T R E M O R

a boy who will do anything to achieve his father's acceptance

I watched as my father opened his drawer and counted them. It almost seemed endless. I used to admire my father, for his bravery, his honesty, and his loyalty. But once that stick of death entered his mouth, my father became one of the monsters I used to lock away in my closet. I saw the way he glorified his process, his ritual. Every single day once the clock struck midnight, I observed him. He would take one out of his box, take the lighter my mother used to share with him, and light it, full with purpose and meaning. The first breath of smoke that blew out of his mouth, I imagined it to be a cloud of hopes and dreams he once had, but never had the willingness to pursue.

My father handed me a stick. I used to hesitate, maybe have a tremor or twitch here and there, but now I took it, realizing that it’s now the only thing linking our lives together. Grabbing the lighter on the desk, I lit it and tried to whistle the smoke into my mouth just as professional and meaningful as my father did. The smell of the smoke used to bother me, but I learned to fall in love with it. The smell usually masked the distinctly rotting smell the basement recently developed. But it didn’t stop me from sensing my father’s eyes bury deep inside of me. I could feel him being so proud of me because I was a man. Finally, a man who could take this painful burning sensation in my mouth. He used to tell me bedtime stories about how he could always taste the bitter ash burning his tongue. It feels so good to know that he wasn’t lying. But my eyes began to water, just as my lungs began to falter. I could not take it anymore, and so I spit it out on the floor, wasting a perfect stick and endured whatever punishment my father gave me. 

He grabbed me by the waist, swooped me over his shoulders, and carried me upstairs. I used to scream and yell, but I remembered that ended up getting me nowhere. Tucking me into his bed, I shut my eyes, took a deep breath, and awaited the taste of one hundred percent cotton to be forced into my mouth. But I was surprised when it never came. Today must be his good day. Other times, I would play dead just to fulfill his desires. He quietly walked out of his room, and I waited and waited for the footsteps to finally reach the bottom of the stairs before I could begin gasping for breath, quietly. The truth is that I could feel myself dying whether I was breathing or not. Waiting for my heartbeat to settle, I felt myself tremor and tremble, making sure that I knew that this was just one of those days. Some nights, I would force myself to stay awake, hoping my father would not catch me off guard. I would wait for the sunrise, hoping it would someday gleam anew and breathe new life into my father. I thought that maybe a tear or two would scream loudly to the heavens. I could almost hear a choir full of angels screaming my name, but I figured it was just the stick talking. My prayers ended up not being answered anyways.

The next morning, I tiptoe quietly out of his bed, noticing the glint of sunlight peeking through the curtains. Grabbing a chair to compensate for my height, I pick myself up to excitedly spread apart the curtains. I look out the window, admiring the sunny pavements and wavy trees. I look around the room, quietly making sure my father is passed out from the hardcore hangovers he would normally experience around this time of day. Having been so long that I’ve enjoyed such privileges, I quietly whisper to myself, tempting myself to take this chance. Instead I close the curtains, step down and lead myself downstairs. I served myself a bowl of mac and cheese, my mother’s favorite meal. After devouring a somewhat overcooked bowl of mac and cheese, I reach to the top of the dishes in the sink, astonished at how tall the stack had become. However, I was not surprised when a cockroach crawled out of the pile of overtly filthy dishes, stared me down, and crawled back in. Originally intending to swiftly enter my room, instead I find myself drawn to a beautifully drawn self-portrait. It looked like mother, because she was my mother. A lingering question relating to her disappearance never left my sight; I always wonder where she is. The last thing I remember of her was nothing but profanity slipping out of her mouth like vomit at my father near the stairs. I was too afraid to see what was going on, but all I heard after that was a bang and nothing else. Ever since then, he started smoking in the basement.

Overhearing my father waking up upstairs. I silently stride into my room full of toys from an era that is now long gone. Noticing the spiderman wallpaper adorning my room, I close my door quietly, trying my best to make sure my father does not know I’m awake as well. My mattress slumps in a cloud full of dust as I run on top of it. Suffocating, I hide myself under the covers, hoping he does not come to notice that I am awake. I almost choke when I hear footsteps right outside my door. I could hear him grab the knob, squeakily turning it. A drop of sweat drips down my forehead, hoping he does not hear the tremoring beats of my heart. My chest begins to hurt unbearably at the thought of him finding out. I quickly take peek, my eyes over the covers. He opens the door. His eyes are bloodshot, his forehead is sweating, and his lips keep quivering. He’s going through a withdrawal. He’s trying, I could tell. A part of me despises my father, who nearly abandoned me to rot under the falling dust in the corner of my room. The other part of me loves him for at least making an effort to love me, to take care of me. I miss how we used to be. I remember the times when he’d cradle me in his arms, blow on my belly button, and throw me up in the air. However, that is now replaced into things I do not ever want to relive. I just wanted him to be proud of me. However, I know in my heart that this feeling will not last much longer. I know that he will grow to accept my invisibility, and make his way back downstairs, into the basement for another round. “Not today,” I heard him mumble to himself. 

He exits my room, closing the door behind him. I pull myself out from under the covers and struggle for a breath of fresh air. I panic, digging my hands in my left pocket cradling my inhaler into my hands; a habit that used to calm me down. I push one gust of air into my mouth, hoping I would feel better. But I now feel nothing. I overhear my father grabbing the car keys, something he has not done ever since my mother left. My father barges into my room, picks me up, and opens the front door for the first time he ever has. 

I smile for the first time in what feels like forever. I breathe in the fresh air, admiring the feel of the sun on my skin and the wind on my face. A glow of sunshine warms the sadness, the fear, the uncertainty off of my face. My heart burns with an eternal fire. Although, the one thing that truly makes me smile is seeing my father. He raises and throws me up in the air just like old times. He snuggles me, making me feel like the happiest child in the world. The tremor that used to haunt me at night now tucks itself into a box in the corner of my room. I have found peace, for the first time. But as I watch him disappear I fall face flat on the grass. The sun makes it sunset, the breeze dies down, the grass disintegrates right under me, and my spiderman wallpaper forms walls around me. It was just a dream. I just wanted him to be proud of me, that I could take it, and be a man. Wanting the tremors, the pain, the hurting to stop, I cry myself to sleep, taking one last breath of smoke, hoping this time it would last forever.

Author's Note

I wrote this during my freshman year of high school. Out of the five stories I will have published today, I am most proud of this piece. It touches on every single thing I wanted it too, and I have never felt more satisfied.