Chapter One

“Mommy, where’s daddy?”

A little girl tugged on her mother’s skirt, wondering why Mommy was crying. She didn’t like the big van outside the house. It kept flashing red and blue lights. The lights hurt her eyes.

The woman sank onto the nearest seat, unable to control her grief. Sobbing, she didn’t hear her daughter’s questions. Nothing got through the darkness that seemed to envelope her. Even the living room seemed menacing, with the lights flashing on the walls, creating moving shadows.

The little girl whimpered, scared that Mommy wasn’t listening to her. She didn’t like it when Mommy cried. It made her sad. It made her want to cry too.

She didn’t like the three men dressed in white that came out of the back of the flashing big van. She didn’t like the stone-faced men in black uniforms that had arrived in flashing cars, “hmmm”-ing at everything.

She just wanted them to go away.

“Leave us alone,” she cried, hugging her mommy’s leg.

Her action jerked the lady out of her consuming sadness. She looked down and stared at her little girl, who stared solemnly back with teary eyes and a wobbling lower lip.

“Oh sweetheart,” she sighed, grabbing her daughter and lifting her to sit on her lap. She hugged her precious daughter close for comfort.

“Mommy, I want them to go away,” she said louder this time.

“They will honey. Soon. They just need to do their jobs,” she said, as calm as she could without betraying the raging emotions warring within her.

She felt so much. Anger and Love. Grief and Gratefulness. Bitterness and Wistfulness. Hope and Betrayal.

“What are they?”

“The men wearing black are policemen. They catch bad people. The men in white are from the hospital.” She rubbed her daughter’s back soothingly.

“I don’t like them, mommy. They make me scared,” she confessed.

“Ashlie, don’t be scared of the good guys. Policemen and the hospital people are good guys, not bad guys.” This was said absently. She couldn’t seem to stop her mind from wandering off.

Why did this happen? He was so young. They were still so much in love. Ashlie was barely seven years old. How was she going to raise their daughter on her own? She needed a father.

She was unconsciously rocking Ashlie in her embrace.

Ashlie yawned and peered blearily up at her mommy’s face.

“Mommy, where’s daddy?”

It just made the tears inside feel like acid burning through her heart.

Eleven years later

ASHLIE

I can’t believe this. This is pathetic.

Look at me.

I’m sneaking out of my own house. Normal kids don’t have to do this. They just walk down the stairs, not having to care if they sound like little elephants romping around. I have to be as silent as possible, hoping against all hope that mom is asleep, so she won’t see me.

If she sees me, then all hell will break loose.

I’ll get beaten up until she gets tired and goes back to sleep. Then I’ll leave the house and go cry someplace hidden so no one can find me.

I never hit back, no matter how much it hurts when she hits me. I’ve always wondered why. I guess I just don’t believe it’s right, hitting my own mother. She’s been through a lot.

Dad’s death drove her a little crazy, to the point she started drinking to take away the nightmares. Day after day, she drank and drank. What started as “a little each day” became a full-blown problem. Everyday she drank a little more, and this went on and on until she came home one day, drunk off her ass. She couldn’t even walk straight. She took one step through the door and fell face-first onto the floor and went to sleep there and then.

That’s when my nightmares began. Sadly, they weren’t dreams. They were reality.

It was a repeating cycle. She started drinking when I was twelve. I think it had something to do with me having dad’s colouring and a slight resemblance to him. I reminded her of the man she’d lost, the one who’d left her after promising to be with her forever.

She wanted to forget. She needed to forget.

I became the punching bag. It took me a month to wisen up. When I came home from school, she was always right behind the door. I came to dread the sound of the door closing.

She just stood there. Waiting.

When we heard the “click”, she went wild. She always hit me in places where the bruises wouldn’t show. She avoided my arms, legs and face. Everywhere else was fair game.

Sometimes her hands weren’t enough. She hit me with things. Baseball bat. Leather belt. I suppose I should be grateful she’s never pulled a knife on me.

Everyday I went to school bruised and battered. I never let anyone touch me. I flinched when people stretched their hands out to me. I became paranoid when people raised their voices.

They called me “Freak Girl”.

I didn’t care. None of them knew what I had to go through everyday. I didn’t mind not having any friends. Having friends meant I’d have to tell them things. Some things aren’t meant to be told. Not for me anyway.

So that’s the sob story of my past. Don’t pity me. I don’t want any of it. I’m still alive aren’t I?

I see mom sleeping, sprawled all over the couch with Ed, her new man.

All I feel is relief as I tiptoe past, to the door, and out.

I break into a serious run after shutting the door. I don’t stop until I’m three roads away.

Where do I go now?

I see a big white building, and for some unknown reason, my feet start carrying me in that direction. When I approach the front, I notice it’s a church.

I’ve avoided church since mom started beating me. Why? I don’t know.

I think I just felt too dirty in a way. I must have thought that church was too good for me, so it was best I stayed away.

Now look at me. I don’t want to go in, but I feel that I must.

So I sit on one of the pews at the back. I feel stupid just being here. What do I do now? What is it that Christians do? I’ve been away so long that I’ve forgotten what happens in church.

Pray.

I hear that word ring in my mind but how?

I try it. I remember to end it with “amen”.

I walk out. The heavy feeling in my heart is gone.

Day after day I come back, and it fills me with a sense of peace. I feel as if there is a God up there who’s actually listening to what I have to say.

One day I walk in and see a man in his late twenties seated in the front. I pay him no attention, because who he is doesn’t concern me. I watch as a lady I’ve seen a few times approach him. They talk in hushed tones.

I slip into my usual seat at the back and start praying.

When I feel that I’m done, I look up to see the man standing there, waiting for me to finish.

He’s smiling, so I don’t put my guard up. There’s something about him that tells me he’s not going to hurt me.

“Mrs. Jamison tells me you come in everyday to pray. I thought I would just introduce myself,” he began.

I like his honestly. People who beat around the bush annoy me.

“I’m Pastor Tyler. Everyone calls me Tyler. ‘Pastor’ makes me feel ancient.” He grinned affably, holding his hand out.

I stood, clasping his hand to shake it. “Ashlie Edelen.”

“Now Ashlie. I don’t want to pry, so if there’s anything that’s bothering you and you need someone to talk to, you can look for me. Is that okay?”

I nod, liking the way his face lights up when he smiles. There’s something about him that makes him different from all the other people I’ve ever met. Peaceful.

“Seeing how you come everyday, what about joining us tomorrow for service?”

“I’d like that.” Anything to get me out of the house.

“Good. So I’ll see you tomorrow? It starts at 10am.”

“Yeah, sure, Pas...uhm, Tyler.”

“It was nice meeting you, Ashlie. Come say hi tomorrow and I’ll introduce you to some of our young people.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

And so it came to pass that I started attending church regularly.

-----

Tyler somehow worms it out of me that I’ve always wanted to learn how to play music, and so he ropes in Shayne Hilliard to teach me to play guitar.

Shayne’s a year older than I am, and the best guitarist in the church. He’s tall, which suits me fine, seeing how I stand at five feet nine inches at sixteen. I don’t have to look down at him while we talk. He’s got black-streaked blond hair, eyes the colour of the ocean, and he wouldn’t strike you as a Christian boy if you thought Christian boys were goody-goodies. The lip ring speaks for itself. Pretty much.

He’s patient, and a damn good teacher. Within a few months, I pick up a lot. Sometimes we hole up backstage after Sunday services to have lessons. We meet up at his house sometimes, and he teaches me in the living room.

I’ve met his family. His parents are nice. They knew my mom from before she stepped onto the destructive path, yet they never try to interfere. During the “days” when my mom is being really unstable, they let me stay over in Natalie’s room. She’s Shayne’s elder sister and is away at college in another state.

I don’t have many friends. I can safely say that Shayne’s my best friend, and the only friend I have that I trust completely. He’s just that kind of person.

We hang out a lot at the ice-cream parlor. It’s our weakness. It’s the place where we had a little fight over cherries and whipped cream.

“Stop it Shay.” I’m laughing, wiping whipped cream off the tip of my nose. I stick my finger in my mouth to lick it off.

“Ew. Gross,” he teases, waving his spoon threateningly. There is a whole dollop of cream on it, and it looks beyond dangerous.

“No no, don’t you dare!” I shriek, shielding myself.

He laughs. His laughter always warms my heart.

“Chocolate ice-cream is the best thing since Poptarts.” He closes his eyes in bliss.

“No way! It has to be mint with pecans,” I pout, digging into my own ice-cream scoop.

“Never!”

“Just because you say so?” I issue a challenge.

“Well,of course, my dear girl,” he brags, poking me with the end of his little pink spoon.

“I’m untouchable, Mr. Hilliard. Your spoon could get arrested for that,” I point out.

“Hahahahahahaha.” He almost chokes on that. “My spoon wouldn’t have managed to touch you if you were untouchable.”

“You know what I mean!”

“Great comeback.” He sniggers.

“Shut up.”

I mutter that, seeing the amused little grin on his lips. He lets go at that, not coming up a reply, choosing instead to eat his ice-cream before it melts.

I feel something change. His mood? I don’t know.

“Ashlie, I’ve got something to confess.”

I look up. He’s all solemn and serious-faced now. When Shayne’s serious, he means every word he said.

I wait.

“I like you Ash,” he blurts out.

I stare at him. “I like you too, but you knew that Shay.”

He shakes his head. “Not like that. I like, like you. More than just friendship.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what to say. I don’t feel awkward or anything like that. It’s just that I’m so used to thinking that Shayne’s too good for someone like me that I just automatically suppress whatever feelings I have towards him.

I do like him. That frightens me a little.

“Say something,” he pleads with me.

“I-I like you too, but you’re too good for me. Us getting together wouldn’t be a good idea,” I stammer, not knowing what else to say.

“You’re being silly,” he smiles fondly, grabbing my hand. “What say we give us a try?”

“Gee Shay, if that’s your best pick-up line, it sure could do with a lot more improvement,” I tease.

“Hey, I’m doing my best here!” he laughs. “Okay, fine. Ashlie Edelen, would you be my girlfriend?”

I blush, nodding shyly.

“What a relief. I’ve been running this through my mind for weeks. I think you rejected me a thousand times.” He smiles self-deprecatingly.

“I wouldn’t!” I protest indignantly.

"Poor me. It was damaging for my ego."

"Get your head out of the clouds. It doesn't suit you," I scoff.

"Ouch. That hurt!"

"Serves you right."

"I'm wounded."

Hah.