Abram
Money sucked. I hated the feeling of not having any. I hated that I needed it. And I really hated the fuckin' fact my freedom awaited me in the form of three thousand dollars. I glanced back at the door, making sure the rusty trash barrel I'd pushed up against it hadn't moved.
The barrel had been my makeshift dresser for the past four years. It wasn't ideal, but neither was living with two assholes who got off on torturing a kid, so I didn't complain. At least I'd had enough common sense to line it with a trash bag, so my clothes didn't stink—beyond the rank stench of stale cigarettes and rotten food.
Quietly taking out the last bill from my duffle bag, I counted silently to myself. Twelve thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars. It had taken me almost a year and a half to save. I closed my eyes, wanting to scream profanities in frustration. Sighing, I closed the bag and shoved it back under the dilapidated floorboard, praying for a miracle. Once again, disappointment. No matter that I had more cash than any normal seventeen-year-old . . . because in the end, it wasn't a-fucking-nough.
I'd learned over the last few years that one could blow through money pretty quickly when paying for necessities, like heat and food. I'd been working, pushing myself to the brink, with nothing to lose but my sanity—all for freedom. Freedom meant different things to different people. Escaping an abusive relationship, getting out from under your pops' roof, or making your own choices were all viable meanings, but for me, it simply meant being me. Finding me. Unfortunately, I didn't turn eighteen tomorrow, so without the money, I was still screwed.
What I wanted to do was tell Pat what a sorry piece-of-shit she was, then beat Jim within an inch of his sorry, sad-sack life. I'd been placed with them a little over four years ago, when I was thirteen. Talk about a life-changing moment.
Of course, being in foster care for the majority of my life, it wasn't like I'd had anything else to compare it to. But somehow I knew, during that first week in their house, my life wasn't my own. I'd never felt more insignificant or alone. I knew when Jim first laid his hands on me, I was at his mercy; it was up to me how I coped with it.
I heard footsteps and hurried to move the barrel back into place. I met Pat at the door before she could barge in.
"I need smokes and a fifth."
She disgusted me, making me gag anytime she was nearby. I'd learned over the years to swallow the bile because throwing up only pissed them off even more. It wasn't that she'd ever sexually abused me or anything. The only time she'd even touched me in a way that wasn't meant to cause pain, was when I was younger and the social worker would show up.
"I just got some. And the whiskey is under the sink, where it always is." I was sick of her shit, but quite frankly, still depressed because I didn't have a solid plan for escape after four years.
She slapped my face. Hard. I spit out the side of my mouth not caring if any of it hit her. I gritted my teeth, my adrenaline pulsing through my veins, enough for me to feel on the verge of erupting. Like a fuckin' volcano. I took the deepest breath, my lungs expanding twice their size, full of fury and hot air. My nostrils working double time to keep myself contained.
Calmness washed over me, as I once again, talked myself down from total and utter destruction. Killing someone was bad. It was not a natural feeling and I would not give into the weakness. It made me feel like something was off in my brain—considering beating someone to death—especially a female. But, I supposed at the end of the day, you couldn't survive being beaten, stabbed, burned with cigarettes, and starved to the point of malnutrition, without having a few psychotic moments.
"Now what? You want more, or you gonna get my shit?" Her white T-shirt had stains on it, and she wasn't wearing a bra. Her round belly protruded from the top of her stretchy pants, giving her a muffin top and several rolls.
"I don't have any money."
"What do you mean? You just got paid. I know you keep something for yourself."
"I paid our phone bill with it," I lied. Hopefully, I'd be gone by the time it was due. She wasn't getting a damn dime from me. I'd die before I got into my stash to support her habits.
She lifted her foot, dragging a sweaty twenty dollar bill from her shoe and threw it at my chest. I cringed when it hit me, but never took my eyes from hers. I knew better than to bend over in front of her—she would kick me.
"I expect change."
As she walked out, I sighed and grabbed gloves out of my jacket pocket so I could pick the dirty money up. She was so gross.
Taking the twenty minute bus ride to the liquor store meant more time with my thoughts. I didn't even try to cover the blood-red hand print on my face. I almost wished someone would've asked me about it. I smiled, wondering what their reaction would be if for just once, I told the truth.
Feeling sorry for myself wasn't a foreign feeling. In fact, I'd spent the better part of the first year with Jim and Pat, wishing I was dead. But I'd had a moment of realization one night as I laid on my back, staring at the water-stained ceiling. I wouldn't be fourteen forever. One day, I'd be a grown man. One who could live where he wanted; work where he wanted. Once I had my mind set right, I stayed focused. Every now and then, I'd slip, but mind over matter had become my mantra.
As I sat in the rear of the bus, I noticed a bag lady picking through a dirty sock like it was her purse. It was at one time, I suppose, white. Now it was brown. I didn't even want to know what she had inside of it, so I looked away. Dirtiness made me uneasy.
I closed my eyes and rested my head on the seat. Sticking my ear buds in, I decided not to take in my surroundings. As the bus came to a stop, I hopped off, passing a drug deal, a homeless man with a sign that read, Let's cut the shit, I need to buy a joint, and a black cat that for some reason had me feeling more uneasy about crossing its path than the others. Needless to say, the poverty level in this town was almost one hundred percent.
"Abram! How goes it, young man?" Cypress, the older gentleman who ran the corner store, greeted me. He was nice enough, but uneducated. Sometimes, I thought he was in worse shape than I was.
"I'm good. And you?"
"Can't complain. The usual?"
How sad was that? The usual. Only seventeen and I was quite certain he thought I was an addict.
I waited to answer him until a suspicious guy walked outside after he'd used the restroom. "Sure. Thanks." I threw the money down on the counter, wanting to get rid of it as soon as possible.
Once he had me bagged up, I made my way back to the bus stop. I couldn't wait until tomorrow. I was leaving for a new jobsite and it was honestly what kept me going. I traveled around, climbing towers for a living. It wasn't the best job in the world, but it kept me on the away from home.
I hated remembering the past, but sometimes when I was alone, it was inevitable. Looking back on it now, I think the initial beating shocked me. At thirteen, I believed there had to be some way out of it. Like I would be able to get away, or fight back, but I just hadn't been strong enough. During that first pounding, one of my molars had cracked in half, and to this day, hadn't been fixed. Of course, I'd never been to the dentist, so fixing it wasn't exactly an option. I planned on changing that once I was on my own.
Back at the house, I threw the cancer-sticks, alcohol, and change on the table, then made my way back to my room. I had to pack for the road. Keeping my mind on something positive—like being away from the house—helped me make it through the day to day stuff.
Pat was asleep on the couch, so I knew she wouldn't bother me. Jim, of course, was in bed watching TV. Lazy bastard never got up to do anything.
"Where've you been?" Jim yelled.
"Getting smokes."
"The yard ain't gonna mow itself, kid."
"Yeah, I'll get to it." Go to hell, old man.
"Pick up that dog shit too. I don't know whose dog keeps gettin' in my yard, but next time it won't be leavin'. I got a bullet that'll fit snug between his eyes."
Nice. I would mow his yard and I'd do it for free because I knew making waves with either of them would only delay my escape. They'd figure out a way to make impossible for me to climb towers. They'd do something to me in my sleep and take the only thing positive I had going for myself. Without being on the road, I had nothing. No escape from home, and no money.
I had given them eighty percent of my wages for the last few years. At first, I'd given them everything because Jim would knock me around. His intimidation worked too, until I turned fifteen and grew seven inches and gained about fifty pounds. Now, he kept taking the money I handed him, and didn't say anything.
I'd been able to pass for eighteen for a year. Jim had gotten me a fake ID so that I could work in the union. That meant I made more money, which meant he made more money. It pissed me off every time I thought about it.
I spent the next half hour mowing the weed-infested landscape they called a yard. Putting the antique mower back into the dilapidated shed, I made my way to the library to pick up reading material for when I was on the road. It got difficult to be patient, and books helped keep my mind off reality. I'd spend my down time getting lost in someone else's world, which kept me from thinking about my own.
I struggled to make connections with people. Everyone I'd come in contact with led such normal, ordinary lives. Most of the time, I felt inferior and different. How could I bring up that I'm not only an orphan, but one who was being abused? I probably wouldn't have talked about it anyway, but when no one had any idea where I was coming from, it all seemed pointless to try.
Two hours and a bag full of books later, I made it back to the house. But no one was at home.
That was odd.
They were hermits. They never left the house, unless it benefited them in some way. And since anyone or anything benefiting them besides me hardly ever happened—they never left the house. I walked down the hallway and back to their bedroom, listening for Jim's snoring, but I didn't hear anything, so I took a chance and opened the door.
I flipped the light switch on and looked around. I shook my head in disgust. It looked like the rest of the house. Old, smelly, and dirty. I covered my nose with my arm, as a moldy, rotten smell hit my nostrils. There was trash everywhere and I couldn't even see the floor from all the clothes and newspapers.
For some reason, I couldn't focus on anything else except the plate of leftover burritos I'd made for Pat three weeks ago. I remembered it clearly because she'd told me that if I didn't bring it to her, she'd drown my cell phone.
They were the dirtiest people I had ever come in contact with.
I remembered one time I had opened a new bar of soap and put it in their shower, to see if they'd actually wash themselves. I checked the size of the soap for a month. The indentations of the brand had still shown brightly in the center. The size of the bar hadn't dwindled in the slightest. It sickened me so much that anytime I had to look at them, I felt like throwing up.
That was probably the main reason I was so OCD when it came to hygiene. I took at least three showers a day and I had to have deodorant and cologne on or I freaked out.
I opened my bedroom door and threw my books on the floor. The room was bare, the walls were a dingy shade of white with the sheetrock peeling and cracking in the corners. Pat did however, supply me with a mattress. She probably picked it up off the side of the road one night after someone threw it away.
I pulled out the old brown bag I carried my clothes in when I worked out of town. It wasn't that big, but it worked for what I needed. I started packing. I didn't have much in the way of clothes or possessions, so it didn't take me long. I had to catch the four o'clock bus to Tulsa.
Placing the packed bag on the ground, I laid my head back on the piece-of-shit mattress and make-shift sheet I'd made out of old T-shirts, and closed my eyes. I wasn't tired, but the faster I fell asleep, the faster I'd be gone.
e