Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (23 page)

Cringing,
Bobby stares into his lap. It may be awful, but he cannot help the
relief of having Gage here to tell him not to do anything rash.

I
feel less like the coward I am when he's here.

“
Am
I meant to leave her, or can she come too?”

Gage
glances at him from the corner of his eye. When he looks back, it is
not Bobby's imagination he will not meet his eyes square on.

“
It
will not matter soon.”

“
What
does that mean?”

Gage's
eyes drift to the beige blinds, the toothbrush holder, the mirror and
then the floor.

“
I
said what the hell does that mean?”

“
Nothing,”
Gage replies after a moment. “Soon you might not have a choice
in the matter.”

“
Oh
right, so you will drag me to this magical place without my consent?”

“
No,
I can't. And, I assure you, there is nothing 'magical' about it.”

“
Then
how—?” The words fall dead in Bobby's throat as another
crash comes from downstairs, followed by items smashing.

Scrunching
his eyes up in disgust, Bobby tries his best not to engage the
sounds. He tries ignoring them by talking faster, but he keeps his
voice to a harsh whisper.

“
I'm
no saviour; I can't even save myself let alone whomever you are
suggesting. It's ridiculous.”

“
Whatever,”
Gage replies with a motion of his hand.

It
is the last thing Bobby expected.

I
guess two can play that game.

“
What?”

“
Whatever.
Whatever I am suggesting.”

Bobby
repeats his last question, to which Gage nods and releases a tiresome
sigh. When it is clear the guy doesn't intend to reply, Bobby leans
his head against his forearms as he hugs his legs. He tries to blank
out his mother squealing like a
farmyard animal
. With his
hands pressed against his ears, Bobby rolls onto the floor where he
stares at the patterns in the floorboards.

The
familiar feeling of being here time and time again since Benji had
his accident creeps in. The intense pain develops below his ribs, and
he crunches himself tighter as vomit inducing cramps swell his
insides.

In
the foetal position, between bath and sink, Bobby prays for her to be
all right as Gage settles next to him again. He cannot help cursing
himself for being the
sissy
his father always tells him he is.

After
five minutes pass, he hears the heavy boots on the carpet outside the
toilet, followed by his parents' bedroom door slamming shut.

Bobby
pulls himself up using the basin for support, then studies the
bathroom door. It rattles in its frame, then stills. He considers
going to his bedroom, or to help his mum.

It
shouldn't have to be a decision.

Under
any other circumstances, he wouldn't think twice, but he dreads what
he will find downstairs. One day, he knows he will go to his mother
only to find her beaten beyond all recognition, or no longer
breathing.

That
thought gives way to the third option of staying here in the toilet
and ignoring everything.

Maybe
if I pray hard enough, all this will go away.

But
any decision he could make becomes moot when Gage speaks to his
right. When he turns to look around the room, Bobby doesn't come
face-to-face with Gage. Instead, he can only hear his voice telling
him to “go help.”

Bobby
stands with his fists opening and closing as he attempts to find
stillness.

“
Please
don't let that day be today,” he whispers before swallowing
down a hard lump in his throat. “Please.”

He
unbolts the door so not draw his father's attention if he hasn't yet
fallen asleep. When he pushes the door open with a slight moan, Bobby
stares at the door that his father lies behind. For a moment—one
small and unaccountable moment—he ponders what it would be like
to hold a pillow down on his unconscious and drunk face.

Hold
it over him until he stops breathing.

The
moment he hears a thick, congested snore come from inside, Bobby
pushes the thought away. He finds that sound is the only decent thing
about any of this.

He
will be out for hours now.

Thoughts
drift back of ending all for good, but at what price?

Could
I really just wander in there and kill him—my own father?

It
sounds reasonable in his head. Simple. Yet, the burden would be far
too heavy for him to carry.

Bobby
stops to peer over the banister at the debris. He understands why the
sounds jolt him so many times as he lies on the bathroom floor—items
are in chaos everywhere like usual.

As
he descends the steps, he acknowledges the ceramic pot in the corner.
Mud and the stones he and Benji collected on the beach leak from the
huge crack in its body. The glass window of the door leading into the
front room has shattered, leaving only a wooden frame and shards on
the carpet. The coffee table in the front room is on its side and the
magazines are scattered around the place.

When
he reaches the last step, he tip toes around the shards with only his
socks on. He avoids that door into the front room, hoping the door
through the kitchen is in better condition. But as he comes past the
telephone that has come loose of the cradle, he hears a noise over
the sound of the howler tone. It's a weak groan from the kitchen.

Entering
the kitchen, Bobby sees the fallen body of his mother. She is
releasing a croaking cough into her hand as she attempts to roll over
onto her side. Red spittle dots her palms, which she attempts to wipe
away as her puffy and drowsy eyes spot Bobby.

As
Bobby moves toward her, she raises her palms in a half-hearted
attempt to shield herself from him. When he whispers to her, she
drops her arms, but the hurt is evident. She mummers something
intangible as she retreats further into a ball and hisses when she
grips herself in a weak embrace.

He
avoids the fruit that has rolled onto the floor, skin bruised and
split like the woman lying beside them. He kneels beside her head,
where the magnet letters have scattered across the floor from the
fridge.

Bobby
tries to remove the hair from her eyes with one shaky finger, but the
sweat on her brow makes it difficult. When it comes away, he sees the
bruising already clustering her pale complexion. On her neck there is
also an array of bruises that makes bile rise in his throat. Many are
becoming purple, but the indents from his father's teeth are a worse
sight. The deep markings trail along her neck

From
the flare sleeve of her dress--hitched up over her thighs--are more
red markings. Bobby can even make out his father's fingers where they
have gripped hold. Her leg bleeds, and so too does her lip. Blood
streams travel down over one leg and onto the other. Droplets slap
onto the ground and from lip down to chin.

Bobby
gets to his feet and searches the counters for a kitchen towel. When
he locates one beside the kettle, he reaches for it over the plastic
fruit bowl. He wets it under the tap, then brings it back to his
mother where he dabs at her skin. The coldness on her wound makes her
flinch and produce a painful air sucking sound.

When
Bobby rests his free hand on her leg, he tells her everything is okay
and she relaxes.

Nothing
is okay, so why lie?

His
mother pleads with him not to help, or do anymore because she doesn't
want him seeing her this way, but what is the alternative?

“
I'll
help lift you now. I'll take you into the front room and we'll get
you cleaned up.”

Bobby
reads the protest on her face as a sour expression from trying to
scrunch her face up, but he ignores it.

When
he glances out the window, he can see the stars already twinkling as
the sky darkens. Their presence makes him wonder how long he was
hiding in the bathroom while his mother was suffering at his father's
hands.

After
allowing Bobby to try to lift her by himself, and seeing he means to
do it regardless, she gives in and helps him. She limps into the
front room with his arm around her waist, causing her more pain.

Once
he gets her settled at the table, he heads back out for supplies
because cleaning her up here is better than hustling her all the way
up the stairs close to that room.

This
is going to be a long night.

•

As
he picks up the magazines, he realises nobody would know what
happened if it were not for the marks on his mother's face now he's
cleaned up the mess. There is something distilling about that notion.

With
everything in place, Bobby spares a glance over to his mum. She is
lying on the sofa now, propped on two cushions. Her eyelids narrow in
their puffy and bruised state.

Her
ribs are also bruised. Judging by the wheezing and the grimace she
pulls each time she inhales, they are cracked. With her refusing
treatment and begging Bobby not to ring emergency services, all he
can do is hope for the best.

Whatever
that is.

Her
lip is swollen and sore, pouting as though a tumour is growing
beneath the surface. Bruising settles around her red, puffy eyes, and
Bobby cannot help picturing a Black Moor goldfish.

He
cleaned the cut on her leg and covered the wound with a bandage. Yet,
Bobby's worry is the pain she is suffering is not all physical, but
he is too afraid to ask. At one point, she asks him for her bag to
get her
Tramsay
, or
Tramacet
out. Unable to locate it,
he tells her he cannot find it, much to her disappointment. He
wonders what they are and why she would have them. Yet, as an
afterthought, he realises too well why she has them.

Are
they more anti-depressants?

He
wonders how much he knows about her and what she is going through,
which makes him feel like crap.

Dipping
his hand into his back pocket, he pulls out the leaflet Mrs Colby
gave him. He disappeared into his room to retrieve it from his bag
after cleaning her up, so he hopes she will do more than look it over
now. Yet, he knows what her response will be, but if ever there is a
time to give it her, then it is now.

“
Mum?”

Her
eyelids flutter as she tilts her head toward him.

“
I
found this today. I thought—” He loses his voice, so
hands the leaflet over.

She
takes the leaflet and rests it along her stomach, then tilts it so
she can read. After reading the title for a long period, she wraps
her fingers behind his neck and pulls him closer.

“
Oh,
Bobby. What a mess,” she says though the slender gap between
her dry lips.

To
his surprise, she tugs the blanket free from her body to slip the
leaflet into her dress pocket.