Preston

THE PLASTIC SHEETING UNDER me crinkles as I breathe,

refusing to let my body do any more than lay there and take

it. The sharp inhale of breath and the clenching of my jaw is

the only indication he gets that he's bothering me.

The scalpel pierces the skin of my abdomen while I lie on

our dining room table and stare at the intricate pattern on

the ceiling's whitewashed copper tiles. I knowthere's

exactly fifty-two squares up there. I've laid on this fucking

table more times than Ican count. Probably more times

than I've sat here to eat since this is the formal dining room;

we don't normally eat inhere. No, this room is only used

when Father is trying to impress someone.

Blood tricklesdown my side and onto the plastic. The burn

as he slices through myskin in that controlled, smooth

motion has my body dampening with sweat and starting to

tremble. I close my eyes to focus on my breathing, slowing

my heart rate, and convincing my muscles to relax.

"Why are we here, Charles?" My father's matter of fact

voice interrupts my breathing, just like he knew it would.

Because you're a sadisticfuck who gets offon cutting up

your kid for some perceived mistake that somehow brings

shame to our name?

The cutting motion stops, though the scalpel is still in my

skin, and Father looks at me. I don't need to look at him toknow it. I hesitated too long so now we have to drag this

out. What I wouldn't givefor a hit of fentanyl or morphine

right now, but since I'm drug tested regularly and have no

reason for them, I can't have them. The privilege of pain

meds was taken away years ago, I had to have been

thirteen or so the last time he gave me any. But I'm not

shackled to the table, so that's something, I guess.

Who knew being the son of a world-renowned plastic

surgeon came with being his guinea pig? Lucky fucking me.

Why couldn't he just hit me like a normal abusive father?

Oh, that's right, because he can't risk damaging his hands.

My corrections are all about him, after all.

"Charles!" Father barks my name and I force myself to

refocus on his question. What did I do this time?Nothing.

I'm being forced to move to fucking Colorado instead of

attending Boston University to play hockey. Could I have

told him to fuck off? Sure, but then my naïve little sister

becomes the new victim. She's too sweet, this would

destroy her. That innocent girl is the only bright spot in my

life. She must be protected. So here I am, on his fucking

table once again, adding to the scars that already litter my

body. This is the last time I'll lie on this table in this room.

Next time I'll have the distraction of a new ceiling to study,

and unfamiliar sounds. Though, the last few years I've seen

more of the inside of the Danbury condo than this one in

Boston. I didn't stray far from town when I played for theHat Tricks in Connecticut, so Father leased a place for me to

be called back to when I needed correction.

"As a reminder of what will happen if I step out of line." My

voice is flat, devoid of all emotion. He continues with his cut,

it feelsabout three inches long, between my ribs and hip

bone. The scalpel is gone and my body sags in relief. I know

I'm notdone, he's going to stitch it up, but for a second the

air in my lungs flutters and my eyes threaten to roll back as

I get light headed.

I will not panic. I will not panic. I will not panic.

My body tries to take over, to allow instinct to kick in and

protect me, but I can't let it go. I can't get out of my head.

Not yet. That comes later. Much, much later.

The sting of the suture needle makes me hiss, the

following slide of the thread through my skin has my body

tensing back up. All my muscles tighten as I feel the sutures

being placed. It's the worst part. The tug on my skin and the

feel of the thread pulling through my flesh turns my

stomach.

Bile inches up my throat and saliva pools in my mouth. I

gag at the next stitch, my stomach clenching and arching

my back just a little.

"Charles. Control." My father doesn't look up, just snaps

the words atme. He hasalways expected perfection from

me. Maybe because I'm his spitting image? I get confused

for himoften, despite being a hockey player and obviously

much bigger than him. Do I need a face tattoo for people tostop comparing me to him? He's twenty years older than

me, but you'd never guess it. He looks to be much closer to

my age. Like a brother.

I manage to get throughthe rest of the stitches without

throwing up and he cleans up the blood, puts a bandage

over the wound, and I'm allowed to roll offthe table. My

shirt isfolded neatly on the seat of a chair. Without pulling

the chair out, I grab the shirt and slide it on, feeling better

with my scars covered. We must appear perfect. Always.

Hide the dirty truths behind smiles.

Dad cleans up his supplies while I deal with sanitizing the

plastic sheet, folding it, and putting it away. Our ritual after

the deed is done. It's happened so many times over the

years I don't think about it anymore, my body just does it.

Once the dining room is put back to rights, Father walks

me to the door and pulls me into a hug like he always does.

"Thank you," the words tumble from my lips without

thought because that is what is expected of me. It's what

I've been trained to do.

"If youwould behave, I wouldn't have to hurt you,

Charles. I just want what is best for you. You will be an NHL

star if you keep your focus. I do this for you." His words

would sound warm and even encouraging to an outside

observer, but to me, they're contriving. He's trying to show

everyone what a great dad he is while justifying the abuse.

He's making me better, right?The worst part? I don't know how to make it stop. Over

the years, a few have tried to help but they've either been

intimidated into silence or disappeared. Gone. And I think

the first person who tried to help me was my mother.

It wasn't long after Lily went to kindergarten that our

house was broken into, leaving us motherless. I came home

from school to find police and a medical examiner at our

house. This house.

Now I'mleaving what few memories I have of her, leaving

the Division One school I picked to play college hockey at to

scramble to get another offer from a school inDenver

because that's what is closest to him. I could takemy pick

of schools. I'm one of the best defensive players in junior

hockey history, soon to be college history, yet I'm expected

to pick up and switch my plans at the drop of a hat.

Make miracles happen while dancing with the devil.