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Description
He could remember the day Daddy caught him in Momma's glittered high heels, with his face all painted and his legs hidden by her blouse which made a dress on his tiny frame.
His brother and his sister and his Uncle Mike told him to be brave when Daddy wanted to hit him. They told him not to cry, not to run, not to scream.
So he stood there, all awkward in those heels the length of his forearm, his face itching with blush and lipstick, and he turned his chin up to meet the solid fist that bruised flesh and shattered bone.
He flew right out of those heels, onto the soft carpet colored white. The stains would never come out, from the makeup and from the blood that exploded from his mouth.
Daddy stank like weed and whiskey, like he always did. Little five-year-old Henry, still too small to defend himself, nearly vanished in the meat of his father's legs as he was sat upon and punched. The frail little bones in his hands popped and snapped when he lifted them to defend his soft baby face. Every move he made, every scream, every tear, he got one more, one more.
Momma wasn't home. She was never home. Angel and Silas wouldn't be home until after school - and school was three hours from then. David was just a baby - he couldn't help his brother if he wanted. Henry was alone. All alone, except for Daddy, who made Henry's nose flatten to his face and crushed his throat and made him throw up all over himself, throw up his recent snack and red, velvety stuff. Daddy made the world go grey and then black, made it go black over his purple, angry face, the spit and the cruel words that flew from his lips like bullets.
"My son will never be a fag, never be a fag, never be a fag. Do you hear me? Never be a fag!"
And along with the blackness, sound faded away too, so that all there was was that dreadful echo of the last words Daddy ever said to his son.
Angel and Silas said it was the grace of God that allowed Henry to live. His jawbone had snapped and pushed up under his teeth, poking up inside of his mouth. He would never grow three molars back there, but that was okay. He could always use the others he had.
His nose would never look the same, but that was okay. It only bumped on the top, and it made him look distinguished - or so Angel said.
He'd broken a rib, but that was okay. He had a whole bunch of others, and the hurt one would fix in time.
All the bones in his hands and arms had to be reset, and his dislocated shoulder popped back into place, but that was okay. His sister could feed him and help him get things until it was fixed.
His skin would be purple and green for a few days, but that was okay. Now his make-believe games of aliens and warriors would be even more realistic.
His voicebox was crushed, and he would never speak again.
That was not okay.
For several days afterwards Henry screamed for that voice he would never have, sit there with his mouth gaping and his cheeks turning purple, but all that ever came was a strange, rasping, gurgling noise that hurt so bad he cried, and cried more for the sound that never came with that, either.
He took funny pills that made his head fly high and made his body numb and throbby. They gave him ice cream when he was better and all sorts of nice, mushy foods for his aching throat and tender jaw.
That was good, but Henry would never speak again.
Every night Angel prayed extra for him. He slept in Angel's bed, wearing her pink nighties, when he asked. Daddy wouldn't live with them anymore, she told him, and he could dress however he wanted. She let him use her makeup, if he didn't use too much, and she even bought him pretty pink shoes to wear.
Henry stopped going to church. He threw his Holy Bible into the river, weighted down by rocks, so that he would never have to see it again.
His father had spoiled the sweet God that Henry had once believed in. No God could create a man that mean. Never.
Henry learned sign language at his new special school, where the parents stared at his black eyes with horror and shock, steering their children away from the boy who sat alone and so dark, who drew pictures filled with red and bleeding Bibles, babies crying and mouths that were open but made no noise.
Henry made no friends. He didn't mind. He just wore his pretty pink shoes to school and brought his sack lunch with PB & J, and he'd sit in the corner reading by himself.
It was a decade later, and Henry was no different. No one was.

Description
He could remember the day Daddy caught him in Momma's glittered high heels, with his face all painted and his legs hidden by her blouse which made a dress on his tiny frame.
His brother and his sister and his Uncle Mike told him to be brave when Daddy wanted to hit him. They told him not to cry, not to run, not to scream.
So he stood there, all awkward in those heels the length of his forearm, his face itching with blush and lipstick, and he turned his chin up to meet the solid fist that bruised flesh and shattered bone.
He flew right out of those heels, onto the soft carpet colored white. The stains would never come out, from the makeup and from the blood that exploded from his mouth.
Daddy stank like weed and whiskey, like he always did. Little five-year-old Henry, still too small to defend himself, nearly vanished in the meat of his father's legs as he was sat upon and punched. The frail little bones in his hands popped and snapped when he lifted them to defend his soft baby face. Every move he made, every scream, every tear, he got one more, one more.
Momma wasn't home. She was never home. Angel and Silas wouldn't be home until after school - and school was three hours from then. David was just a baby - he couldn't help his brother if he wanted. Henry was alone. All alone, except for Daddy, who made Henry's nose flatten to his face and crushed his throat and made him throw up all over himself, throw up his recent snack and red, velvety stuff. Daddy made the world go grey and then black, made it go black over his purple, angry face, the spit and the cruel words that flew from his lips like bullets.
"My son will never be a fag, never be a fag, never be a fag. Do you hear me? Never be a fag!"
And along with the blackness, sound faded away too, so that all there was was that dreadful echo of the last words Daddy ever said to his son.
Angel and Silas said it was the grace of God that allowed Henry to live. His jawbone had snapped and pushed up under his teeth, poking up inside of his mouth. He would never grow three molars back there, but that was okay. He could always use the others he had.
His nose would never look the same, but that was okay. It only bumped on the top, and it made him look distinguished - or so Angel said.
He'd broken a rib, but that was okay. He had a whole bunch of others, and the hurt one would fix in time.
All the bones in his hands and arms had to be reset, and his dislocated shoulder popped back into place, but that was okay. His sister could feed him and help him get things until it was fixed.
His skin would be purple and green for a few days, but that was okay. Now his make-believe games of aliens and warriors would be even more realistic.
His voicebox was crushed, and he would never speak again.
That was not okay.
For several days afterwards Henry screamed for that voice he would never have, sit there with his mouth gaping and his cheeks turning purple, but all that ever came was a strange, rasping, gurgling noise that hurt so bad he cried, and cried more for the sound that never came with that, either.
He took funny pills that made his head fly high and made his body numb and throbby. They gave him ice cream when he was better and all sorts of nice, mushy foods for his aching throat and tender jaw.
That was good, but Henry would never speak again.
Every night Angel prayed extra for him. He slept in Angel's bed, wearing her pink nighties, when he asked. Daddy wouldn't live with them anymore, she told him, and he could dress however he wanted. She let him use her makeup, if he didn't use too much, and she even bought him pretty pink shoes to wear.
Henry stopped going to church. He threw his Holy Bible into the river, weighted down by rocks, so that he would never have to see it again.
His father had spoiled the sweet God that Henry had once believed in. No God could create a man that mean. Never.
Henry learned sign language at his new special school, where the parents stared at his black eyes with horror and shock, steering their children away from the boy who sat alone and so dark, who drew pictures filled with red and bleeding Bibles, babies crying and mouths that were open but made no noise.
Henry made no friends. He didn't mind. He just wore his pretty pink shoes to school and brought his sack lunch with PB & J, and he'd sit in the corner reading by himself.
It was a decade later, and Henry was no different. No one was.