Red Abyss Insatiable - II. Value and Worth - Part Four

And to my fellow Earthlings... it continues.

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            Red Abyss Insatiable - II. Value and Worth - Part Four

 For your read-along or read-alone pleasure, I present to you the transcription:

 

  Alexander’s angry episodes were only an expedient to more venting.  To young Aden Walker they were altogether insignificant, truly nothing to dwell upon.  Even the polar extremes had been too infrequent to waste any time with.  They were essentially harmless, the complicated effects of an overworked father who probably felt unappreciated, who spent half of each twenty-four-hour cycle in a loud grey factory with other men who were just as overworked; Aden knew this because Alexander brought him along to the factory once, telling him to work hard in school so he wouldn’t have to do the same kind of work.  As a boy, Aden didn’t necessarily love who his father was, but he in no way hated or despised him.  Alexander was his father, and as far as Aden knew, father’s sometimes lost their tempers.

     During his childhood, everything in life was simplistic enough to be placed into categories such as good and bad, right and wrong.  During the transition between being a child and entering puberty, however, Aden stumbled upon a very peculiar experience.  It was his first taste of surreality, however dim and disturbing its bitter flavor.  It stole him away from his previous, childish notions and pushed him into a place of mystery and misery, a place without absolutes.

     The very first time Aden had undergone this experience was on a weeknight during summer vacation.  He was carefully walking up the stairs, carrying a full glass of dark red juice.  Naturally, out of his caution to prevent a spill, his footsteps became slow and quiet.  Aden hastened after reaching the second-story hallway, scuttling between the master bedroom on his right and the restroom he and Angelica shared to his left.  A little further and he was located between his and Angelica’s chambers.  As Aden walked through the shaded hallway, he caught a glimpse of a shadow from within Angelica’s bedroom.  He turned and saw the figure of his father.

     Alexander’s back had been turned, and his head was down, almost at a ninety-degree angle.  Aden didn’t think anything odd at the time.  “Hey dad,” were his choice of words, a quick hi-and-bye.

     Alexander jolted and then looked up and over without turning.  He twisted his neck so as to see the one who addressed him.  Upon making eye-contact, Alexander smiled, saying, “Oh!  Hey Aden, how you doing?”  His breathing sounded heavy, and as Alexander stared with his neck twisted and his back turned, Aden felt disgusted.

     It was during that silent moment when Aden realized something was happening.  Observing the details, Aden put the pieces together; it was in the sweaty glaze surrounding his father’s face, the forcefulness of the smile, the location of the man’s hands, the semi-darkness and position of Alexander’s body, and the way the man’s back had been directly pivoted so that Aden couldn’t see what he was hiding.  The robe Alexander wore was like a blanket, covering all but the man’s feet.  “Well?” questioned his father.

     “I’m doing fine,” replied Aden.  Distrusting the quality in the man’s gaze, he quickly left the conversation by entering his bedroom.  He was sure to close the door behind him.  A few seconds were spent in remote quiet, the image still clear in his mind of his father’s hands--and the objects they were holding.  This mystery was different than the other of life’s riddles, more like a crack in the foundation beneath Aden’s very feet.  Not a game, not a game at all.

     He asked himself the questions:  What was Alexander doing?  Why was he in Angelica’s room?  Was he masturbating?  If so, why did he leave the door wide open?  And again:  Why was he in Angelica’s room?  But Aden shrugged it off.  Surely, it couldn’t have been what it looked like... things like that just didn’t happen.

     But about a week after the first incident, while he and his sister were downstairs watching television, Aden happened to hear the faint footsteps of somebody walking from room to room on the second floor.  He thought, perhaps incorrectly, that he heard a knee pop.  So he told his sister he was going to the restroom and there was no need to pause the VHS tape.  He ascended the stairs.  He did so quietly (some would probably say sneakily).  The restroom door was ajar and the light was on.  He knew where Angelica was, and he also knew that his mother was out shopping, which meant only one thing:

     Alexander was not using the much larger, adult restroom located in the master bedroom.  Insofar as Aden was concerned, this broke the untold rules of the household, assigned dos and don’ts that had been silently established over the years.  It was strange, and literally infrequent.  Aden was almost positive that Alexander had in fact never used the “kids’” restroom before.  But he was in there.  It was an actuality.

     Aden peeked through the wide crack and saw the unmistakable stature of his father.  Just as last time, it was Alexander’s back that was visible, his head down focused on something directly in front and below him.  Aden looked down to see what his father was so dearly focused upon, and what he saw was the pair of his father’s hands gripping tightly onto a thick white towel.  The towel was grinding back and forth, back and forth, peculiarly close to Alexander’s groin.  Alexander’s entire body was moving, ever so subtly, and the breathing was quick, and it was harsh with effort.  Aden had seen enough.  He knew exactly what his father was doing.

     He stepped back, unsure of which action to take.  So he stood there thinking, thinking for too long, until finally the restroom door opened and Alexander stood looking down on his son, the robe open in front so Aden could see the man’s bare stomach and chest, as well as the man’s tighty-whities.  Alexander raised his eyebrows in a mock-gesture of surprise, and then laughed.  “Hey Aden!  What are you doing sneaking around?  You tryin’ to scare me?”  He made his way around Aden, but before he crossed the hallway to the master bedroom, he lifted his hand and rustled Aden’s hair.  “I’m just kiddin’ around.”  Alexander receded into the master bedroom before the door closed and locked.

     Aden could feel the blood rushing to his face, out of disgust or out of anger he didn’t know.  What he did know, was that he felt sick, and his hair was wet where his father had touched him.

     Somewhat sticky.

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Next Part (To be Updated upon Availability)

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Red Abyss Insatiable - II. Value and Worth - Part Three

And here we are, at the top of that coaster, anticipating the fall. And we're excited! 

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            Red Abyss Insatiable - II. Value and Worth - Part Three

  

Transcripts for your read-alone or read-along pleasure:

  The lifestyle didn’t change all at once.  In fact, the changes were slow coming, the seeds surreptitiously planted early on.  It would take years of fertilization and other such necessities in order to grow and spread like a cancer, undetected until it would be too late.

     Scattered within the majority of those past days--days when everything ran smoothly albeit an argument here or there--were the minority of days; days when the hours were laden with destructive deeds.  Aden’s father, like anybody, had a temper; but unlike just anybody, Alexander oft had trouble controlling that temper.  Aden’s family happened to be one that believed in the obligation of certain remedies, such as physical punishment.  But there were differences in method, to be sure.  For instance, Emily’s rendition was very sincere:  When one of her children spoke out of line, she would give them a daunting shake of the head followed by the words, “Get the belt.”  The children, when receiving their punishment from the belt that they themselves went to fetch, understood the reasons behind the punishment, and even when they didn’t agree with it, Emily made herself clear, accompanying the physical dealings with an earnest explanation.  Aden couldn’t speak for his siblings, but he himself felt he had a good understanding that the few lashes he received from his mother were earned by his own poor decisions.  As a result, however stern Aden’s mother would portray herself to be, anger was not present, and so fear was never part of the respect given.  But of course, Emily wasn’t the one who had trouble controlling her temper.

     When Alexander punished his children for misbehavior--which could have ranged anywhere between a disrespectful slur and the sound of the children’s laughter during his attempts to enjoy a television program--he went to go “get the belt” himself, often times coming back with a wooden spoon, or a plate, or a chair, or a screwdriver, or anything at all that wasn’t attached to a wall.  He would then throw the item regardless of how big or sharp it was.  Alexander would often miss, but sometimes... unfortunate proceedings would occur.  Anger was riddled in with his extremities regarding “everyone” and “no one,” and time frames such as “never” and “always”.  The pain released from Alexander’s fury was something to fear.  Punishments from Alexander were often times misunderstood, and so the intensities seemed erratic.  Aden didn’t learn to respect his father like he had his mother; his sense of compassion and responsibility towards Emily was something of aspiration, while his obedience towards Alexander had been bred of terror.

     There was one specific instance that stood out vividly in Aden’s mind as the singular, prime example of how these events would transpire:

     Ariel was absent, visiting a friend’s, and so it was only the four Walkers who ate at the dinner table that night.  Some time after dinner, Aden poured himself a small bowl of cereal for dessert.  He sat at the empty dinner table and scooped up a mound of sugary crunchables.  As he ate, Angelica pulled up a chair and sat across from him, drawing in a sketchbook.  Together, the two of them sat in peace while Emily tidied up the kitchen.  The room was quiet, and the people present, although acting apart, were very much together.

     And then from up the stairs, a knee popped to alert them of his coming.  Alexander stepped around the corner without his glasses, his eyes sunken in, the hair upon his head still damp from a shower.  He was sporting a red wife-beater and grey sweats.  The energy was in his appearance, in the very way he walked, and the first thing he did was stand behind Angelica to twirl his fingers through her hair; he did it in a way that was clearly bothersome, going so far as to create inexplicably high-pitched piggy noises with a vinegary, scrunched up face.

     Angelica said, “Stop it.”

     Alexander mocked, “‘Top it, ‘top it!”

     Now little Angelica repeated herself, lifting her hand to swipe Alexander’s away.  “Stop it.”

     Alexander continued, getting into the groove, moving his legs now along with his fingers, repeating his chant:  “‘Top it!  ‘Top it!  ‘Top it!”

     Angelica must have reached the end of her personal ultimatum, for she slid out from her chair, raised her arm, and sent it down harshly through the air, hard enough to leave a little girl’s red handprint on her father’s bare shoulder.  The sound of the slap caused a pause in everyone’s behavior:  Emily stopped washing dishes; Aden stopped crunching; Alexander stopped his juvenile dance; Angelica stared up at her father with a look on her face filled with pure defiance.

     For that instant, the world stood still.  Aden didn’t perceive it in the moment, but years later, he would return to this memory and see the courage like fire in his sister’s eyes. 

     But courage isn’t all that’s necessary to win a battle.

     Alexander lifted Angelica quick as lightening flickers; the sound her body made when he threw her upon the couch was like the inevitable thunder that follows.  Suddenly the world spun, and Aden could feel his heart beating as his father hit Angelica wildly on the buttocks, on the back, on the shoulder.  His syllables accompanied every strike:  “Don’t... You... Ev... Er... Fuck... Ing... Hit... Me...!”

     In the background was the weak voice of Aden’s mother, of Emily saying what she always said in times of Alexander’s rages:  “Lexi.  Lexi!  Alex, stop!  Alex... Alex!”

     But of course, he never stopped.  Do words alone stop fires?  Do words alone stop cyclones or tsunamis?  The world was spinning, and not much of anything could have ceased the damage, especially not words.  The only thing that could stop Alexander in that situation at that time was Alexander himself.  Even Aden in his boyhood knew of such a truth.

     The rampage finally ended with Angelica running away crying, running to her room to be alone, running to be free from the fear of Alexander’s demands.  And so she left.  But Alexander was still angry, and if he ever yelled or struck out at Emily, Aden never saw it, which left him as the one available target.

     Sitting across from an open sketchbook with a half-eaten bowl of cereal was little Aden Walker, who felt afraid, who felt a shiver all around his body as the man stomped back and forth.

     “I’m sick of this bullshit!” roared Alexander.  “I’m sick of these kids who never do jack shit other than bitch and complain and take and take and take!”  The man stopped and spotted Aden.  Eye-contact had been made.

     Aden felt instant guilt, realizing his crime of overindulgence, or maybe of insulting the man’s wife by eating after the man’s wife had cooked, or maybe he was staring the wrong way, or maybe--

     “Here’s a goddamn kid who--!”

     But Aden only heard that initial statement spill from the man’s oral cavity.  He sat thinking of himself as the goddamn kid who watched helplessly as the man pointed a finger at him and roared his hatreds towards the woman in the kitchen.  Aden sat silently, wanting to get up, to throw away the rest of the food and get away from there, but at the time he was afraid that by doing so he’d be blamed for wasting food.  He just sat and saw and heard, anticipating whatever should come.  It was all he could do.

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Next Part: II. Value and Worth - Part Four

Though this segment begins the downhill slope of unfortunate events, I do hope you have... felt something towards it.

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