A full-length mirror taunts me. “ Look at yourself. Do you like what you see?”  I don’t. Is it rage? Despair? Call it what you will. I smash its glass into shards of memory, cutting and piercing my fist. Blood splatters to the floor. An endorphin rush overwhelms me. I look at my fist; I pull out a memory from my aging skin.

I’m 14 years old. There are no scars on my body—no arthritis from my surgically repaired shoulders and knees. I can run. I can laugh. I can finally thank God for answering my prayers; my father has abandoned us—me. I embrace my freedom from the Monster. I can breathe. Oh wonderful fresh air.

The rain has stopped. Sunshine breaks through the clouds. The ball field is damp—the game continues. It’s the bottom of the third inning. There’s no score. I’m pitching for the Elks and there’s one thing on my mind—throw at Mark Schwartz’s head, like he did to me in the top of the inning. I’m pissed, I’m angry; I’ve inherited my father’s temper.

Mark Schwartz taps the plate with his bat. He looks out at me, adjusts his glasses, and smiles. I check on the runner at first, and then glare at Schwartz. My catcher, Tommy Dever, doesn’t throw down a signal. He knows what I’m going to do. So does Schwartz. We’ve hated each other since Little League, but this is Babe Ruth Baseball: we wear metal cleats, helmets with no ear protection, and jockstraps, we are older. I grip the ball cross-seamed, and aim for the back of Schwartz’s left ear. I grin. I look over at his father, a WWII vet, who lost his right arm during the Battle of the Bulge. He stares back at me. The crowd disappears into silence. The air no longer smells of a cleansing rain. Okay asshole… keep smiling.

Out of nowhere, a hand grabs my left arm. I fall to my knees. I feel the wetness of the mound seep through the woolen-cotton of my uniform. My cap is ripped from my head. A familiar grip jerks my neck, lifting my head upwards. What? No! He’s on the mound with me, my father, my monster, my worst nightmare.

What the fuck is this? He pulls my hair.

My coach runs on to the field, but not to protect me. He holds back Tommy Dever and Mike Prisco who both have started edging towards the mound. Tommy doesn’t know about the Monster, but Mike Prisco does; he lives in my neighborhood; he once witnessed my father hit me across my face with a handsaw. He’s witnessed my deterioration.

What are you, a fucking hippie?

Dad…?

Shut up.

My coach and the umpire come to my aid…sort of.

Step back. He’s my son.

That word son stings me. It’s the worst thing he calls me.

My father yanks me back up to my feet. He looks at the stunned crowd and bears his fangs. He hisses at the mothers. fathers. and kids. Some look at each other. Some look up at the passing clouds. Some swat at mosquitoes.

In the car… now!

I put my glove to my face. I refuse to let anyone see me cry. I breathe in the leather’s odor of oil and sweat, seeking refuge.

My father says nothing to me on the ride home. We pass Devil’s Ditch. The turtles sunning on petrified trees, whisper to the frogs, the Monster has him. The frogs pass on the message to the perch and pickerel. The brown water ripples back its acknowledgement.

My father stops his Plymouth Fury at the beginning of Mulberry Drive. He opens the passenger door and pushes me out. Start running.

Susan Jackson waives at me from her front steps. I hesitate and look at her, my first girl-love. I become strong. I’m not going to run. I start walking… slowly. The Fury’s 385 wrath of horse power growls at me; it’s rusted front bumper nudges me. “Run, you silly fuck,” it roars, “he’s going to run you over.”

My cleats can’t grip the asphalt. I slip; the Fury nudges me again. I slip again. Another nudge. Neighbors look. Doors close. Small kids run from the street. Susan Jackson screams out to me. I don’t understand what she says. I won’t look at her. I don’t want her to see my fear of the Monster. I run home the best I can.

The front door isn’t locked, but no one is home. My mother has taken Cherie, Chris and Amy to Wayland to visit my Aunt Jackie. Judy and Claudia are at work. The empty house, warm and inviting since my father moved out, reverts back to its igloo-chill. My father pushes me into the living room.

Dad?

Shut up.

What did I do?

He punches me in my right kidney. My old friend pain reintroduces itself.

Kitchen. March.

I’m confused. Usually I march to the bathroom.

My father looks around the kitchen. He says nothing as he begins rummaging through the utility drawer. He pulls out my mother’s sewing scissors. Long shiny blades snap at me. Sunset reflects off the scissor’s excitement as another kidney punch accented with a shove sends me flying up against the kitchen sink.

No son of mine is going to embarrass me.

Home. The Monster is home. He pulls my hair and twists me around to face him. Spittle foams in the corners of his mouth. Kitchen smells surrender to the aroma of Old Spice, stale cigarettes, and beer-breath.

It starts. The scissors obey the Monster’s bidding. They attack my hair, my scalp, and my forehead. Hair is cut and ripped from my sweaty head. Blood trickles from my forehead. The Monster grunts. Fucking hippie. Fucking hippie. You sorry fat fuck…

I hear the Beatles “Helter Skelter”.

I catch my breath. I feel my forehead; I look at my hands. There’s no blood. I focus and wait. My MacBook’s on. I think I’ve typed the words on the screen. Confused, I get up from my desk and walk down the hall to the mirror.

There are no shards of glass or blood stains on the floor. The mirror is just a mirror.

I hear Mark Knopfler’s “Fare The Well Northumberland” playing on my computer.

I don't know what fate awaits me. Fare the well Northumberland...