1 - The Runaway
Winter 1970, Daly City, California - I'm alone. I'm hungry
and I'm shivering in the dark. I sit on top of my hands at the
bottom of the stairs in the garage. My head is tilted backward.
My hands became numb hours ago. My neck and shoulder
muscles begin to throb. But that's nothing new - I've learned to
turn off the pain.
I'm Mother's prisoner.
I am nine years old, and I've been living like this for years.
Every day it's the same thing. I wake up from sleeping on an old
army cot in the garage, perform the morning chores, and if I'm
lucky, eat leftover breakfast cereal from my brothers. I run to
school, steal food, return to "The House" and am forced to
throw up in the toilet bowl to prove that I didn't commit the
crime of stealing any food.
I receive beatings or play another one of her "games, "
perform afternoon chores, then sit at the bottom of the stairs
until I'm summoned to complete the evening chores. Then, and
only if I have completed all of my chores on time, and if I have
not committed any "crimes, " I may be fed a morsel of food.
My day ends only when Mother allows me to sleep on the
army cot, where my body curls up in my meek effort to retain
any body heat. The only pleasure in my life is when I sleep.
That's the only time I can escape my life. I love to dream.
Weekends are worse. No school means no food and more time
at "The House." All I can do is try to imagine myself away -
somewhere, anywhere -from "The House." For years I have
been the outcast of "The Family." As long as I can remember I
have always been in trouble and have "deserved" to be
punished. At first I thought I was a bad boy. Then I thought
Mother was sick because she only acted differently when my
brothers were not around and my father was away at work. But
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somehow I always knew Mother and I had a private
relationship. I also realized that for some reason I have been
Mother's sole target for her unexplained rage and twisted
pleasure.
I have no home. I am a member of no one's family. I know
deep inside that I do not now, nor will I ever, deserve any love,
attention or even recognition as a human being. I am a child
called "It."
I'm all alone inside.
Upstairs the battle begins. Since it's after four in the
afternoon, I know both of my parents are drunk. The yelling
starts. First the namecalling, then the swearing. I count the
seconds before the subject turns to me - it always does. The
sound of Mother's voice makes my insides turn. "What do you
mean?" she shrieks at my father, Stephen. "You think I treat
'The Boy' bad? Do you?" Her voice then turns ice cold. I can
imagine her pointing a finger at my father's face. "You ... listen
... to ... me. You ... have no idea what 'It's' like. If you think I
treat 'It' that bad ... then ... 'It' can live somewhere else."
I can picture my father - who, after all these years, still tries
somewhat to stand up for me - swirling the liquor in his glass,
making the ice from his drink rattle. "Now calm down, " he
begins. "All I'm trying to say is ... well... no child deserves to
live like that. My God, Roerva, you treat... dogs better than ...
than you do The Boy."
The argument builds to an earshattering climax. Mother
slams her drink on the kitchen countertop. Father has crossed
the line. No one ever tells Mother what to do. I know I will have
to pay the price for her rage. I realize it's only a matter of time
before she orders me upstairs. I prepare myself. Ever so slowly I
slide my hands out from under my butt, but not too far -for I
know sometimes she'll check on me. I know I am never to move
a muscle without her permission.
-8-


I feel so small inside. I only wish I could somehow ...
Without warning, Mother opens the door leading to the
downstairs garage. "You!" she screams. "Get your ass up here!
Now!"
In a flash I bolt up the stairs. I wait a moment for her
command before I timidly open the door. Without a sound I
approach Mother and await one of her "games."
It's the game of address, in which I have to stand exactly
three feet in front of her, my hands glued to my side, my head
tilted down at a 45degree angle and my eyes locked onto her
feet. Upon the first command I must look above her bust, but
below her eyes. Upon the second command I must look into her
eyes, but never, never may I speak, breathe or move a single