Unleashed

It was a late summer morning. It had to be, because mom was up and about, and that didn’t happen in early hours of the day. I could tell she was already in a mood, so I tried to keep my head low and stay out of her line of vision. Breakfast consisted of the usual bowl of Cheerios, and I was trying to crunch them as quietly as possible. Mom walked by several times on her way in and out of the kitchen. I could feel her glare each time, so I avoided eye contact in an attempt to stave off provocation. I got the sense she was searching for something, anything, to sink her claws into.

She came back through on one of her rounds. This time, she stopped. She had found the fodder for the next bout of torment.

“What is wrong with you?”

I gazed meekly at the top of her stubby feet. I knew this was a rhetorical question.

“You’ve got milk all over that table. Did you even get any in the bowl?”

I glance at the table. There’s a couple of droplets of milk on it. The kind of tiny splatters that sneak over the bowl when you push the spoon into it. I say nothing.

“And that chewing. It’s disgusting. You’re like a rabid animal.”

Then I see the light of inspiration go off yet again. That point where I know her warped brain has concocted something especially deviant.

“You know what? Since you eat like a dog, I’m going to treat you like one.”

She grabs my bowl and sets it on the floor, sloshing milk all over the table and floor in the process. This, of course, is my fault, so I endure the requisite head slap with nary a peep. She grabs my hair and drags me out of the chair to the floor. She pushes my nose close to the bowl. Her voice changes to a sickly sweet coo.

“Here you go little doggy. Have some breakfast.”

I jerk my head back slightly as my face starts to come in contact with the contents of the bowl. This is not acceptable. Her voice changes quickly to the raging roar that I’m more familiar with.

“Eat it! You’re a dog, so eat like one! Go ahead, start lapping it up. Dogs don’t need spoons.”

Her hand pushes my head into the bowl again, so I stick out my tongue and try to snag a Cheerio. Last I checked, I am still human, so my tongue doesn’t function as well for these purposes as it does for my canine and feline brethren. Now I’ve got milk dripping from my chin, and I’m having a hard time remembering how to swallow.

“See, I told you you’re disgusting. No better than an animal.”

With that, she gives me one more head slap and stomps away. Per usual, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do at this point. Do I play the role and finish my breakfast Lassie style? Do I pick it up and sit back down at the table? Do I not eat it at all, and instead start to clean up the mess that surrounds me? Any course of action is going to be wrong, so I sit paralyzed in fear as my brain tries to compute all the options. I start to ponder my odds of winning “Best in Show” at Westminster. Surely I am at least better behaved than a poodle.

She is not finished yet. The “bowl on the floor” trick was just the warmup. She slams open the lock on the basement door and clomps down the steps. I hear some muffled shuffling of objects, then sit in dread as once again those pudgy feet take to the stairs. She appears in the basement doorway, dog collar and leash in hand.

We haven’t had a dog for a while. We had two of them — both got hit by cars. The last one right in front of my brother in what I am sure is still a traumatic memory for him. Apparently we still have the collar and leash.

She doesn’t say anything. She just marches over fastens the collar around my neck. Then she snaps on the leash, and yanks it upwards. I feel my esophagus contract with a sharp rap of pain. I scramble to my feet to relieve the pressure. She chuckles that wry, sadistic laugh she sometimes gets when she’s enjoying herself. She yanks me over to the basement doorway and starts the descent down. It’s all I can do to not topple her down the steps, while simultaneously trying to avoid that horrific constriction around my throat. And I must make sure to duck my head by the gas pipe, cause we’ve been warned that we’ll blow up the house if we bump it.

We reach the bottom of the steps and she tethers me to the pole.

“You can stay down here for the rest of the day. If I catch you out of this collar or unhooked from this leash, you’ll really be in trouble. I’ll let you know when you can come back upstairs.”

With that, she marches back up and I hear the lock on the door snap into place. The basement is cold and dark. It’s damp, with puddles of water leftover from the last rainstorm. The floor is uneven and cracked. The sump pump kicks on its noisy refrain.

I hate this basement. I have nightmares about this basement. I race up these stairs as fast as I can every time I have to come down here alone, because I know there is a beast that is chasing me the whole way. He lurks just around the corner, in the dark, hollowed out crawlspace under the porch. There is a wall that is only cemented halfway up, and he waits for his opportunity to sneak over it when your back is turned. I am now going to spend the day down here with him, waiting to see him peer around either corner. He will devour me when he realizes I am chained in place.

I sit on the bottom step, listening for the next several hours to the noises of the household above. I wait for the sound of the lock snapping back, so I can hop back upright and hopefully put on a sorrowful enough face to warrant a trip back upstairs.

In my late twenties, before I had started to process all of this and figure out the repercussions in my own life and behavior, I wrote a song about the experience. Here’s part of it:

I’ve been confined to the basement
I’m sitting here counting cracks in the wall
I can’t escape my containment
The rats won’t help me get this dog collar off

I don’t deserve this
I don’t belong here
I’m just a kid who made an honest mistake
But you shut me in darkness
A child’s heart you should never forsake

Chorus
I just want to run
But I can’t seem to trigger the starting gun
I just want to hide
Just want to hide these broken parts inside
I just want to feel
Like I can show the person I’ve left concealed
Why do you hurt me so?
I think it’s time to let these deep wounds go

Even back then I was trying to figure out all the nonsense and repercussions.