A Man Named Dave

“When you think about it, it’s really not that difficult to understand, David.”
    For years I had believed if I ever confronted Mother as an adult, she would finally have to grasp the magnitude of the problem. I never meant to be vengeful. Part of me became concerned that the moment Mother realized the depth of her actions, she’d have a heart attack. But now Mother was carefully rationalizing her actions, guarding every word, making her treatment of “It” seem like nothing more than a parent disciplining a disobedient child; brutalizing “It” had not only been justified, but necessary.
    “But why me? Was I really that bad? What did I do that was so wrong?”
    “Oh, please,” Mother said. “You may not remember, but you were always getting into everything. You could never keep that yap of yours shut. From one end of the house to the other I could always hear you wailing, more than Ron and Stan. You may not remember, but you were a handful.”
    Mother’s testimony made me recall when I was four and how scared I was to speak. When my two brothers and I played in our bedroom, if I became too excited, Ron would cover my mouth so my voice didn’t carry. Later on I was controlled to the point that I had to stand in front of Mother, with my chin resting on my chest, waiting for her to give me permission to speak so I could then ask her if I could go to the bathroom. More than once, with Mother towering over me, she’d contemplate aloud, “Well, I don’t know what you want from me.” Even then I felt trapped. Before I could ask her for approval, she would snap her fingers as a warning, as if I were a pet that required to be broken in. With my knees locked and my body weaving, sometimes I’d urinate on myself, which only sent Mother into a further rage.
    Had that been Mother’s way of disciplining me initially? Maybe I was too much for her to handle. Mother could have as easily picked on either Ron or Stan; it didn’t really matter. Maybe Mother singled me out for something as simple as the irritating sound of my voice.
    All I could do was think of Stephen. As I did, the outline of a child sprawled out on Mother’s kitchen floor in a pool of blood suddenly became my son. Seeing my reaction, Mother’s eyes flashed with pleasure. Once again I allowed her to feed off my emotions.
    With my hands slid under my legs, I wanted to jump up and scream into Mother’s repulsive face, “You twisted, sick bitch! I was a toy for you to play with! A slave at your command! You humiliated me, took away my name, and tortured me to the brink of death, because … because my voice was too loud?”
    Breathing heavily, I continued to rage to myself, “Do you realize what I can do to you now, at this very moment? I could wrap my hands around that swollen neck of yours and squeeze the life out of you. Or make you suffer slowly, ever so slowly. I wouldn’t kill you right away, but I’d strip away the very essence of your being. I could do it. I actually could.” I’d kidnap Mother, take her to some dingy hotel, lock her in a room, and deprive her of all the things that sustained normal life – food, water, light, heat, sleep, contact with others; I’d make her life hell. Afterward, I could tell the police that … I just flipped out … from some sort of post-traumatic stress from my treatment as a child. For once I could throw everything away and … become like her.
    A freezing sensation crept up my spine. Oh, my God! I warned myself. With my wrist beginning to tremble, I wondered, Am I insane? Or were my thoughts normal considering what I’d been put through? Suddenly the light dawned on me: it was the chain, the chain linking me to my mother – a person who for whatever reason had become possessed with so much rage that over time the emotion grew into a cancer, passing itself on from one generation to the next … leading to my son in a single beat of my heart; I could become the person I despised the most.
    Closing my eyes, I erased the thought of revenge and flushed away any feelings of hatred that I held against Mother. I could not believe the intensity of my rage. Taking a slow, deep breath, I cleared my head before raising my face and staring into Mother’s eyes. For my own peace of mind I told myself, “I’m never gonna be like you!”
    How different Mother looked to me now. To me as a child, in some ways Mommy was a princess, reminding me of Snow White. Her bright smile, her kind voice, and the way Mommy’s hair smelled when she had wrapped me