but not with everyone else, but with myself. I inhale the stale air in the room. My father had beat me plenty of times before (because as in previously stated, I was a little shit). I let my eyes rest for a bit. I try to let my body recollect itself, I am confused about why I can feel my heart echoing in my ears.

“Take your time,” Mr.Hall says. He doesn’t pity me, instead, he has sympathy for me. He feels bad because unlike him, I need a break from my story. I continue, ignoring his sentimental gesture.

The whipping was standard, nothing out of the ordinary but it felt different. When my father swung his belt, in his eyes was not anger. In his eyes lived fear. His hands trembled and when he spoke his voice sounded as if something were stuck in it. One of his strikes bruised my arm leaving me with a scar that accompanied me through middle school (In my opinion, I looked pretty badass). I laugh pushing away something else. 

It was right here, I say, holding up my arm like a battle wound. One that legitimized me. The scar healed and slowly disappeared but to this day, I can still feel it. Hidden underneath my flesh and bones the scar lies and will never go away. It has spread throughout my whole body, infecting my soul. Whiskey serves as a short time antibiotic. It just makes shit easier. And yea that’s my story. They all clap in unison (Yes, I do take a bow).

I let my weight sink into the plush pillow, remembering my father’s face. What was he scared of? Me? No, that’s silly, I was seven (I did not yet have my beer gut). Maybe he knew. Seeing me hold Dean’s hand, seeing how much I enjoyed it. He knew. The very fact scared him. Terrified that his son wasn’t normal. That his son wouldn’t live his life in harmony with a nagging wife or little shit kids. Frightened that his son was different from the other boys who played football (Scratch that, half of them are on the DL). He knew. Petrified that at his son’s wedding both the bride and groom would wear suits (I’d look pretty sexy in a dress). My father was afraid of something, the fear cut him deep and left an imprint. A battle wound but one that didn’t look cool, only served as a reminder. One that scarred him, deep. My father and I have matching scars. 

I zone out, thinking about the sign hanging from the ceiling of the building. I think about Mr.Hall’s blue tie. I can no longer feel the pillow under me. My hands begin to tremble. I slowly slide them underneath my body. As I have slid that moment underneath my mind. Hidden but alive. Not visible but still there. After my father had beat me he didn’t lecture as he usually did. His feet quickly separated from my room as if he had seen the boogeyman (He told me that the monster ate bad little kids). I heard a door slam. I stop because I am not sure I want to remember. Not sure I am ready to seek what has been hidden. Not sure…

 The group begins to clap in unison. A man has just finished his sob story.

I shoot my mom a text begging her to come and get me. I go to call but I hesitate, then I spew some nonsense that I have learned my lesson and never again will I ever drink (I add the crying face emoji and five exclamation marks for emphasis). My father’s cries accompany me as I wait anxiously for her arrival, I need a shot.