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When James is asked to describe his childhood, he always draws a blank. Not because he doesn’t want to talk about his father (though that is also a very, very big factor), but because he never knows where to start. Many specific incidents blur together in his memory and leave little to describe but vague feelings of fear, anxiety, pain, and resentment.
He can, however, easily describe the ways he’s affected now. The way that he flinches much harder at sudden noises than anyone he knows, or how his reaction to someone raising their voice for any reason can range anywhere from cowering in fear to a full blown panic attack, or how one insignificant mistake can send him into hysterics where the only words he can manage are repeated ‘I’m sorry’s.
People always express their sympathy and ask how he could ever live like that. James says it’s okay. He’s used to it.
As for the parts of his childhood he can remember, James prefers not to think about.
His father’s truck was old and loud enough to wake James up from even his deepest sleeps when it pulled into the driveway. From an early age, he’d learned to shut off the TV and make a run for his room before his dad could come in. Of course, he couldn’t stay there forever, and inevitably James would hear his name called and be forced to listen to a list of everything he’d somehow done wrong.
“It’s pathetic,” his dad would say. “You can’t even do a simple thing right?”
“I’m sorry…” James muttered.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re always sorry.”
James doesn’t like to cry. Crying is a sign of weakness.
There were some good moments, sure. Those are the ones James likes to remember, like when his dad would take him outside during the warmer months to play basketball in the driveway. The memories of the occasional times when his dad was in a good enough mood to act like a normal father are the only things keeping James from complete resentment, and he isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing.
As much as he loved to play, he preferred not to bring up the topic of basketball from the months of October to April. He’d often see his dad sitting in front of the TV, watching NBA games and drinking from the cans James always saw in the fridge but was never allowed to touch. It wasn’t until James was a little older he properly knew what alcohol was, but had always been painfully familiar with the effect it had on his father.
“Why does daddy drink if it makes him angry?” He asked his mom once, young and naive.
She shook her head and held her son close. A single tear streamed down her cheek. “I don’t know, sweetie. I don’t know.”
And the worst thing is, for so long he thought he had a perfectly normal family. That all parents punished like his dad, James was just a spoiled, entitled brat who was incapable of doing anything right and deserved everything he got, right?
“Why do we never get the chance to hang out like this?” His friend Lucas questioned one day while the two were doing homework. “You’re always grounded.”
James looked up, fixed his glasses, and stared forward guiltily. “I get in trouble a lot.”
Lucas laughed. “I find that hard to believe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dude, you’re like the biggest goodie-two-shoes I know,” he said. “Even my mom loves having you over, and she hates all my friends.”
“Oh…”
“I mean, what do you even get in trouble for?”
James stared forward, a blank expression on his face and his heart racing a mile a minute for no discernible reason. He hadn’t realized he’d been unconsciously digging his pencil hard against the table below until he heard a snap and looked down.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Nineteen was a special birthday. For James at least—his father mainly just grumbled and complained about “Needing to work so hard on a celebration for a kid who can’t bother to be useful” like he did every year. But for James, it meant escape. Soon he’d be on his mission, hopefully as far away from his childhood home as possible. He didn’t necessarily want to do it at first, since it meant leaving his saint of a mother alone. She insisted that she would manage.
It was a challenge, to say the least. At this point he was fully aware that his father was an abusive asshole. James was under no impression that he had an even remotely normal childhood, but spending the first nineteen years of your life on your toes isn’t going to set anyone up for a well adjusted adult.
And so, he was the quiet one of the district. The one who rarely involved himself in conversations and even less so conflicts. When he’s so used to being criticized or even hit for whatever he says, why say anything at all?
The biggest scene he’d been the cause of was a simple incident of a broken water glass. Elder McKinley had walked into the kitchen and scared him with a simple hello, causing him to drop and shatter the glass he’d been drinking from.
“Oh no! Oh gosh—I’m so sorry Elder McKinley. I—I—“ James rushed to pick up and clasp the shards tightly in hand. There was definitely blood. He didn’t care.
“Hey, hey—Elder, it’s okay. It’s just an accident. We have plenty of glasses to spare.”
As James watched through borderline teary eyes McKinley sweep the glass into a dustpan and dry up the water, with the unending sounds of his father’s shouting in his ear and the phantom pain of a hard slap across the cheek, he clutched the shards in his hand tighter. “I’m sorry…”
~~~
“Oh James… I… I had no idea. I’m so sorry you had to go through all that,” Chris says.
James waves it off. “It’s no big deal. It happened, I can’t change that fact.”
“It is a big deal! And just because it happened doesn’t mean it should’ve. He ruined you and your mom’s life. People like your father deserve to… deserve to burn in Hell!”
No one says anything. Granted, they’re the only two people there, sitting in the main living area of the mission hut while everyone else is (hopefully) still asleep. It’s not until Chris looks over and sees his cowering boyfriend’s look of fear does he soften and backpedal.
“Oh no, James, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I just got angry.” Chris moves closer to him, then pauses. “Can I touch you?”
At his nod, James feels warm, safe arms wrap themselves around his shaking figure, with a small whisper of, “It’s okay. Just breath,” in his ear. He listens. And then, he cries.
“Why do you care so much about me?” He asks into Chris’s soft blond hair.
“Because you matter. So, so much.”
At that, Chris leans up and kisses James with as much love as his small body can produce. It’s nice. Very nice.
For the first time in his life, James feels invincible.