LOTUS CHILD
SHARMAINE ONG
Father wraps his hands around my neck. It is the only choker I’ve ever worn. His thumbs press against flesh and breath evades me.
“Useless,” he spits as tears well in the corners of my eyes. “Man up and fight me.”
I don’t.
Instead, I watch his fingers twitch and I wait for him to crush the life out from me. I wait for his emotions to peak, for his fingers to shove the Adams apple down my throat, for him to prove he no longer wants me.
But he doesn’t.
A hand falls from my neck and tightens into a white-knuckled fist. Father gifts me with a purple blossom around my eye, and I silently try to forgive him or maybe thank him for the bruised present.
Words, too foreign to understand fly from his lips and my ears twist, fumbling over each syllable spoken.
“You are not my son,” he says.
He turns away and leaves.
“I never wanted to be a son,” I whisper.
My body slumps to the floor and I cup my face.
“Useless,” he spits as tears well in the corners of my eyes. “Man up and fight me.”
I don’t.
Instead, I watch his fingers twitch and I wait for him to crush the life out from me. I wait for his emotions to peak, for his fingers to shove the Adams apple down my throat, for him to prove he no longer wants me.
But he doesn’t.
A hand falls from my neck and tightens into a white-knuckled fist. Father gifts me with a purple blossom around my eye, and I silently try to forgive him or maybe thank him for the bruised present.
Words, too foreign to understand fly from his lips and my ears twist, fumbling over each syllable spoken.
“You are not my son,” he says.
He turns away and leaves.
“I never wanted to be a son,” I whisper.
My body slumps to the floor and I cup my face.
*
“Mama,” I yelled. “Play with me.”
Basket in hand, mama peeked into hers and baba’s bedroom and dismissed my plea. She said she was busy.
“Hmph,” I sounded, pretending as if I didn’t care. With crossed arms, I stomped into her closet in hopes to distract myself from boredom.
In the back corner, I dug through piles of folded silk and stacked shoe box. Beneath the organized chaos, wrapped in white canvas cloth, was a pair of red heels. They sparkled brightly under the fluorescent lighting. With eyes wide open, I slipped a foot over a smooth insole marked with gold cursive and smiled. My toes were pinched and my heel laid inches away from the end of the shoe, but I couldn’t help but love the way it felt.
Bending my knees, I stood up. One foot bare, the other adorn with scarlet pump. I knew for certain this dance was a balancing act I would have to perfect with both feet, but I was unready. The poses I struck were timid; they were afraid of falling.
As I strutted around the closet with one heel in hand, the door creaked open and baba stood before me. Anger crept up his neck, hot and red. He pushed me out and with a single thrust, he threw me to the floor.
He didn’t say a word.
Instead, he unbuckled the silver of his belt, pulling the leather out from the rings of his blue jeans with an unsteady hand. I closed my eyes. For a moment, everything went black. The burn of belt against skin was etched on the backs of my legs.
Footsteps pounded outside the bedroom. Mama, fear stricken, ran to baba. Her once gentle hands grasped his wrists and she pleaded for him to stop.
He did.
The belt dropped to the floor and his hand fumbled with the buttons on his pants.
With a nudge of her chin, mama, scared but firm, motioned for me to leave.
Standing up, I tripped over carpet seams, and ran out the room. Baba shut the door. It clicked, and I heard their bed creak, mama cry, baba groan.
In hushed tones, he called her his bitch, his whore, his slut.
Saltwater rivers ran down my cheeks and pooled down my shirt. I sat in the hallway, knees tucked beneath chin, ears covered by small hands, and I shook in silence.
The door clicked open and baba, shirtless, appeared. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to my room.
“Go to bed,” he demanded.
But I didn’t.
I sat by the door and whispered apologizes to the gods, to my mother, for my father because in this house, “sorry” is the only language I know.
Basket in hand, mama peeked into hers and baba’s bedroom and dismissed my plea. She said she was busy.
“Hmph,” I sounded, pretending as if I didn’t care. With crossed arms, I stomped into her closet in hopes to distract myself from boredom.
In the back corner, I dug through piles of folded silk and stacked shoe box. Beneath the organized chaos, wrapped in white canvas cloth, was a pair of red heels. They sparkled brightly under the fluorescent lighting. With eyes wide open, I slipped a foot over a smooth insole marked with gold cursive and smiled. My toes were pinched and my heel laid inches away from the end of the shoe, but I couldn’t help but love the way it felt.
Bending my knees, I stood up. One foot bare, the other adorn with scarlet pump. I knew for certain this dance was a balancing act I would have to perfect with both feet, but I was unready. The poses I struck were timid; they were afraid of falling.
As I strutted around the closet with one heel in hand, the door creaked open and baba stood before me. Anger crept up his neck, hot and red. He pushed me out and with a single thrust, he threw me to the floor.
He didn’t say a word.
Instead, he unbuckled the silver of his belt, pulling the leather out from the rings of his blue jeans with an unsteady hand. I closed my eyes. For a moment, everything went black. The burn of belt against skin was etched on the backs of my legs.
Footsteps pounded outside the bedroom. Mama, fear stricken, ran to baba. Her once gentle hands grasped his wrists and she pleaded for him to stop.
He did.
The belt dropped to the floor and his hand fumbled with the buttons on his pants.
With a nudge of her chin, mama, scared but firm, motioned for me to leave.
Standing up, I tripped over carpet seams, and ran out the room. Baba shut the door. It clicked, and I heard their bed creak, mama cry, baba groan.
In hushed tones, he called her his bitch, his whore, his slut.
Saltwater rivers ran down my cheeks and pooled down my shirt. I sat in the hallway, knees tucked beneath chin, ears covered by small hands, and I shook in silence.
The door clicked open and baba, shirtless, appeared. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to my room.
“Go to bed,” he demanded.
But I didn’t.
I sat by the door and whispered apologizes to the gods, to my mother, for my father because in this house, “sorry” is the only language I know.
*
Mother’s small feet glide across the hallway carpet. Kneeling, she moves the long strands of hair covering my face, and presses an icy cold towel to my half-closed eye.
“Why,” she mutters. “Why do you have to make him angry?”
My lips part, finding the right words to speak.
“I don’t try-” I start.
“Peter, please. Just be normal. For me.”
I take a breath between my teeth.
“Mama, this is who I am.”
“Stop saying that,” she cries. Her fingers clutch the wet towel and ice water mixes in with my tears. “I had a son. Not a daughter.”
I stare at the picture frame on the far wall across from me. A family photo: father, mother, and I. No smiles, just the lingering disappointment of a father stuck in past tradition and culture, a mother too afraid to leave, and a young woman unrecognizable.
Pushing mother’s hand away, I ask her to leave; to give me space. She does, and trudges into the living room to sit by the makeshift altar father made.
I imagine her lighting incense and kneeling on paper thin knees. She mutters a mantra, a prayer, a thought, asking for savior; for forgiveness, for a son.
She cries broken, but I just cry. There’s a rapid sinking in my chest like a stone dropped in a cavernous well. I replay the moment father’s fist connects with my eye and how he told me to “man up” to “fight back.” The thought makes me squirm, so I get up and leave the house to breathe.
Night pierces my skin and I shiver beneath the half moon. My arms hold my body in a tight embrace. Street after street I keep walking, passing faces, evading glances, dodging catcalls, and I suddenly find myself sitting at the end of a dead bar.
“What’ll you have,” the bartender asks.
Avoiding his gaze, I duck my head and reply, “Anything cheap. Pabst if you have any.”
The man grabs a can from a small black fridge beneath shelves of liquor and pours the contents into an iced glass. He slides it across the bar and I catch it, holding it to my lips. Tilting my head, I gulp down the liquid. It was piss water, yellow and depressing.
“So,” the bartender hesitates, watching my face purse from the vile liquid. “Should I call the cops for ya?”
“What?” I question.
“Your man must’ve done a number on ya,” he says pointing at my eye.
I lightly press my fingers against the bruise and wince. Looking down, I refuse his offer. “I can handle this myself.”
“Ya sure? I mean, there are people who can help ya. Myself included.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “But thank you.”
“For what?”
“For treating me… like a lady.”
He laughs. “Well, you are one aren’t ya?”
I awkwardly laugh with him, turning my head away from his. Reaching for my pocket, I search for dollar bills.
He stops me.
“It’s on the house. Use that money to take care of yourself.”
In that moment, I imagine myself in mama’s red heels. I am out of that home, drinking at a bar in Manhattan, cocktail in hand and for once, no one calls me Peter. No one calls me boy or tells me to man up or to fight. For once, there are people who like being around the real me.
Snapping me out of my daydream, the bartender says, “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Definitely,” I thank him again. “By the way, my name’s Lin.”
“Lin,” he repeats. “Pretty. I’m Sam. I hope to see ya soon.”
“Likewise,” I reply.
Sam takes the empty glass from the bar and waves goodbye. The front door shuts close and I follow the street lights down the paved road, pass the local bodega and Brooklyn stoops, and I make my way back to Father’s home for the last time.
“Why,” she mutters. “Why do you have to make him angry?”
My lips part, finding the right words to speak.
“I don’t try-” I start.
“Peter, please. Just be normal. For me.”
I take a breath between my teeth.
“Mama, this is who I am.”
“Stop saying that,” she cries. Her fingers clutch the wet towel and ice water mixes in with my tears. “I had a son. Not a daughter.”
I stare at the picture frame on the far wall across from me. A family photo: father, mother, and I. No smiles, just the lingering disappointment of a father stuck in past tradition and culture, a mother too afraid to leave, and a young woman unrecognizable.
Pushing mother’s hand away, I ask her to leave; to give me space. She does, and trudges into the living room to sit by the makeshift altar father made.
I imagine her lighting incense and kneeling on paper thin knees. She mutters a mantra, a prayer, a thought, asking for savior; for forgiveness, for a son.
She cries broken, but I just cry. There’s a rapid sinking in my chest like a stone dropped in a cavernous well. I replay the moment father’s fist connects with my eye and how he told me to “man up” to “fight back.” The thought makes me squirm, so I get up and leave the house to breathe.
Night pierces my skin and I shiver beneath the half moon. My arms hold my body in a tight embrace. Street after street I keep walking, passing faces, evading glances, dodging catcalls, and I suddenly find myself sitting at the end of a dead bar.
“What’ll you have,” the bartender asks.
Avoiding his gaze, I duck my head and reply, “Anything cheap. Pabst if you have any.”
The man grabs a can from a small black fridge beneath shelves of liquor and pours the contents into an iced glass. He slides it across the bar and I catch it, holding it to my lips. Tilting my head, I gulp down the liquid. It was piss water, yellow and depressing.
“So,” the bartender hesitates, watching my face purse from the vile liquid. “Should I call the cops for ya?”
“What?” I question.
“Your man must’ve done a number on ya,” he says pointing at my eye.
I lightly press my fingers against the bruise and wince. Looking down, I refuse his offer. “I can handle this myself.”
“Ya sure? I mean, there are people who can help ya. Myself included.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “But thank you.”
“For what?”
“For treating me… like a lady.”
He laughs. “Well, you are one aren’t ya?”
I awkwardly laugh with him, turning my head away from his. Reaching for my pocket, I search for dollar bills.
He stops me.
“It’s on the house. Use that money to take care of yourself.”
In that moment, I imagine myself in mama’s red heels. I am out of that home, drinking at a bar in Manhattan, cocktail in hand and for once, no one calls me Peter. No one calls me boy or tells me to man up or to fight. For once, there are people who like being around the real me.
Snapping me out of my daydream, the bartender says, “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Definitely,” I thank him again. “By the way, my name’s Lin.”
“Lin,” he repeats. “Pretty. I’m Sam. I hope to see ya soon.”
“Likewise,” I reply.
Sam takes the empty glass from the bar and waves goodbye. The front door shuts close and I follow the street lights down the paved road, pass the local bodega and Brooklyn stoops, and I make my way back to Father’s home for the last time.
SHARMAINE ONG graduated from the University of New Mexico with a Bachelors of Arts & Sciences in Creative Writing and is currently working on her MFA at The College of New Rochelle - Harlem Campus. She was a Reader for The Blue Mesa Review and has contributed articles to College Candy, Spoon University, picVpic, ScreenRant, and CAPS UNM. Her creative work has been published or will soon be published in Lit.cat, Hippocampus, and elsewhere.