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Oh and a warning you guys: This story deals with a lot of sensitive subjects like child abuse, drugs, and such, so if you don't think you can handle that, I'm sorry, but maybe this story isn't for you. There's some graphic details at times and I'm sorry if anyone is affended. That was never my intention.
And regarding the main character's name, I didn't even realize that his name wasn't ever mentioned in the prologue...but you'll find it out in here, don't worry.
Enjoy!
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Chapter One
Nothing could get worse, on the beautiful spring evening. Pansies and marigold's sprouted blossoms out in the garden; sparrow's chirped in a tree near the window; and the pond filled with tadpoles and little minnows exploring every new place in site. New life was developing all around us. The activity outside was rapid and friendly. But that's where it ended. Outside. I only wished it could reach me, that I could touch it for just a minute. But I couldn't. Nothing could get worse.
To say I had a normal life would be an over exaggeration. There was nothing normal about the conditions we lived in. I felt uncivilized, ramshackled, and worthless. Kids at school lived normal lives, not me.
I grew up in a neighborhood that was one of the most respected in the city. It was one of those cookie cutter suburbs, but it was cheerful and profound. Most of the people were very friendly and loved to get into everyone else's business. The neighbors all knew each other and had these unbreakable bonds. You couldn't go unnoticed even if you wanted to. It was such a tight-knit community it was nearly impossible for you to have privacy. Your business was everyone else's business. If there was a dilemma or an exciting event, groups of woman were always on hand to be there for you. No one was left out - people were too friendly to let that happen. They all wanted to believe the best about their friends in the housing development and avoided looking for any bad at all costs.
Over a period of several years, my self-esteem had been chipped away and picked at to the point of near non-existence. I had been made to believe that my life had no meaning to it. It didn't make any sense why I had been cursed with the inhospitable lifestyle I had. I never did anything to deserve it. I knew that. We knew it. But for some reason it was always waiting for us when we got home from school. I would've rather stayed at school than to come home each day.
My neighbors didn't even notice. It was like we were invisible. My family used to be the center of attention, but that was before we were driven into the dull background. The kids at school and my teachers thought I came from a regular family but had no real intentions of making myself look good everyday. Not even close. The students made fun of me and teachers pitied me. No one made any connections between my hygiene state, scars, and bruises. Not even when we had special speakers who came to school lecturing us about child abuse did anyone notice. Teachers were trained to look for those sorts of things. Somehow they always managed to over look me. How no one cared enough was beyond my comprehension.
Perhaps I should take a few minutes to tell you who I am and how all of this came to be. My name is Ashten Adams - Ash for short. I had blond hair that was long and wild. It kicked out in tufts and wisps along my neck and curled in front of my ears and around my forehead. It was shaggy but not all that greasy. I was only ever able to cut it when the school administration would call home to Mother complaining about it. They told her I was a rebellious kid and I needed to cut my hair to tame down my ego. That always confused me because I don't think I was rebellious at all. If anything I was the opposite. That's what you get for the administration not getting to know everyone personally. So, after an unimaginable thrashing, she would take scissors and carefully snip it off to make me look like a model child. She didn't want them bearing down on her, hounding her suspiciously. They could never find out our secret. My eyes were brown, like a frothy chocolate milkshake. I liked to think they were my best feature. I once had a school counselor who commented on them. She told me they brightened up my face. It was the little compliments that kept me going. I was only fourteen-years-old, at the time, short and thin. I looked more like my younger brother's age then my own.
I went to John F. Kennedy Junior High School, eighth grade. I didn't have any high expectations, no goals for myself, so my grades suffered. I should've been starting high school as a freshman within the next few months but I had been told by several teachers that I would be held back a grade. I had nothing to keep me motivated to excel higher and better except the encouraging words from Kyle. He was my best friend - my only friend - and my younger brother. He reminded me constantly that he was going to get some where in life and that he wasn't going to let a stupid thing like grades get in the way. In other words, he studied every second he got. He was younger than me by two years but we had always been connected. Because of the situation we'd been thrown into for the majority of our lives, we were all each other had. If we didn't cling to one another through it all we'd have had nothing to live for. Having a brother that cared and loved me was almost like having a permanent crutch. I knew I deserved much better than I was getting. He kept me reminded of that.
Kyle was twelve-years-old, scrawny and short. He looked like a miniature of myself, but with these blue eyes that reminded you of a clear summer sky. He was a sixth grader at the time and he went to my school. I liked that. It was nice to have him around. Because of him I never sat alone at lunch and had at least one good thing to look forward to. He didn't have it as hard as me at school. He would be popular if he didn't dress down so much. We both knew that and neither of us cared. That's one of the things I liked best about my brother. He didn't care much of what other people thought about him. Except when they insulted him to his face. He was a tough little punk, able to hold his own in most situations. He wouldn't take any put- downs from anyone. But a secret he'd never let on to was his own self- esteem issues. He had a lot more hope and pride than I did. However, he was sensitive but would never let you know it. One of the rare places he sunk under his own cover - the most serious place - was with Mother. He was always the one to help me out and I was constantly watching over him. We needed each other's protection. We relied on each other for a lot of emotional support.
That particular day Kyle needed me more than ever and I couldn't get within fifty feet of him. He had been subjected to the foulest scum of the earth again and there was nothing I could do to help him. Mother wasn't pleased about his attitude and constant brown nosing that day. She found fault with the most infinitesimal things. He had only wanted to have her satisfied with his work. But once again, he did something wrong and he was paying for it.
Her screams filled the air, chilling me to the bone. They didn't seem to be letting up. It had been going on for a good ten minutes and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The emotion and pressure bottled up so intensely inside me, it was a wonder I didn't scream myself. If only I could have stop it. I hadn't heard his voice once. That could be good or bad. Hurt or still standing strong. Waiting with baited breath for a sign that he was okay was the hardest thing. The kid was tough and he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing she was succeeding. But he was young and sensitive and didn't deserve that kind of cruelty. He knew the score though, and acted like it. You learn a lot by the time you're twelve, especially in our house.
If only I could have done something about it. It wouldn't have done either of us any good for me to go down there and fight for him. My brother needed me to care for him when he came back. If things went as usual I'd be up for a while. If he was lucky then there wouldn't be a lot to worry about. On occasion, she went easy on us, but it was unintentional. When she was drunk she was less violent. She didn't have control over her own strength. Her mind went to seed fast. I could only pray she had drunk plenty that night.
-
It hadn't always been a hard life for us. We were once a loving family, the perfect example of the American Dream. Kyle and I used to played soccer and little league. We weren't very good, but Mother and Father came to every game to cheer us on. They never missed a game. And at the end of each game, victory or loss, they would tell us how proud they were that we had tried our hardest. They urged us to be better, and to never settle for good. We were their little boys and no matter what they loved us.
Mother was an intelligent woman. She had gone to college to major in children psychiatric care and she was good at it too. She was constantly baking and would have fresh baked cookies waiting for me at the end of the school day. She was tender and kind, beautiful and elegant and she took pride in our little family. The neighbor kids loved her. She ran her own day care and had at least three other kids at the house at all times. She was everyone's second mother. Her specialty was telling us stories. They were so animated and fun - they left us feeling good no matter our prior mood, in a magical fantasyland our minds boggled by the characters and their adventures. Whether they were made up or real, she would leave that for us to decide. She had us on the edge of our seats each time. Never and can't were not in her vocabulary. She believed that you could reach any goal if you set your mind to it. Mother believed in everyone and everyone loved her.
Father ran a well-respected construction company. He was the best in the city at his job and everyone like him. He was a very likable man. But he was an even better father than a worker. Kyle and I sat on the front steps every day at five to five o'clock waiting for him to come home. He always had something for us or to tell us. It was different every day. He was even more exciting than Mother. He was playful and strong. Father was a powerful figure, but he loved us more than anything. We were little kids at the time and he was great with us. Every evening after dinner, the three of us would sit on the couch in the family room and watch TV until Kyle and I fell asleep. He would take us upstairs and tuck us in, making sure we felt safe and protected before leaving us for the night. I loved him more than anyone. I can hardly remember him, but I remember never loving anyone like him.
As a family we attended church and neighborhood parties. We were an active family. Each Sunday we went to church and listened intently to the sermon. We loved learning about the men and women of the bible and strived to be like them. Kyle and I didn't always listen as much as we should've, but we got plenty out of them anyway. Afterwards, before going home, Father would drive us down to the nearest Dairy Queen for ice cream shakes. It was a tradition, one that was never broken while he was around. It was our favorite activity in the week.
We were active in fund raisers and bake sales. If there were any way for Mother to help some poor child or family somewhere, she would jump right on it. She loved to care for people. Father would help out by rounding up people to chip in. They were a great team and we were their little helpers. Mother would let us help her bake cupcakes, brownies, and other desserts and Father would let us post flyers and knock on doors with him. We had a blast every time.
I heard a saying once - a poem I think, that said, nothing gold can stay. And how true it was. It rounded off our story completely.
Our perfect lives came to a sudden, sickening stop one night. Sticking to our daily routine, we sat on the steps waiting for Father to come home. He had promised Kyle and me that he would take us to see the newest animated Disney movie after dinner. But five o'clock came and went and he didn't come. We weren't worried, though. He had been late before and always had a good reason. At five-thirty, Mother came outside to let us know that Father had called from work and he wouldn't be coming home for another hour or two. An emergency had come up and he couldn't leave. Disappointed as we were, we went inside. Owing to the knowledge that he'd take us the next day we were content enough to go on without him. He never let a promise go without following through. When we went to bed that night and he still hadn't come home, we were saddened and a little scared. No matter how long he had to stay over, he was never that late. Mother wasn't worried, but being six years old I didn't have the same comprehension as an adult. Shortly after we drifted to sleep, Mother received an urgent phone call from a policeman. He told her that Father had been in an accident at work and wasn't expected to live through the night.
We weren't able to see him at all that night. He was in the Intensive Care Unit and no one was allowed to go in until they okayed his condition. He had lost a lot of blood and his breathing was impaired from metal spoke that had entered his body while his partner had been working with the fork lift. Mother thought that by some miracle he would be able to survive. We had done enough good in the community for him to deserve a miracle. But he didn't get one. Several hours later, oxygen stopped flowing to his brain and they pronounced him brain dead. The doctor came out to let us know that he wouldn't be recovering and that he would be passing on in a few minutes. There were doctors in there trying to keep him alive long enough for us to see him, but his fate wasn't in our favor, and we weren't able to see him before he died.
We received a lot of sympathy and condolence from our community. But nothing could mend our broken hearts. Kyle was only six at the time and didn't understand enough to know that he wouldn't be seeing Father again. He knew Father was gone, but didn't know that he was gone forever. I could grasp the concept that he wasn't ever coming back, but it didn't affect me like it did Mother. I learned that nothing effects younger generations like it does people who have enough knowledge to fully know what was going on.
Mother was a changed woman after he died. The only man that she had ever loved was gone from her life, never to come back. She loved us but suddenly had become impatient. She lashed out when we would come to her for comfort. It scared us but we continued to come to her anyway. She was constantly too wrapped up in her own emotions to care about ours. I don't believe she did it on purpose in the beginning, but as time went on, it became something of a nasty habit and a bitter new start. The reality of Father's death took several weeks to sink in for her. It wasn't long before she saw that he was gone and we didn't have enough money coming in to support our family. She had no choice but to put her degree to good use and went in for an interview at the nearest children social worker's business. They saw her to be a woman fit for the job and hired her immediately.
She found satisfaction in helping little children in need of professional care. Once again she was doing what she loved, taking care of those less fortunate. But as time went on she seemed to forget about Kyle and me. She neglected us and her impatience with us grew, turning into a vicious temper. It continued to grow every day. She was too busy with other children to pay attention to her own. It had never been a problem for her before, but slowly it turned to all she thought about - other kids. She was spending longer hours at work and less at home. Those other kids were her first priorities on a list a mile long. We found ourselves gradually being lowered to the bottom of that list. Getting away from us and being with them was her own way to deal with her husbands passing. She turned to work and alcohol to try and over come his memory. She knew it wouldn't help but did it despite all common sense. We reminded her of Father and she couldn't bear to be around us. And at the same time she wanted to love us, but she couldn't. She forced herself to choose between love and hate. She chose hate.
Kyle and I learned harshly that we had no parents any longer. Father was dead and Mother wasn't a mother at all. We still loved her, but we couldn't understand why she didn't want us.
It didn't take long for us to become a burden to her.
-
I pressed an ear to the door. Listening and waiting. I couldn't make out a word she was shouting. All I could tell was she sounded supremely angry and serious. I closed my eyes, trying to block out any horrible visions I could've imagined. Through the door, I couldn't make out anything but her muffled screeches. I couldn't tell if she was sober or not. It was impossible to know unless you were looking right at her.
There were a lot of things about her that you couldn't tell unless you knew. The disguise she wore in public led everyone to believe she was quaint woman with nothing to hide nothing to be ashamed of, just full of pure innocence and love. But behind the scenes there were many nasty secrets. Most of them Mother kept hidden from us as well. But there were a few that we had discovered on our own - or so we thought. We could often find items lying around the house that we had no idea what they were. We never touched them; scared she would find out that we knew. However, within the last few weeks more suspicious things were showing up. I had found a gun lying on the top shelf of the coat closet. Kyle had found barbed wire in the garage a week ago. Ropes, switchblades, bags of gunpowder, and many electronical devises made their way into the house without her knowing that we knew. They had started to frighten me, but I kept it to myself and Kyle was none the wiser.
If I hadn't been so used to it all, I might have cried. She was so violent it was surreal. After so long, however, it became enough of a common ritual and it didn't faze you enough to shake you that badly. Her intentions and cruelty were unbelievable though, and we never knew when it would just end. Some of her games left us very weak and barely aware of our surroundings while others were mind games and she left us physically unscathed.
Then there were the times when she went weeks were she would ignore our presence. She would pretend not to see us. If we tried to talk to her at all, perhaps in an attempt to correct one of our mistakes, she wouldn't hear us. We didn't mind it too much. It usually meant time to heal and gain back a little bravery. But those periods always ended. The tables would turn and we tried our best to avoid her while she went out of her way to torture us.
Almost as quickly as the one-way fight had started, it stopped. An eerie silence filled the house like secret video camera's had been installed and we were afraid someone was watching. The desolate silence was the worst part. After facing Mother it would fall quiet. We couldn't tell what state the other one of us was in and we were forced to wait with bated breath to find out. As I tried to listen for something new, I backed away from the door. If she was coming for me, I couldn't give her the impression that I had been listening. But I couldn't hear either of them. I couldn't hear Kyle. I couldn't hear him.
My heart started pounding in my chest. It started out slow and quickly raced to a rapid pace. He was seldomly this quiet, even after an attack. My chest rose and fell at an alarming rate. Fear consumed me and I was about to react when I heard soft, shallow footsteps slowly nearing the room.
Knowing whom it was, my fear subsided. Realization of how little I had been paying attention to myself sunk in. I was sweating fiercely and my hands were digging themselves into my jeans, my nails piercing through the thick material. I brushed my hair back, which had begun to cling to my face, and straightened out my jeans. I hurried to the door and opened it just in time for him to walk in.
Head bowed, and shoulders slump, my brother walked past me, shielding his face from my view. It never changed. Although we were both used to each other's comfort, opening up was always hard. The shame was there continually. Nothing could change the humiliation we felt. He stopped in front of the window, which over looked our backyard, placing his palms on the windowsill; head hung in shame of allowing her to over power him once again.
I couldn't help but feel happy. Relief washed over me as I watched my brother shaking, flesh still raw and red, blood slowly dripped from his face to the floor. My brother was in pain and I was glad. Glad that it was over and that he wasn't dead. I'd take it any day.
"Well?" I asked rushing to his side. "Kyle?"
He shook his head refusing to answer. I lowered the blinds so no one would be able to see into the room from the outside. I didn't understand his antics. It couldn't be that bad. He was tougher than that. I expected a new bruise added to his décor. That was the norm. He knew that.
"Are you all right?"
He was quiet for a moment, struggling to find his voice. "I'm fine." It was strangled with emotion. Not something you want to hear from your baby brother. "But -- "
"Hey," I put a hand on his arm, "it's okay. You're okay. She's gone." Gone because she would never step foot into our room. She kept as much distance as she could and us the same.
"I know." He coughed roughly, an irritation caught in his throat. He was getting over a cold but not as quickly as he would have liked. He was shaking worse now; hands balled up trying to hold still. He closed his eyes tight and sighed deeply. Any excitement I had found earlier left. He was alive and anyone should have been thrilled, but he wasn't happy. Life without happiness was never suitable for anyone. I should know.
"Then do you mind me asking what happened? What'd you do? Why -"
"Nothing." He cut me off. "I didn't do nothing," he whispered harshly continuing to shudder. Indoor voices had to be used all the time at our house. Being loud aggravated Mother the most.
"Okay." I didn't try and press him any further. I knew whatever it was that he did, he hadn't done it on purpose. Neither of us did. We were too afraid to.
He was shaking so hard at this point that his knees were knocking together. I grabbed a hold of his shoulders to keep him stable. He looked weak enough to black out. His eyes were droopy, and a thought entered my mind. I led him over to the mattress and sat him down.
"Don't fall asleep, Kyle." I sat him against the wall and held him there for a moment. I removed my hands from his arms and backed away. He wanted to lie down though, and tried to slide down the wall into a fetal position. I forced him back up. "I know you're tired, but you can't fall asleep. You could have a concussion."
"Ash, please."
"No, listen to me. We can't get you to a hospital if you do have one. You know that. Don't go to sleep for awhile at least. Please?" I wasn't willing to take a chance with this. If I didn't have Kyle knows what could happen.
"Okay."
"Now look at me." He looked up and focused on my eyes without missing a beat. I kneeled on the floor in front of him, even with the bed.
He knew exactly what I was doing. We went through this every time. I had to examine his injuries before long. We couldn't risk any infections either.
It was easy to decipher the new injuries from the old ones. He had a faint black eye and a still healing cut on side on his lower lip. Those were more inconspicuous having gotten them the week before. The new wounds shone brightly, though. His nose bled slightly, there was a gash lengthwise running down his face near his left ear - I hoped it wouldn't need stitches, and there were a few bruises that ran along his jaw-line and temples. His eyes weren't dilated, a little bloodshot, but not too bad. It wasn't anything I couldn't take care of.
"Lift your shirt," I told him. Facial injuries were one thing, but there were usually others laced around the chest and stomach.
Sure enough, when he tried to take up the bottom of his shirt, he grimaced against some unseen damages. He dropped his shirt unable to do it.
"I can't. I can't get my arms to bend enough."
"It's okay. I'll do it."
I took hold of the bottom rim of his shirt and slowly lifted up, not wanting to cause him any further pain. "Can I take it off, or will that hurt too much?"
"Go ahead." He lifted his arms high above his head and I pulled it up and over it.
I nearly gagged at the hideous site in front of me. His skin was stretched tightly over his ribs and sunk deep into the stomach area. There were several lacerations around his ribs. They had quit bleeding, not having much to keep it flowing. But the worse parts were the red welts steadily turning from red to different hues of blue and green.
"D-did she use the belt?"
He was quiet for a few seconds before answering. "Yeah."
I cursed and stood back up so abruptly it startled Kyle. "What the hell possessed her to do that?"
"I don't know. The screwdrivers or tequila or whatever it was she was drinking.?" It was in his nature to be a smartaleck, you just let it pass. It didn't matter to me.
I knew it. She had been drinking. Nothing else could have driven her so far. She clearly had no control over her actions though. Normally the welts would have wrapped at least a quarter of the way around his body. That time they were only around two or three inches long. But the matter remained the same. She had used the belt. She rarely used the belt. It took up too much of her precious time. Kyle must have done something terribly wrong to deserve that.
Removing my hands from him, I stopped examining his sides. "Is there anywhere else she.?"
"No."
Still eyeing him, I walked over to the corner to pick up the blanket. I wouldn't have been surprised if he got a fever that night from such a lashing. His body was used to pain and he had quite a tolerance, but the belt thrashings didn't come around as often. Handing him the blanket, I sat down next to him. "Is it bad?" he asked, breaking eye contact after I was done. He looked down leaning his head against the wall. He was exhausted. I could tell how badly he wanted to sleep. "I mean, they kinda hurt, but I can't tell."
I knew what he meant. We hadn't come with the tolerance but our bodies had learned to adjust. The pain wasn't any less than someone else would feel - it was still there. We could just get by without adding unnecessary sound or water effects.
"No, not too bad. I'm not sure about the cut, but everything else is fine."
I moved to the closet and rummaged around on the floor, looking for the cleanest shirt I could. We usually kept one on hand for these sorts of things. It was a white over-sized tee shirt that had bloodstains splattered sporadically around its edges, but it was clean. We didn't own too many clothing items, so I found it with ease. I tossed it to Kyle.
"Hold that on your cut," I told him and stood up. "I'm gonna get some water. Stay here. And don't fall asleep." I reminded him.
He nodded and pressed the shirt to his ear, wincing at the pain it caused. I knew I could trust him not to do anything stupid. Creaking the door open gently to the bare minimum, I slid out and tiptoed to the bathroom.
The bathroom was down the hall across from Mother's room. Her door was open and the light was off, letting me know she wasn't in there. The key incentive to hurry as fast as possible. She was still downstairs and that was a good thing. But she could be coming up any second.
Flicking on the light, I quietly closed the door behind me. The bathroom was illuminated in an eerie sort of way. The pink fixtures on the sink, carpet, and shower curtain cast reddish light around. Trying my best to ignore my reflection in the mirror, I got two paper cups from the mirror's cupboard. I slowly filled one with lukewarm water and the other with cold water. The smallest amount of noise, the better. I found some Tylenol and took a small handful. He needed only two at the time, but later on that night would be a different story. I stuck them in my pocket and picked up the two cups. I turned off the light and left.
I walked cautiously back towards our room, miraculously not making any loud noises. The hallway was long and tedious, but years of practice came in handy. I grasped the doorknob and lightly pushed it in.
Kyle was still sitting on the bed but on the edge. He was rubbing his eye with the back of his hand and them the palm. When I came in, he stopped and squinted up to look at me. He looked worried and about to say something. He had dropped the shirt to his lap and was ready to stand up.
I set the cups on the hard floor near the bed and kneeled again. I grabbed the cold cup and handed it to him along with the Tylenol.
He took them from me while saying, "Ash, I have to tell you something." He set the cup between his legs and fiddled with the pills in one hand.
"Take those first. Then tell me." I didn't like the tone of his voice. But whatever it was it could wait long enough for him to take them. He was still shaky but he sounded more confident. That didn't make much of a difference, though. It isn't always fear or confidence. There are times when you can be confident about what you're fearing.
He obliged and quickly swallowed the medicine. He made a face at the bitterness of them but pushed that aside and looked at me more closely. "I found a bag in the living room."
"What? Like what kind of bag?"
"I don't know. It's kind of small and clear." So much information, yet so little.
"That's it? Did it have anything in it?" I pressed.
"Duh. There was powder in it -- sort of a like. I don't know really, but it was a funny color. Like brown or red --"
I cut him off. "Fine or grainy?"
"Um. grainy I think. It has seeds or rocks in it." I could feel my face pale slightly. He obviously knew it meant something but didn't know what it was. I know that feeling. I experience it quite often. Boy was I glad he brought it to my attention, though. I knew way too much from being in junior high. I knew what drugs impaired your judgement and which make you feel nauseated. He must have made this connection because he started to panic. "What? What is it? Horse? Speed? Crack? Marijuana?"
"Yeah." I had to do something. I stood up and started to walk around the room in circles. It's a nervous habit I had picked up somewhere a long time ago. I patted my pockets and bit my thumbnail.
"Which one?"
"Marijuana."
"Oh."
He turned quiet after that; he stared straight ahead and chewed lightly on his own nails. Finally he picked up the other cup and sat back against the wall. Dipping the shirt edge into the water and raising it to his temple, he closed his eyes. I was jealous of him. The way he was so relaxed and excepting to what he wasn't sure of. But at the same time I was glad of the knowledge I had. I might not have made the best grades in school, but I was plenty smart to know when enough was enough. But there wasn't a whole lot I for me to do. I was able to sympathize for Kyle and pray that the next assault wouldn't be for a good long time.
But it was only a hope.
---
A/n: Well, for those of you who were able to outlast this chapter and such, thanks a lot. It means a lot to me. It would mean even more if you would drop me a line or two in a review on how I can improve or whatever you might have to say. Thanks!
