Left Drowning(101)

Chris drank a ton of water and ate well last night and this morning because he knew he would need to stay hydrated and need as much energy as he could find. He is seventeen years old, going into his senior year of high school, and he is strong, he reasons to himself. Mentally and physically. He can let this crazy bastard do what he needs to because there is no other choice. So when his father announced after breakfast that “it’s time to get to work,” Chris felt as prepared as he could be.

Rote, exhaustive, pointless tasks are his father’s preferred method of torture. Long hours prove a capacity for physical endurance, or so he says. The lashes and getting knocked around are not typical, though. This could be a very bad day, Chris knows, but he finds comfort in his belief that the others will not be touched. His father’s attention will be only on him today; he can feel that.

So far it’s been three hours, hardly a record. Eventually, this will end.

When the heavy blocks have been moved to his father’s incomprehensible degree of satisfaction, Chris is instructed to put his back flat against the wall and kneel with his arms out. Most important, he is to watch while his father continues to design the nine-foot-tall metal sculpture that occupies the center of the room. He is to watch while the artist lights the blowtorch and while he passes far too close to his eldest son. The heat from the flame can be felt with too much clarity, and Chris repeatedly tells himself that his father would not actually burn him. It’s the game that the artist likes, the taunting and the terrorizing. The utter exhaustion he causes. The breaking.

But I will not break, Chris screams in his head.

It’s been a while since Chris has had to prove his stamina like this, and he curses himself for having slacked off on working out. He is already worn out from the past few days, and his legs are shaking as a searing ache runs through his quads. Eventually his father has him stand up fully and raise his arms out to the side. The smell in the room is noxious, chemicals and burning metal. It’s adding to his queasiness. His arms are past the point of hurting. They tremble, but Chris will not let them drop, especially not while his father still holds that blowtorch. There are risks worth taking and risks not worth taking.

Chris is not sure how long he spends in the studio with his father, but his vision is blurred as he is led out of the room, so he knows it has been a long time. That first hit to the head was probably harder than he realized. He is taken out of the house and across the property. He is given instructions and then kicked in the direction of the ocean. It is when his father kicks him that Chris hears a small sound that is cut short. Before his father has a chance to make sense of the noise, to understand what it is or where it came from, Chris distracts him. He turns boldly to his father and finds the courage to mouth off. “What the hell is the point of this?” He earns a third hit to the head and double the task ahead of him. He has also spared the others. Getting caught hiding in a tree could be very bad for his siblings.

Before he returns to his madness in the studio, Chris’s father reminds him that he will be watching periodically. There will be no rest and no varying from the routine.

Chris walks ahead, relieved to be on his own for the rest of the afternoon, despite what he still has to do. He looks up into the tree and manages a smile. “It’s all right.” Chris knows it’s not all right that he is almost seeing double, but that will pass.

“Chris?” Sabin is crouched on a large branch against the trunk of the tree, and he has a firm hold on Eric and Estelle, both of whom look ungodly confused and terrified. The twins are not that little anymore—they are in middle school now—but they are not used to this. Chris and Sabin have protected them too much, so when they do see the truth, they freak.

“It’s okay, Sabin. He’s gone. I’m going down to the beach for a while. Why don’t you take Eric and Estelle to the movies? And dinner. Just grab your bikes and get out of here. Come back later tonight.”

“I’m not just going to leave—”

“Sabin, don’t! It’s not that bad this time. I promise you.”

Sabin pauses. “You sure? I don’t have a good feeling.”

“It’s almost over. Go on. I don’t want you guys around, or I’ll just worry. Please take them out of here. For me, okay?” He turns for the beach before his brother can protest.

“Chris!”

“What, Sabe?”

“Take this.” Sabin tosses down a red baseball hat. “For the sun.”

“Thanks, bro. Now go!”

“And here!”

Sabin drops two bananas into Chris’s outstretched hands. “Sorry. I didn’t think to grab anything else.”

“It’s all right, buddy. Thank you.”

Chris hesitates before putting on the hat. His father sent him out here in cargo shorts, no shoes or shirt. He’ll notice the hat for sure if he checks on Chris, but whether he’ll care or not is unknown. There are no guarantees, no rules. Chris decides it’s worth the risk because the sun is glaring today.

Chris scarfs down the bananas and then takes the two metal buckets from their spot on the boulder and begins. He starts at one end of the rocky shore, trudging through the heavy sand of low tide and into the salty water. The sting from the lashes on his legs is infuriating. This is a shitty enough day, and it would be slightly more manageable without the added pain. He berates himself for cracking that concrete block. He is strong enough not to have stumbled. Chris fills both buckets and walks to the other side of the shore where his father’s property ends, and dumps them out. He reloads and repeats the walk. This might not be so bad. Despite the circumstances, Chris loves the ocean. The smell, the sound, the view. It’s sensory overload, and it might help divert his mind, let him dream and fantasize about the good things that might come in the future. After this, everything will be exceptionally wonderful.