by S. R. Grey
“Mine, too,” I say.
“We’ll meet, like we planned, as soon as things settle down. I promise you, a thousand times, okay?”
“Today’s promises are nothing but tomorrow’s lies. Isn’t that what you once told me?”
He looks stunned. “I didn’t mean for it to ever apply to us, Jaynie.”
“But it could. We can’t predict the future.”
“Stop it.”
His voice is a plea, and I back off.
“You’ll find me, then?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Say it again.”
“Jaynie, enough.”
Scrubbing his hands down his face, he tilts back his head and stares up at the starless night. His eyes are wet and glistening. Flynn is breaking right along with me. One last time, he tangles his hand in my hair, pulling and grasping, yanking me to him. This letting go is killing him, too.
“Nothing will ever keep me from you,” he hisses, forehead pressed to mine.
“But what about what I’ve done?”
He steps back, eyes flashing. “Don’t say it like that. It’s what we’ve done, not just you.”
“No, Flynn. I did it. It was all me.”
Sighing, he says, “It doesn’t matter. It was justice for what we lost.”
Something squeezes my heart, making me choke out, “Oh, Flynn—”
“Don’t think about it, Jaynie. Just go.”
He turns me to the water. There is no going back, not this time.
I close my eyes.
Then I jump.
…And I am falling…
…falling…
…falling…
…falling…
Flynn
(Five years earlier)
“Flynn O’Neill!” a deep voice bellows.
My dad, waking me from a dead sleep—a routine that sadly has become more common than not.
“You get your no-good ass out to this living room right now,” he continues. “And bring that little shit of a brother with you.”
The walls are thin in this, our latest apartment, and I can hear, clear as a bell, the whish of a belt being drawn through pant loops.
Shit, Dad’s been drinking . . . again.
My little brother doesn’t miss the ominous sound and he cowers closer to me on the mattress we share. “No, no, no,” he cries. “Flynn, what are we going to do?”
I wish I knew. This shit with our father started shortly after our mom was killed in a car accident last year. What should I tell Galen tonight? Learn to live with the fear, kid, there’s no end in sight? Um, yeah, no, I don’t think so.
“We’ll be okay,” I say to my kid brother.
Out in the living room, Dad strikes the belt against a piece of furniture—the fake leather sofa. “I don’t think we’ll be okay,” Galen says.
Another strike, such a sickly sound, kind of slick and dark, like what it is—a promise of the pain to come when Dad’s belt meets all-too-real skin.
Galen jumps up from our bed and inadvertently throws his ratty blanket in my face. I swat it away as he bolts to a closet in the corner of the room, screaming the whole way, “Flynn, hide me! Tell Dad I ran away or something. Anything, please. Just make him go away.”
I sit up, watching as Galen wedges his tiny seven-year-old body beneath the hanging clothes. In this house, the monsters are not in the closet. They exist outside of it.
“Where are you little fuckers?” Dad yells, fists pounding on the closed and locked bedroom door. “If I have to break this door down to get to you two, it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
Galen hisses in a terrified breath, and I assure him, “Don’t worry. I got this covered, little dude.”
I take the beatings for my brother when I can. Dad sometimes grabs hold of Galen, despite my best efforts to prevent that from happening. Our father is surprisingly fast when he’s drunk. But before he can get more than a few licks in on my brother, I’m always quick to blurt out a smartass retort that turns the heat back on me.
I’ll do anything to save Galen from pain.
Setting my brother’s faded blue blanket aside, I stand and tug my T-shirt up over my head. It’s the usual drill. One time, I was careless and left a shirt on. After Dad was through with me that thing was nothing but a bloodied and ruined rag. I don’t have too many clothes, so bare on top is the only way to go. Underwear can stay. Dad doesn’t generally hit below the belt.
Galen continues to cower in the closet, staring out at me, watching fearfully. Two dark saucers meet my gaze. His eyes are the same color as mine, gray, but tonight they are dilated in terror, making them appear as black as the night.
“You’re still hurt, Flynn,” Galen says, worried. He points to three purplish welts, two on my right shoulder and one on my chest. “Don’t go out there, okay?”
“I’m fine,” I assure him, sounding far more confident than I feel. “I can handle a few more bumps and bruises.”
I have to. It’s me or the kid.
Galen sniffles, eyeing me warily. He knows I’m bullshitting him. He’s young, but he’s well-aware a twelve-year-old kid shouldn’t have oozing welts, especially not ones doled out by his own father.
My little brother suddenly squeezes his eyes shut and shoves his thumb in his mouth. Fucking Dad has his youngest reverting back to toddler behavior.
I walk over to the closet and kneel down on the worn wooden floor in front of Galen. “Hey, I’ll be okay,” I tell him. “Dad sounds like he’s pretty drunk tonight. He’ll probably hit like a pussy.”
Galen shakes his head. “No. He never goes easy on us, Flynn. He hits even harder when he’s drunk. And if he’s smoking, you’ll get this.”
My baby brother holds out his arm for me to see what I already know is there.
The sight of my failure kills me. The cigarette burn our father bestowed on Galen two nights ago glares up at me like an angry, accusing eye. You didn’t protect your brother that night, now did you?
I will not fail Galen tonight, I vow. He’s staying in this room no matter what the cost to me. I’ll take extra hits, burns, whatever the hell Dad can mete out in his drunken rage.
Speaking of which, another shout rings out, piercing and sharp. “You have one minute, you little pieces of shit, to get the fuck out here.”
“Uh-oh,” little brother says.
I’m about to tell Galen not to worry too much when Dad breaks the lock on the door and bursts in the room. Galen starts wailing like a banshee, and I feel a hand grabbing hold of my hair.
As I am dragged toward the living room with my scalp screaming in protest, Galen cries harder.
“Shut the fuck up,” my father screams at my brother.
Galen quiets immediately. One lone whimper escapes, though, as he peers down at his lower half. It’s then I notice piss running down his legs.
That’s it. I am done with this shit. Someone has to take a stand.
Wrenching away from my father’s grasp, I stumble out into the living room of my own volition. When I spin to face my dickhead dad, he cocks his head and gives me a look that dares: What are you going to do?
That’s when I take a swing.
My fist makes contact with his jaw, which is good. I pray to hear a satisfying cracking sound. That motherfucker deserves it.
Sadly, my punch is too weak to inflict much damage. No broken jaw for Dad, but I do leave one hell of an angry red mark.
My father’s eyes dance wildly, but he remains oddly calm. This is something I’ve never witnessed before, and it sure as hell can’t be good.
Dad winds back his arm, like in slow motion, while making a fist that looks like a small ham.
And then it comes. I am hit over and over, again and again and again. Those ham-fists may as well be rocks. My father is that fucking strong.
I am chased around the room, temporarily blinded at one point. I stop and blink, but everything remains black. Then Dad hits me in the temple, and everything turns to a blind
ing white. I don’t know which is worse. I only know that, through it all, my head never stops ringing.
“Stop,” I’m finally able to blurt out at one point. “Please, Dad, enough.”
My pleas fall on deaf ears. And when I raise my hands to protect myself, I am hit even harder. The blows stop only when I crumple to the floor.
“Get up!” my drunken father slurs from above me. “Get up, or I’ll make it so you can’t walk for a week, son.”
I try to get up—oh, do I try—but my legs fail me time and time again. The best I can do is rise to my knees.
And that’s when the belt is put to use.
Dad whacks me across the back, over the shoulders, and on the side of my already-pounding head. My skin passes stinging and goes straight to numb.
“I—I can’t stay up,” I rasp as I collapse back down to the floor.
“Fine,” Dad says. “Take your punishment down there. Doesn’t matter to me.”
I am hit only once, but it’s a bad one. Dad swings his belt, leather whishing across my face as the buckle hits me below my right eye. A new flash of pain registers, sharp and deep. Shit, my face is cut. And I can tell this one will scar.
“You fucking listen to me next time I tell you to come out of that room,” my father screams.
When I don’t respond, he gets down on the floor and breathes whiskey-tainted breath all over my face. “You don’t make me drag you out next time and it won’t be so bad. It was worse for you because you pulled that stunt. Locking the door,” he scoffs. “Don’t defy me like that ever again. You got that, son?”
“Yes,” I croak out as I curl up in a fetal position. “I understand.”
“Your momma ruined you,” my father goes on. “She never could tell you no, made it so you got too used to getting your own way. Well, let me tell you one thing. That fucking charm don’t work on me, boy.”
He stands, and delivers a sharp kick to my already aching ribs. Just Dad, backing up his words.
My father thinks I have it too easy because of this so-called “charm.” Teachers, who tried to get me to run for student council back when Mom was alive, used the word charisma. Maybe I got it, maybe I don’t. I guess I’ve sort of seen it in action, especially when girls try to get my attention and then fall all over me. But, really, here’s the deal—I’d throw away all the charisma in the world if it meant my father would stop hating me.
A few more kicks to my balled-up body tell me that will never happen.
Everything hurts when the blows finally stop coming. I am left a mess. Blood seeps from the cuts on my chest, my arms, my back. The worst by far, though, is the cut on my face, the one from the belt buckle. Fuck, does that one sting.
Blinking, I stare up at the water-marked ceiling, watching as the brown stains zoom in and out of focus. I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Dad huffs and turns away, but not before telling me, “You’re pathetic, Flynn.”
He stomps off, and all I can think is thank God it’s over.
Silence descends and I close my eyes. Just a short rest, that’s all I need. Then I’ll drag myself back to the bedroom and tell Galen it’s safe to come back to bed.
My rest is short-lived. Within minutes, I hear the worst blood-curdling screams I’ve ever heard in my life.
Galen…no!
“Please, Daddy,” a little voice rings out. “Daddy, no, I wanna stay in here. Please, don’t make me come out.”
Stay in the closet, I mentally try to convey to Galen. I have to help him, but when I sit up too quickly, the whole room tilts. Still, I swear if my father hurts my brother, I will kill him.
Rising to my knees, I almost hurl. I make myself go on. Crawling across the floor, I head to the bedroom. Crawling is the best I can do. Even then I feel like I might pass out. With the movement, blood flows down my cheek to my lips. I lick it away. Disgusting, I know, but the sharp, coppery taste keeps me from losing consciousness.
Galen starts screaming uncontrollably, and I know Dad’s got him. The first blow falls. Fuck, it sounds like a full-on punch. Dad’s strong as an ox, and a seven-year-old kid can’t take that kind of hit.
Again, I try to stand. And again, I fall to my knees.
More blows, more crying, and then a hard cracking sound.
Silence descends, an ear-splitting quiet that is worse than the screams. It cuts me to the bone, and I crawl faster.
When I reach the bedroom door, hanging by a hinge, I collapse at the sight before me. “No, no, no, no, no.”
My father is weeping. He’s on the floor, sitting in front of the closet. And Galen, my brother, Galen…Oh, God, if you’re up there, why? Galen lies limp in my father’s arms.
My dad looks over at me and bites back a sob. “Call 9-1-1, son. Your brother might be dying.”
I see all too clearly what he can’t, or won’t, acknowledge. It’s too late for help. Galen is already dead.
Flynn
(As the next four years go by)
They say you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. In the months—and then the years—following Galen’s death, I discover what they say is fucking true. I also learn you never really heal. There’s something inside you that remains broken when you’ve suffered a loss like the one I suffered.
Eventually, you get used to living with the pain. The empty hole in your heart, the one that makes your chest hurt on the nights you can’t sleep, becomes a constant companion.
My dad is arrested for killing Galen. He’s tried and convicted, sent away to rot in prison.
I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even when it means I become an orphan, a ward of the state.
Whatever, man. My dad wasn’t doing such a great job, anyway.
The state can call me anything they want, but the truth is I am one of the unwanted, the discarded. Another kid in the system, another cog in a broken wheel.
At first, I live in a group home—a prison unto itself. Then, I am sent to one temporary home after another. Some families are okay, but I unfortunately soon discover many are in it for the money. In any case, I am bounced all around. Even the decent families send me on my way. No one wants to adopt a troubled teen boy.
After a bunch of new moms and a few new dads—not a single one of them really interested in becoming a real parent to me—I take off.
I run for a while, discovering soon enough that the streets aren’t kind to a runaway kid. I end up trying drugs to ease my loneliness. That shit does nothing but make me feel lonelier, so I replace drugs with sex.
At fifteen, I hook up with a seventeen-year-old girl, a runaway, like me. We have tons of sex, and she lets me try everything a teen boy can think of. All we engage in is safe sex, of course. The last thing either of us wants is a disease, or, God forbid, we produce a kid who’ll be stuck out on the streets with us.
Runaway Girl is pretty cool, and she teaches me a thing or two when it comes to pleasing a woman. We practice a lot, and I get damn good at everything she shows me. Probably why she sticks around for a while. Eventually though, like everything else in life, our relationship ends and we go our separate ways.
Not long after, I am caught stealing some shit from a store and get my ass sent to juvie. When I finish my stint, I am thrust back in the foster system. What a cluster-fuck. I move through a carousel of homes, switching houses instead of merry-go-round horses. Spinning around, moving through different rooms. Some are shared and some I have all to myself. A few foster moms buy me clothes, but most don’t bother. The one constant is I’m never in the same place for long.
Round and round I go. Where I’ll stop, nobody knows.
Then, one dreary October day, I get word I’ve received a permanent placement for my final two years in the system.
“Mrs. Lowry promises to keep you until you’re eighteen,” my overworked, underpaid social worker tells me in a monotone voice.
“Great,” I reply, just as enthusiastically.
It’s my sixteenth birthday. Happy fucking birthday to
me.
PRESENT DAY
Jaynie
“You’re lucky to be getting this placement, Jaynie. Mrs. Lowry is quite selective of the kids she chooses to come live with her.”
Saundra, my social worker, relays this tidbit to me in a way that conveys I should be thanking my lucky stars. What does she want? Does she expect me to drop to my knees on the candy- and gum-wrapper-strewn floorboard of the little rust-bucket car we’re in and praise Jesus?
Yeah, like that’s going to happen.
I have nothing to be thankful for, certainly not this placement. Besides, the ability to feel real gratitude is something I lost a while ago, along with a lot of other things.
Saundra turns at a faded green sign that indicates we’re entering the city limits of Forsaken, West Virginia. I suppress a laugh. Seems I may have found an appropriate home after all.
Saundra nods to the sign as we pass. “Don’t let the name fool you, Jaynie. This town is actually a solid community. A bit rundown,” she adds when we start driving by cars on blocks, dotting the front yards of dilapidated homes. “But Forsaken is still a good place.”
Sure it is, I think. I keep my mouth shut, though. One thing I’ve learned during the past three years in the state foster system is that keeping quiet is the best way to stay out of trouble.
Leaning my head against the side window, I sit quietly and take in my new town.
Wow, what a shithole. Cracked sidewalks, boarded-up buildings, and houses marred by broken windows inspire little confidence that Forsaken is a good place, like Saundra claims. A dirty curtain sticking out of the second-floor window of one home, pink and felt-like, reminds me of a dog’s tongue hanging out of his mouth on a hot summer’s day. But not in a cute, happy way. This is more like a dog left out with no water.
We pass one particular house that garners my attention. It’s more a shack than a solid structure, really. A young girl of about six is standing out in the middle of the muddy yard. She’s crying—wailing, really—but no one comes to her aid.
Between this and my thirsty-dog imaginings, I conclude this town is really living up to its name. Thunder rumbles and I hope for rain. Maybe Forsaken and all its misery will be mercifully washed away. But, of course, that doesn’t happen.