Home Sweet Home

Josh MacLeod

I walked slowly up the driveway, gravel shifting underfoot as I shuffled forward towards a place once called home. It was an effort to lift my eyes and make myself look up towards the house. I had no wish to see it, fearing it had not changed since I had left. Only a fool dares come home again.

Flicker of red, blinding bright. The house. Large imposing brick walls, small windows like a prison and harsh white windowsills, small grey porch, the white stairs and door; all of it painted each and every year. The neighbours had always remarked on how industriously we scrubbed the paint off and put on a new coat year after year. The lawn was mowed precisely, left to right, no deviation, no ridges, not a single leaf marring it. Perfection in all its terrifying beauty.

I shuddered away from memory of those hours of insane labour and looked at it now. The wood was peeling and dull, some shingles looking as if they would fall off and the hedge overgrown. Tuffs of grass sprouted up over the lawn and it looked like a weed eater had not been used in some time. The neighbours must be horrified. So much had changed, and none of them would ever be able to say why.

I felt a fierce, aching joy blaze in my chest at what the house had fallen from, and become. The disarray of the home reflected theirs, the gaping holes where paint had peeled off completely were the holes in all of us, the pain of . . . many things. It was more true to what was inside, I thought. I take a deep breath and tried to force the foolish grin off my face.

Another flicker, pale blue, calming. My home, five years ago. Arguments, soft and hard, fights threatening to hurt us both and finally my breaking, tales and stories unfolding in pain. Pain shared, transcended, more than it was, lessened. Myself then, walking out of my house with fear and to the shed. Kelly standing there watching me, understanding now as none ever had. I mowed the lawn and acceptance of that comes, the fights end.

My home is what this once was to some extent but I don't feel pain. Just because my home is clean -- not as clean as this one was but as clean as I wish it to be -- I don't feel I have become this home, or my family: I have not given in. Not yet. My grin fades finally but something eases inside me. Kelly was right: mowing the lawn and doing other chores was not giving in. My step picked up, my body finally noticing the brisk autumn winds and I ceased to drag my feet. The gravel crunched with satisfaction as if I was killing things as I moved. But then a leaf drifted past me, and settled on the lawn.

A leaf.

On this lawn.

The unreality of the situation hit me then. Was I dreaming? I had dreamed this place many times, dreams of the past, of sadness, pain and longing. But I had never dared to dream it this weak, this broken, this normal. I had never dreamt it could fall. I did not have that kind of courage.

Flicker of grey. A dream, last week, of standing here. Of yelling in anger "You took away my courage, you made me fear!" And then a voice, my voice, the house's voice, telling me that such a statement was a lie. Only you can take away from yourself, the voice said, only you can let this make you less than you are. You blame them but it has been so long. You have not tried to fight it: that was your choice, your acceptance. And I awoke from the dream, knowing that I was also to blame. I had not faced it, in dreams or reality and had not come to terms with it, or passed beyond this place, not in any way that really mattered. I had not forgiven nor been forgived.

I shuddered in old pain, remembered and never forgotten. To forget is a sin, Father James of the chapel near my home had told me once, knowing something about this place from hints Kelly had told him, but I wondered deep within me, in areas only this place had touched: Is remembering a sin also? My mind forced itself back to now, this house, this reality. I unclenched my fists deliberately, slowly and walked towards the front door. It seemed to take forever and no one came to greet me or turn on the lights though I was sure someone would be waiting. They always had in my dreams.

It was nearly dusk, the sky a pale grey and I realised that I was glad no one had come. I wasn't sure if I could have taken a form in the doorway, accusing and demanding answers I was not yet able to give, such as the hardest one: "Why did you come back?"

The porch steps creaked alarmingly and a part of my mind whispered: "This will have to be fixed tomorrow." I forced myself to remember that time had passed, that I no longer lived here. Still, the creaking seemed like laughter and the porch window more like a window on a jail that it had ever seemed, as if I could not leave once I had entered. I had left part of me here long ago, in fear and pain. I was here to reclaim it, if it was worth salvaging and if I still wanted it.

My hand hovered over the door now, as if touching it would awaken my memories, as if it stored the pain. I heard Kelly's voice, as if from far away, mocking and despairing: "Dare you reclaim yourself?" and the fear under the sarcasm. And I knew what Kelly had feared. It was not "dare I reclaim it" but "could I". Was I better without this part, without this place, without these memories?

No. The certainty took me by surprise. The whole is better than its parts, even if some of the parts are broken. Kelly taught me that. I closed my eyes, blinking back the tears I bad never shed and forced anger to come, forced the fear back and grabbed the handle and twisted it. A small part of my mind noted that the door was old now. What would happen if I broke the handle? it asked dryly and I unclenched my grip. I stood there for one long moment, draining myself of anger and fear as well as I could. I had to be calm, in control, not let them get to me. I pulled the door open slowly and stepped in, tried to make my vocal cords work, to say something but nothing came. It did not matter. I had been heard. When had I ever been able to hide here?

He waked forwards from the kitchen, grey hair -- once black, I recalled -- but the same brown eyes, kind and sad. "Father," I whispered hesitantly and he came forwards, shuffling as if in pain. I reached out my hand and saw him reach out. Then he twitched and pulled away, not touching. The old pain, the deepest pain any of us had ever given him, pain only I could cause. My calm nearly broke then, the old pains nearly showed but I held it back. That much I could give him, even if I wasn't really sure he deserved it.

"Son," he said, his voice rusty with age, holding none of the strength it had once held. "It's . . . good to see you." The lie in his voice was so plain I nearly broke and fled. But dad had never broken me, even the time he had tried. Another voice came, hesitant and puzzled both. Alan, my youngest brother, still living at home after all these years. He had brown eyes and hair as well and was getting slightly plump. He walked forward but stopped, my fathers hesitation true fear on his part. I felt like screaming: What do you think I will do to you? but refrained. I nodded to him and waited. My father turned to Alan also, unable to speak and Alan finally spoke.

"Mom's in the kitchen." He said, his deep voice strained. I forced myself to move, willed my legs to respond and walked, half staggering towards the light that seemed to make the hallway much darker. Alan moved aside, as if afraid of me but I did nothing, I didn't think I could do nothing but walk forward, towards that light. Anything else was beyond me now.

I stepped into the kitchen and ignored the feeling that I was coming to a stage. Mother stood near the fake oak counter, cutting celery on a cutting board. For a long moment I just stood, assessing her stooped back and the slight tremble in her hands as she cut. She never looked up but pointed to the small dining room table at the other end of the kitchen.

I walked towards it, feeling as if I was about to sit in an electric chair. She continued cutting for a short time then slowly turned around, her face sinister in the shadows. She stared at me silently, an odd questioning look on her face but then walked over. "Ben," she said simply, noting my presence but nothing else. Her voice was as melodious as ever and I still felt as if she was one step away from breaking out into song.

"Mother," I said as simply, holding the strain back. My father and Alan entered slowly, sitting across from me, neither wishing to sit beside me. I felt a smile tug at my lips but restrained it. There was a strained silence as the three of them stared at me until Alan spoke.

"What brings you here, Ben? The family reunion is not until the week end." Speaking as if I had attended all the others.

"I didn't want to see anyone else in the family," I said simply and mother frowned at my admission. My father just looked at her, his brown eyes catching and holding her blue ones. She just nodded and walked back over to the counter. The gesture as she reached down to pick up the knife was so familiar my breath caught in my throat.

Flicker of red again. My mother, standing in the doorway of my room, face cold and merciless, devoid of pity and love. Inhuman. Myself saying something about being sorry and the eggs on the floor. She shaking her head in disgust and entering my room. The door locked and fear struck deep as I saw her eyes. Then she smiled, the first time I had ever seen her smile like that and I wet my pants. She said that ten years old babies who dropped things need to be punished and reached down for my arm . . .

I surfaced from the past with an abrupt jolt that caused Alan to frown in puzzlement. My father, ever the diplomat, entered the silence hesitantly. "Ben, how is your home?"

"Fine," I said curtly, the empty pleasantries that would have come to others lodging in my throat. He waited then continued, his voice hesitant and filled with that old pain. "How is . . . Kelly." I heard the pause in his voice and sighed inwardly. "Kelly's fine, dad."

"That's good, very good . . . " His voice trailed off but I still sat there. I had no wish to make this easy on anyone, least of all myself. I saw mother give Alan a meaningful glance and he strove to fill in the silence.

"How have you been recently?" He asked brightly. I heard the question behind his question but refused to answer it. Let him say the truth when he had the courage to. "I live," I said coldly and mom frowned but did not speak to me.

Alan gulped, feeling mom's eyes on him and took the plunge. "Why didn't Kelly come?"

"Kelly never will." I kept my voice even with an effort. Alan looked as if he'd do something stupid like ask "Why?" but something in my face must have stopped him. I took a few breaths to clear my mind and then my father spoke.

"How does it feel to be back after . . .fifteen years?" After you ran away, his gaze completed silently, accusingly, mercilessly. As if was all my fault.

"'The time has come, the Walrus said,' " I quoted softly, "'To talk of many things' . . ." It seemed to me as if my mother flinched, but that must have been my imagination. Did she remember reading me that book long ago, in another age? Did I care if she did, and if I was hurting her? No. Not yet. I was angry enough to hurt her now, as she had hurt me twenty years ago.

"What do you want, Ben? Why did you come here again?" Where you are not welcome, her gaze said. "To remember," I said simply. "To . . . become what I will be."

Flicker, red and black, pain and denial. Mother, in my room, me weeping and no one coming. You must be strong, father always said, and never weep. But surely one should weep at this, surely someone would come. Surely they'd make her stop . . .

Alan said something but I did not hear it. "Pardon?" I said and mom frowned. "How does it feel to be thirty?" Alan repeated. "Fine," I said curtly and mother's frown deepened. The frown I remembered. I felt the fear I was suppressing reach out and a scream lodge in my throat. I refused it, knowing fear would allow her to win, as she had so often before, in dreams and nightmares. She said something I did not here and I asked her to repeat herself.

"I asked you a question," She said coldly. I said nothing. "Are you here to abuse our hospitality?" She continued icily and I just stared, the anger she had wanted to call forth giving way to disbelief.

"Hospitality? You call this bloody dungeon hospitable? Are you insane?" Her face froze, fear in her eyes but fear of what? I saw an odd look touch my fathers face, fear for her, for what I would do to her. What the hell was going on here that I was missing? I turned to see the accusing glare in Alan's eyes and my mind jumped back.

She stared accusingly, face moulted with rage. "You break too many things, you clumsy brat!" She had rasped and my denials were just that -- denials. She ignored them and slapped me across the room, hard. I cried out in shock and tears came. My pain only served to anger her further, to show her how weak I was. Then she walked over to where I cowered and touched me. Her hand reach out and I gasped, feeling things I had never felt before, fearing them and her. She touched me and I struggled but shock at fearing my own mother like this weakened me. I drew breath to scream and she grabbed me around the throat, choking me slowly even as her other hand did . . .things. I gasped in submission and she stopped choking me. Then I caught the look in her eyes, the hunger and jerked away in fear. It was too late, I hurt and was weak.

Then the nightmare began, her forcing me to do things no child should ever do, robbing me of my innocence with knowledge I should never have known. My body reacted, a shame I could not stop and I fell back in fear. She screamed something in rage but I could not make it out, so deep was my pain. Then she hit me again, harder than before, and I could not retreat, could not hide. "You dropped the eggs and this is the price you pay. Rise!" She screamed at me as she touched me but whatever she wished wouldn't happen. "You are as weak as your father!" And then she stared at my trembling form and smiled again at my fear. "But you will do." And then it got very bad. Then and the many times after.

I flinched where I sat but said nothing else. The past left me shaken and I knew I was shuddering slightly. I stilled it and saw the scorn in Alan's eyes. "Yes?" I said icily. He turned away, his face pale and I reach out and grabbed his arm. He recoiled sharply and I snapped. "What the hell is the matter with you?" I cried out, my voice trembling with anger and this deepest of pains. "It's not like I am going to rape you, damn it."

"How do I know that, Ben?" He asked softly and I froze.

"What?" I said, stunned into silence by his words. My arm dropped back to my side, numb.

Alan flushed brightly and jerked to his feet, walking quickly out of the kitchen. I turned and saw the bitter sorrow in my father's eyes. "Well?" I said challengingly. but he said nothing, the odd fear still in his eyes

"Why did you tell Alan that?" My mother's voice interjected and I spun towards her, nearly crying aloud: Do you want to relive my whole damned life? but the look of puzzlement on her face stopped me cold. She did not remember. I turned towards my father again and saw the confirmation in his eyes.

"Well?" My mother snapped again, but something was missing from her voice. The note of authority that had terrorised me for five years had an echo of uncertainty.

I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the shame the words brought up in me still. Even now, especially now. "I am queer, mom." I said softly, with a gentleness she did not deserve. She fell back as if struck and her face was white with pain.

"How dare you disgrace the family so!" She said in shock and reflex, the anger as fresh as it was then. A flicker of red, fire raging out of control. A flicker of blood red.

"How dare you?" My father cried, rage in his voice. I had never heard him so angry, never imagined he could be angry. "How could I have raised -- spawned -- such a thing?" His blow hit me backwards but I did not fall. I had learned something from my mothers -- games -- these past five years. His looked slightly startled, expecting me to cry out in shock or pain. Not this time, dad: I have learned enough about pain from mom. But this pain was not physical, but emotional. I felt a deep fear in me then, fear that he hated me enough, that I disgusted him enough that he would hit me. Another blow struck and I reeled back in pain, angry at myself that he had caught me with that book. "You damned pervert!" He snapped, a man who had never sworn in my hearing ever. Another blow came but something in me snapped. These people are not worthy of being my family. I blocked the blow instinctively. The sight seemed to jar him and he shook his head as if coming out of a dream. He had hit his son. I saw the fear and pain in his eyes and tears sprang into them. I had never seen him cry. The sight almost moved me until I realised the reason: he had hit me. He was weeping for what he had done, not who he had done it to.

"Well, now we know why the sheep have been acting odd," Alan piped up nastily from the corner and I spun on him, my anger surging within me. "Get out of here!" And I heard Susan, my older sister, laugh half in fear. "Yes, let's go. Let mom and dad deal with the brat alone." Then her always mocking eyes met mine for an instant. "We'd better go to see the baby we're sitting and hope Ben has not decided to yet." I staggered as if struck, the sheer malice in her voice hurting more than anything else.

"You are not worthy of me, any of you!" I cried out and spun towards the door. And she was there. Fear touched me then, deeper than it had in over a month. "Get away," I said softly but she did not move.

"Who are you to deny us, you pathetic girl!" She snapped and the fear within me vanished. "Aren't you glad I wasn't a girl though?" I said softly and saw a faint hint of uncertainty enter her eyes. I stepped forward, my body shaking with my anger and pain and she stepped aside mockingly. But I saw something else in her eyes, a satisfaction that made my blood chill.

As I slowly walked out the door, I turned back to her. "It wasn't you mother. You didn't make me what I am. Know that much. You aren't that important." And I had walked out then, out of my life and to my life.

"I am what I am," I said simply and saw my father shake with pain, remembering that day also. Helpless pain at what he had caused, and the anger he could not deny at my shaming him. And the shame at being angry at me for causing it.

"We had this conversation before, didn't we?" My mother asked quietly, the puzzlement in her voice shocking me.

"It's why I left."

"But that can't be the only reason," She said, looking confused.

No, there was also you. Your abuse and the pain you cause me! I felt like crying out but she had forgotten so much. Then why should I bring back those times? Petty vengeance has no use I understood now, even though it might feel good at the time.

Then I realised how pointless this was. I had come here to lay my demons to rest but also to make others suffer for them, to make them feel pain as I had felt it. Was I so different from them? I had wished to end my nightmares, make me forget the pain but they had forgotten, or at least my mother had. Like my father, I never would. But unlike him, I might be able to come to terms with it soon.

I stood up then and my mother looked up in shock. "You never told me the other reasons you left."

"No, I didn't," I said, choosing my words with care. My father breathed a faint sigh of relief and stood up also. For a moment he almost held out his hand but then stopped. I saw the pain on his face, both that he had stopped and that he could not make himself go forward. "Maybe some day," I said softly, and looked up into his eyes but saw no condemnation or hatred, just a quiet bitterness at himself.

I nodded to Alan on the way out, suppressing a sadistic urge to hug him in brotherly love, and walked outside. The night air was warm and crisp and I felt the presence of people at the door. This time they didn't watch me go with a laugh but with a sigh. They had not asked me to stay then and did not now. The difference was that I understood why and accepted it now. There was no need to dredge up old pains, just to make them go away. It wouldn't work, I understood that much now. I had buried them as the leaves were even now burying the once clean yard. Yet the memory of the work I had been forced to do, the hours of back-breaking labour to clean the property no longer had the force they had once held. Or, more accurately, they had the same force but I ignored it better. I had come to terms with it.

For a long moment after I had reached the road, I stood alone. Then slowly, I turned back and waved. None waved back, but at least one person wanted to. There was hope yet, for them and for me. I had faced my demons and they were as human as I. Not all the flickers of the past were red now. I had ceased to bleed and could at last weep for what they were and what I had been.

The tears flowed freely as I turned and walked down the road. Kelly was waiting at the corner and I smiled and waved, dispelling his fears at what might have happened. He knew my history and still let me go in there. He knew me better than I knew myself. The thought was frightening until I realised that he had just known what I would become, or suspected enough to help me try and become it. I was whole, as I had always truly been, but had cast off the baggage around me and the pain had been left to the past where it belonged.

I walked quickly, hearing the gravel crunch but this time it was just gravel. The wind had died down and the sky was bright with stars. And for the first time in twenty years I felt as bright as they, as clean and I laughed for joy as I had not in such a long time. I laughed because I wanted to and Kelly answered me, shock on his face. He asked me, half joking, if I was happy because I had killed them and I replied no, softly. They had killed that part of themselves today. And I had killed the part of me that only remembered that about them. They were human and I was free to be human again. Kelly asked if he could ever visit then and I paused before answering: Maybe some day, love, maybe some day. A world of possibilities in that sentence, brighter than they had ever been. I was at peace since I was now truly free for the first time in over twenty years.

- Josh MacLeod (1998)