Silvertongue

“I hate you.” Did he actually though? He thought that he might.

“No, you don’t,” was the only response he was given.

And if he really didn’t hate his father, then how did he feel about his father? Did he like what he was doing? Was he okay with it? Should this be happening?

Timothy still didn’t understand what had happened in the first place. In this house, this home, a single thing, a single detail could flip the intensity in the room from one to one hundred in a matter of seconds. So, what small detail had triggered flipping the switch today?

“I do,” he scoffed, eyes narrowed towards the taller, lean man. He believed that he did. His lips were pressed hard in a line, forehead twisting in concentration and anticipation for another response. He was testing the waters today to see how far he would be allowed to take this. How far could he go? How far was he allowed to go?

If his father could put him in the pig pen like this, then clearly, Timothy should be allowed to express his feelings however he felt like it.

It still startled him how only a few minutes earlier he’d been cowering inside the house while his father stormed around, building the raging storm that was ready to make impact.

He had flinched, hazel eyes squeezing shut when the door slammed. The sound vibrated throughout the entire kitchen where young Timothy was perched, holding a small cutting knife and a shiny, red apple in his two hands.

The corner of the counter dug into his hip as he pressed against it, hoping that the alternate pressure would decrease the overwhelming weight pressing down on his chest. It only doubled the weight. At least the corner provided a bit of a distraction for even a little bit.

Unfortunately, it was not long enough for the sound of the door being whisked wide open again echoed into the kitchen, bringing alongside it a sense of dread. It was nothing new, however. Timothy had grown accustomed to this behavior from his father. Now, he made it a point to try not to react anymore whenever his father’s dark, hard eyes bore into his own.

“You,” the man before him was steadily staring him down, his finger stiffened straight towards Timothy. It was accusing, it was forward. The point was like a laser piercing through him, carving every part of him. As much as he felt like he wouldn’t react to his father’s taunting and his aggression, Timothy couldn’t help but quiver in fear, anticipating whatever it was that his father had in store for today.

“Get out,” he would say, his voice collected and calm.

There was one thing that Timothy would never understand about his father. The man had the pent up aggression of a bull seeing red, yet he seemed to always be so steady. His voice - the indicator of his anger - should have either raised a pitch or should have lowered into a deep growl. But, his father’s voice did neither. Instead, his accented voice remained the same octave it normally did, the same tone that he regularly spoke in.

It sounded like all was fine.

But, all was not fine.

Why his voice would not give away the tempest inside of his father, Timothy would never know. But, it was all revealed always in one place - the man’s eyes.

Those cold, dark eyes were sick with delight. The kind of deranged madness only someone in the close family would be able to recognize. Of course, there weren’t many others that could come and spectate on the family troubles. No one knew that his father’s cold eyes never changed, that there wasn’t an ounce of warmth in him. They wouldn’t be able to recognize that he wasn’t just a reprimanding father, that he demanded respect from his children and commanded his home like a strong, father figure should. No, he was so much more than that.

Timothy’s father was a delusional man that only saw one color.

Right now, Timothy was the main focus of his rampage. What had caused it? He didn’t have the answer to that. The pattern had turned out to show his father reacting madly to new things every other day.

With his voice steady and his posture straight, Timothy was able to mutter, “Dad, why?”

He talked back. He hadn’t meant to. Immediately, his lips were pressed firmly together, heat rushing up to his cheeks. He didn’t have an explanation for anything that might have happened. What was his father so upset about?

Was it the sneaking out? He had gone through the woods the other day when his father asked him to milk the cows. He knew that he should be doing his work, but he’d gotten so distracted by the silver fish in the river. Their magnificent scales reflected rainbow colors in the water whenever the sun was out and Timothy had spent countless hours just staggering around in the river while attempting to catch a fish. It was only for a little bit and he didn’t think his father had even noticed his absence.

Perhaps it wasn’t about that outing and it had been about something else. Maybe it was about the photo albums he’d taken out of the shelf, the ones that showed a happy family of four instead of the two that were left behind in this house, forced to be together. And if it wasn’t that, maybe it was just because he hadn’t woken up on time this morning and had been late to make his father breakfast. There were countless different reasons, but none of them seemed particularly like the one.

His father stepped forward, the sharpness of his pointed finger now physically digging into Timothy’s chest as he repeated himself, “I said get out.”

“Dad, please,” he pleaded with his father, hands finally discarding the objects in his hand and clasping together in a gesture of humbleness and complete obedience. He knew he shouldn’t have talked back. While his father’s voice remained clear cut and even, Timothy’s was breaking into a soft croak. He didn’t mean to sound so pathetic.

Pink lips were trembling. The fear that struck his nerves could not pull back. His father would never...hurt him. No, they didn’t work like that. He was never scared of his father raising his hand and throwing it down on him. The fear present throughout his veins was due to something else, something worse than a blow to the face.

“Go, Timothy,” his father’s voice lowered into a growl now, presenting that frustration of being disobeyed like any other man might do if his child was talking back to him. Timothy involuntarily hunched further together, his small shoulders shrugging closer together. In a matter of seconds, the boy had succumbed to the pressure of his father’s heavy weight.

The two of them had never gotten along, even when the rest of their family was here. His father was never prominent in his life until his mother stopped being prominent in his life. And because he wasn’t present, the man didn’t know how to father his child without his wife.

“Dad, please, don’t make me—” he tried, eyes lifting to meet his father’s. But, as soon as contact was made, his voice died out and his eyes returned to the floor between them.

Timothy was shameful. His head drooped forward, the slope of his neck becoming more apparent as he staggered towards the door where his father had come from. There was nothing he could do or say to change his father’s mind. There was nothing he could do.

The door slammed again with a loud smack.

Timothy flinched again.

It was dark outside and apart from the bit of light coming from inside the house through the windows, there wasn’t much Timothy could see. He thought the silvery stars looked beautiful tonight, spread so evenly across the blanket of darkness above. The moon and the stars were out, watching and observant of the happenings down below. But, they were careless and irresponsible, letting it all occur without a care.

Timothy begged now, his voice filtering into a soft cry, “Dad, please, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll listen, I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you say. Please, Dad, just don’t make me go in there.” His clasped hands were pressed up against his chest as he pleaded his father. But, his father only grabbed him by the thin material of his shirt, shoving him forward.

There. He didn’t want to go in there. His father had forced him inside a few times before, but each time, he was just as fearful the first time it ever happened. He didn’t want to go into the pig pen.

Timothy tripped over his feet, struggling to stay upright as his father dragged him forward. He was dizzy with fear, drinking in the darkness so fast that the barn and the stables in front of him was a blur. The walk from the house happened too fast, giving him less and less time to make a move, to release his father’s grip, to loosen his father’s grudge.

Because this was all that it was.

A merciless grudge that Timothy should have had no part in. Yet, to his father, it seemed that the entire story revolved around him. It was a grudge severely misplaced. It wasn’t Timothy’s fault that his father was left to take care of him.

“I put my trust in you and you let me down, Timothy,” his father emphasized, pushing him forward. “You’re making me sick, son. My health is ruined because of you.”

The doors to the pitch dark barn were only slightly open. Soft murmurs of the animals inside could be heard but at this point, the buzzing of his own emotions were too loud in his ears to focus on much of anything.

“Dad, I didn’t—I didn’t—”

“What did I say about lying, Timothy?” his father warned, stepping in front of him now and releasing his grip to push at the doors of the barn. Timothy trembled, his eyes watering with a fresh wave of tears. His chance to move had come, but he found himself frozen stiff in front of the barn doors as his father grabbed a piece of thick rope, curling it around his fist. “Accept your mistakes, Timmy,” his father gruffly scoffed, staring him down as he beckoned him forward.

“It’s not my fault, Dad,” he tried. It wasn’t his fault. How could his father blame him?

His father laughed at this—a sardonic, disturbing laugh that filled the space and the air between them. It was the kind of laugh that rattled him to the bone, leaving Timothy’s spine shivering up and down. It was a laugh that would echo in his ears for next seventy-two dark hours. It was a horrible laugh.

Timothy further wrinkled into himself as his father pushed him further. Grass underneath his feet turned into dirt and hay. The smell of fresh early - perhaps, it was around three in the morning now - dew on the grass shifted to that of fresh manure. Most likely from the pigs.

“Dad, please, I’m begging you,” he cried, “Don’t leave me in here.”

But, his father didn’t listen to his pleas, forcing him down to the ground. His freedom was snatched from him. This was routine and one that Timothy would never get used to no matter how many times it had happened. For his father, the movements were robotic. He did do this often now. Deep down, he was sure that his father drew real pleasure from doing this.

The rope was stretched tight around his wrists, clenching tight enough to make any kind of movement painful. In a matter of moments, his father had used the rope wrapped around his fist and coiled it around Timothy’s wrists so that he was now attached to the pig pen. His long legs were splayed out in front of him as his shoulders and arms were pushed backward in an awkward angle. He was tied up, bound to the wooden post.

“Dad... Dad, please! Dad!” he yelped, he screamed. His father had shifted away, leaving his only son bound to the post, taking slow steps as he made his way to the doors again.

“I hope you learn your lesson, Timothy,” his father scolded him, standing in the doorway of the barn, allowing the last bit of light inside. “Once you do, we can talk,” he promised as if this wasn’t the kind of promise he had made and broken several times before.

Another cry slipped from Timothy’s lips as his father closed the door, leaving him in the dark with only the sounds of the pigs to give him company in the lonely darkness.

From the distance, the sound of the house door slamming shut echoed, muting the boy’s sounds. His lips pressed together and he did his best to try again. To try not to make a sound, to try to keep quiet and be the strong, disciplined son that his father required him to be. Perhaps if he really did as his father asked of him, he’d be let out sooner.

But, he wasn’t let out sooner. Instead, his father only returned in the early hours of the next morning to see if he’d “learned his lesson” as he was told once again. Timothy was left with only a glass of water and a small plate of eggs.

His father came again at night the next time when his stomach grumbled and he desperately called out for his father. Without being able to use his hands, Timothy used his feet to deter the pigs away from him. His feet caused them to squeal with panic any time that he nearly made contact. The noise attracted his father once again and the same conversation played out. He still wasn’t ready because he had not learned his lesson.

This continued for the next two days following that. It was a continuous tale of Timothy attempting to attract his father’s attention, but only succeeding in riling him up further. He was not released. What lesson was he supposed to be learning? Don’t talk back? Don’t make his father angry? Be obedient? He thought that he’d mastered the art of these requirements to be the perfect son for his father, but evidently, his father did not believe that Timothy had.

It was only on the third night when his father believed that enough was enough. Timothy only had one thing to say to him.

“I hate you.”

His father simply responded with a shallow, “No, you don’t.”

Timothy shook his head, refusing to accept it, “I do.”

He couldn’t quite be the obedient son that his father wanted him to be. It was impossible for his father seemed to believe that any step in the wrong direction was a direct attack on him and his character. It was an insult to his honor and dignity and, most importantly, it was a strike to his misconceived vision of himself as a good father. Timothy knew that his father believed he was doing the best that he could. It was unfortunate that his father’s best was very well the worst parenting that any child could receive.

His father repeated himself, “You don’t. You just think you do.”

Timothy cocked his head to the side, pushing his hands against the ropes around his wrists as he leaned forward to speak to his father, “And why would I think that? What have you done that would make me think something like that?”

He hoped his father would realize, would give him the response that he wanted. Timothy wished his father would take it back, would apologize. He only wanted everything to be normal between them. No more of this nonsense—this, this pig pen bullshit! His father must see that what he was doing was wrong!

Instead of giving a response, he simply crouched down next to Timothy, tugging at the ropes around his worn and torn wrists. They were angry and red from his constant struggle. The rope was frayed and tearing where he’d been bound and now with his father yanking at it, the threads further ripped apart. In a softer voice by his ear, his father murmured, “I’m sorry I had to do this to you, Timothy. You know I only want what is best for you and what’s best for our family.”

Everything in Timothy urged him to spit in his father’s face. He was so close, he could just do it. But, he didn’t. He couldn’t possibly do something like that, especially not right now. Instead, he mutely nodded his head like the understanding, respectful and obedient son he was supposed to be. He muttered a small “yes sir” while ducking his head down. Timothy wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t fight back. He’d do as his father wanted.

But, as soon as the ropes were untied, as soon as he was freed from this pig pen, everything would change. His father would have no idea. Sitting by himself for three days in the dark like he had gave Timothy a lot of time to think.

The only thing that came to mind was leaving.

It was time that he finally left all of this behind for good. No more disappointments, no more guilt. There would be no more accusations and no more fear. He could live freely without feeling as he was being pushed in a corner. That day would come, he wished. The day he would finally have his freedom always seemed so far and nonexistent. But, tonight, when the ropes were untied, he knew the day had arrived.

He was finally leaving.