- Excerpt One - Excerpt Two - Excerpt Three
He wasn't exactly what we were expecting, but we'll still love him like a son. My wife and I had wanted children for years, but her broken insides had prevented that from happening. But finally, after months of interviews and vetting, we turned up at the orphanage to collect the new member of our family. Quite frankly, the last thing we were expecting was that our new son, our new baby, would be Ted Danson from Cheers.
'Mommy?' he asked, stubbing out a cigar with the heel of his boot and strolling over to shake our hands. Sure, we were a little taken aback, but as he looked up at us with those big, brown eyes, how could we have felt anything but love?
I'm so proud of my boy, seeing him hit those home runs at Little League, and watching him win the MVP award of the under 8's Pee Wee football, while he charms all the soccer moms at practice. For show and tell, he took in Kelsey Grammar, who spoke about the twin demons of hookers and booze.
Looking at our son, Ted Danson from Cheers, curled up asleep in his tiny cot, I realise for the first time what it is to be a father.
I’ve long since stopped asking what I ever did to deserve my fate. For the first ten years, that was my obsession, my occupation. Had I done something wrong, had I spoken out of turn? Maybe there’d been some miscommunication, a joke taken the wrong way perhaps, and it had festered and grown inside him until he’d decided I had to be punished.
We used to have such a strong bond. The kind of inseparable friends that were so intertwined we’d finish each other’s sentences and know what the other was thinking before they’d opened their mouth. It was rare to hear anybody refer to us as individuals, and we couldn’t go anywhere separately without being enquired as to the whereabouts of the other.
Although even back then, when we’d talk and laugh until dawn, there was no denying the irritation he’d get from being asked where I was, or being forced to smile politely and spectate while I conversed with someone who gave him little more than a courteous nod of recognition. While we never spoke of it, we were both fully aware that I’d grown to be the more popular one. I’d always try to play it down, laugh it off, but if I’m completely honest, I think it was the jealousy that pushed him to do what he did.
It broke my heart when he locked me away. Even the feeling that it was somehow my fault couldn’t outweigh the overwhelming sense of isolation. Those ever-present twinges of guilt were my only company during that first decade of captivity. I could have done something, should have done something. But as time passed, I simply couldn’t rationalise the blame onto myself any longer.
Occasionally, I’d be freed for a few, brief moments on his whim, but it was probably just an excuse to remind both of us who was in control, who had the power. He was the master, and I’d never be allowed to forget it.
On one particular occasion, he opened the door and released me with no prior warning; I think it must have been my birthday. Even with the bright lights shining into my eyes, I could make out a small audience of bystanders, but I knew they weren’t there to help, or they would have jumped in and rescued me. He asked me if there was anything I wanted. For a terrible, stir-crazy moment, I feared it was his way of letting me know I was about to be executed, and that he was toying with me, by offering the choice of a final death-row meal before my violent demise at his hand. It seems strange now, but after all those years of being ensnared in my tiny tomb, the thing I wanted most was a simple beer. An ice-cold bottle of beer. But somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to say it; the words were lost somewhere in the journey between my brain and lips. He became incredibly frustrated and angered by this, and ordered me back inside, amid hushed whispers from the people in the shadows.
So, back I went, the door of my cell slamming behind me and encasing me in the familiar darkness I now knew as home.
When the seclusion really gets to me, which isn’t often nowadays, I find myself panicking, and pleading to be released.
‘Let me out! Let me out!’ I’ll cry. During the early days, when I shouted that, I’d occasionally pick out the sounds of muffled laughter, the door would be opened, and we’d reunite like old friends, just like the good times. But now all I hear in response is the sound of him crying, and throwing shot glasses against the wall.
The periods of silence are so lengthy that I have no clue what year it is, let alone the month or day. The passing of time has become as muddied as the reasons that lead us both to this point.
He still calls out to me though, in anger, through the darkness and the disassociation.
‘It’s all your fault,’ he yells, kicking at the door. ‘All they ever want is you! I’m never enough!’
Even through the walls, I can hear the self-pity in his voice. The sense of failure, the rage.
‘You fucking dummy!’
As I lay curled up in the gloom, I often wonder who’s the lonelier, him or me.