Sam

And of course it has always been there. “Was he or wasn’t he. Was I or wasn’t I.” Yes, through every “Sam go and get me that, Sam go and get me this, Sam bring it here now,” and “Sam take it away again.” The untold truth has always been there.

The years pass, the contempt turns to dislike, the dislike grows to hate. Sometimes I think it might work both ways, a two way street.

“Sam, why do you have to walk that way? Sam stop slouching, you are an embarrassment,” and “Sam, get out of the room, Sam, be somewhere else.”

The physical doesn’t happen overnight but it doesn’t take a century to arrive either. A mother’s blame, her culpability made complete by her lack of action as the first crack hits my jaw, brother and sister watching on.

“Sam, how dare you? Sam, why did you? Sam, why don’t you? Sam, get out of my sight,” and I do, but as I exit the stage I hear my mother’s guilt; “You shouldn’t have hit him in the face.”

Adulthood arrives but the child like guilt, shame, rage and even hatred, yes hatred remains. Like I said, a two way street, but mine is covered in confusion. What exactly has Sam done wrong? But it continues;

“Sam, you are to take this job, no Sam I don‘t give a fuck if you don’t like it, I certainly don’t give a fuck if you don’t want to do it and I definitely don’t give a fuck if it is illegal. Sam, just do it Sam.” The pattern repeats itself; often.

Brother and sister no longer watch on, better for them they turn their eyes, eyes covered in rose coloured glasses; “Yeah, do as you are told Sam.” Mother joins in the turning of the other cheek because she lives in the ignorance too. It is easier that way.

And of course, Sam eventually has enough. I have had enough and push back.I do something for me for a change and that does not go down well. Sam has no more fucks to give and so I move on.

Time passes. Lots of it and the word is sent to me that my mother will witness no more almost criminal treatment, for she has passed. And not long after that the letter arrives. I guess I kind of expected it.

“Sam, I was never your real father,” it says, written in a font I don’t really care for. It is written with malice, it is written in pure hate. “Not in love, not in parenthood and certainly not biologically. No Sam, you never even met your real pa, not sure he even knows you exist. Yours faithfully, the man in the mask all these years.”

Again, like I said I have no more fucks to give, except the one that needs sharing.

Sam needs his siblings to know he isn’t one of them and so, despite the frostiness I expect, I arrive at the house and share the news. One looks delighted and the other looks denied.

I don’t expect any love lost, but neither do I expect the attack that happens. Brother throws fists; he isn’t very good at it and is easily restrained, easiest thing I’ve ever have to do.

“You are a liar Sam,” he screams though his tears. “You are such a liar.” I shrug as I hear the footsteps behind me, they shuffle into the room now, old with guilt, old with shame, old with age, but only one of these three apply and it is the last one. For the first two he too has no fucks to give.

“Telling them more bullshit are you Sam? Spreading your filth again,” he asks but can’t quite make eye contact. I move, Sam moves so the man is in his line of sight and this time the man has nowhere else to look. I forced him to look me in the eye. It is the least I owe myself.

“No, just the truth,” I say and the look on his face tells it all and so I nod. “Yep, just Sam telling the truth.”

And there is indeed truth, but I am beyond that, I am better than it. I stand and turn to leave but before I do I take one last look at the wreckage Sam’s dad has created. Three wasted, bitter lives in shells of denial. Sam has no more fucks to give. Sam moves on to better days.

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