Work Text:
Jeff is grateful for three things:
1) His mother. She takes care of him, shelters him, runs in front of him and takes the beatings instead. And she smiles. That’s important. She stays at home, cooking and cleaning, and Jeff can see that when she thinks he isn’t looking, her face holds such tragic sadness. But when their eyes meet, or when she calls him, she smiles, with such a light in her eyes he knows she loves him. He needs that love.
2) His father’s job. William Winger spends the hours of 7-5 working… somewhere. Jeff doesn’t know where, and it is never clear, but during those ten hours, Jeff and his mother are safe. Sure, as Jeff ages he learns to appreciate the money that comes with his dad’s job, but in the early years all he can hope for from his father’s absence is safety.
3) The fact that he is an only child. Jeff isn’t stupid, no matter what his father shouts at him, and he knows that if he had any siblings, younger or older, his father would have more people to hurt.
It starts when he’s four.
Or maybe that’s just when he first notices it.
The yelling, the bottles, the fear.
There’s a stench in the house now. Jeff notices it everytime he walks inside.
Alcohol, and smoke.
He’s four when he first sees the bruises. Purple, green, yellow, red, and blue, a few on his mother’s neck and going down her collarbone. Sometimes he can notice them on her legs or arms. He asks. Only one time.
“Mama, where did those boo-boos come from?”
She just cries, and holds him close.
“I want to protect you. I do, I do. One day, when the worst of it is in the past, we’ll be safe.”
Jeff notices later she starts wearing a lot of makeup to conceal them. And long sleeves. Jeff doesn’t ask again. He thinks maybe he already knows the answer.
He’s nearly five when his father hits him for the first time.
His mother is in the garden, and he’s watching TV, when his father gets home from work.
Frankly, the whole situation surprises Jeff. His father is asking why Jeff didn’t feed the dog, and Jeff is talking, because that’s the one thing he’s good at. He can talk his way out of anything, or so he thought. The slap is a surprise, and so is the shove to the ground.
“Get the fuck out of my way.”
His breath reeks of alcohol, and Jeff doesn’t know that he’ll be trying to get away from that stench for the rest of his life.
The abuse continues, even worsens, but in a way, Jeff feels like a hero. As soon as he starts to be the outlet for his father’s rage, suddenly his mother is out of harm’s way.
His mom is quiet around his father. Obedient and timid. There wasn’t a reason to hit her in the first place, but once Jeff started to be seen as a target, the abuse on her stopped.
He’s six when he starts school, and his father, while a very violent man, makes the smart decision to stop leaving a mark on him. Every once in a while he’ll get bruises on his thighs or arms, but for the most part, his father resorts to shouting.
He shouts about Jeff’s weight, his looks, his attitude, his intelligence. He shouts about how incompetant Jeff is, how embarrassing he is as a son, how he’ll never amount to anything.
And he drinks.
He comes home drunk, and in the morning he curses about his hangover.
He drinks when he wakes up, too, and when he gets home and stretches out on the sofa he instructs Jeff to bring him a beer.
He smokes, too, but so does Jeff’s mother. Jeff refuses to condemn anything his mother does. She’s frail, her wispy blonde hair always kept back in a ponytail. She wears short sleeves now.
Now that the drinking and shouting has replaced the hitting, so there are no new bruises, Jeff can see dozens of horizontal scars on her arms. He remembers the bruises, from years ago, but this doesn’t seem to have an obvious explanation. He doesn’t ask.
For someone that loves talking so much, he never asks.
Jeff is seven years old when he realizes something is wrong.
A world-shattering truth, that most children aren’t regularly beaten and verbally insulted by their fathers. He doesn’t tell anyone it’s happening, but he does threaten to. He tells his father that it would be the easiest thing in the world to let slip that his father’s favorite things are beer and belts.
Nothing changes.
Jeff’s father calls him a coward.
His mother relies on the income, and Jeff knows that.
The only escape Jeff will ever have is if his father leaves.
Jeff starts to stand up for himself though. He hopes that one day he’s strong enough to really fight back, but for now, he has to be satisfied with standing tall and not taking the verbal assault.
Jeff is eight years old when his deepest desire is finally granted.
His father leaves.
Jeff comes home, and his dad is gone. His mother is crying in the bathroom, because she doesn’t quite understand that this is good for her, but Jeff sits with her for a long time.
He holds her close and lets her tell him about when his father was a charming young man, who knew every dance and could make all the girls swoon.
“He chose me! Out of all the fair ladies on our block, I was his, and I could always feel his love.”
Hearing about his father in such a romanticized way makes Jeff sick, but he doesn’t say that. He thanks his mother for the story and lets her run her hands through his hair. As she shakes and cries, each breath coming out a relieved and terrified sob, Jeff hugs her.
“Breathe. You’re safe now.”
The house still smells like smoke. His mother still has scars. Jeff may never feel truly safe. But at least he is free.
For someone that loves talking so much, Jeff won’t say anything about his childhood.