{Chapter 1}
Andrew Crey was a heartbroken boy. He was far from the average boy who got his heart broken by a girl he "loved." No, he was heartbroken, because the man who was supposed to love him unconditionally, the man who had brought him to existence in the first place despised him. The man, who was supposed to tuck him in at night, and kick the soccer ball around during the day, had failed at his fatherly duties. Andrew couldn't begin to understand why his father hated him. Had he done something that was unforgiveable? Was he a terrible person? These thoughts always brought tears that pooled in the circular pores that the iron left.
Andrew's whole right cheek was destroyed by the image of an iron that had been imprinted on his flesh nearly two years ago. The memory was something bitter in his past.
He hated to think of it, but whenever he wished for the memory to leave, it forced its way right into his thoughts. Just like an annoying neighbor who comes in uninvited and unwanted.
As Andrew walked the deserted back streets in Salem, Oregon, big, wet tears escaped his eyes and blurred his vision. He didn't care when the occasional passerby looked at him with pity. He looked at them bitterly and continued walking, making one goal: get home.
#
Thomas Markham, Andrew's father, stormed through the living room in a meth-induced stupor. Andrew's mother, Anne, ran after Thomas trying to get him to change his mind. "Thomas, Calm down! You're drunk! Do not do what you're about to do."
Thomas spun on his heals and glared at Anne. He said nothing; he only pulled his fingers into a fist, and slugged Anne in the face, creating a loud resounding crack! Anne crumpled to the stone tiled floor. Thomas didn't care enough to see if Anne was hurt or not. Andrew lay in his room, sound asleep.
Thomas bounded down the hallway, to the closet. He whipped the doors open. He was looking for something that could be used for punishing Andrew. What Andrew had done, Thomas did not know, he just believed that he must punish Andrew. A little voice in the back of his mind was telling him his son had done something undeniably wrong, and that he must be punished.
What Thomas found was an iron. Along with the iron he found the ironing board. He pulled both things from the closet, making a loud clatter. Thomas couldn't help the noise in his fog.
He set up the iron board as best he could. He plugged the iron in, letting it heat. The water sloshed around as he set the iron atop the board. Remembering enough of his home economics classes, when he had gotten in trouble for leaving an iron facedown, he sat the iron up on its back side.
Thomas stormed into Andrew's room. There Andrew lay, snoring softly, pitifully. Thomas did not think his decision to punish Andrew through; didn't think that the voice in his mind was something caused by the vodka. He took two long strides and pulled the comforter off of Andrew. Andrew laid there, chest bare. Andrew wore sweat shorts, and white Nike socks.
Andrews's hair was smooth, as was his face. It was too bad that his baby-like cheeks would be destroyed by such a gruesome burn. Suddenly, Thomas grabbed Andrew's soft blond hair.
He pulled him from the bed with a strong jerk. Andrew yelped as he hit the ground. "Get up," Thomas said in a voice that held so much anger that it could have made the ground tremble.
"W-what?" Andrew stammered.
"Get your butt off this floor, now!" Thomas snarled.
"What did I do?" Andrew said, worried. He eyed the hallway, staring at the light, hoping his mother would come in to save him most likely.
"Go on! Get out of this room!" Thomas screamed. Andrew fled the room. As his left foot passed the door, it slammed against the door jamb.
"Oh, my... OW!" Andrew knelt to clutch his throbbing toe. Tears escaped his eyes as he uttered his next question. "Where's Mom?" Thomas was just exiting Andrew's room when he asked.
Thomas watched Andrew survey the living room through spot filled eyes. There was an iron, and ironing board, plus a plugged in cord. What else do you need to notice? Andrew was still and probably had no time to think before Thomas gripped his arm with an extremely strong hand.
The two walked, more like Thomas shoved Andrew, to the ironing board. "Lay your head down there," Thomas said.
"Why-" He was cut off by his head getting smashed to the ironing board. Andrew began to whimper.
"Five Seconds," Thomas said coolly, "Five seconds to confess your sin. Or, I will burn your face." Thomas had the last sentence like someone was stating the weather, as if he should know this already. "Starting now." The words gave Andrew great fear. His body tensed immediately. This brought satisfaction to Thomas.
Thomas conjured up what must have been going through Andrew's mind. Something pathetic, of course, like: my sin? What is that supposed to mean?! Every second clicked by like an hour. Thomas pushed the iron closer and closer at each of the passing seconds. Finally, at the last possible second, Andrew screamed, "I DON'T KNOW!" That helped nothing. He had spoken to late; the iron had already been planted. A loud bloodcurdling scream shattered the silence of the house.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air and filtered into Thomas's nostrils. He gagged involuntarily; it was a horrendous smell.
Andrew was squirming to get away from the iron. He still screamed. "SHUT IT!" Thomas yelled, grabbing Andrew by the throat. Immediately the scream came to a halt.
Thomas pulled his hand from Andrew and went to the kitchen where he filled a pot with water and started to boil it. When the screeching of the pot drowned out Andrew's weeping, he pulled it from the stove, and went into the bathroom; he poured the boiling water into the tub and went to collect Andrew. You shall pay for your sins.
#
The eternal memory of that night inflicted so much more pain than the actual night itself. The pain on his face had subsided after a month or so. But, the pain in his heart was nearly unbearable.
The police searched for Thomas after that night day in and day out, but they never found him. It was like he was a spirit who could disappear from the face of the planet, never to be seen again.
Andrew sat down; his legs had lost their strength. "Hey, Iron-face," Christophe Jaredson said with ridicule on his ugly features. Christophe was a hunk of meat, with tough muscles.
Iron-face had become Andrew's name two months after he returned to school. He couldn't quite understand why, but it seemed that everyone had hated him and wanted to inflict pain on his already broken heart.
"Hey, I'm talking to you. What're you mute?" Christophe got into Andrew's face.
"I didn't realize that you knew such a word in your vocabulary, Christophe." Christophe wasn't what his friends called him. It was Chris. But Andrew called him Christophe just to tick him off.
"Shut up, Iron-face," Christophe scowled.
"You told me to speak. You never said I had to speak kindly. I was only complying with your request." Andrew grinned; he knew Christophe didn't know what complying meant.
"You think it's funny?" Christophe balled his hand into a rock-hard fist. "We'll see how funny it is when I beat the crap out of you!"
Andrew was in need of the beating to alleviate his pain. "Get lost," He said trying to make it sound like he didn't want the beating, though in his mind he was waiting for that fist to hit him.
He watched the fist knock him in the lip. "Is that seriously all you've got?" Andrew asked, wiping the blood off his lip." The pain felt like he was being tickled in the stomach compared to the pain he had felt from the iron.
"Oh that's not even half of what I have got." Christophe grinned maliciously.
"Didn't know you knew math," Andrew said. "Bring it on! You think you can inflict more pain than this?" He gestured to his marred face.
"Definitely," Christophe said.
Andrew spread his arms eagle, showing that he wouldn't fight back. Christophe didn't need Andrew to do that. He knew Andrew would never fight back. Even when Christophe had broken Andrew's fingers one-by-one he hadn't fought back. See, the pain of being hit actually felt good. The burn had hurt, but Andrew was always looking for something to hurt worse than that. So far, nothing had. Every pain inflicting blow felt somewhat good. It was like a drug that he was extremely addicted to.
Most people thought him crazy. He probably was. Some kids showed their hurt by cutting themselves. Andrew showed his hurt by the continuous beatings from Christophe.
When Christophe finished the beating, he left Andrew with a broken finger, bruised arm, bloodied face, and slight euphoric feeling. This beating was by far easier beating than others before. "Dear Lord! What has happened to you?" A woman of about thirty asked after Christophe fled.
This woman was the first person to be walking near this part of town in an hour. "I'm fine. I'm okay," Andrew said trying to push up from the concrete. "I fell down the stairs." Only after the words escaped his lips did he realize something. There were no stairs within sight of the spot he lay at.
The woman eyed him with icy eyes. "Both you and I know that's not true. There aren't any stairs within two blocks of here, and I don't think you crawled all the way here from Lilac. Now you best tell me what happened. Is that a hand print?" The woman bent down to study Andrew's arm. "Yep, that's from a fist."
"Did your dad do this to you?" The words, however said with compassion sliced though Andrew's heart.
"No," Andrew looked away, "No one did this to me."
"What, you expect me to believe that you did this to yourself? Not a chance on Earth," The woman definitely would not let him just stay here until he was able to stand on his own.
"No, Seriously... I 'm fine," Andrew said.
"If you call beaten to a bloody pulp fine, I cannot wait to see what great is!" The woman eyed him from head to toe, she lingered on his eyes. "I don't care what you say, I am going to get you to the hospital," she didn't give up did she?
"Fine," Andrew said. "But I don't have the slightest idea of how you are going to get me there." The woman stooped down and picked Andrew up from the icy cold concrete. He gasped. He weighed nearly a hundred and thirty pounds, and this woman had just picked him up as if he were a sack of peas.
"Name's Caroline. Carrie Johnson. What should I call you? Should I just dub you 'crazy kid beaten to a pulp swearing he is fine'?"
"My name is Andrew. Most people call me Iron-face though..." Andrew looked away from Carrie onto the moving pavement. "You don't have a car?"
"No," Carrie said confidently. "I prefer to walk. I stay in shape that way. I can't stand having flab on my tushy." Carrie realized she had said something that made Andrew feel uncomfortable, "Sorry," she said.
Andrew wasn't sure what to say to that, so he said, "Ah." Andrew was fourteen. He could eat a full pizza and still have the same six pack abs he had before eating. That didn't necessarily mean he could go on a two-and-a-half mile run whenever he wanted.
"Why do people call you Iron-face," Carrie asked softly. Andrew wiped gingerly at his bruised face to clear the blood. When Carrie saw the mark on his face, she gasped. "What happened?" Carrie touched Andrew's face. The coolness of her hand gave Andrew chills that rippled down his back.
Andrew answered her question like he always answered such questions, "I tripped. I fell. I burned."
"You fell onto a hot iron? That burn looks like someone held an iron onto your face for a while! That's strange."
"Stranger things have happened," whispered Andrew, a frown was beginning to form on his face.
"I don't believe you," This woman missed nothing!
Andrew sighed; he might as well tell her. "My dad," he choked on the word. "My dad, he did this to me. He made me a freak. He destroyed me; who I am. He took an iron and burned my face because he's a sick minded freak. No one hangs out with me because of what he did. Everyone makes up lame-o excuses just to get out of things with me.
"I have to deal with this horrible," he paused, thinking of a word to use. "I have to deal with this horrible curse for the rest of my life because my dad is insane! That's why I am a freak." Tears streamed down Andrew's cheek. His throat hurt because of the sobs.
"You poor child, you aren't a freak!" Carrie looked Andrew in the eyes. She was the first person outside his family to do that. It gave Andrew a small bit of happiness. "Andrew, you don't look like a freak. I promise. Don't ever say that."
Carrie turned a corner and the hospital came into view, it was a pretty building with its beautiful architecture. The color of the building was the sort of color you'd expect for a structure taller than a few stories high.
Carrie brought Andrew to the Emergency Room entrance. "This is definitely an emergency," she said.
A doctor walked up to Carrie and Andrew. With him, he brought a wheel chair. "Hello, I see you have found Andrew this time?" Dr. Richardson said with a smile. Dr. Richardson had grown used to Andrew's frequent visits to this area of the hospital. He seemed to be ready no matter what.
"Yeah, just a person who happened upon this young man," Carrie said. She turned to Andrew and said, "Would you like me to call your Mother? I'm sure they have her number on file."
Andrew pulled his iPhone from his pocket. It was intact, surprisingly not a scratch on the screen. "Nah, I'll call her. She might freak out if you call. If I call she'll know I am okay."
"Okay... but I'll stay till she gets here." Andrew realized what she meant to do.
He gave Carrie a pleading glance. "Please, do. Not. Tell. Her. I'll tell her someday, but today is not that day."
"So what, you expect me, an adult, to keep from your mother why you are so badly beaten up?" Carrie's eyes were skeptical.
"Yes," Andrew said simply. He did not want to confuse her by giving a lengthy reply.
"Fine," Carrie said. "Call your mom."
Andrew took a calming breath and pressed the 1, his mom's speed dial. "Hey, there, Kiddo," Anne Crey said. Andrew's mom had a sweet voice that washed a sense of belonging down one's spine.
"Hey, Mom..." Andrew said in a voice his mom had come to recognize over the years.
"I'm coming," Anne had a hint of humor in her kind voice. "What happened this time?"
"I sort of... fell down the stairs at the school, err, library. I associate school with the Library." This was a lie. Andrew loved the Library. He, however, hated school. So, naturally, the two did not go together at all.
"Okay..." The word was drawn out. She wasn't buying it. Someday she would figure it out on her own. "See you in a few. Love you, honey." Only his Mom was allowed to call him by nicknames, and she had many.
"Love you too, Mom," Andrew said. He disconnected the call.
"Does this happen a lot?" Carrie gestured to Andrew's overall appearance.
"Let's just that I am on a first name basis with the doctor, and about everyone else in this hospital." Carrie tried to feign surprise, but Andrew saw her struggle.
Andrew was wheeled down a long hallway. He was put into a small room, where the doctor examined Andrew's arms and legs. He said, "There isn't really anything wrong here. Mostly just bruises. When your mom gets here, I'll give you a painkiller prescription for you. The next few weeks could be uncomfortable, what with the pain in some not so great areas."
Andrew nodded, and sat in wait of his Mother's arrival. He was already feeling a bit uncomfortable sitting down. Great, pain in some not so great areas....
AUTHOR'S NOTE!
Hey there! Did you like what you read? Comment and tell me what you like, dislike. Tell me what I can fix? :)