Antihero [Part Two]

ANTIHERO

P a r t T w o

I'm not going to do this David Copperfield style, you know, before I was born. Because, to be honest, I don't know what happened before I was born.

Well okay, I do know a bit. My parents weren't too open about their life pre-me, probably because it was all about drugs, wild partying and so on. But I do know a little, so I might as well share.

My dad, Mark Harris, was an intelligent, witty, sometimes cold but always watching type of person. He may not take part in things (like my childhood) but he always knew what was happening. Some people thought he was sneaky, but I don't think so – his deceptive abilities were blatantly obvious.

My mom on the other hand had been a woman in body but an innocent girl in mind when she met my dad. She must have found him so charming – he had a lot of money, was a top lawyer in a huge firm and he was by no means ugly. My dad always knew the right things to say to stop you from being mad at him. When they met, my mother was studying to be a heart surgeon, and they met at a frat party my father's friend was throwing.

They were a beautiful couple with an ugly secret – they were both addicted to heroin. To this day, I am still in awe that they stayed together for as long as they did. Some people might think that love can't survive in such a horrible situation, that two junkies can't love each other. But oh God, they can and I'd know.

So my dad was high on something or other and asked my mom to marry him. My mom said yes and I appeared shortly after. My arrival was not a happy one: my parents had made a deal that they'd both give up heroin and be like other parents. Of course, my "sneaky" dad didn't live up to his end of the bargain.

Needless to say they were thrilled when I popped out. I think my mom saw me as the one thing that tied her to my dad. Either way, you would have thought my mom had given birth to an alien.

They named me Matthew Jay Harris. I was born a few weeks early and they had to put me in an incubator because I came out cold. Aside from that, my arrival into this world was relatively normal. It's what happened afterwards that was the (almost) interesting part.

I had a nanny when I was little. Not a Swedish sex bomb, if that's what you're thinking. She was small, slender, dark haired and plain and her name was Gayle. She was young-ish, single and she lived in the Lake Washington house with us. My parents lived in the right wing of the house and Gayle and I lived in the left.

I didn't think it was weird that I only saw my parents twice a day. I was a normal four year old boy, or so I thought anyway. I'd have breakfast with my parents, and then spend the day in the playroom. I had a tutor who I dimly recall (I must not have liked him) but I didn't pay much attention to him. I preferred toys.

My favourite toy was a bright red fire truck that my dad had bought me back from his "business" trip to Los Angeles. I kept it on a shelf that I could only reach if I stood on my toy chest. I was scared to play with it in case I broke it. Somehow, the prospect of life without my fire truck was a bleak one. I was going through some old things the other day, actually, when I found the firetruck again, the same as I always remembered it. My name was still printed in the clumsy capital letters of a child.

Gayle used to read to me a lot. The Brothers Grimm mostly but I also developed a liking for Peter Pan. I wasn't a bookish child by any means – I was really into baseball as a little kid. Weird, right? Gayle would put all my toys into the chest and we'd play inside on rainy days.

It was quite a picturesque childhood. Of course, this was before the days of "You're just a rich, whiny brat" and all the fun stuff that comes with having parents in a country club when all you really want to do is sit at home playing the guitar and listening to "devil music." My parents fought a lot even then, but we lived on separate sides of the house so I didn't notice. Even if I did notice, I probably didn't care.

Then my dad was made a partner in the law firm. He spent a lot of time away from the house and my mom started to visit my playroom to give Gayle the afternoon off.

"Hi Matthew," she'd say without a smile. I looked up from my spot on the floor where I'd been sitting glancing at a picture book. I wondered where Gayle had gone, and if she'd be back to play baseball with me.

"Hi mom," I replied, looking hesitantly at my picture book in my lap. "Where has Gayle gone?"

"I gave her the afternoon off."

"Oh."

I watched as my mom smoothed out her skirt and sat down on the window seat. She looked extremely uncomfortable.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, trying (and failing) to sound interested.

"A picture book." I held it up to her. "There are words in it too," I said, sounding hopeful. It would be a special treat to have my mom read to me, like the rare times my dad would be home in time to tuck me in.

"That's nice, dear," my mom sighed, staring out the window. It was raining outside. She sat there in silence for a long time.

Night fell and my dad came home. I was sitting alone in my playroom, cradling my red fire truck and wondering when my dad would tuck me in again. My dad always told the best bed time stories, about a brave prince who married a beautiful princess. They always lived happily ever after.

The house was super quiet and I could hear my dad's voice echoing through the halls. I decided I'd get changed into my pajamas and go ask him to come tell me a story and tuck me in.

Gayle always told me to fold my clothes when I was finished wearing them and to place them neatly on my white chair. I did, feeling awfully proud because I'd done it all by myself. I changed into my pajamas and made my way to the right wing of the house, clutching my red fire truck like it was a candle in the dark.

My parents were in their bedroom, arguing. They'd left their door open and I sat silently on the stairs, just listening to them scream at each other.

"He barely knows us!" My mom screamed, distraught. "He might as well be an orphan!"

"That's a bit harsh." My dad tried to sound reasonable, but the doubt in his voice was apparent. "I try, okay? We love Matty and he loves us."

"I wonder why!" My mom snorted. "He should hate us."

I didn't really know what they meant, but my little four year old brain thought that they meant I wasn't really their child. They thought I didn't know them and that I shouldn't love them. It made my head hurt. I had started to cry silently in the dark, holding my red fire truck to my chest like it would make the pain go away. I didn't want to hear them shouting, so I climbed to my feet in an attempt to scramble off.

I had the sudden urge to scream myself. I wished Gayle was there; she always made me feel better. The only thing I had was my fire truck that my dad had bought me. I hurled it down the stairs. Of course, I wasn't even remotely strong. The fire truck skidded across the floor but didn't break. I ran off to my bedroom and flung myself onto my bed.

Three hours later and I was lying awake, missing my fire truck. Silently, I got out of bed and crept through the dark house. My fire truck was exactly where I had left it. I grabbed it, held it to my chest and ran back to my bedroom.

I slept with my fire truck in my arms that night. The next morning, I put it back on its shelf, out of reach. I never played with it again.