mybrainsucksdeargodhelpme

I was 20 or 19. Around that age. I was going to u of t and was under a lot of pressure from myself to succeed. Be the best grade scorer and grant receiver I could be.
My parents hated each other
My mom barely spoke often shuffling around the house, head down, belly out, glasses thick as a finger skewing her eyes into large listless saucers
Often curled up in a house coat ball on the couch when dad was t home. When he was, she was in hiding. Away. I don’t know where. Maybe at my aunt Theresa’s in Richmond hill. Maybe with my dog at the park. Away. Her thick calves and large thighs squeezed together pulled up against her chest. Mouth chewing on itself her lips squeezing together until they were creased with white lines. Mind in a book, far far away.
I was in the basement. We had this old green polyester couch covered in very small delicate daisies. They looked like polka dots. It’s the same couch I was first taken home too. First couch I sat with my parents on. Watching jerry springer or the Simpsons on. Were I would stand ferocious and wild mimicking the battle cry of Zena the warrior princess. Until of course I figured out making noise meant people could see you.
I loved playing the drums on guitar hero, or rock band one of those games where you blather along to some slow paced song, my girlfriend at the time was an avid and talented drummer. So I liked to try and impress her by being able to keep a beat on the very rudimentary drum set from the game. I don’t remember what don’t I was playing. Black hole sun maybe, or maybe Weezer. I was spacing out, having taken some muscle relaxers and maybe some NyQuil. My dad thundered down the temporary wooden slated stairs into the unfinished basement. I was nestled in a blanket hand made croquet blanket dropped over my shoulders, drum sticks in hand. My brother and I had our own little den down there. Our old 30′ projection screen tv sat on a buckling old ikea tv stand and a shabby carpet sat on the cement floor. There was a crooked painting of some trees hanging off the link insulation. The couch faced the tv and blocked off the little nook from the rest of the basement. I stared at the tv my avatar bounced up and down raising his drum sticks in the air in triumph.
“This is your fault you know” he said to the left side of my face
A deep cold wash of shame guilt and fear washed over me
He was wearing his orange and black and yellow bomber jacket, shoes on, ready for work
I froze blank face arms steady my heart in my mouth I could feel and taste the iron and had to force myself to breath
Don’t move don’t move don’t show emotion and like a raptor or a T. Rex they can’t see you if you don’t move
And I waited, waited for him to either approach me or leave or tell but he’d already done his damage
He left and I could feel him moving through the basement and up the stairs
My eyes hurt
I wanted to cry but I didn’t
Bury it next to the last one I thought
It’ll always be there

There was this closet in the second floor living room nestled behind a leather arm chair and a small fish tank because we couldn’t have bigger pets yet

I remember one summer getting into the back of our old 1990 gmc jimmy after being at the ex all day. The sky was dark
I was wearing little blue overalls and had thick black bangs and short cropped hair
We pulled out of the parking lot
The ex still was bright and colourful but faded blurred by the smeared window light diffusing into the sky pouring out into the stars
I saw a star and remember pinochios sing about wishing upon a star
So I wished for a cat

Well, so, we had these fish and beside the fish behind the chair
To me a closet of grown-up mysteries
Coats and shoes, gloves and shoe horns
I opened the door to the closet and it smelt like a closet – like old paper and cold stale air

My dad had some hot wheels on the window will in our living room and in that closet behind the chair
I had just discovered when no one was around I could snoop
Dad kept his favourite hot wheels on the window sill beside the tv. He had spaced out eachevenly apart tucked behind the translucent floating curtains
curtains made by my omi croqueted in the first floor apartment downstairs
Lacey and elegant the ends of the fabric brushed against the white painted sill

In the closet there were cars there in this thin shoe box with no lid
It perched on top of some shoes and an old accordion that belonged to my dads dad, my Opa – good old Adolf
They were my dads when he was younger – the hot wheels
Bright colours all a Steele and aluminum no plastic ones
Race cars and stunt cars with detail painted onto the exposed engines
These hot wheels hoods opened, their wheels has real axils and you could sometimes steer the little steering wheel if it was a convertible hot wheel and watch the wheels move left to right
I’d squeeze my little finger into the drivers seat and shift it back and forth – click click as the wheels moved
I played with them alone
I don’t know where my brother was
I don’t remember what happened
I sat on the floor
I could feel the carpet scratching my legs
Dad walked in in his black thin sweat pants and white t shirt
“God why did I have kids”
“You destroy everything and now even my fucking hot wheels Are destroyed fucking broken, useless”
He simply shook his head and wouldn’t look at me

Maybe these memories are the lesser offensive
Why do I feel these memories as deeply as I must be then
The only difference is that now I can feel them knowing why I feel them