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Tord grew up in a house where the television was always on, the air always smelled faintly of alcohol, and every clock ticked too loudly because nobody spoke enough to drown them out.
His father wasn’t cruel in the way people would expect when he said “bad dad”. There wasn’t shouting matches or bruises under long sleeves— instead there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. A man slouched in an armchair, across a bed, wherever he’d chosen that day. A half empty bottle always in hand, staring at his son like he wasn’t even there.
Tord learned very quickly that conversation was a one-way street. He’d come home from school, full of schemes and half-baked inventions to talk about, and his father’s only response would be the sound of glass hitting the table and the TV turning up a little louder. Over time he stopped trying to connect. Stopped trying to relate, to convince him to share activities, anything. It took so much energy it didn’t feel like was worth it. Where his voice grew quieter at home, it became sharper everywhere else.
Tord’s father wasn’t the only one who was bad, who gave him hell. If anything he felt selfish for hating his father seeing as his mother was so much worse. She didn’t listen, she didn’t understand bodily boundaries at all. Her touch lingered for ages, a stark reminder of the fact that her own husband didn’t love her enough and she was compensating. That wasn’t all of it, either. She hit. She screamed. She made him feel devoid of value. Sometimes he would manage to lock the door and just cry until he felt like he was floating, until he imagined hanging from the very ceiling fan that he watched swinging around the room while he cried. Until he wished he hadn’t been there at all, wishing it never started. Wondering why it did.
He tried everything, really. New friends, relationships, going out more, drugs, sleeping more— but none of it filled the pit. None of it covered the bruises or made them go away, none of it made his father want to talk to him, or the unwanted touch go away. It hurt to have nobody talk to you— to have nobody want to talk to you. That kind of loneliness is the kind that seeps into every single activity, it’s the voice at the back of your head when someone loves you that says “no, they don’t.”
He knew it was going to get better. I mean, of course it would. That’s what all his friends had been saying since he started opening up to them. He’d get a job, move out, and be happy— but none of that erased any of this. He would also have years of therapy. It would always be a little hard to feel okay. That wasn’t just going to go away.
Tord didn’t have a good relationship with his parents. He really wishes he did.