Shattered Beginnings

by Lilly Wilde

  “Put whatever shit you can in this bag and get the fuck out of here.” She tosses a grocery tote on the bed.

  I spin around and face the oppressor who is supposed to be my caregiver… who is supposed to be my mother. “This is our house. Maybe you should be the one to pack your shit and go.”

  She flashes an evil grin that mirrors her soul. “Ask your father if he wants me to leave. Go ahead. I dare ya.”

  Sparring gazes communicate the answer to a question that needn’t be voiced. We both know Dad will choose her. That he will always choose her. My eyes remain pinned on Cassidy, not seeing a person at all, but a monster. One who takes pleasure in my shame. One who gets off on my pain. How could God ever create such evil? And why is she hell-bent on unleashing every bit of it on me?

  What did I ever do to her? Except hope she would one day grow to love me, or at the very least like me. I try to do everything exactly right. I have the highest grade point average in my class. All the teachers like me, and I get along with everyone. At home, I walk the line—I cook, I clean, I try to fit in and be what I think Cassidy wants me to be. I do as I’m told even when I know it isn’t right—I do it. All because I want her acceptance… her love. I want a mom. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. A mom.

  But Cassidy never gave me a chance. She’s never once shown me an inkling of love. She’s only shown hate. From day one, she’s cursed and degraded me. Turned my father against me. Beat me for the slightest of offenses—some that weren’t mine to claim. And tonight, she’s taking my family… and my home.

  I hate her. With every fiber of my being, I hate her. For what she’s made me feel, for what she still makes me feel—the degradation, the rage, the pain, the fear. All of it collides in my chest, each emotion crowding and overriding the other. Suddenly, they all come to a head, and my insides explode, releasing the last ten years of hatred I’ve harbored for the woman who’s been nothing short of a tormentor to my brother Noah and me.

  I tear toward her, my arms outstretched, and shove her against the wall. My hands are underneath her chin pressing against her windpipe. “I hate you,” I whisper through gritted teeth. Fueled by the venom running through my veins, the intense throbbing blinds me of everything else. I only see what I feel… and I feel as though I could kill her.

  “Da-vid.” She shrieks Dad’s name, but it comes out as garbled noise.

  I press harder. “Not so tough without an extension cord, are you?”

  She claws at my wrists and shifts my hands just enough. “David, help me!”

  Within seconds, Dad rushes into the room and pulls us apart.

  “Ragan!” His hands are on my shoulders, shaking me and ushering me away from his wife. “What are you doing?” he asks, his brows knit in confusion. “You need to calm down.”

  “I need to calm down? What about her? She’s trying to kick me out of my home. Are you going to just stand by and let her?”

  He looks back at Cassidy, holding the expectancy of her gaze for a long beat and finally turns toward me.

  And his eyes say it all.

  He’s siding with her.

  Again.

  He opens his mouth, but I speak before he does. “Oh, shut up. I was stupid to hope you’d do the right thing for once and protect your own flesh and blood. That’s never going to happen, is it?”

  “Ragan—”

  “Is it?” I demand, my voice an octave louder and sobs building in my throat.

  I glare at him. It’s as if he’s mute, his mouth opening and closing, but words don’t come. My vision blurs, tears jetting from my eyes as he takes a step back. I quickly swipe the back of my hand across my cheeks. But the tears still flow, and I let him see. I want him to know my cries aren’t just for tonight. They’re for every night. For every day he’s failed me. They’re for the anger and hatred I have for the woman who has rained down a decade of abuse on me and my baby brother. All while he—my father—sat back and let it happen.

  “See that, David.” Cassidy steps toward the two of us, one hand on her accosted throat, and pointing a finger at me with the other. “See how she talks to you? She has no respect for us.”

  I trigger a wad of saliva and spit in her face. “Fuck you, Cassidy.”

  She jumps back, her eyes wide and mouth agape.

  Speaking my mind feeds a sense of liberation that’s been cloaked with a hunger for her acceptance. I must have been out of my mind to have so desperately craved love and approval from an immoral reprobate like Cassidy Merritt. Besides, it doesn’t matter what I do or say at this point. I’m being tossed out on my ass tonight. My dad’s silence has pretty much confirmed that. So there isn’t anything I can do to stop the inevitable.

  I look up from the bag I’m stuffing with whatever I pull from my bureau and see my brother Noah and my stepsiblings watching yet another night that will be added to the book of family secrets.

  “You have five minutes before I throw you out myself,” Cassidy warns. She grabs my dad’s hand, tugging him after her. To my dismay, he doesn’t look back at me. Instead, he beckons my siblings to follow suit.

  They all file from the room. All but the one who will be affected most by my departure. I look at Noah, and if my heart wasn’t already shattered into a million pieces, it would most assuredly suffer irreparable breaks at this moment. Big doe tears stream from his eyes, his chest rising and falling with deep sobs. I worry more for him than I do for myself.

  I only have minutes, seconds even, to wipe Noah’s face and tell him the little things he should do to keep Cassidy happy. Or as happy as can be for someone like her. I do my best to still his trembling frame and offer him words of comfort. The same as always.

  I look up to see Cassidy leaning against the doorframe.

  “Tick. Tock.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Time’s up, you little bitch.”

  There it is. Her nickname for me. The name she’s called me so often that I’ve learned to tune it out. But not tonight. Tonight it pulls on the last of my restraint. I take several calming breaths, reining in the urge to finish what I’d started earlier. You can do this. For Noah, you can do this.

  With my gaze fixed on my brother, the knot in my stomach pulls tighter. Noah casts a nervous glance over his shoulder and looks back at me. His next words come as a shaky whisper. “I’ll tell Cassidy the truth about the tissue. I’ll stand up for you and confront our dad. Then you can stay.”

  I shake my head, signaling him to leave it alone. Defending me will only make matters worse for him, so I make him promise to keep quiet. To think about himself.

  Grabbing the tote and my backpack, I grasp my brother’s hand and take the short steps down the hall to the living room. I scan the dimly lit space for my dad, but he’s nowhere in sight. Why should I be surprised that even now he’s somewhere hiding behind his cowardice?

  Before Cassidy shuts the door in my face, I pull Noah into a goodbye hug and I walk away, knowing his silence and good behavior will never be enough to save him. Because my stepmother’s triumph tonight isn’t enough to fill that dark hole inside of her. Her demonic proclivities go deeper than that. She’s lost control over me, so instead of celebrating her exploit, she’s nursing her ire.

  I think of how she’s scarred my body… and my mind. And with me gone, Noah’s next in line. I know from experience that for every scrap of anger she’s holding, she’ll use the belt, or something worse, to release it.

  The blows will come hard and fast.

  Across his naked behind.

  One lash after the other.

  Across his back.

  His cries won’t save him.

  His welts won’t faze her.

  The broken skin won’t make her stop.

  She will keep going… until she’s breathless.

  I only pray his body can withstand what she has pent up inside her.

  April 14, 2017

  THAT WAS MY INTRODUCTION TO adulthood. Nine years ago to this day. I don’t purposely keep track o
f it, but vivid recollections of that night crash into my thoughts every year around this time. Maybe because it happened the evening before my seventeenth birthday—the night I was facing my umpteenth beating from step-mommy dearest.

  I’d committed the heinous crime of using Cassidy’s special bathroom tissue—the two-ply she’d held under lock and key for herself and her kids. But it had been Noah who grabbed her private reserve, not me. When Cassidy snatched the extension cord from the wall and jerked Noah toward his bedroom, I’d known it would have been one of the worst beatings he’d ever suffer at her hands. I figured I could take it far better than he. So, I told Cassidy I’d done it—that it was me who’d gone to her locked cabinet and grabbed the lush roll of toilet paper. And my proclamation—though dishonest—was the only vindication she needed to turn that extension cord toward me.

  But something inside me broke that night. I wouldn’t accept the beating. I’d had enough. And when I grabbed the cord and yelled at her to stop, she’d had enough, too. She told me to get out. And without much of a choice, I did. That night, I walked away from a house I never wanted to see again. A house that was once my safe place. A house that became a sea of nightmares.

  I was never invited back of course, not that I would have accepted. But when I finally had a car of my own, I did go back. Late at night, I’d drive by. But not for me. Never for me. It was for Noah. Wondering how he was being treated. Wanting to take him away from it all but knowing I wouldn’t be able to.

  Despite the unknown and the utter desolation of that night, it was probably still one of the best nights of my existence. Because it pushed me into a better life. And I shudder to think what would have become of me had it not been for that night… and for Patty Wade.

  Patty had been my music teacher throughout high school, and my acceleration in her class was an affirmation of her talent as an educator. She’d taken a keen interest in me, and to her credit, I play six different instruments. She’d brought me into her home that fateful night and assured me I could stay as long as I needed, which was a good thing, because she was my only option.

  My dad’s family was somewhere in Indiana. And when Mom abandoned us, her family eventually stopped coming around. So I had no idea how to find them either.

  I’d attempted a discreet plea for help once… when I found my uncle on Facebook. I sent a message, telling him we needed him. But he never replied. That’s when I accepted that my brother and I were on our own. That no one was coming for us. That no one would save us. And no one did.

  Patty had figured early on that something wasn’t right at my house. I never confirmed her suspicions until the night I moved in with her. Her first instinct was to report the abuse, but then I remembered Cassidy’s threats. She’d convinced us that we’d be sent to a foster family who’d treat us ten times worse than she ever did. So that’s what bartered my silence—fear. And that fear is what made me lie to Patty, telling her that I was the only one Cassidy abused. That she’d never laid a hand on Noah or her own kids.

  It was a carefully orchestrated fabrication. One where the abuse had only occurred twice. One where the process of recollecting the details for the authorities would yield more trauma than the abuse itself. Evidently my story was convincing because she didn’t report Cassidy. Or maybe Patty knew I was lying, but she understood I had a reason to. Either way, to this day, Patty remained a friend and savior.

  I’d returned to school the following day as I had any other day, pretending everything was okay, giving off an air of being like everyone else—a normal high school kid with typical high school problems.

  I’d always looked forward to school—the one place I could release the constant knot in my gut and simply be. Without worry of persecution. Without guilt for being myself. And thanks to Patty, I no longer flinched at the sound of the last bell, which signaled it was time to go home.

  Because home was no longer a dirty word.

  And my breathing was no longer constricted by fear.

  The nightmare was finally over.

  Or so I’d thought.

  January 5, 2017

  “IT’S GOOD TO SEE YA, Branch.” Jimmy grabs my hand, pulls me in for a bro hug, and slaps me on the back.

  “You saw me last month.”

  “Yeah, for all of twenty minutes after your game.”

  I shrug. “You know how it is, Jim.”

  “I get it. I get it. Everyone wants a piece of The Man on Fire. Best to give it to ’em while you can.”

  I cast a cautious glance over my shoulder then grab the Redhorns hat from the side of my bag. “Not so loud.” I slide the cap on and pull the bill down low over my eyes.

  Jimmy lifts a brow. “Don’t want anyone to know you’re here?”

  “Nope.”

  “In that case, todos quieren una pieza del hombre en llamas,” he repeats in his native language.

  We exchange grins and head for the parking garage. Except for a few curious glances, we make it to the car sans conspicuous whispers, endless selfies, or obligatory autographs. I toss my duffel into the back seat. “Thanks for picking me up.”

  “No problem at all. You know that.”

  In all the years I’ve known Jimmy Perez, he’s never once let me down. In fact, he’s been the most reliable person in my life. Always had my back. Looked out for me. But his concern came at a price. His friendship with my dad. Their relationship—which spanned thirty years, two marriages, and four kids—became one of scorned silence and distance.

  Jimmy’s a stand-up guy—good husband, breadwinner, and great father. While my dad, on the other hand, is an undependable, cheating louse. Jimmy gave him hell about it one too many times and they came to blows. That was seventeen years ago. They haven’t spoken since.

  He looks to the side, checking his blind spot, then pulls into the Hartsfield International Airport traffic.

  I broach the reason for my trip. “Any word on Mama?”

  “Nah, I called Denver and he’s still checking the hospitals and shelters.”

  Denver Ruffin is the local sheriff, a friend from high school who’s actually more like family. But in Blue Ridge, everyone’s regarded like that in one way or another. Even me, the guy who hates to step foot in that town.

  I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll the call history. “I’ve been trying Mama since this morning. Every call goes to voicemail.”

  I see the concern flash over Jimmy’s features as he accelerates and merges onto the interstate. “We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”

  “It’s hard not to worry about someone who can slip into an episode at any given moment,” I murmur, more to myself than to Jimmy.

  Mama has paranoid schizophrenia, a condition that went undiagnosed for years. Hell, I’d thought she was just crazy half the time. Had it not been for the league and the psychological battery they pushed us through, I’d still think it was a case of a woman who became slightly psychotic when her manipulative tactics failed. Because that’s when it tended to manifest—when she wasn’t getting her way.

  After the psych tests, the players were given a shitload of mental health pamphlets. Some were undoubtedly intended for the wives. Being the wife of a pro athlete is a mental breakdown waiting to happen. Why either party would subject themselves to such hell is beyond me.

  In skimming the leaflets, one caused my hair to stand on end—it was a fact sheet that ticked off everything I’d come to recognize as Mary McGuire. Knowing it wouldn’t be an easy sell, I approached her with my speculation. As expected, she was enraged by the possibility and even more so that I thought she had a mental condition. She avoided my calls for days, and when I returned to Blue Ridge to push the issue, she gave me the silent treatment. Over the years, I’d learned that threats and guilt trips were the only ways to get her to see reason at times. That’s why I played the ultimate card—I threatened to take Jace, and my “heartless tactic”—as she called it—is what finally forced her to undergo a psych evaluation.

  As
it turned out, I was right. I didn’t know if that gave me more cause for worry or less, but at any rate, her unnatural behavior finally had a name. And after a period of Dr. Blake’s combination therapy, Mama’s behavior became recognizable… and consistent. Although I doubted she’d ever be the person she once was, Blake’s reports were favorable and afforded me the comfort to leave Jace in her care. But now I’m kicking my ass for thinking I could trust her to stay on track.

  Jimmy interrupts my thoughts. “Folks will be excited to see you a month earlier than usual.”

  I grimace. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “When are they ever not excited when you step inside our city limits?”

  “Let’s just say I plan to step in and step out unnoticed.”

  He frowns, his eyes cutting to mine. “One of these days, you’re gonna have to let go of that past stuff, Branch. No matter where football takes you, Blue Ridge is home.”

  I nod. I don’t agree, but it’s not a discussion I plan to have. Home should inspire some sense of comfort, not the familiar edge of bitterness that creeps in with each mile that brings me closer to Blue Ridge.

  My trips to Georgia have been reduced to have-tos and the annual charity the city hosts in my honor. I suppose I don’t mind that trip. It’s the ones like this that piss me off—the ones I have to take.

  I let out a huff, recalling the last time I had to come home to find Mama. It was two years ago. She and Jace were flying out to Dallas for a visit, but at the last minute, Mama backed out. The change of plans didn’t lessen Jace’s excitement, but Mama wouldn’t let him be. She’d called him every morning, asking when he was coming home. She refused to speak to me at all, claiming I was making moves to take him away from her.

  One particular morning, when Jace and I were headed to the Frisco practice facility, she called with some off-the-wall commentary Jace didn’t quite understand, so he passed the phone to me. Annoyed, I asked why she couldn’t let the boy enjoy his school break. She shifted gears, insisting she had to go because they were calling her name. Clueless as to her whereabouts or her inference, I called back, but she didn’t answer. Call. Voicemail. Call. Voicemail. The cycle went on for about an hour. The find-my-phone app indicated she was at the house, so I had Jimmy go by to check on her, but she wasn’t there. Pissed that I had to cut Jace’s trip short, we returned to Georgia. Three days later, Mama turned up at the bus station. She’d been there the entire time waiting to catch a bus to some town that didn’t fucking exist.