Chasing Shadows | ✓

Chapter Eight

"YOU'RE A DISGRACE TO THIS FAMILY."

I didn't move while Father circled around me. I felt my muscles tense and begin to shake, despite my futile efforts to suppress it. The thick atmosphere that surrounded us was like poison, wrapping around us like silk, which at any moment felt like it could choke the life from me.

"You know that?" he continued when I remained silent, "I don't know how I got stuck with such a useless kid like you. You're never even going to amount to anything."

His voice took on a tone of glee when he saw the tortured expression evident on my face, "You're pathetic and worthless. You probably won't even make it to college at the rate you're going."

"Yes I will," I dared to mumble, "I'm going to college."

Father belted out a laugh, clutching his stomach like he had just heard the funniest joke ever, "You actually think you're going to get accepted?"

Victoria tried to pull him back, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Hugh -"

He shook her away, taking a step towards me. His dark shadow loomed over me.

"Go on boy," he sneered, "Tell me. You think you're going places, huh? You think you'll actually amount to something in this life, other than being a waste of space?"

My fingers curled into small fists, digging my nails into my skin to stop the tears that threatened to come forward. I knew if I started crying, Father would only laugh at me more. I didn't let myself cry because when I did, it felt like a thousand knives sticking into my heart at the same time. Now, the emptiness was always there; I considered myself nearly a master at hiding it, masking it with anger and rage.

Men don't cry, he had told me. Men are strong. They don't break down or feel pain.

"No," I muttered, telling him not only what he wanted to hear, but also what I believed, "I won't."

"That's right," he breathed, his alcohol-stained breath wafting over my face, "You're only a piece of trash for people to use and then dump when they're done with you. Don't forget that."

"Hugh, enough," Victoria sighed, "Leave the poor boy alone."

"Poor boy?" he echoed, "He just beat three kids up this week and I'm the one who has to go in and sort his stupid mess."

Victoria's surprised eyes slid over to mine, "Trevor?"

I gave a careless shrug of my shoulders, "He's not lying."

She shut her eyes as if in pain, "Trevor, why on earth would you ever do something like that -"

"Don't even try and reason with the boy," father seethed, "Nothing goes in that thick head of his."

I bit down on my tongue, hard enough to draw blood. Did he think I didn't know what I had done was wrong? Did he know I hated myself for for the fact that with each day that passed, I looked more and more like him?

A cruel sneer formed on his face and he leaned forward, eyes boring straight into mine, "I wish you'd never have been born."

And as I took a shaky breath in, I thought about my life and how I ended up here. I thought about the ruin and devastation I had caused, not only to others but to myself as well. I tried to think about how, and why and what happened but while the thoughts came easily, the answers didn't.

The only one that did was in response to father's statement: Me too.

***

Lunch times were slowly becoming more bearable.

Instead of sitting alone, Natalia took it upon herself to sit with me everyday. Most days we just sat in silence, while other days, she chatted away with me giving her an occasional nod. But it worked; she got someone to talk to and I got the feeling of what a friend felt like.

The light breeze touched the leaves and they danced in the air of November. I let my eyes rest for a moment, feeling the ambiance of street, hearing the sounds, taking in the aroma, letting my brain be still.

"Can I ask you a question?" I murmured after a few moments of silence.

The wind pinked her cheeks, tousling her hair into buoyant curls. Natalia's eyes twinkled under the dimly lit sky, "Sure."

"How many chances are we supposed to give someone?" I hadn't intended for my voice to come out as a mere whisper, but when I spoke, the vulnerability of my question shone through.

"I guess it depends," she gnawed down on her lip as she thought.

"On what?"

"On how much they matter to you," she shrugged, "Does this person hold a close place in your life or are they just a passerby, someone with no importance?"

A bitter chuckle left my lips, "Can they be both?"

A soft smile graced Natalia's lips, "You sound like you're unsure."

I gave a lifeless shrug of my shoulders, "I don't know anything anymore."

"Actually, I'm curious about one thing," she mused, and shot me a side glance.

"Shoot," I sighed, almost getting used to her constant questions, "You're going to ask regardless."

She chuckled, "You're catching on. But I've been wondering. . . Why don't you have anyone around you?"

I turned to her with a raised brow, "Excuse me?"

"You look like someone who would have a lot of friends around them," she explained, "Yet every time I see you, you're alone."

A bitter chuckle left my lips, "Isn't it easier being alone?"

"Not really," she frowned.

"What about you?" I countered, feeling uncomfortable where the conversation was going. "You're not exactly Miss Popular around here."

"I think the difference between you and me, is that I actually want people around me," Natalia pointed out, "You don't. You prefer being alone."

The thing with loneliness was that it ate you alive, swallowing every once of hope you had. It feasted upon any happiness you had left, leaving behind empty carcass; full of despair and memories you couldn't seem to hold onto anymore. It took my heart it between its claws and drained every bit of life out of me. It craved for my suffering, desiring a life void of any warmth or love.

She glanced down at my cracked and bruised knuckles, "Who did you hurt this time?"

Purple and yellow blotches decorated my skin, patches of dried, brown blood settling into the creases.

"Some kid in my class," I muttered.

"Why?"

It was such a simple question: Why?

But then why was the answer not as simple?

Pain was like a dagger, pointed inwards, making a fresh cut in my chest everyday. After Mother died, Father started hitting me with hard objects, anything he could get his hands on; a leather belt, a steel buckle. . . I was always the one left on the ground with bruises, curled up behind the door as I begged for an angel to take me away.

Because no matter how much I screamed for help, no voice came out.

Or maybe there was simply no-one left to listen.

****

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