Momma

Momma always told me I was such a good little helper. Those pats on the head. Those hugs. My heart was a stone warmed by the high noon sun of Momma's kindness. But I didn't understand. Momma wasn't the only one in our rundown, bleached-paint single wide. And my father was not nearly as compassionate.

I am told that other children received toys and candies for their birthdays. I didn't. Lashings, cuts, bruises. All those were my presents. And what a lucky child I was. My father would come home some nights smelling like the bar. Other nights, he wouldn't. Some nights, I slept. Other nights, I couldn't. Momma told us to hide when he came. Which was silly. We only had three rooms in that trailer house. Of course he would find us, sooner or later. And hiding only made it worse.

That man. Yellow, broken teeth grinned in the darkened room when he found us. Those empty, bedamning eyes hardly moved when he glared at us. We weren't even there. Whatever demons he thought he was battling, his own children bore the brunt of his pointless crusade. The belt or his hand, it didn't matter. I learned to hide when I saw the outline of his greasy, main through the window. A closet was not my refuge. My mind shielded me from each wound. I hid in that golden box my mind crafted for me. No horror reached me there. I watched him throw around Momma. Just picked her up and flung her into a cabinet for some minute reason. Momma would begin her weeping when his car pulled into the driveway. Sometimes, she'd wince when any car drove by. When the man wasn't around, I'd leave my golden box to go to her. I'd pull on her sleeve and beg.

"Momma, let's go."

"Go where, sweet thing?"

"Anywhere."

We never went.

But then it happened. I was twelve when things became worse. He struck her, throwing her down. The smack echoed in the cramped space. She just lay there whimpering. I couldn't see her face through those beautiful auburn locks. My little brother cried in the corner of the room. My father ordered us to stay quiet. He reached down, grabbed a tuft of her hair, and began to pull her back up. She pleaded with him.

And that was it. I leapt out of the box in my mind. I rushed at him. I helped Momma. I helped Momma. My little brother muted in an instant. Momma struggled to stand up, looking at me with wide eyes. Oh, those beautiful hazel irises thanked me with their teary, translucent stare. She reached for the landline. People came. Men came. Large men entered our home. My brother and I rode in a pearly white car. A man with glasses spoke to me. They never asked me if I helped Momma. We stayed with a new mother and a new man. I only saw Momma a few times. They took away her apron and flats. She only wore orange when we talked.

Eventually, my brother and I grew up. We grew apart, as siblings do. He went his way and I went mine. I didn't help anyone until my final year at college. Surrounded by all these jackals and hectors, the anger that appeared when I heard the way they talked to these women. These ladies. They deserve your respect, you cad. But I didn't do anything. I retired to the golden box. I kept my head down. I studied other languages, other cultures, other worlds. Their men weren't such beasts of burdens. Why can't you be like that? Those boys cat call at ladies or make them laugh with underhanded jokes meant to bluff. Flirtations hid those animals' true spirit. I thought nature would take care of them. Evolution or another process would pluck these neanderthals from among us.

But then it happened. I was leaving the tutoring center one night, finished with study for the evening. And I heard the shriek. My head swiveled. There, right under the light of a street lamp, stood two people. A young lady and a brute. He was holding something high in the air. The lady tried reach for it, but he'd jerk it back at last second. She demanded it back. But he laughed haughtily and refused. She protested more, only provoking more guffaws from the oaf. No one else sees this?

And that was it. I was called from within my golden box again. I threw down my books. I had to. No one else would. I ran to the lady. I helped her. I helped Momma. We stood there, in the orange light, staring. She said nothing. The young woman didn't even say thank you. She snatched the purse she had lost from my hands and retreated. But that was all right. Momma thanked me. I gathered my things and continued on to my dorm.

My first job after college suited me well. I helped the local librarians with their tasks. Stacking books, organizing shelves, dusting here and there. That place truly felt like home. Not my home, but an actual home. The older ladies welcomed me each day when I showed up to help. They appreciated me for helping. I helped. Sometimes, one librarian couldn't reach the top shelve or another would need someone to carry the book return bin to the back counter. I could do it all.

I didn't even need the golden box. The toys of my childhood were left in it to gain dust. Seldom would a man enter into our library. And when he did, I simply moved to another section of books. Out of sight, out of mind. If they approached me with a question or some other annoyance, I slipped back inside the golden box. Everything was going so well. And then he came in.

He would stop by the front desk to speak with one lady each day. He'd lean over the desk, invading our space. They'd speak in diminished tones, but every once and awhile a laugh would puncture their conversation. I'd check on her every once and awhile, peeking out of my golden box. She returned his smiles and affections, but I could see the panic in her eyes. The cold, heart-throbbing dread. Each day, she'd laugh. But those crystal baby blues, undiminished by age, cried for help.

Each night at closing, he'd be waiting outside for her. They'd link arms and walk away. I'd spy over my shoulder while locking up. My sorrow for her grew deeper and deeper each time I watched him drag her off.

But then it happened. I couldn't do it anymore. Momma weeped in agony as each day repeated. He came in. He smiled. She laughed. Help me. They walked away. He smiled. She laughed. Help me. They walked away. I came up with a plan to help her. I brought out two boxes of books a few minutes before closing time. With both of them in my arms, I pretended to struggle and falter. He offered to assist me, which I of course accepted. I brought the man behind my car. Away from the windows, outside of the light.

And that was it. I sprung from the golden box. I helped her. I helped that poor old librarian like I did every day. I helped her. I helped Momma. I didn't need the lady to thank me. I merely got in my car and left. I never looked back.

I've helped many others over the years. I've helped mothers, daughters, sisters, girlfriends, wives. And each time I do, I help Momma. I'm a good little helper. No one understands that. I'm just helping people. No one wants my help. But, I'm too compassionate to not help. That's all I'm doing. Helping.

Does this help you, at all? Thinking that I'm on some crusade? I must remind you, doctor, I'm already in here for life. At this point, these sessions are more for you than for me. They're for the whole world, in a way. Everyone simply refuses to believe a monster such as I exists without cause. I just appreciate the chance to practice my storytelling. I'm not a sick man. There is no golden box. I knew I wasn't helping; I killed those men. No, I don't care about reasons. There's no rationalizing the past. My father was who he was. Oh, my Momma? I've never even met the woman.