My Blood On Your Sheets

My mother always said: A plant that isnt pruned will grow wild and useless.

I was the tree they pruned down to a stump.

From the age of five, I learned to keep my joy locked downit was getting ahead of myself.

I couldn't cry when I was bulliedbecause, as my father said, Flies only land on open sores.

If I scored an A- on an AP exam, my parents would only ask, Where are the other two points? Are you getting lazy?

When relatives praised me for being quiet and polite, my parents would publicly cut them off: Shes acting. At home, shes as lazy as a pig. Dont let her fool you.

Over time, I learned to bury every single emotion, becoming the perfectly polished product they demanded.

The year I turned nineteen, my Aunt Carol secretly slipped me a crisp envelope.

Youre grown now, Jamie, she whispered. You need to start learning to manage your own money. For college.

It was two thousand dollars.

For the first time in my life, I didnt immediately hand over a gift.

That night, I woke to the sound of metal scraping metal. My father, Robert Davies, was using a screwdriver to pry the lock off my desk drawer.

He snatched the envelope, his eyes blazing with the satisfied triumph of a detective: I knew it. I knew you were acting strange. Youre learning bad habits.

My mother, Amelia Davies, then took a picture of the cash and posted it to the family group chat, The Davies Family Circle.

Jamie was caught trying to steal money from her aunt. This cash is tainted. Our family values won't allow it. We are distributing it to everyone here as an apology for her disgrace.

The screen lit up with scrolling Thank yous and praises like, Amelia, you know how to discipline a child!

I looked at the phone and smiled.

I didn't know then that it would be the last time I ever smiled in that house.

Smile? You have the audacity to smile?

My fathers hand came down, a wind-cutting whip against my cheek.

I didn't feel the pain right away. All I heard was the high, sharp whine of the slap echoing in my eardrum.

I stared, transfixed, at the phone on the coffee table.

The family group chat was still refreshing.

Aunt Leah: Your familys discipline is so strict! Kids shouldnt have cash, it just leads to trouble.

Uncle Brian: Wow, I snagged thirty bucks! Thanks, Amelia! But Jamie seemed so sweet. Guess she had a sneaky side.

Cousin Sam: Thanks, Auntie! Im using the money to buy a new skin for my game!

The screen was a carnival of digital congratulations and animated cheers.

They were happily snatching up their share, chatting away.

See this, Jamie? Open your eyes and look!

My mother thrust the phone inches from my face.

Theyre all laughing at you! Hiding a little nest egg, like some kind of delinquent? That two thousand dollars wasnt a gift from Carolit was a test!

Her spittle flew as she spoke, her voice rising to a frantic pitch.

If we hadnt found it, what would you have done? Used it for drugs? Gone out and done something truly shameful?

I leaned against the corner of the wall. My cheek was burning, and the whole side of my face felt numb.

Mom I tried to speak, my voice dry and scratchy, like swallowing sandpaper.

Aunt Carol said it was for college expenses. I just I wanted to be independent. I wanted to stop asking you for things.

Lies!

My father kicked over a small side table, unbuckled his leather belt, and snapped it through the air.

What kind of education does a morally corrupt person like you need?

His chest heaved violently.

You plot against your own parents! Whats next, murder? Are you going to come back and kill us in our sleep?

I instinctively hunched my shoulders and protected my head.

Rob, not the face, my mother said coolly.

She took a step back, giving my father enough room.

Its New Years Day tomorrow. I dont want to answer questions about a black eye in front of the neighbors. It reflects poorly on me.

I know. My father answered, and the belt rose high, coming down in a sharp, stinging arc.

One.

Two.

The metallic buckle smacked against my back with a sickening, muted thud.

I didn't make a sound.

I just kept my eyes wide open, fixed on the crystal chandelier on the ceiling.

The light was a harsh, sickly white, like a spotlight in an interrogation room, illuminating every wretched corner of this home.

When he was tired, my father tossed the belt onto the sofa, pointing a finger at my face.

Did you learn your lesson?

I slowly lifted my head to look at him.

Sweat and panic glazed his face. His eyes held the exhausted satisfaction of a violent release.

Yes, I answered mechanically, opening my mouth.

What was your mistake?

I shouldnt have hidden the money. I shouldnt have had private thoughts

I paused, and then added quietly, softly.

I shouldnt exist.

My mother, hearing the answer she wanted, kicked my leg.

Go write a full report. Two thousand words. You will detail where the money came from, why you hid it, and you will post it to the family group chat to apologize to all your relatives. If its not heartfelt, you wont eat tonight.

I held my phone, the screen light illuminating the swelling, bruised purple of my hand.

Suddenly, a new message popped up in the group.

Aunt Carol: Rob, Amelia, what are you doing? I gave Jamie that money.

The very next second, the group admin, Family Peace is Success, muted the entire chat.

Group admin Family Peace is Success removed Aunt Carol from the conversation.

My mother scoffed, putting her phone away.

Your Aunt Carol is an emotional fool. Enabling a child is killing a child. We will minimize contact with her. We dont need her bad influence.

A deathly silence returned to the living room.

My parents went into the kitchen to eat. The clatter of their silverware sounded warm and domestic.

I knelt on the cold floor, staring at the notification that my only ally had been ejected.

I felt something deep inside my body shatter, completely and irrevocably.

My finger hovered over the screen for a long time.

I typed a line of text.

Dad, Mom. You can keep the money. I dont want my life anymore.

My fingertip hesitated on the Send button.

I could hear their easy laughter from the kitchen.

The pot roast is perfect this year.

Did you remember to set out the gift baskets for the neighbors?

Why?

Why should I die, while they continued to live, peaceful and justified?

I deleted the message.

I posted a new one to the group: Mom and Dad were right to discipline me. I was wrong. The money will be used to buy everyone some snacks. Happy New Year.

The moment I sent the two-thousand-word apology, the group un-muted.

The blinding stream of thumbs-up emojis and such a responsible child praise felt like a series of sharp slaps against my remaining sliver of self-respect.

My mother held her phone, admiring her trophy.

See? Everyone forgives you.

Jamie, I only do this for your own good. You hate us now, but when youre older, youll realize no one in the world will teach you responsibility like your own parents.

Alright, stop kneeling, my father said, sitting on the sofa, fiddling with the screwdriver.

Go eat. You made a mistake, but were not going to starve you.

I stood up stiffly and walked to the dining table.

All that was left was a single bowl of plain pasta piled high with the leftover fatty scraps of the pot roast.

It was all the grease, the white, trembling fat that they had picked off their own plates.

Eat it, my mother said coldly. Dont waste food.

I looked at the plate and felt a spasm of nausea in my stomach.

I hadn't eaten fat since I was a child; it always made me sick.

But I dared not protest.

When I was five, I separated a piece of fat onto the table, and my father pressed my head down and forced me to swallow it back.

He said: Picky eating is being spoiled. No one in my house is allowed to have bad habits.

I picked up the bowl, used my fork to stab a block of cold fat, closed my eyes, and put it in my mouth.

I fought back the urge to vomit and swallowed the greasy chunk whole.

Eat slower. You look like youre starving, my father said with disgust. Zero table manners. Youre an embarrassment to take out in public.

I forced down the last bite of fat, suppressing a violent retch. Im done.

Good. Now, go make the appetizers. We have company tomorrow, so you need to finish the whole batch tonight.

I ignored the throbbing pain in my back and walked to the kitchen counter.

I picked up the fragile wrapper, trying to pinch the edges shut.

But my hands were shaking.

My palms were swollen like over-proofed dough, my finger joints were stiff, and my nerves were frayed. The slightest pressure, and

Pop.

The wrapper tore. The ground meat filling squished out, coating my hands in a slick film of oil.

Clumsy! My father exploded. He slammed the TV remote onto the table.

You cant even make a simple appetizer! Useless at everything you try, except stuffing your face!

He rushed over, grabbed the broken wrapper, and violently threw it into the trash can.

Are you doing this on purpose? Huh? Trying to spite me?

Look at your hands! As fat and useless as a pigs hoof! Did reading all those books rot your brain? You cant even fold dough! What good are you?

I lowered my head, staring at my swollen, trembling hands.

He was right. I was useless.

I wasn't worthy of the lean meat, I wasn't worthy of a gift, I wasn't worthy of a secret, and I wasnt even worthy of preparing a holiday meal.

Get out of here! My father pushed me away in disgust.

Dont stand here contaminating the rest of the ingredients!

I stumbled backward, hitting the refrigerator.

Im sorry, I apologized out of habit, even though the fault wasn't mine.

Go to the porch and reflect! Dont come back inside until midnight!

My father waved his hand dismissively, as if swatting away a fly.

I turned and walked toward the sliding door.

The moment I pushed it open, the biting chill of the winter air slammed into my neck, making me gasp.

But a small part of me felt a sudden rush of relief.

Finally, I didn't have to smell the sickening odor of rendered fat and stale discipline.

I slid the door shut, isolating myself on the freezing porch.

Inside, the lights were bright. My parents were wrapping the appetizers and watching a New Years special on TV, laughing heartily.

Outside, it was pitch black, and the cold wind howled.

I pulled out my phone and checked the time.

Eleven fifty PM.

Ten more minutes until New Years Day.

Dad, Mom.

You hated that I was useless.

So Im going to be useful one last time.

Im going to prepare your New Years gift.

Seven AM, New Years Day.

Jamie! Come cut the fruit!

My mothers voice cut through the door.

I closed my English vocabulary book.

The book was merely a prop. They loved to see me looking productive and ambitious.

Coming.

Several neighbors whod come to exchange holiday greetings were sitting in the living room. The coffee table was littered with snack wrappers.

Mrs. Rodriguez smiled warmly: Oh, look who it is! Jamies out! Its been a year, and youve gotten so tall. Youre such a handsome young man.

Handsome? Hes a block of wood, my mother said, smiling as she handed Mrs. Rodriguez the largest, shiniest apple.

The boys a fool. Hes useless at everything except burying his nose in a book.

Mrs. Rodriguez nervously tried to smooth things over: Being quiet is a sign of maturity.

Maturity, my foot! Hes just sullen!

My father sat in the armchair, crossing his legs.

Look at the expression on his face, like we owe him a fortune. Just last night I had to discipline him for stealing. Hes a wolf cub we raised thats ready to bite the hand that feeds him.

The smile on Mrs. Rodriguezs face froze. She gave me a look of pity.

Rob, hes a grown boy. You have to save face for him

Save face? Does he deserve it?

My father snorted, his eyes filled with contempt.

Go pour Mrs. Rodriguez some tea. Fill it to the brim. Dont be stingy.

I picked up the teapot.

My right hand was still swollen, and my fingers were stiff and unresponsive.

I trembled slightly.

Hot tea sloshed onto the tabletop.

Useless!

My father lunged up, slamming the back of my head with his hand.

DONG!

My head hit the sharp edge of the table. My vision blackened.

The teapot slipped from my grasp. Scalding water splashed onto my bruised hand, the pain sharp and sickeningly familiar.

I didnt move or cry out.

I just bent down to grab a rag and wipe up the spill.

You cant even pour a cup of tea correctly! What good are you?

Wed be better off keeping a dog. At least a dog wags its tail when guests arrive. You? Making a miserable face on New Years, who is that supposed to be for?

Mrs. Rodriguez stood up in alarm, her face pale.

Thats enough, Rob. Please dont hit the boy. I I have something on the stove. I need to leave.

She practically fled out the door.

The moment the door closed, the air solidified.

My mother glanced at me with distaste, taking the plate of peeled apples away.

Worthless. You cant even manage to greet a guest properly. Clean up the mess and get back to your room. Stop being an eyesore.

I picked up the broom, bent my back, and began slowly sweeping the wrappers.

Oh, wait, my father suddenly said, a hint of excitement in his voice.

Clear out your locked cabinet in your room.

I stopped. Why?

The lock was already broken, but the cabinet was still the only private space I had in this house. It held my journals, my sketchbooks, and the letters from Aunt Carol.

Why what? My father glared, annoyed.

Your cousin Sam is coming to stay for a few days. He said he likes that cabinet. Hes going to use it for his transformers. Get your junk out of there and put it in a box.

Thats my cabinet, I said, tightening my grip on the broom handle.

It was the first time I had contradicted him.

Yours? My father threw the remote, walking toward me. His finger poked my forehead again and again, forcing me to back up.

What in this house is yours? I bought the house, I bought the cabinet, and I gave you the very life you breathe! What right do you have to claim anything?

Clear it out now! Dont force me to lose my temper on New Years Day!

I was pinned against the wall, nowhere left to retreat.

Fine, I heard myself say.

He was satisfied and went back to the TV.

One last time, I thought.

I just have to hold on a little longer.

After tonight, Ill give you the cabinet. Ill give you my life, too.

I crouched in front of the cabinet and reached for the door.

I wanted to take out the journals and letters, at least destroy them myself so they couldnt be left here.

But when the cabinet door swung open, my blood ran cold.

It was empty.

The stack of journals I cherished, the sketchbooks where Id drawn my future, Aunt Carols letters they were all gone.

I scrambled out of the room like a madman.

Where are my things?! This was the first time in nineteen years I had yelled at them.

My parents were nestled on the sofa, laughing at a show.

Hearing my scream, they paused for half a second before their faces hardened.

What are you shrieking about? my mother frowned.

My journals! And the letters in my cabinet! Where are they?

I rushed to the coffee table, my whole body trembling.

My father slowly peeled an orange, not even looking up.

Oh, that trash? I told your mother to toss it.

Tossed? Something in my brain snapped.

Where did you toss it?

My mother shrugged dismissively: The bin downstairs. Who can remember?

Those journals were full of depressing, dark garbageall that talk about being suppressed and wanting out. It was a bad omen. And Carols letters were poison, telling you to break away from us.

That was my life

I whispered, tears suddenly flooding my eyes.

Those journals were the only confidants I had in countless silent nights.

Those letters were the last bit of warmth I had to cling to.

Your life?

My father flew into a rage, throwing an orange peel that hit my face.

Your life belongs to us! You dare to yell at your own father over a few notebooks? Youre out of control!

He grabbed the solid wooden folding chair from the corner.

Rob! Not his head! my mother screamed.

I didnt move to dodge.

This scene was too familiar.

At six, I ate candy given by a neighbor and was beaten until my nose bled.

At ten, I got second place and was forced to kneel in the snow all night.

At fifteen, I defended myself from a bully and was made to apologize to the aggressor.

The stool came down. The pain blinded me. I curled up on the floor, hearing his ragged, angry breaths and his curses.

Ill teach you to yell! Ill teach you to stare! I am your father!

My mother finally walked over and pulled him back.

Thats enough, Rob. Look at this.

She picked up my phone, grabbed my hand, and unlocked it.

In the notes app was a draft I hadnt deleted: Want to apply for grad school in Aunt Carols city. Get far away.

My mother stared at the line, then squatted down and shoved the screen in my face.

You wanted to run? You wanted to go to Carol? You wanted to abandon us?

She looked back at my father: Rob, the boys heart is poisoned. Hes not going to college.

My father, breathing heavily, nodded.

Study so much you think you can run? Youre going to stay here and get a factory job!

My mother dialed my college advisor right in front of me.

Hello, Professor Thompson? Happy New Year. This is Jamie Davies mother.

Her voice was tragically sorrowful.

We need to withdraw Jamie Yes, a mandatory leave. Hes had a complete psychotic breakstealing, violence against his parents. A severe mental crisis.

I lay on the floor, desperately trying to reach for the phone, wanting to scream, I didnt! Shes lying!

But no sound came out. My throat was raw with blood, and my shoulder was too broken to move.

Were afraid hed hurt the other students if he went back Expulsion is fine. His life is ruined anyway.

She hung up the phone.

Then, she opened the college Facebook group.

This is Jamie Davies mother. Jamie was caught stealing property and physically abusing his parents. He has extreme psychological issues and has been brought home for forced treatment. Please excuse any debts or improper behavior. We apologize for the trouble he has caused.

Send.

The screen immediately exploded with a stream of ??? and shocked emojis.

In that single moment, the carefully constructed facade of a normal, capable student I had built at school was shattered by her foot.

If I ever went back, I would be the violent, thieving lunatic.

She tossed the phone onto the coffee table and looked down at me.

Did you hear that? Youre going to stay right here, close to us. You wont go anywhere.

Oh, and tomorrow, were removing the lock from your bedroom door. You dont need privacy.

They turned off the lights and went to bed.

The room was plunged into darkness.

Only the fireworks outside flashed intermittently.

You want me to stay in this house forever?

Fine.

I crawled, piece by piece, back to my room.

I pulled out the red hoodie Aunt Carol had bought me last year from under my bed.

Id never worn it because my mother said red was too flashy and "unseemly."

I pulled it on.

In the mirror, my face was ghost-white, but the vibrant red gave me a fleeting moment of life.

I sat at the desk, spread a sheet of white paper, and wrote one line:

Dad, Mom, I finally became the child you always wanted: Quiet, obedient, and never leaving this house.

I took the utility knife and walked into the bathroom.

I turned on the water.

The water in the bathtub rose over my bruised shoulders and my chapped, cracked hands.

It felt wonderful.

I raised the knife. I didn't hesitate.

There was even a thrill of impatient relief.

I didn't feel the pain.

I only felt my body getting lighter, little by little.

The rules, the accusations, the beatings, the sheer weight of being their childit was all draining away through the wounds.

Outside, fireworks exploded.

It was morning.

It was the second day of the New Year.

Happy New Year, Jamie.