by A. R. Breck
The Mute and The Menace
A. R. Breck
Copyright © 2020 by A.R. Breck.
The Mute and the Menace by A.R. Breck
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Q Design Cover
Proofreading by Michelle Morrow of Chell Reads Publishing
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.
The characters and events in this book are fictious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Contents
Content Warning:
Prologue
1. Cara
2. Jackson
3. Cara
4. Jackson
5. Cara
6. Jackson
7. Jackson
8. Jackson
9. Cara
10. Jackson
11. Cara
12. Jackson
13. Cara
14. Cara
15. Jackson
16. Cara
17. Cara
18. Cara
19. Jackson
20. Jackson
21. Cara
22. Jackson
23. Cara
24. Jackson
25. Jackson
26. Cara
Hotline Numbers
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by A.R. Breck
Content Warning:
The Mute and the Menace contains mature themes that might make some readers uncomfortable. Foul language, criminal activity, drug use, and physical abuse are included in this book. Please proceed with caution.
Prologue
Age Thirteen
"What the fuck you doin' boy? Quit lookin' at me like some kind of freak!" I flinch and curl into myself with each lash of his words. I look down at the floor, but I know that's just going to end up making him even more mad.
Everything makes him mad.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you!" He bellows.
My watery gaze shoots up to my father. I hate the look in his eyes. That disgusted sneer that he sends my way whenever I'm in breathing distance of him. My gaze flits quickly to my mom sitting on the chair in the other room, but all I can see is her shaky palm hold the pencil as she tries to finish that damn Sudoku.
She wouldn't dare say a word, anyway.
They keep me near because they have no other choice, but I know they wish they could toss me in the trash bin like the moldy bologna in the refrigerator.
It hasn't always been this way.
They've never been a loving family, but I used to be shown respect and treated like a human, not this beaten and battered dog they think I am.
It all happened when I was five. My mom and dad asked me to watch by baby sister so they could go down to the bar for a little while and celebrate their friend Jolene's birthday party.
My sister, Wren, was a year old, and she usually napped a good portion of the afternoon. With the bar just across the street. They usually had me watch her enough where it was nothing new to me.
When they came home two hours later, my mom went right into Wren's bedroom, and only a second later I heard her scream. My dad ran after her, pushing me out of the way with such force that I fell over and knocked the back of my head into the corner of the lamp.
I tried to clear the fogginess as the police officers and ambulance showed up and tried to do CPR on Wren for what felt like hours.
SIDS, they say.
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
It's rare after a child turns one, but I guess we ended up being that small percentage that gets the shit end of the stick.
The ambulance left with its lights off and my baby sister in the back. My parents were rushing around to follow them, faces void of all emotion. I sat in the corner and stayed near that damn lamp that gave me a cut on the back of my head.
Right before my parents walked out the door, it's like my dad finally remembered I existed. His face went from white to red as he stalked over to me, lifted me by the back of the shirt and threw me into our tiny coat closet.
"Don't even think about leaving this spot. Not to eat. Not to piss. You fuckin’ stay here until I say otherwise." Then he slammed me into the darkness and didn't come back.
Not for five days.
I peed my pants instantly, out of terror and grief. The hunger didn't hit until day two, and at that point it felt like my insides were trying to claw their way out of my skin. The gnawing hunger made me feel sick, but with my stomach so empty I just ended up curling into myself and crying in misery.
My mouth was so dry that my tongue felt swollen. I could barely swallow as my lips started cracking and my tongue kept sticking to the roof of my mouth.
My parents came back on day four. I perked up from my barely conscious nap and was about to open the door when I remember what my dad said. How he looked.
Instead, I started tapping on the door, "Mommy? Dad?"
"Randy, he's been stuck in there all this time?" My mom gasps, walking closer.
I get up on my knees, ready to get out of these crunchy, urine ridden clothes. I stopped peeing yesterday, but the smell took over the entire room to the point I can only breathe out of my mouth, unless I wanted to get dizzy from the powerful scent.
"Mary, don't you dare open up that door. He needs to learn his lesson. It's his fault! Let him sit a while longer."
I could feel my mom on the other side of the door, teetering on what she should do. I heard some whispers, and then listened as the footsteps retreated to the living room.
I tapped on the door, "Daddy, please. I'm sorry!"
"You say one more word, Jackson, and I'll fucking kill you myself!"
I instantly start crying and crawled to the back corner of the closet. I've never heard him yell at me like that before. I've never heard him so angry, so hateful.
So instead, I curled in the back corner of the pitch-black closet. The only light I had was the crack underneath the door. For the next day, I get excited when I see a shadow pass underneath the door, hopeful that the nightmare is about to end.
I'm asleep when it finally does end. Light filters in for the first time in five days, and I have to shield my hand over my fast as my eyes adjust to the bright light.
"Get up, boy." I wasn't boy before the nightmare began. But now it seems like all I am is boy. I lost my sister, and I lost my name.
I stand up, weak in the knees and more dizzy than I've ever been in my life. I watch as my dad's nose wrinkles up at the sight and smell of me.
"You smell like shit, boy. You better not have ruined the carpet in there!" He shouts, walking up to me and standing toe to toe.
In the next moment, I get a fist to the cheek and many to the stomach. My lights go out quickly. I'm too weak to defend myself, and at this point, I don't think I deserve to.
"You're a murderer!" Was the last thing I heard out of him that day.
It was the first time my dad hit me, but it wasn't going to be the last.
I snap out of my thoughts when my ear gets yanked and I get a fist in my side. "I didn't say look at your mother, boy. I said look at me."
My eyes go back to my dad, fear and exhaustion mingling, but I could never let him see that. Because I'm now thirteen, I'm considered a man and can't cry, even when it's my father who's beating the shit out of me.
"I told you to take the rest of this fucking garbage out. We have to get going. Now are you going to sit there like a retard and stare into space, or get the hell moving
?" He looms over me like a hulking shadow, and I back up and grab the red strings attached to the garbage bag next to the front door.
Even though my side hurts, I still raise up my chin and respond how he wants, "I'm sorry, Dad. Won't happen again."
"You're damn right, it won't." He mumbles about useless kids, and I take that as my cue to get the hell out of dodge.
Out front is our conversion van, packed to the brim with the belongings we're able to take with us. I'm excited, because today we're moving. Not even my piece of shit father is going to dampen my day. I don't know much of what's going on, but apparently my dad got a job with some guy named Rich in Minnesota, so we're leaving our rust bucket trailer down in Iowa and driving the five hours up to the Grove.
The Grove.
I hope things change for us there. I hope it's a nice place, filled with nice people and nice friends where I can finally be a kid for once. None of the kids want to be around me here, we're the family with the abusive father, drugged up mother, and murderer son. No one wants to be around any of us.
I'm also excited to leave this trailer behind. I hope it rots and falls to pieces, because no one should have to be around a trailer such as this one. It's cursed. It's got to be. The amount of times I've spent in that damn closet. It's been the brunt of my nightmares for so long that I can't even look at it as I walk past. I've long past taken everything out of there that I would ever use.
Dad stopped putting me in there last year. Not because he finally stopped beating on me. No, it's because I got too big to fit in there. Instead, he just hits me harder. He's learned to keep it out of visible spots, though. Now I just have to worry about my internal organs getting bruised or having internal bleeding. Like the last time.
Fuck. I can't even think about it.
Anyway, I think that moving out of Iowa will be a good move for us. Maybe Mom will stop snorting the coke she buys from some dude called Rusty from behind the bar. She started it about a year after Wren died, and Dad started drinking more, and since then they've both been intoxicated most of the day. Every day.
My parents' relationship went from one filled with happiness to one filled of nightmares and demons. My mom is skittish not only because she loves drugs more than herself, but also because my dad hits her too. He usually starts with me, and when I'm all used and bruised, he moves onto Mom.
I tried to stop it once, but that ended up with me having a night filled with cigarettes being stubbed out on my back.
I shiver, hating when my thoughts relive my past.
"Jackson, would you quit stalling and get in the fucking car? Unless you want to stay here and fend for yourself. Shit, no skin off my back." Dad mumbles. I look behind me and see the trailer closed and locked up. Mom sits in the passenger seat, still playing on that damn Sudoku. Dad stands with his arm leaning over the hood of the car, his wife beater loose and tinged gray.
Glancing around, I see the bar across the street, which looks abandoned, but I very well know it's not. It's my parents first home, and the trailer being their second. The few other trailers that are in this small park (if you could even call it that) are ridden with the same look of despair and drug-ladden families. Yet, we're still the most tainted.
Always have been, always will be.
"Coming." I run over toss the garbage bag into the dumpster in front of the bar, and then haul ass with my bare feet across the pebbled ground all the way into the van. They didn't make much room for me, but that's okay.
I'll make do with what I've got. Because where I'm going, I'm never looking back.
I stir awake to the doors opening, and when I look up, I see we're parked in front of a trailer home that looks so much nicer than our old one, it feels like I'm moving into a brand-new home.
I wince at my stiff muscles. I had to curl around boxes and wasn't even able to clip my seat belt, but at least I was able to wrap it around my shoulder.
"Jackson, start grabbing some boxes." Dad says as he shuts the door. There's a man standing near one of the nearby trailers. He doesn't look friendly.
Dad and Mom walk up to him, and as I'm grabbing a box, he barks at me, "Jackson, get over here." I quickly set the box down and rush over to him.
"Rich, this is my son Jackson. Jackson, this is Richard Malone, my new boss." My dad sets a firm hand on my shoulder, a warning to not fuck this up before it's even started.
I extend a hand and Rich grabs onto it, shaking it in a firm grip.
"Nice to meet you, Jackson. I've got a son your same age. He's hanging out over at his friend's house right around the corner if you want to go introduce yourself.”
I look up at Dad, who looks like he wants to put me to work like he always does, but refrains. "Just for a little while. We've got some unpacking to do. Be back in an hour, Jackson. Not a second longer."
I'm Jackson again.
I don't waste another second, letting out a small smile and walking away as I hear Rich say, "My wife and Collin's wife are outside drinking some coffee if you want to go sit with them."
I glance back over my shoulder before I turn the corner and see my mom wringing her hands together nervously. She hasn't had a hit probably the entire car ride and will most likely be getting jittery soon.
Oh well. I'm not going to worry about that. I can finally go hangout with friends.
When I turn the corner, I see two boys with skateboards skating up and down the cracked pavement. I slow to a walk, not wanting to look too eager. The blonde one looks up from doing a kickflip and breaks out in a smile.
"Hey, are you the new kid?"
I shake my head yes, suddenly at a loss for words.
He abandons his skateboard and walks up to me. "I'm Logan."
I clear my throat. "Jackson."
Logan hikes a thumb over his shoulder. "That's Easton."
I look where he's pointing and see the other boy walking towards us. He doesn't look my age. He looks like he should be older with how he walks. With how his face is set.
He looks angry. Like he's seen too much of the world already.
He looks like me.
"Easton."
"Jackson." I choke out. Why am I intimidated by him?
He narrows his eyes at me. "What's wrong with you?"
My face pales of color but I can feel my ears heat up red. "N-nothing. Why?"
He scratches the back of his neck as he assesses me. "I don't know. Are you like a retard or something?"
My face goes from pale to red. "No!" I get up in his face. "Shut the fuck up."
He breaks out in a smirk at this. "Okay. You're cool."
"Dude, you're such an ass!" Logan breaks out in a laugh. He looks over at me and says, "Ignore him. That's what I do. He's always in a bad mood."
I nod my head, unsure on how to take this friendship. Any friendship, really. I don't think I've ever really had a friend. I don’t know how you're supposed to act or what you're supposed to do.
So, I walk over to a tree stump and sit on top of it while the two of them board back and forth and do cool tricks that I wish I knew how to do.
Looking up, I see a girl across the street sitting in a chair in front of a house, painting her nails.
"Who's that?" I ask. Blurt out, really.
Logan looks over and looks back with pink tinged cheeks. "That's Cara."
Easton smirks at Logan. "He's a love-sick fool over her. Has been since they were little. It's disgusting. I'm never going to let a girl get to me like that. You look pathetic, Logan."
Logan walks over to Easton and shoves him off his board, and Easton lands right on his butt. Easton immediately grabs Logan, and then their wrestling on the ground. It goes on for minutes, and I wish I could join in on the fun.
It looks fun. I've never done any of the stuff their doing. I don't dare look back at the girl painting her nails. I'm not sure what the code is for friends or anything like that, but I once heard my parents come back from the bar and my dad was in a fight with my mom because some gu
y was giving her the look. He said no man should ever give eyes to another man's woman.
So, I decide to not look.
Once they're dusty and out of breath, Easton walks over to me and sits down while Logan runs into what I'm assuming is his house.
"So, your dad's coming into the business, huh?"
Confused, I look over at him. "What? What business?"
"No one told you?" Logan says from behind me, tossing both Easton and I a can of pop.
"Told me what?"
"What our dads do?" Logan says, cracking open his can and swallowing down half of it.
I shake my head no.
Easton shakes his head at me. "Richard Malone is the biggest drug dealer in Minnesota. You dad isn't coming to work in just any job, he's going to work alongside Logan's dad. It's been in the works for months. Your dad has been working down in Iowa for Rich for years. Not really in the business, but I guess he's put in enough where Rich trusts him. Shit, trusts him enough to have him come work right alongside him." Easton shakes his head again. "I don't really get it, but whatever. Get used to it, because this is your life now. Forever."
I stand up suddenly, the pop propped up next to my leg's tips over and spills into the grass. "You're lying!"
"Why the hell would I lie?" Easton asks, bored.
My hands shake. I want to scream. Drug dealers? I thought we were moving past this. I thought my life was going to get better. I never thought that this is why we were moving to Minnesota.
"Hey, dude, are you okay?" Logan asks, standing up and walking over to me. "It's all right. It's not as bad as you think. Easton and me have both been in this our whole lives, and look at us. We're still standing." He waves his arms around them, and I look around.