Chapter 2
I woke up the next day disoriented. The sunlight was too bright and the only sound in the room was the quiet whirring of the electric fan. Rubbing my eyes, I shambled up to the bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror and winced. I looked horrible. There was blood smeared almost everywhere on my face. Blood ran down my ears and up to my cheeks from sleeping on my side. Blood from my nose tinted my lips up until my chin. Dirt crusted all over my exposed skin. Why did the clerk give me a room if I looked like this? I ran a hand across my arms and felt tiny pricks of pain where shards of glass from the bottle were embedded.
Quietly, I ran myself a bath of lukewarm water and scrubbed at myself vigorously, cleaning off patches of dirt and dried blood. I picked out the shards of glass with tweezers I found in the bedside table drawer and dropped them into the sink. By the time I was finished, my skin felt raw and the water I had used for my bath had turned dirty with the mixture of dirt, mud, and blood. The now used warm water had felt good on my skin. It was a luxury I only remember vaguely from my childhood since dad thought only people who worked deserved it. Dad thought...
I shuddered and looked at myself again in the mirror. I looked a lot better now that I was clean, a towel hanging around my waist. I stared for a few moments at my face and felt the night's events creeping back into my memory. My features were both soft and angular, teetering between adolescence and adulthood. Dark hair hung wet and unkempt just a few centimeters above my deep blue eyes. The people who saw us always said I had Mom's eyes. I wondered if Mom's eyes looked as sunken and haunted as mine were now. Other than those eyes, that one simple connection with Mom, I looked just like my father when he was my age. I didn't bother denying it. I'd seen his pictures as a teenager and the resemblance was staggering. I hated it.
I hated looking in the mirror everyday and seeing that shadow of my Dad. My now...deceased...father. Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.
My father was dead.
I didn't cry, but I might as well have. I dragged myself up to the bed and collapsed on top of it, suddenly tired. Why did I feel like this? Why did I feel guilty? Because you know you killed him, Ryan, a tiny voice said. No, I couldn't have. Could I? I remember the way I felt - all that hatred brought about by how he talked about my mother. I remember wishing him dead - no - willing him to die. And it happened. But how...I didn't know...
Why was I feeling guilty anyway? He deserved it, didn't he? He was a monster. He didn't deserve to live! I probably did the world a favor by doing whatever I did! But, I heard the tiny voice say (I recognize it now...it sounded just like mom), he was still your father... I shook my head at that. No, he wasn't. Fathers protect you, raise you - all he did was the opposite. I shouldn't be guilty.
***
Before the clock struck twelve, I had already boarded a train headed far away from the town. On the way to the station, I made sure to avoid most streets with newspaper stands or visible television sets. I couldn't know for sure but I was paranoid enough to assume that my face would be plastered all over the front pages of newspapers and broadcast on every news report across town. I flinched every time someone who was standing close to me made any sudden movements. Half the time, I expected someone to point and shout, "There he is! There's the murderer! Get him!"
Despite the loud beating of my heart, I managed to reach the station unscathed and boarded the first train to Boston, Massachusetts. Why Boston, you ask? Mainly it was because I just needed to get away. The city was far enough from my backwater town for no one to recognize me, I hoped. My father's sudden death here couldn't have reached that far away. It probably wouldn't have been important enough.
The second reason was because, well, I was free now. Free from my father. There was nothing keeping me from staying in town. I had no real friends. School was a bust. I had no future there. Should I just waltz back into my neighborhood and claim to not know how our house burned down? No. It was time to start a new life.
The third reason was because of that Augustana song that went, "I think I'll go to Boston...I think I'll start a new life...I think I'll start it over...where no one knows my name." Not only did it seem appropriate to my condition but it also held plenty of sentimental value. Before mom left, it was one of our most favorite songs when we first heard it. It wasn't an oldie like most of the songs she listened to but she liked it. She said it made her feel younger being able to listen to it without complaining about how our generation's music was too loud. Ever since then, I'd listen to it whenever I could and stop what I was doing whenever it came on in the radio - even more so after mom left because it was one of the things that reminded me of her. The third and final reason was because I sincerely thought mom was there in Boston. No, I didn't have proof but...just listen to the song! She had to be there...right?
The trip was quiet and awkward, with me clutching my small backpack that held everything I managed to salvage - some money, a few changes of clothes, my toothbrush, and three of my favorite paperback books. People didn't stare at me the way I thought they would - a troubled-looking barely legal teen who looked like he'd run away from home. They mostly ignored me and that was more than welcome.
The long trip gave me time to contemplate about what had happened last night. My dad had died somehow and the only thing that crossed my mind the second it happened was that I had done it. I mean, it had to be me. I had been thinking of how much I wanted him to die and it just somehow happened? No, it had to have been me. It couldn't have been mere coincidence. It happened because I willed it.
Hah! And maybe if I wished really hard, pigs would fly. It was a lot easier at the time to write it off as that particular pig dying of a heart attack or alcohol poisoning. But just to be sure, I gave it another try. Taking a deep breath, I caught the eye of the person sitting in front of me and though something simple - Stand up. I repeated the thought in my head again and again, never breaking eye contact. Finally, after seemingly millennia, the man arched an eyebrow at me.
"Can I help you, son?" he asked.
"No," I smiled. "Thank you but I'm just a bit tired." I leaned back and closed my eyes. Perfectly normal.
***
The reality of my situation finally hit me when my stomach grumbled. The entire day, I had only eaten crackers I'd bought before boarding the train and now I felt hungry. I took out my small pouch of money and counted. I had two a little over two hundred dollars and that was it. The motel, train ticket, and crackers had taken care of most of my money. I'd probably last a few more days before I was stuck in an unfamiliar city short on cash without knowing anybody. My eyes stung and I felt like crying but I soldiered it down. That's one thing my dad taught me, I guess, crying never solved anything. He instilled it in me with the buckle of his belt.
I blew my nose on a handkerchief and started walking.
Reality struck another hard blow when I was wandering around town for jobs I could take. None of the stores would hire me without seeing some papers - a diploma, a GED, social security number, my birth certificate - but some were kind enough to let me do some odd jobs for them. By the end of the day I had raked in almost a hundred dollars. Probably enough to get me settled long enough to find a steady job.
That was when I met Tony. I was sitting on the curb, counting my money and wondering how I should spend it, when he walked up to me and snatched my money pouch.
"Hey!" I shouted, but he hadn't run. He held it up mischievously and browsed through it.
"Not much in here," he noted before throwing it back at me. "Name's Tony."
"Ryan," I responded and counted my money to make sure he hadn't taken any. I glared at him after double-checking the amounts and sized him up. Tony was skinny and a few inches shorter than me though it was apparent that he was older by the way he dressed - very semi-formal. He had a hook nose and his hair was slicked back as he gave me a lopsided grin. He had an accent I couldn't place which sounded even more pronounced through his nasal voice.
"Good afternoon, Ryan," he said, holding a hand out. "I notice you've been doing jobs around town."
I shook his hand warily. "Have you been following me?"
"Don't need to," he shrugged. "Pretty obvious by how mussed up you are."
I looked at myself and saw what he meant. The t-shirt I wore was caked in dirt and grease and my hair felt like messy. Idly, I ran a hand through it to smooth it over.
Tony laughed. "No need to fix yourself on my account."
We made small talk for a while, Tony buying me a sandwich from a nearby Deli. Apparently, he worked for some kind of shipping company and decided to offer me a job.
"GEDs," he snorted after I asked him about it. "Who needs 'em? All I know is you're a hard worker, kid. You look like you've got a steady head, obviously unafraid to do whatever's necessary to survive the city, "
I felt my cheeks heat. "I wouldn't say that."
Eventually, we parted ways for the afternoon. There was a shipment he was fixing up that night and he wanted me there for a test run. He gave me a time and place and I agreed. I wasn't picky. For the first time that day, I felt confident. If only I knew how deep the crap in that one event was.