Basorexia

Tumwater.

H U N T E R

Tyler. That was the only person I could think about, and I hated it. He had a permanent spot reserved in the back of my mind, even when he was the last person I wanted to think about. I had to get away to try and get him out of my head, seeing him so close to Mayson showing so much affection to him made me sick in a way. I didn't mind Mayson living in our parents' house, it was that he was changing Tyler into his old self, and it was beginning to affect me.

Tyler didn't know where I was going, and it was a good thing. Shortly after he and Mayson took off for the airport, I had hoped in my car and drove in the opposite direction. If he had known I was heading to my biological father's house, he would have done everything possible to stop me. I didn't need to deal with his attitude right now. I didn't have the best history with my father but continued to try and keep a relationship with him after I left. There was a part of me that thought he would come around, eventually being the father I needed. Tyler’s parents were great. They had become my own and I loved them like they were my own, but something in me wanted the father I grew up with to be there the way his parents were.

After a distasteful visit I had with him over a year ago, Tyler made me promise to never see him again. I promised him, but - I've never been a truthful person before and didn't have a reason to start now. Hope and I didn't share any true blood relation. Very few knew that we were nothing more than stepbrothers. We decided to let people think we were half-brothers because even when we told them the truth, they never believed us. We got tired of correcting them. Tyler and Hope were half siblings through their mom, but each had a different dad. One night when my mother was travelling, she stopped at a local bar in Tumwater. My father drugged her and ended up getting her pregnant. She grew up from a family that believed if you were to get pregnant, it was best to stay for the child. Once I was born, the abuse got worse for my mom and eventually made its way onto me. My mother would constantly swear she would leave him every night. I fell asleep to their screams and the sound of glass breaking.

When I was eight, my mother applied for a new company, which was Tyler’s dad’s company. She got the job and quickly fell in love with him. Within the next year my mother had an ugly custody battle over me with him. They had made an agreement under the table that my mother would get full custody if she didn’t mention the abuse my father had put us through. It was my nineth birthday when we moved out and moved in with Tyler’s family. It all felt like a dream. I got back in contact with my father when I was eleven through f*******:. We only talked about once every month; I always started the conversations.

Apparently, Hope's father died when Tyler was three and their mother died when he was six due to a car accident. Hope was adopted by Tyler’s father and stayed with him when her mother died. Hope had no blood relation to me, she Tyler's half-sister and my stepsister, but none of us ever brought that up. The connection we shared between the three of us was stronger than blood. Hope was the oldest, I was the middle child, and Tyler was the youngest.

My father was never in the right state of mind. He lived up in Washington in this town called Tumwater, a small town of 200,000 people just a distance from Seattle. My father was the stereotypical, asshole southern man; even though he never lived in the south. My mother constantly reminded me of stories of the abuse, encouraging me to get my own restraining order against him when I turned eighteen. I told her I did, but I didn’t. I have a scar over my chest that raced down from my right shoulder ending between my chest muscles. No one knew the true story of how I got it, but the police report said my father got drunk and got too close to me when I was a toddler. I don't truly know why I came down to see him, but the last time I ever laid eyes on him was when he was on trial for parole for assault when I was fifteen. While being up in Washington he asked about the family, but I didn't want to speak to him about them. All I told him about was they were fine, and I came to see if he had dropped dead yet.

A lump formed in my throat as I put my truck into park, staring at the small cream-colored mobile home in front of me. I told myself this would be the last time I would see him. I wouldn’t come back... I told myself this every time I came. Tyler's words ran through my head "He's never cared, he never will care about you like I do". My father swung open the rusty metal door, staring out at me. We locked eyes. His hair was gone, leaving a smooth bald dead behind. He had always remained fit, using his appearance to strike fear in others. Shutting off my engine he turned around and walked in, leaving the door open behind him. “My son returns.” I heard him yell as the trailer swayed slightly when I stepped in. The floor creaked when you walked, the weight having done work on the support beams through the years. The distinct smell of burnt foot and bourbon stuck to the walls, reminding me of my childhood. The home was practically unchanged. Same furniture, same flickering light bulb, same asshole of a dad.

I found myself a seat on the couch, running a hand through my hair. “How you been?” I asked him, attempting to make small talk. He shrugged, letting out a long sigh.

“Drinking, f*****g, enjoying the good life.” He laughed, sitting in his leather recliner. The leather had begun to peel off in numerous places, he had tried to cover it up with a blanket draped over it. “How ‘bout you huh? Still playing football huh?” he asked, searching through his cigar box. “When you go pro it better not be nowhere hot ‘ight? I don’t want to live where I sweat every time I go outside.”

Since I started playing in high school and my father got word that I was pretty good, he had this preconceived idea that he was own something. He felt that since he got my mother pregnant, he was entitled to a reward for all the hard work I did. I never had any plan to give him anything, but I learned from a young age it’s better to let him talk than tell him he’s wrong. “Still livin’ under that roof with your mother?” he asked.

I simply nodded my head in response. Since I had entered, I said no more than three words to him. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know why I was here, why I always came back? Leaving here I never felt good, it didn’t reward me with anything, but I still came.

"I never understood why you stayed with that pathetic little family". He laughed between the puffs of his cigar. I could smell the hint of blueberry from the Caribbean tobacco. Here it goes. Every time I came, he would always bring up my family. He would talk about my mother, then move onto everyone else in the house. He would judge their jobs, their looks, and everything else he knew about them: as if his life was any accomplishment. He would eventually circle it back to me. He would mix his compliments for my achievements with claims that I haven’t done enough. That there is someone out there doing better than me and how he wishes he was their son. He went on for ten minutes straight, bashing everyone.

"… and to think your w***e of a mother thought she could keep you from me. Ha" he said with a smoker cough, his laugh quickly becoming coughs for air. I didn't have memories of my father's abusive behavior towards us, and I was lucky for that. I knew my mother took a lot of the beatings for me, I had seen the scars on her body that she tried to hide under clothes and makeup. Through it all, I knew I was much happier with who my true family is now. We had a huge suburban house that sheltered us better than this rusty shack every would. Every small accomplishment was praised no matter what it was about. There were never any preset expectations on what our lives were to become. My parents pushed me to be what I wanted to be, they always said if I wanted to quit football I could. Although they worked a lot, they always provided for us and kept in touch.

"Shut. Up." I said through my teeth. My patience thinning as the seconds passed. I looked up towards him, the first time we had locked eyes since I got out of the car. "What did you say to me boy?" He said standing from the recliner across from me, towering over me, but only because I remained sitting. He flicked his cigar between his fingers, not caring about the ash that landed on my jeans. I stared as the ash floated down, slowly looking back up towards him. He believed that simply because he was my father, I was to always show him respect. To always answer him as he called and address him only as sir.

"I said. Shut up" I repeated, slowly standing. My tall six-foot figure now towering over him with my height. His hand shoved against my chest, pushing me back down onto the sofa behind me.

"You better remember whose house you’re in son.” He spat, some of his saliva landing on my face.

I couldn't hold back anymore.

"No! You listen to me. I am not your son!" I screamed in his face using all my strength to shove him over the coffee table and onto the brown carpet below. "Your blood may run in my veins, but I will never be your son! I will always be twice the man you are and if you ever come never me or my family, I'll put you six-feet deep myself." I threatened him. As he had fallen, his glass bottle shattered against the coffee table and a piece flew up cutting into my palm. It sung, but that didn’t matter right now. I didn’t care about the cold, red liquid that dripped from my fingertips.

For once I was above him, he was the one scared and fearing for his life. It was no doubt my anger issues and violence were from him, but that's all he will ever have the pleasure of knowing I inherited from him. He could continue to walk me from a television screen as I pursued my dreams, but that would be the only time he would ever see me. Legally he was not my father and I planned to start living like that. I stared at him, taking a mental picture of how he looked up at me. Afraid for his life, the same feeling I get from all my childhood memories.

It wasn't long before his face truly disgusted me, and I could look at it no more. I grunted, pulling out the sharp shard of glass from my palm and throwing it aside. With that I left, storming out the front door, refusing to turn back to my childhood home. I took a deep breath, letting only a single tear roll down my cheek. I quickly whipped it away before anyone could see. I climbed into my red pickup truck and punched the steering wheel with all my strength. I felt the sharp sting from my hand, the cut continued to bleed. I got napkins from the center console, pressed them against my palm to soak up the blood before driving away and out of Tumwater. I didn’t care to get it looked at; the skin would heal on its own. The bleeding stopped after a bit. The only place I was heading now was towards the boy that would never get out of my head, Tyler.

I had decided to stop and stay at a local motel just on the outskirts of Tumwater. Being this far out made it less likely that I would run into my father. I didn’t trust myself. I knew that if I ran into him once more, I wouldn’t be able to control my anger. I would send that man to the hospital and quite possibly kill him. I knew quite well what I was capable of with my strength, but my bad temper is what made me dangerous. I had hurt people before. I had hurt Tyler before. Since starting high school, I wanted people to fear me. The bad boy persona and girl crushes came along with it. I didn’t want to get close to anyone after the life I had lived. I didn’t have a reason to want to keep people close. Partially because I knew I would likely be the one to push them away.

Tumwater was only an hour and fifteen-minute drive from Seattle. I knew Tyler and Mayson and his brother would get there tomorrow morning and I would come in shortly afterwards. Until then, I would find ways to waste my time around the town. I knew tomorrow, things were going to be different.