by Emilia Finn
“Aww, Dad.”
Two
Jon
A Little Less Way Back
Nine years old.
It’s my birthday.
“Alright Sissy. Put your shoes on.” I scrub my hands over my face, fast and free stress relief, the only I have available as I stuff my backpack with clothes, a blanket, and my stashed jar of peanut butter as fast as I can. I grab a couple books from under my mattress and shove them in too. One is new; my birthday gift to myself. I stole it from the school library last week. I put it down my pants and walked right out. I know stealing is bad, but I did it anyway. The other is forever old, with faded and frayed pages from overuse. I stole that one too. “We gotta go.”
“Where’s soos?” Izzy’s voice is slurred, her binky filling her mouth and making it hard to talk. That’s okay; I speak fluent toddler.
“Under my bed. Quick Sissy, put your boots on.”
Iz turns excitedly, like we’re going for an adventure at the park. She’s always happy, even in this shit hole. She never cries. She never whines. She sleeps all night, cradled in the hollow my knees and chest make, sucking her pacifier and snoring lightly. She’s always happy, always thankful. I’ll never let that light dim from her eyes if I can help it.
That means we have to get out of this house now.
Today was bad. They got some extra money I guess, and when my dad gets drunk, he gets mean. Then my mom gets meaner because she doesn’t like it when he’s a dick to her. When he starts hitting her, his preferred punching bag, she takes her licks then she comes looking for me like it’s my fault.
And I can’t even hate when she’s around, because when she’s not, he cuts out the middle man and comes looking for me instead.
This place is my own personal hell. I’ll always make Izzy’s life easier. She’ll never know the things I know.
“Done.” Iz jumps up, her diaper saggy and wet but it doesn’t stink and I don’t have any spares, so it’ll have to stay.
“Come on.” I take her hand, flinging my school bag over my back and hissing quietly as my whole body locks up, stinging in all the worst places.
“Where going?”
“To our fort.”
“Beebee?”
“Not today, Sissy.” I look at my wall clock; it’s almost ten o’clock. I won’t wake Bobby up. I’m not taking my shit to him today. “It’s bedtime. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Okay!”
I shush her as we approach my bedroom door, though it’s mostly useless since toddlers rarely give a shit about being quiet.
I inch the door open and peek into the hallway, then hearing only snoring and the TV, I slowly pull Iz out. My shitty sneakers are silent on the shitty carpet, Izzy’s boots a little squeakier, but when we reach the end of the hall and I confirm they’re both passed out on the couch with empties littering the floor and coffee table, I swing Iz onto my hip and make a break for it.
We hit the front door at a run, then when car lights turn into our lane, lighting the whole trailer park up, we tear down the steps and move into the trees at a sprint.
My body zings with pain, but there’s no pain compared to that arriving in that crappy Ford.
Our trailer park that sits on the edge of this two bit piece of shit town is surrounded by trees, forestation barely impacted by our small town, and with my baby sister who turned two a few months ago holding onto me as tight as she can, her tiny arms wrapped around my neck, mine wrapped around her legs and back, I sprint as fast as I can while I dodge low lying branches and sneaky rocks.
We’ve run this track most days since she was born, and I was doing it for years before that. If anyone cared to look, they’d probably find the trail I’ve worn into the dirt, but usually, as far as Sissy and I are concerned, if we aren’t around, if we aren’t seen, we’re left alone.
“Soos!” Iz calls out, bobbing and fighting my arms as I slow my run.
“What’s the matter?” I slow to a walk, knowing we’ve probably run far enough now that we won’t be found.
“Soos!”
“What about your shoes?” I look down at her dangling feet, then letting out a grumble, I turn around and walk back twenty feet to collect the boot that must’ve fallen off.
Picking it up, hissing again now that I’m not sprinting, now that I’m sure we won’t be found, now that I can concentrate on it, my hurts are hurting again, but I pick the stupid boot up and shove it back on her tiny foot, then I turn back and keep moving into the trees.
I walk for about fifteen minutes, letting the moon light our way, and since we’ve done this so many times before, Izzy starts falling heavy against my chest as the lulling movements relax her.
Eventually we reach the fort me and the guys made last year and I walk through the shitty towel curtain door, throwing my backpack on the floor then sinking into the bean bag Bobby gave me. It started out yellow, like my own sunshine, fresh and comfy, but now it’s infested and chewed away in spots, but the main structure is still okay and it gets the job done.
I get comfortable with my butt dug in deep the way it has been a bunch of times before, and I let out a heavy breath as Izzy rests on my chest. Her head sits under my chin, pushing my head up at a weird angle, her tummy touching my tummy, her arms and legs dangling lazily over my sides.
“Go to sleep, Sissy.” I lean toward my discarded backpack despite my words and jostle her tiny body, but I drag it across the dirty timber six foot by six foot floor, then I dig into it and pull out my tattered copy of The Famous Five and my flashlight.
I’ve read this book a gazillion times, but it still makes me happy when Dick saves the other guys on Treasure Island. I always wanted a dog like Timmy and a brother like Julian. I want to be the hero one day, going on regular kid adventures and having fun. I want an Aunt Fanny who thinks I’m cute and sneaks me snacks.
Instead I get Shirley and Wayne.
But I also get Sissy.
I move my book aside, the yellowed pages folded and worn, and I kiss her shiny hair as she dozes on me. I love my sissy.
Tomorrow we’ll head over to Bobby’s after Mr. Kincaid goes to work. Bobby will sneak us some breakfast and we’ll survive another day of hell.
School goes back soon then I have to figure out what to do with Sissy while I’m there.
Three
Jon
Getting Closer
Twelve years old.
Saturday, Thanksgiving weekend.
I tap on Bobby’s bedroom window as quiet as I can as I hold Sissy’s hand tight in mine. It’s cold as fuck out here and I need to get her inside before she gets sick.
“Hey.” Bobby opens his window quickly, used to this routine now, he takes Izzy’s shivering hands and pulls her through, then I gingerly climb in after her. I feel the central heating smack me in the face in the best way and I wait for it to sink into my bones. It’s freezing out and Iz and I slept in the fort again last night.
We have loads more blankets in there now, even a little fire pit on the dirt outside, but it’s still November and the snow will fall soon.
Bobby studies my face; my split lip, my bruised eyes, the scrapes along my jaw. He can’t yet see the broken rib or the bruised kidney. “What happened?”
I nod softly, conveying what I can’t say in words. “Same as usual.” He knows what I tell him, but really, he knows nothing. I’ll never tell him. I’ll never tell anyone. “Is Jim here?”
“Yeah.” Bobby steps away from us after he closes his window. He steps toward his bed, climbing on then banging his fist against the wall in a light tap-tap-tap.
Jimmy’s room is next door and he knows this routine too. Jim will take Iz to hang out and eat, and I’ll collapse onto Bobby’s bean bag and I’ll nap.
Bobby Kincaid is my best friend. He’s the best friend in the whole world, and he feeds me and gives me an hour of down time to nap while he keeps lookout.
It’s the only time I can truly rest, the only time I can shut down. He�
�s the only person I trust to be around while I sleep. He’s the only person, besides Sissy, who will never hurt me. Hurt us.
“I’ll be back in a sec.”
I pause midway through kicking my shitty shoes off my feet and I look up. “Where you going?”
“Gonna get you some food. There’s heaps left today, more than usual. Mom made turkey and all the fixings.”
I nod.
Mrs. Kincaid is the best cook and the sweetest mother I’ve ever known. She’s the only real mother I’ve known.
I know Shirley, the bitch who birthed me, but she’s no mother. She’s a two bit whore that sells her body for enough money for her next hit. And my sperm donor Wayne lets her, because he’s hanging out for a hit too.
Maybe if they stopped at selling their own bodies I wouldn’t dream of slitting their throats in their sleep.
I nod again, because Bobby is still looking at me and waiting for my answer. “Okay, I’m gonna sit. I’m beat.”
“Yeah.” He turns and casually points toward his closet. “Grab a sweater or somethin’. I’ll be right back.”
“Can you make sure Sissy has food too?”
Iz’s eyes narrow at my worrying tone and her hands come down to her hips in her stubborn sass way. She’s five, but she’s got the attitude of a sixteen year old. She’s so independent, so smart, and I already worry about her not needing me. She’s five, but she’s capable of applying bandages and butterfly stitches, and she can cook baked beans for us when I can’t do it. “I can look after myself.”
I know she can.
Bobby ignores her sass and nods; he likes to look after her as much as I do. She’s his baby sister now too. I wouldn’t share her with anyone else in this world, but Bobby and Aiden and Jimmy; I trust them with my life. “Yeah, I’ll get it.”
There’s a knock at the door and all three of us look up as Jim let’s himself in. Attitude forgotten, Izzy darts across the room and clasps his hand in hers immediately, then they turn as a pair and Jim leads Izzy out, talking to her about chicken and biscuits and soda.
Jim will feed her. I never have to worry so long as I’m on Kincaid property.
“Alright. I’ll be back in a sec.” Bobby follows them out, leaving me alone in his room and I finish toeing my shoes off. Kicking them to the side and out of the way, I rub my hands over my face then I stumble toward the large red bean bag in the corner. I need to sit down before I fall down.
I’m painfully reminded I need an ice pack as my ribs crush together, like bone crunching on bone and I hold my breath for a minute, waiting for the pain and sick to go away. Fuck that asshole.
I’m gonna kill them one day. I’ll kill every single person who’s ever stepped inside my place, because to come to that house makes you fucking slime immediately. Then I’ll take my sister out and I’ll give her the life she deserves.
She’s not like them. She’s pure and innocent, and I’ll die before I let them hurt her.
I find myself relaxing into the bean bag, breathing through the pain in my ribs, breathing away the nausea and my chin comes down on my chest. I’m so tired.
I lean across to Bobby’s bed and grab my tattered copy of The King’s Courtney from under his mattress and I open it to where I left off the other day. Breathing deeply and waiting for my ribs to relax again, I remember the story that I’ve read a bunch of times before. It’s about a secret kingdom, a king named Astrius and the princess named Courtney, and I’m up to where the king is opening a tournament for townspeople to compete for a year of free rent. King Astrius is basically an asshole though; he doesn’t give anyone that year of free rent, he just uses the tournament as a way to impress Princess Courtney, to try and win her affections. She doesn’t give a shit about him though. She’s cool like that.
I find myself forgetting my shitty life for five minutes, falling into the book and escaping the real world shit when Bobby walks back into his room, quietly but with arm’s full of food and my stomach grumbles, the power behind the churning hurting my side again.
I forgot I was hungry for a minute there. Books are my escape, they help me forget that I’m sore, or hungry, or pissed. I don’t even feel bad for stealing my books. After everything I have to put up with, the world owes me that much.
“Here.” Bobby passes me a loaded plate; turkey and beans, potatoes and biscuits, pasta salad and stuffed mushrooms all drowned in gravy and my stomach attempts to jump outside my body, an effort to taste the food as soon as possible.
I haven’t eaten since dinner time the night before last. School’s out for thanksgiving, and although I eat during the week because school feeds us, any other food we have I try to save for Iz. It’s not a big deal usually, since weekends are only two days and I usually come over to Bobby’s at least one of those days, but we’re on a long weekend now and I’m fucking starving.
I mumble my thanks as I stuff a dripping turkey leg in my mouth, my hunger taking on a whole new level now that it’s been reminded of what it’s gone without, and I practically moan in pleasure as the first morsels hit my stomach.
I try to slow down, to regulate how fast I go because I know that slamming it down too fast will give me a stomach ache, but I can’t seem to stop.
I watched Iz scrape the peanut butter jar and inhale the last of our bread last night and I almost wept – but I didn’t because she would have felt bad.
Iz will always eat long before me. She’ll never know true hunger. I’d cut my arm off and grill it and smother it in ketchup to hide the taste long before she went hungry.
But while watching her lick her fingers clean and collect crumbs from her shirt, deep inside I cried like a little kid. I wanted to eat. I was so hungry.
“Here.” Bobby passes me a can of cream soda, cracking the top for me so I don’t have to waste time, and I take it, slugging it down and feeling the hard ball of food painfully slide down my throat.
The bubbles back up in my stomach, stopping at the top and threatening to come back out again, so I sit up tall and let out a giant burp, feeling instant relief then I dive back into my food.
Bobby doesn’t speak, he doesn’t disrupt me, he just sits on the edge of his bed, his new jeans brushing along my arm as I use bread to mop up every last drop of gravy from my plate, only barely resisting the urge to lift the plate and lick it clean myself.
I finish long before I feel full, but I know that in ten minutes the hunger pains will be replaced by overfull pains. The second kind are the best kind. I find that if I eat enough, filling myself to the point I can literally feel the food touching my chest, it usually carries me through a full day before I start to feel pain from hunger again.
Every time we come here, Bobby swipes food from his kitchen, stuff that will last in my backpack, stuff I don’t have to refrigerate.
Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid tell me they love having us over here, they offer lunch every time, they’re super kind, but they don’t know that I bring Iz here because we’re hungry. They think we’re here just to play.
If they knew the truth they might report my parents and I don’t want that.
Shirley and Wayne might be horrible people, junkies and whores, alcoholics and child abusers, but it’s better than going into the system and losing Sissy. They’ll separate us, because she’s tiny and cute and smart and wonderful, and I’m a twelve year old asshole with a potty mouth, an attitude problem and a seemingly bottomless stomach.
The kind of people that would want Sissy would never in a million years want someone like me. And even though I’m scared every day that she’s hungry, or that she’s cold, or that she’ll get hurt, I’m selfish enough to keep her with me.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her with me.
“Talk to me.”
I look up from my almost shiny clean plate, lamenting the fact it’s all gone already, and I stare into my best friends pitying brown eyes.
I shrug. “Same same. Did Sissy eat?”
“Yeah.” Bobby sits back on his
bed, kicking his legs up and resting his back against the wall. “I made up two plates. Dropped the other one off in Jim’s room. He’s got her back.”
“She’s okay?”
“She’s fine,” Bobby smiles softly. “Jimmy will take care of her. Tell me what happened.”
I shrug again. “Shirley lost her job.”
“She hit you?”
“Nah, Wayne did. He’s pissed she’s broke. No money for booze. No money for crack.”
Bobby leans forward again, bending at the hips and reaching beneath his bed, and a moment later he pulls a little Lego case out. I know from experience there’s no Lego in there. It’s his first-aid kit.
“He got you good, huh?”
I grunt, the only answer Bobby will get, the only answer he usually gets, and he knows this as he opens the case and starts pulling out the stuff we need. Antiseptic, Band-Aids, Advil. He hands me two pills and I take them straight away, throwing them in my mouth and chasing them with cream soda.
He starts working on my split lip, wiping the stinging crap on there and though I hate him every time he does this, I also love him for helping me. He’s the only person in the whole world except Sissy who helps me.
“Whatcha reading?” Bobby nods at the now closed paperback resting by my leg and I look, even though I know the answer. Bobby doesn’t read like I do. Not that he’s dumb or anything. He’s not, he does real good in school, he just doesn’t have time to read.
He spends his time riding bikes with his brothers, or going to training with his Dad. Mr. Kincaid is a fighter, not professional or anything, but he likes to go to the gym and train. He spars on the weekends with his friends, and sometimes me and Iz get to go and watch.
Those are the best times. We get to sit in the big chairs and watch the guys fight, then me and the boys get to practice and pretend, and we always get pizza and soda those days.