CHAPTER THREE - WITH AN IRON SCEPTRE

Once I get back home I stumble into my room like a drunkard, slamming the door behind me so hard the walls rattle. It takes all that’s inside me to not collapse to the floor with that stuffed animal in my arms. I toss it on top of my bed and peel my sweaty, sticky clothing off and let it fall to the floor beneath me. I don’t even bother changing into anything— I get into bed and hold the plushie close to my body as I pull the sheets up over my head.

I try and try to sleep, just for a while, to escape this aching feeling in my body and all the thoughts that are running through my mind. I want some relief, even if it is temporary. But try as I might, I just can’t fall asleep! My body may be tired, but my brain is not. …And it’s getting hot under these sheets. Too hot to even breathe. Maybe getting out and taking a cold shower would help me calm down?

Taking a deep breath, I peel the sheets off my body and slowly crawl out of bed, digging through my dresser and pulling out an old t-shirt. I throw it on and sneak towards Anton’s room, kneeling to peek under his door. I can’t see much since his bedroom light’s off, as usual, but I can tell he’s in there. He’s at his desk, shuffling papers and sniffling. Was he crying? I find that hard to believe. He never cries, not for anything. Maybe my mind’s playing tricks on me.

I get back on my feet quietly, tiptoeing the opposite direction to the bathroom. Entering, I close the door as softly as I can and turn on the shower, letting it run for a few seconds before stepping inside. Each water drop that hits my skin feels like a piercing needle. To say this water’s freezing is an understatement… My teeth are already chattering and I’m shivering so bad it’s hard to breathe. It’s what I imagine drowning feels like– I hold my breath until my lungs hurt and my face feels flush, imagining I am drowning for real. When I was a kid, I remember spending endless days in the forest, in the rivers, in the ponds. They were as cold as this shower, even on the hottest days. These rapidly-arriving memories are blurry, and fade away as quickly as they came. Memories of a mother, of roaming freely, of feeling most powerful and important. Hot, longing tears begin to flood my eyes and run down my cheeks, mixing with the cold shower water and circling down the drain beneath my feet. Only now I finally allow myself to take a breath, almost collapsing against the tiled wall. I lean against it weakly, gasping and my head bowed as I fumble with the faucet and knobs trying to turn the water off. I get out. There’s no reason to stay in here and torture myself any longer.

I wipe my eyes and grab a towel, wrapping it tightly around myself. I stare at my shivering reflection in the mirror above the sink, but I cannot look at it for very long before my eyes become blurred by tears. I hold my face in my trembling hands for a while, trying my best to stop shivering. After my body temperature returns to normal and I am able to stop crying I run my fingers through my wet, slicked-back hair. Then, I get dressed and hang up my damp towel, leaving the bathroom and hoping Anton is still in his room…

…And he is not. He is searching for something in the bookshelf on the opposite end of the living room. I don’t even bother to run to my room, he’s already heard me. He turns around and our eyes meet awkwardly. That “running away” feeling from earlier comes back tenfold, but it would be pointless and stupid to run away again. I mentally command my feet to stay put, and believe it or not, they actually listen.

“You are dripping water all over the place,” he says quietly, staring me down.

I’m surprised he hasn’t already started yelling at me for what happened earlier. His seemingly indifferent tone makes me feel all the more unnerved; just a bit ago he had yelled such horrible things at me. I know he is hurting, deep down. I can see the redness in his eyes and nose, like he really was crying. He can act all aloof and pretend like he is emotionless, but to me the truth is obvious. And it hurts.

“Anton,” I meekly reply, in a voice even quieter than his, “In a little bit, I would like to talk to you. I have something very important to tell you.”

“Indeed, you do. And though I am certain I already know what it is, it would make my day to hear it directly from your mouth.”

I grimace at his response. Whenever there’s something he can hold above my head, he gets all weird about it, and right now the way he’s acting makes me almost not want to apologize to him. Almost.

“Whatever it is you must tell me, you may tell me when you are ready. I will be here, waiting.”

He grabs a book from the shelf and sits down on the couch, beginning to flip through the pages.

As I walk to my room, I think about how cruel Anton’s dad’s letter was and the way he reacted once he’d found out I’d read it. As I put on underwear and a pair of shorts and toss my still-drying hair back into a limp ponytail, I can’t help but sneak glimpses of the dog plushie sitting on my bed… It helps me come to a realization– both Anton and I have objects reminding us of a painful past. His is the letter, mine is the stuffed animal. I decide to bring it with me.

“Er, Hong, what is it you have there?” He asks, pointing at it confusedly as I walk by.

“Um, long story. I can explain in a second,” I sigh, “Let me get a chair first.”

I go to the kitchen and drag a chair all the way back to the living room, setting it across from Anton and taking a seat. The only thing separating us is the coffee table. “Okay, the important thing I wanted to tell you…” I close my eyes, gathering my thoughts, “…I’m sorry for reading the letter your dad wrote. I know it was wrong of me to snoop on you like that, and I want you to know I feel ultra bad about it, okay?”

He smiles sardonically, leaning back and folding his hands in his lap. Not the reaction I’d wanted to see, but one that I half-expected because of his smugness earlier. I guess it could’ve been worse.

“Yes, this is exactly what I wanted to hear from you. But, while I am glad you were able to set aside your pride and admit wrongdoing, this simple apology alone won’t repair the trust you have broken. It is going to take some time for you to earn my trust back.”

Like that means anything, I think to myself bitterly, pouting and hugging the stuffed dog close to my chest, I feel like that situation we’d had with Magdalena’s dream had already chipped away at whatever ‘trust’ he had in me, even though he said none of the things that happened were my fault.

“That petulant expression on your face tells me there’s something on your mind. Speak to me.”

“So you wanted to know what the deal with this stuffed animal is?”

“I will admit it’s piqued my interest. A thrift store acquisition?”

“Nope. You see, after you yelled at me, I ran all the way to the park to blow off some steam. When I got there, I found this thing over by the playground. It’s really similar to a stuffed animal I had when I was a little kid. Well, the only stuffed animal I had as a little kid… No one else was around, so I took it home. It brought back a lot of memories that have been tearing me apart inside this afternoon.”

“So I see.”

“When I was a little kid I was raised in a cult called ‘Church of the Iron Sceptre’. I think you already knew that, though. Anyway, the main guy in charge was really strict. He said that all mass-produced items, like stuff you could get from a big-box store or whatever, were sinful and ‘worldly’. And if you had something, most of the time you never really ‘owned’ it; it was communal. So when I got my very own stuffed animal, to keep for myself, it meant a lot to me, more than the entire world.”

“Yes, I remember hearing of this cult, from you, and from the news when I was a boy. Something about an FBI raid, domestic terrorism, mass poisonings, assassination attempts on government officials, et cetera. A Manson Family-type deal; one big man herding a flock of hippies blinded by free love through the woods and into big cities. A group where strange people held strange beliefs about God and Satan and the end of the world and vowed to strike down all nonbelievers. …I apologize. I am getting ahead of myself. I will admit my view is… unfavorable at best, I have always found the whole ‘hippie’ movement asinine and repugnant, and of course terrorism and religion are even more so asinine and repugnant. Do not take my words so personally, though, this is all a outsider’s view, clouded by sensationalist reporting. Perhaps you think of it all differently, as someone who was actually there?”

“Yeah, I do remember it differently. Way differently. Probably ‘cos I was a child and not even aware of the bad things people were doing there. My time there wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, I’ll give you that, and I think being raised in that kind of environment did screw me up in a major way. It took me a while to shake off all the bad influences. But I learned a lot of valuable lessons about life and nature there, and it was the only place I felt like I truly belonged. It was the closest I’ve ever been to having a family. There was an important woman, Mother Theta– I mean, she wasn’t my actual mother– but she did hatch my egg, so that’s ‘mother’ enough to me. She took care of me best she could. She protected me and she loved me,” I continue, letting myself ramble as a sad, longing feeling hits me like a bus, “She was my family. I loved her. I thought she would be my mother forever, but…”

I pause. He sits upright again, waiting for me to go on. I take a deep breath in, and exhale deeply, preparing myself for what is about to come next.

“But one day everything changed. The famous part. The FBI raid. It happened I think a short time after I’d turned seven. The compound where we all lived– where everyone lived and all the operations were and stuff– got raided by countless men with guns and warrants. I didn’t understand why they did it at the time; I only found out why the place got raided after doing my own research as an adult.” I sniffle, trying to prevent myself from getting too heated, “Anyway, she tried to take me away when this all went down. She carried me and tried to run away, somewhere far. She twisted her ankle tripping over a large stone, though, and escaping became impossible. We tried to hide, but it was no use. They found us, and I was torn from her arms, screaming. Two men came and took her away, and that was the last I ever saw of her. I never saw her again; I wasn’t allowed to. Even if I was, I wouldn’t have been able to contact her. No one would tell me anything, and to this day I don’t know anything. I don’t know if she’s dead or alive or in jail or in Tahiti or on the moon. She was the only family I had, and they took me away from her forever. This stuffed animal reminded me of it all today, because it is like the stuffed animal she gave me long ago.”

He remains silent.

“Anton!” I exclaim, leaping out of my seat with a sudden fervor, “How was it like for you growing up? Was being a kid just as hard for you as it was for me? What was having a family like? Your dad seemed really mean in his letter. Did he hurt you? I only read his letter because I wanted to make you feel better. You seemed so shaken up by it, and I figured the only way I could help you feel better is by reading it. Because, after all, if I don’t know what’s wrong, then I can’t help you. I only wanted to help… I only wanted to help you feel better.”

He looks at his hands, then back to me. His eyes grow wet. He doesn’t cry fully, but I can tell he is still holding something back. He does not seem mournful, or even sad, really. It’s something harsher; angrier.

“I… I’m sorry. I’ve just… always wanted to feel like I was a part of a real family. Earlier, I was almost kind of offended at your flippant attitude towards your dad. I mean, I don’t know your situation at all, but I felt jealous. Jealous that you have a real family that you don’t even care about, meanwhile I have nothing and no one. And I really did want to help you feel better. That’s what started all this, so don’t think I read your letter just ‘cos I’m jealous and nosey or something,” I mutter, sitting back down, “When you’re upset, I’m upset too. And I care about you a whole lot, so… Uh.”

He remains silent.

“Oh, never mind,” I groan, starting to get up again to leave, “Whenever I try to do good it always turns out I’ve made the wrong choice and I can’t stop messing up. Why do I even bother?”

“Listen to me, Hong,” he hisses, causing me to freeze, “If my parents were your parents, you wouldn’t want to reunite with them, either. Of course, our childhoods are nowhere near comparable, and I do not want to imply my suffering is more important than yours. I do not wish to divulge the details of my trauma in full, but I will tell you that my father was nothing more than a savage tyrant who used me as his personal punching bag. How anyone could look at a small child and think to beat him relentlessly for the smallest of slights, I have no clue. I have not seen him since I was eighteen years old, and even without seeing him now I am certain he has not changed. This is why I do not want to reunite with him. I do not want to reopen those old wounds once more.”

“I didn’t realize it was like that,” I mumble, feeling guilty again, “Guess I should’ve figured it out, since he didn’t have anything nice to say about you in his letter. God, I am so sorry about all that stuff I said earlier. I feel like an idiot.”

“You are not a mind reader. How were you to know any of this? I never told you anything. I never intended to. I thought that, with the passing of time, all would be forgotten. I seem to have been mistaken, though.”

“Trust me, I get it. I never intended to tell you about my time in the cult, either. I guess it would’ve come out eventually, but I wasn’t expecting it to be like this.”

“To be honest, I was curious. But I wanted you to tell me these things on your own terms when you felt comfortable doing so,” his voice is kinder and softer than it was moments ago.

“Um, on another note, don’t you think it’s weird how today we’ve both got items that’ve reminded us of things we’ve been trying to forget? Yours is the letter, mine is the plushie. …When I saw it in the park today, I swore it was a sign of something. But now that I’m really thinking about it, for something like this to happen to the both of us on the same day…”

“It is what Jung calls a synchronicity,” he says.

“Oh, for sure,” I reply, picking up the chair and beginning to carry it back to the kitchen, “I wonder if it’s an omen of something yet to come?”

“Do not say that. Now you’ve spoken it into existence.”

“I think it came into existence the second you got the letter, Anton,” I chide, walking up to him, “I guess we’ll just have to see what happens next! It could be an exciting adventure or something, it doesn’t have to be an omen of something bad! I never said that!”

“What’s with the energetic tone? I have enough excitement in my life already. I’m not sure how much more my weary heart can take,” he gets up and moves around me, “Now, if you will excuse me, I need some time to be alone with my thoughts.”

I grab his shirtsleeve, looking up at him earnestly.

“So, even if it’ll take a while to re-establish trust and whatnot, everything’s fine between us, right? If you’re still mad at me, it’s okay. I’d rather you tell me how you feel rather than let the resentment build up. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings, I can take it.”

He grabs my wrist delicately and removes my hand from his sleeve, shaking his head.

“When have I ever worried about offending you? I am not mad at you. This situation is unfortunate, yes, and perhaps you have not made the correct choices, but ultimately most of the blame cannot be placed on you alone. Do not violate my privacy in such a manner again and you will have nothing to be sorry for. May we both heal from the festering wound that is trauma.”