The New King : A Short Story

Photo by jean wimmerlin on Unsplash

He sat there on his corduroy reclining armchair as if it were a sad throne he refused to abandon. No one sat his armchair. When we were kids we were always shooed away from it by mom before he could discover our disobedience. Mom always had a way of averting a crisis. She would protect us from his wrath and protect him from aggravation. I wondered who protected her, but I knew the answer.
Today he sat in that damned chair and refused to look at me. Mom sat on the couch, her island of exile where her eyes darted from him to me while she wrung her hands repeatedly. God, she was such a mess. How can someone spend their entire life attempting to placate everyone all the time? I admired and resented her.
"I'm not going." I wanted them to realize that I was firm on this. It's my decision, not hers and certainly not his. I was tired of living my life in a way that they felt comfortable and I didn't want to do it anymore. I just wanted to live the life that made me happy, and I wasn't going to allow him to stand in the way of that.
He sat in his chair, still refusing to look at me. "You're going to go. I don't want to hear anymore of this crap."
He was always so abrupt. ...The king on the corduroy throne. I hated him, and I hated her for allowing him to become or remain the tyrant he was.
I got into three universities, one of them being Columbia. I got into all three but I didn't want to go to any of them. I wanted to continue the extremely lucrative startup that I launched two years ago with my partner. We were making a killing, and I didn't see the point in losing momentum now to occupy myself with an education that would incur a significant debt and result in a conventional career path in Corporate America. My parents wanted it for me, but I didn't want it.
"I'm old enough to make my own decisions. I've been running this business for three years and I am the only 18 year old that I know who is making this much money."
There. I said it.
Mom looked at me with pleading eyes. She didn't want me to say it. She wanted me to remain silent, and perhaps allow things to blow over. She wanted me to let him process one defiant statement at a time. She wanted me to be like her. I didn't like her. She was weak, and she encouraged me to cower toward him. She encouraged me to be just like her for the past 18 years and I wasn't going to be her anymore. Look where it got her! No place! She was as she'd been since I can remember; a weakling. She never defended me, but she taught me to hide from everything. I'm not hiding anymore.
"John isn't just my business partner either. He is my partner. I'm gay."
He looked at me then.
He gripped the arms of his pathetic little throne as if he were actually going to get up. I wanted him too. Oh, how I wanted him to get up and try to beat me like he did when I couldn't defend myself. ...and her. She called his name as if she were begging him not to strike me.
His face contorted into an angry scowl. At that moment, I think I may have smiled. I can't remember, but I'm sure I did. His anger made her hide, it made me laugh. He was a frail old man now who beat us all half to death in his prime and mom was still afraid of him. I guess the memories were enough to keep her trained.
When he tried to get up, his knees gave and he sat back down.
"You faggot! Get out of my house and never come back!"
"Derrick!" Mom shouted in her whiny pleading voice. She then looked at me, quietly begging...always begging. She never demanded anything.
"Mom knew the entire time. I told her I liked boys in junior high." The satisfaction I felt was immense. I wanted her to suffer at his hands. She let me suffer at his hands for my entire childhood. After his knees went out, he would sometimes command her to walk to his chair so he could hit her and like a brainwashed fool she did. She always did. I used to plead like she did. I'd say "Daddy, no!" "Daddy, please!" My cries for her empowered him. He thrived on the control. Sometimes he'd snicker as he did it. He enjoyed our helplessness. He's a sick bastard and now he's really sick and I love seeing him suffer.
"You're weak. ...the both of you." This time, I was the one who let out a chortle. I knew they were miserable and I loved every minute of it. I didn't need to hit them to hurt them.

I'd packed my bags anticipating all of this before it happened but it was within that moment that I decided I wasn't leaving. What I didn't anticipate was how good it would feel once it did happen. I decided I was going to go to my room, unpack and stay. I'd leave when I wanted to leave. I'd let them look at me and suffer as I had suffered all these years not because I didn't have any place to go, but because I enjoyed watching them suffer.

I finally felt the power he must of felt. I finally was in control, and I wasn't going to let it go just yet. It felt too good.