A Man Named Dave

up! Wake up, you miserable piece of trash! I’m not through with you yet! I know exactly what you want!” Mother hisses. “So, you think you’re so smart? How about … instead of sending you to your Uncle Dan’s this weekend, maybe I should have the boys go instead, so you and I can spend some private time together? Bet you didn’t think of that one, did you?”
    I know by the sound of her voice that I am supposed to respond, but I can’t.
    “Oh, what’s the matter? Does the little insect have a sore throat? Oh well, that’s just too bad!” Mother smiles. I can see her lips moving, but I can barely make out what she’s saying. After another quick squeeze, Mother lets go of her hold. Without permission, I rub my neck, gasping for air. Somehow I know she’s not done with me – not yet. A second later I nearly lose my balance as Mother snatches the broom from beside me. I automatically tighten my upper body. “This,” she says, “this is for cheating on your chores. I’ve told you a hundred times that you are to get that miserable butt of yours up and working before I get up. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
    I hesitate, not knowing how or if I should respond.
    “I said, is that clear?”
    “ Yes … ah, yes, ma’am,” I stutter in a hoarse voice.
    “Tell me, what is your name?” Mother asks as she tilts her head upward in a show of supremacy.
    “‘It,’” I answer in a sheepish tone.
    “And what is ‘ Its ’ function?”
    “Ta … ta … ta do … do as you command and stay outta … outta trouble.”
    “And when I say, ‘Jump’?”
    “I ask, ‘How high?’” I reply without thought.
    “Not bad. Not bad at all!” Mother leers. “But I do think It requires another lesson. Perhaps this will teach you … teach It….”
    I can hear a swishing sound. I brace my arms for the impact. My upper body is rock solid, but I have no way of telling which direction the sound is coming from. A jolting thud strikes the side of my neck. My knees buckle as I turn inside the doorway and lean against Mother’s body. Without thinking I reach out to Mother. Her eyes shine with pleasure. She slaps my hands away. As my feet slip, my head jerks backward. I can feel my throat collapse the same way it did when Mother had me swallow teaspoons full of ammonia. I fight to swallow a breath of air, but my brain is too slow to respond. My eyes lock on to Mother’s. “So, do you still think you can fly?”
    I glance down and see Mother’s hand in motion. A moment later I can feel myself floating, my arms flung above my face. Suddenly, a rush of air fills my chest as the back of my head smashes against the staircase. I reach out, but I can’t stop my body from bouncing backward down the stairs. At the bottom of the staircase, my chest heaves; I want to find a bucket and throw up. At the door above me, Mother bends over with laughter. “Look at you! You’re a hoot!”
    Her face becomes taut. In an ice-cold voice Mother says, “You’re not even worth the effort.” With a jerk of her hand she flings the broom at me, then slams the door shut. My only form of protection is to close my eyes. I don’t even bother to turn away or cover my face. I can hear the broom topple down the stairs before missing me completely.
    Alone in the garage I let go and cry like a baby. I don’t care if Mother, or anyone else in the world, can hear me. I have no dignity, no self-worth. Rage slowly builds inside my soul. I clench my hands together and begin taking my frustration out on the floor. Why, why, why? What in the hell did I ever do to you to make you hate me so much?
    With every blow I can feel my strength drain away. The whitish-yellow garage light begins to fade as I lose consciousness. Without thinking of Mother catching me, I lie on my side, pull my shirt over my face, bury my hands between my legs, and close my eyes. Before I pass out, I clasp my hands together and mutter, “Take me.”
    “Wake up! Wake up, I tell you!” My eyes flicker open. I’m trapped in a mental haze as I stand in front of Mother in the kitchen. I have no idea how I got here. And somehow I know it’s almost time for me to run to school. My mind struggles to recall why I keep losing track of time.
    “I said, wake up!” Mother barks. She leans over and slaps my face. I’m fascinated that I can no longer feel the pain. “What in the hell is wrong with you?” she asks with some concern.
    Forgetting who I am, I rub my face and reply, “I dunno.” Immediately I know I’ve just committed a double crime of moving and