Welcome to Gaia! ::

Cool.

But now I feel like influencing and tormenting a nerdy boy.

Sigh.

Nah. But lots of other people.

Like Victoria, I have not the boobs for certain temptations. ):

YOU don't need to say anything. crying

They need to make a hissing, spitting, leaping angry kitty emote.

Such as it is:

domokun

Sweeeeeeeet.

23

Dad, as I knew he would, smoothed it over. Or at least that’s what it sounded like to me.

The man asked for my parents; he said he was a social worker, and it was very important. He looked at me—and my bruises—in a very sad and resigned kind of way…I got scared, guessing that he already knew, and ran to get Dad.

“It’s for you, Dad,” I told him, standing carefully half-hidden in the doorway.

He rolled his eyes and groaned. “Who the ******** is it?” he asked as he got up.

I could feel my eyes expanding to painfully huge proportions; I could feel my legs vibrating. “It’s a social worker, Dad,” I said quietly—I even sounded terrified.

Dad started. “WHAT?” he hissed, his eyes narrowing at me.

“I didn’t tell,” I said automatically. “I didn’t—”

Dad swore under his breath, ignoring me, and strode quickly to the door, arranging his expression into friendly, businesslike concern. I followed him to the hallway, trying to do the same, though I was almost sick with fear inside.

Dad assuaged at least one of my fears in the first five minutes; he behaved spectacularly, in a way that made me feel sure that no one would ever suspect him—HIM, the ever-unruffled businessman, Thomas Moor—of even raising his voice to his only son. The men introduced themselves; my dad as my dad, the man as Chris Johnson of the Child Protective Services. Dad invited him inside; they sat at the kitchen table, and at Mr. Johnson’s insistence I stayed nearby, busying myself with dinner and politely answering any questions directed at me.

Mr. Johnson didn’t give us the bullshit that another social worker had a couple of years ago—oh no, Mr. Moor, didn’t you know? We inspect every house we can at least once, it’s what we do—but he also wouldn’t tell us who tipped them off. “But don’t worry,” he assured my dad, “we get calls all the time where it’s nothing at all, the kid really DID fall down the stairs, or it really WAS the TV turned up too loud…we just wanted to be sure.”

Dad nodded in understanding; then Mr. Johnson (or Chris, as he preferred) started asking polite, innocent questions: Where did Dad work? Where did I go to school? Did I have any brothers or sisters? Live-in relatives? Where was my mother?

At this last question both Dad and I stiffened; Dad told Chris that she had died five years ago of an infection. Was that what it was? I thought to myself. I didn’t remember that. I remembered something about cancer…or fever…Dad had told the last social worker something entirely different….

Chris then asked me about my friends (I lied), what I did after school (I lied), what I liked to do for fun, etc (lied). He then asked me if I always made dinner—Dad stepped in with a nice little explanation about how my mom loved to cook, and taught me before she died; how terrible he himself was at cooking, and how he thought that it really was better for both of them if I made dinner all the time.

Chris made more friendly small talk, inquiring things like who kept the house so clean (I cleaned downstairs and he upstairs every weekend, or so Dad said) and how my grades were (Dad pulled out the report from my teachers, signed and everything, and said that he expected a lot more from me, that I was very smart, a typical parent’s reply. I myself knew that C’s, B’s, and A’s were too high for the grades of a potential abused child, who would usually stop giving a damn about school at this point, and that Chris was partially sated). Then he started asking the questions he had come to ask.

Some tiny, bitter, sarcastic part of my brain kept answering Chris’s questions, even though I begged it to shut up and leave me alone.

“Do you two ever fight?” he asked my dad.

“What do you mean by fight?” Dad replied, sounding carefully alarmed.

Yes, Chris, define fight. Does it only count if he knocks me unconscious? What about if he’s sober? Do tell.

“Well, do you ever raise your voices to each other?”

“No, of course not…well, not very often….”

Yep. “Oh no of course not—” No. He does. And does it count if I scream?

“When, then?”

“We argue, sometimes…about grades, staying out late, things like that. Sometimes we end up yelling at each other, but not very much…it’s just us, so I try to keep the peace….”

Liar.

“How do you punish Evan if he does anything wrong?”

Dad made a face, pretending like he didn’t like answering that question. “Well, I don’t like to…but if I have to, I won’t let him go out for a week, I’ll take away his allowance, something like that.”

Beat me. Beat me. Did I mention the whole hitting thing? Ooh, and not just hitting, kicking too, you should see the scars I have from surgery!

“Does that work?”

“Usually, yes. Things like grades though, I just don’t know what that’s all about.”

Yes, actually. Beating your child is wonderful for his character. I’ve learned how to sit down and shut up, duck and dodge….

“Evan?” Chris asked me. “Why do you get grades like that?”

It was a perfectly amiable question. I tried to give an amiable answer.

“I forget homework and stuff,” I replied. “Or if I wasn’t paying attention in class, I fail a quiz or something….”

“Why wouldn’t you try and focus more?”

“I daydream a lot.” I gave the counter a sheepish smile. Chris turned back to my dad.

“Do you ever curse or swear in front of Evan?”

“I try my best not to.”

Yep! I learned all the swear words in the book from my dad.

“Have you ever hit him or threatened to hit him?”

“No! Absolutely not!”

Hah. That’s funny. Really.

“Do you ever drink or use drugs?”

“No…well, I’ll have a glass of whiskey now and then….”

Frequently. Well, I don’t know about the drugs. Maybe steroids? But lots of drinking, definitely.

“What about Evan?”

“As far as I know, no…he’s really a good kid….”

Sure, Dad. Sure. That’s perfectly credible.

“Does he ever get into trouble at school, or outside school?”

“Well, he gets bullied a lot…I guess it’s because he’s so into reading…but other than that, no, none that I know of.”

Yeah. “Bullied.” Like you’d know, Dad. Like you even care.

“I saw in our records that you’ve been visited by two other social workers a few years ago. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why is that?”

“To be honest, sir, I have no idea. I really never touched my son, I love him more than anything in the world—”

I knew that line was going to come up sometime, but it still hurt me. I hid my face from view.

“—I just don’t know why there are people who don’t believe me.”

“Well, those two were mistaken, apparently,” amended Chris, “and it seems I am too. But still, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Evan alone.”

This was routine. My dad said, “Of course,” and left, retreating upstairs, clearly out of hearing range…though he would be listening anyway. I knew better than to imagine that he wasn’t.

Chris didn’t say anything, at first. I busied myself with mashing potatoes. It was a great way to relieve stress, I noted.

“What are you making?” he asked politely.

“Baked chicken, mashed potatoes…umm, corn…and cobbler.”

“That sounds delicious. Where did you learn how to cook again?”

“My mom used to teach me…I just get recipes online, it’s not that hard….”

“I see.”

A contemplative silence fell—it would’ve been awkward, had I not been so nervous. I knew what he would say, and rehearsed my lines.

“Evan, there’s no one here but me.” You’d think so, wouldn’t you, Chris? “You can tell me anything, I’ll keep it in complete confidence.”

I nodded. “Sure.” It wasn’t the sarcastic “sure” I wanted to say; it was the amiable “sure, whatever” kind of thing.

“Has your dad ever hit you?”

“I told you he hasn’t.”

“Ever? That you can remember?”

“Never.”

“Has he ever insulted you, yelled at you, or sworn in front of you?”

“No. Like he said, he yells at me sometimes, but not very much. And once I think he started swearing when he tripped over something, under his breath.” This, I knew, was a more normal argument than the “my dad’s a saint” insistences.

“He’s never insulted you or made you feel inferior?”

“Nope.”

“Has he ever tried to convince you to do or think something you knew was wrong?”

“Like brainwashing?” I laughed.

“Not exactly. Things like racist or sexist comments, politics, making you think that everyone’s out to get you, being afraid of something or someone….”

“No. I mean, there’s the whole don’t-talk-to-strangers-thing….”

“Yes, well….” He frowned at me for a second. I could tell that despite his nonchalant attitude, he took his job very seriously. “Has he ever touched you inappropriately?”

I made a face. I hated this part. “No,” I said with the proper expression on my face: this-is-sick-and-unnecessary.

“Has he ever watched you undress or undressed in front of you?”

“No.”

“Has he ever made any sexual comments about you or anyone else?”

“No. Nothing like that,” I added against my better judgment; it made me sick, thinking about people that all this had really happened to.

“Has he ever forced you to have sex with him or anyone else?”

“No,” I said flatly.

“Has he ever refused you food or water?” Oooh, the neglect set of the questionnaire. My favorite.

“No.”

“Has he ever locked you out of the house on purpose?”

“No.”

“What about inside your room? Or another room?”

“No.”

“How often does he tell you he loves you?”

The question hit me hard; I didn’t remember that one. What did I say? What was normal? “Every day. Before I go to bed usually.”

“Does he buy you warm clothing when you need it?”

Phew. “Yep.”

“Have you ever seen any drugs or alcohol in your house?”

“Just that whiskey, some wine…party stuff. And medicine.”

“Have you ever used any of that?”

“No. I don’t even take aspirin or anything.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t do anything to me. It just leaves a nasty taste in my mouth….”

“Are you ever sick?”

“Yeah, a lot, actually. I don’t know what it is, I get a fever or something every time the weather changes….”

“Do you ever throw up or faint?”

“When I’m sick and I eat too much, yeah. Or don’t eat anything.”

“We checked up on your hospital records, and it says you’ve been in there twice before. Is that true?”

“Three times, if you count when I was born.”

He brushed my joking aside. “What were the other two for?”

“Appendicitis, and a broken rib.”

“How did your rib break?”

“Well, I’m not too sure, actually…I got in a fight the day before I went to the hospital, and my chest hurt really bad, but I didn’t tell anyone…then Dad asked me to clean out the gutters, and I fell, and passed out, and woke up in the hospital.” I think this was the story my dad told the doctors at the hospital; I knew he’d back me up with it.

“Why didn’t you tell?”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal, I guess.”

“Why do you get in so many fights?”

“I’m not very popular, at school. I guess I’m just the kind of guy that all the bullies pick on. If you don’t give them money or something, they’ll beat you up.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Not really.”

“Where did those bruises on your face come from?”

“Got in a fight. Um, this—” I pointed to the bloody lump—“was from a locker….” The fading pinkness was from the floor, the bruises from where I got hit. “Didn’t get out of that one so easily...” I said with a wry smile.

“The person who called us said that they saw you on three different days, and you had new wounds each time. Is that true?”

“I guess so…it’s been a hectic week. I guess these guys get madder if you fight back. But I really did trip once….”

“I see. They said your wrist was swollen. Can I see?”

“Sure.” I pulled up my sleeve, high enough to erase suspicion. This arm wasn’t so bad anyway. He inspected it; it wasn’t so red and puffy anymore.

“Did someone grab you there?”

“Yeah. You know….” I mimed someone grabbing my wrist, twisting it behind my back, and shoving me against a wall.

“Evan, can you take off your shirt for me?”

“What?” I drew back a bit, though this was no surprise. “Why?”

“I just want to see. Is that a problem?”

“No, but I mean…c’mon…do I HAVE to?”

“Well, if you’re trying to hide something….”

I sighed. “Okay, fine.” I felt a bit sick again as I pulled my shirt and undershirt off, dumping them in a chair and standing half-naked in my own kitchen. I hated this; I never knew what they were thinking. Chris frowned at the many—too many—yellow-green and dark purple splotches sprinkled over my chest, arms, and back. I frantically thought of a story.

“And where are all THOSE from?”

“I TOLD you, I got into a couple of fights…and actually I don’t know where most of these come from,” I lied. “I just look and they’re there. I think I just bruise easily and never notice…I’ve got a friend on the wrestling team, we go at it a lot, maybe that’s it….”

“What are those little scratches?”

I grinned, laughing at myself. “I was climbing over a fence. It didn’t really end well.”

“Evan, enough,” Chris said flatly, his eyes narrowing. “I know an actor when I see one.”

I swallowed; this was new. “Huh?”

“You’ve dealt with social workers before, haven’t you? You know all the questions and all the right answers. Why don’t you just cut the act and tell the truth?”

“I am telling the truth,” I snapped. “My dad doesn’t hit me, and I don’t appreciate people trying to stick me in a foster home. I’m fine.”

“Obviously not. You’re covered in bruises.”

“So I fight a lot. Sue me. I like to.”

“And I’m pretty sure you’re underweight.”

“Maybe. That’s what they said at the hospital anyway. But I can’t see why….”

“Because you don’t eat enough?”

“I eat plenty.”

“Evan, stop it,” he said softly, still annoyed, but his tone a bit softer now. “I’ve been doing this job for a long time. I know all the signs. Don’t you think I’ve seen this all before? Did you think I’d actually swallow all of this?”

“Swallow what? I’m telling the truth!”

“For goodness’s sake,” Chris muttered to himself. “Do you think I actually LIKE my job, Evan? No, I absolutely hate it. The only reason I bother with it is because I’m good at it, and the world needs people that are good at this job so they can see through stuff like this. But at the end of the day, it all comes down to the homes I visit, where I’m absolutely sure the kid gets beaten up or molested or shouted at every day of the week: I know it, but when I went, could I find enough to take the poor kid to a better place? Or is it going to just go on and on until he’s dead?!”

None of the other social workers ever lost their temper. I was surprised.

“But my dad doesn’t hit me,” I objected.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, that’s your problem. If there are so many other abused kids out there, why don’t you go rescue them? I’m sure they’d appreciate a foster home more than I would.”

“Yeah, I wish I could,” Chris said quietly. “But I’m here right now. So are you going to tell me the truth or not?”

I looked him right in the eyes and told him, “I am telling you the truth. My dad doesn’t abuse me. He never has.”

I still don’t know where I got the nerve to lie like that.

Chris looked sadly back at me. “You don’t ever have to deal with that, you know,” he told me. “I’ll leave my phone number with you. If anything ever happens, you can call me, and I’ll make sure it never happens again. You’ll be taken care of, and no one will ever hurt you again, I swear.”

It sounded tempting. It really did. But I knew my dad would manage to smooth it over…and I was in enough trouble. Besides, I had no wish to leave…between occasional pain and perpetual hell, I’d choose staying with Dad.

“I won’t need it, I don’t think,” I replied, turning back to the potatoes. “But thank you. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“And I am, Evan. All the time.”

I nodded. “Would you like to stay for dinner?” I asked politely.

“No, I really can’t…other kids…but thanks. I think it’s time your dad came back.”

Chris called Dad back into the room. He said he’d questioned enough; Dad just needed to sign a paper saying that Chris was there—“Because if you can believe it, some of my coworkers just say they went when they really didn’t, how awful is that?”—and then went into a very emotional lecture to Dad about how little love and emotional support there is in this world, especially for children, and how they need their parents more than ever before, and how violence is hereditary, an infectious disease—

He was making me sick, so when Dad gave me a meaningful glance, I gladly did as he wished and changed the subject.

“Um, Mr. Johnson…wouldn’t your job be really scary? I mean, have you ever gotten beaten up by an abusive parent or anything?”

Chris frowned a little, thinking. “Actually no,” he told me, “though it’s happened before. Sadly, most of these people take their anger out on their children instead of me…I wish they wouldn’t….” He sighed. “It really is a difficult job. Sometimes it’s too much…you wouldn’t believe the kind of things I see every day…just this morning….”

And he honestly looked like he was about to cry; Dad saw this and offered him a drink, which he gladly took. He admitted to being a frequent member of the bar near his agency in Gardnerville [someone remind me to change this to the actual city!!!!!!!!!!!] because he wanted to forget everything he’d seen for awhile…. His tongue loosened, and he told us sadly about all the horrible things he’d seen.

This morning, he’d had to inspect a home where the mother, a heavy and violent woman, cursed and slapped her children right in front of him, how the father came in drunk and started fighting with her very loudly, then retreated to his armchair to watch TV and kicked a toddler who got in his way, how no one seemed to notice Chris standing in the corner and watching. He saw incredibly filthy children playing in the mud or in their small, incredibly filthy house; he saw the two oldest ones, no more than eight or nine, sneak a beer out of the fridge when no one was looking; he saw a tiny little girl climb up onto a counter twice her height and rummage through cupboards and empty food boxes, finally finding a moldy Pop-tart and gnawing contentedly at it. Chris said it was the dirtiest house he’d ever been to. He’d stayed there and played with the kids, kept them away from their shouting parents until the CPS came and arrested them; then he drove them to the nearest restaurant and let them run around and play and eat all they wanted before taking them to the nearest children’s home.

Another house he had been to recently was almost exactly the opposite; the entire place was sparkling. It had once been two parents, two twin sisters, and a son; apparently the mother had cheated on him with someone else, and the sisters had run away. The father tried to convince Chris of several things that he didn’t for a second believe; namely, that he was homeschooling his son (who was allegedly mute), that he was qualified to do so, and that the poor little boy, who was sitting on the sofa and staring miserably at the wall, was absolutely fine.

Chris refused to believe it; he left, then returned on foot a few minutes later, bringing a camcorder; he pointed the lens through the crack in the living room curtains and watched the tiny screen. And sure enough, he saw the little boy scrubbing away at the floor, his dad standing over him and shouting; he kicked the boy hard in the stomach, and the boy screamed—obviously not mute after all. It was just a ruse to keep him from telling anyone, Chris thought. The dad continued shouting and kicking the boy until he tired of it; then he ordered, loudly, that his son clean the entire house from top to bottom, or he wouldn’t get any dinner. The boy nodded frantically and got to work; however, the minute his dad was gone, he rested his head on the floor and started to cry. Chris called the agency, and in a few minutes they came and took the poor boy away; he had, after all, lost his ability to speak, but it was clear, from the way he clung to Chris and stared—frightened, tearful, wide-eyed—at his dad, that he needed their help.

The one house that always stuck in his memory (as he confided after several drinks) was one just a few miles from here, in a town on the shores of Lake Tahoe; neighbors had heard screams and seen blood on the man’s hands and on towels and tarps he discarded. But the man showed them around, insisting that he had no children or other family; he had no pictures or documentation of family, so Chris almost believed him. He was naïve then. But luckily, he on an impulse called in a team to inspect the house, and they found two doors covered by dirt and gardening supplies that led to a basement, where he kept his only daughter locked up. All that was in there was a toilet, a waist-high wall faucet (like the kind water hoses are attached to), a heap of old towels, and the little girl, seven or eight, whose hands were tied together with a faded scarf. They immediately took her to a hospital; further evidence was found to suggest that her dad regularly beat her, raped her, and tortured her. They arrested him, and he was put in prison. What really scarred Chris, though, was not what had happened to the girl, but the way she cried and screamed when they took her away, yelling again and again in broken speech that her dad loved her, he loved her….

I listened carefully to these stories, making an effort to portray the right reaction, and knew yet again that I was lucky, so very lucky. Just thinking of my fate, and how much worse it could be, almost made me cry….

Dinner was ready; Chris decided, with a bit of help from my dad’s manipulation skills (which, ironically, I could never identify when they were at work on me), that it was time for him to go. He told us that he really, really hoped to the bottom of his heart that we really were happy, that I really wasn’t abused, because the kids who were, and whose parents got away from him, haunted his dreams every night….

We thanked him, and he shut the door with a very loud, very frightening thud.

There were about five seconds of complete silence between my Dad and me. In those few seconds, I realized that he had gotten drunk without Chris noticing, and that now there was nothing and no one stopping him from giving me the punishment that—to him—I so rightly deserved. I started to hyperventilate, closing my eyes, feeling tears push against my eyelids.

“Another ******** social worker,” my dad said at last.

I should have run; but where was there to go?

“Tell me, Evan,” Dad insisted, more aggressively, “how is it that there was another ******** social worker in this house? Who the ******** did he come here to see?”

I was afraid to answer; I might start sobbing. I just stood still.

“Well, it wasn’t me, that’s for ******** sure. And there’s no one else living here, is there? No? Then it must have been because of YOU, right? AGAIN?”

He dived; I whimpered as he twisted the front of my shirt, raising my feet halfway off the ground, and shouted in my face.

“I HAVE TOLD YOU TEN THOUSAND ******** TIMES THAT I NEVER WANT TO SEE ANOTHER ******** SOCIAL WORKER IN THIS HOUSE AGAIN! WHAT CAN YOU NOT UNDERSTAND ABOUT THAT? WHO THE ******** DID YOU TELL? ANSWER ME!”

“I didn’t tell,” I insisted; the floodgates broke, and I sobbed. “I didn’t tell anyone….”

“THEN WHO THE ******** SENT THAT ******** MAN OVER HERE? /WHO/?”

“I don’t kn—”

Dad shook me hard, like I weighed nothing. My teeth rattled together. “I WILL NOT HAVE ANOTHER PERSON COME TO MY ******** DOOR AND ASKING ABOUT YOU, YOU ******** LITTLE b***h, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? NEVER AGAIN, OR I WILL ******** /KILL YOU/, YOU HEAR ME, EVAN? I ******** threw me to the ground and started kicking me, pulling me up to punch me hard until I fell, then kicking me again; and for the longest time, until the mid 3000’s, he wouldn’t stop. By then I was long past the screaming stage; I was still sobbing, so hard that I couldn’t breathe, and my world had narrowed down to vague shouts, jolting kicks to my torso or my arms raised up over my head, and little vision; the light that I could see through the gap in my arms was blurred and striated. I don’t know what exactly stopped Dad, but I can guess: I think when he kicked my side so hard that he broke the skin, and blood blossomed over my shirt, the sudden redness somehow sent a bit of reality to his inebriated brain. It reminded him of his true purpose; the punishment I was really going to get. Just an hour or so of straight beating wasn’t enough for something this serious.

He dragged me up and forced me to my feet; I stumbled; he grabbed my wrist and dragged me down the hall. I knew what he was doing; I begged him, vaguely, to stop—“Daddy, please, no, I don’t want to, I’m scared, please don’t, I swear I’ll be good, I swear….”—but he ignored me, instead pulling me to the only door on the left and jerking it open. The hall closet; but there wasn’t much in there but my small army of cleaning supplies and a lot of empty space.

I fought him, sobbing and clinging hysterically to his shirt, but he snapped at me to shut up and shoved me in, slammed the door. I pounded on it with my fists, screaming at the top of my lungs…but he was merciless…the door gave beneath my pushing, and I shoved it open, only to be caught again by Dad, holding a screwdriver. I screeched—I had seen a movie where a dog was stabbed to death with a screwdriver; he punched me hard; my knees buckled; he caught me before I hit the ground and practically threw me into the closet, slamming the door in my face. For a moment, all I could hear was the tiny scrape and click of metal against metal as he fumbled with the screwdriver and the doorknob; then he went away, and there was silence.

“DADDY!” I screamed. “DON’T LEAVE ME IN HERE, COME BACK!”

But there was no one there to listen anymore.

I fell to the carpet and curled up, sobbing breathlessly; very, very rarely was I stuck in here, but it was the worst punishment I had ever received by then. I was claustrophobic, scared of the dark, and scared of dying; all my worst fears, in the closet, were rolled into one and shoved into my face. I felt myself bleeding and sobbed harder, scared that I would bleed to death, starve to death, suffocate because he’d forget about me, he always did….

It was too much for me; I collapsed. My nightmares were filled with clicking locks, hysterical screams, parades of children being tortured by their parents, and Victoria laughing at me and mocking me as she saw me, beaten almost to unconsciousness, abandoned in a tiny, dark closet, and, forgotten, pretty much condemned to die.

When I awoke, I heard nothing but my own harsh breathing; my entire body ached, and no one answered my pathetically hoarse calls. I tried the doorknob, but as I knew it would be, it was locked; the doors in our house didn’t lock, as I’ve said, but Dad had a way of poking a screwdriver into the hole and pushing something until it jammed. I had no idea how to get myself out. I pounded on the door a few times, screaming for Dad, but nothing happened. Realizing that I had been forgotten yet again, I started to cry, retreating to the farthest empty corner of the closet and trying to make myself comfortable. But there was no comforting my tortured mind.

What if Dad completely forgot about me? It wouldn’t be the first time. What if I starved? What if he screwed up the thermostat so I burned or froze? What if the shelf above me caved in and fell on me and no one saved me? What if I got an infection from all the wounds? What if I was hurt and didn’t know it? What if the fumes from the cleaners killed me? What if no one ever came for me?

My fears were not all as unrealistic as one would think. I had been locked in this closet before, and it had nearly killed me.

This closet was the punishment I got for doing something really bad; namely, for causing a social worker to come and investigate. I hadn’t really done anything worse than that so far. But it was enough; I wouldn’t dare do anything to land me in here, or—impossibly, I thought—anywhere worse than this.

When I was ten, after I had been released from the hospital, Dad shouted at me so much that someone—I think one of the neighbors—heard him and called the police, who called the CPS. A lifeless woman came and asked all the normal questions; Dad convinced her to go away, and when she had, rounded on me. He was so furious that he couldn’t express his anger in punches and kicks and words; he locked me in the closet and went away, ignoring my frightened and confused cries.

I can’t even begin to describe how awful that was…I’ll just say that before then, I wasn’t afraid of the dark. I wasn’t claustrophobic. I didn’t have a terror of locks and traps.

The worst part, for me, was that Dad completely forgot about me—he left me in there for four days straight, stuffing a towel from the washing machine beneath the door to shut me up when I screamed (I sucked the water out of part of it when I became so horribly thirsty that I couldn’t even think; it tasted like soap). I was certain that he just forgot about me—surely he hadn’t meant to leave me there for so long; no one was stupid enough, even when drunk, to believe that a little boy could survive a four-day imprisonment in a closet without food or water or even a steady flow of air.

Eventually he let me out, yelling at me and kicking me before he went away; I had to practically drag myself to the kitchen, where I swallowed a few painful mouthfuls of water and soup straight from the can, then fainted. Dad woke me up, violently; I limped up to my room and stayed there, recovering, for days. It was horrible; it scarred me so deeply that I went into hysterics when Dad came near me or anyone shut a door, made me go into a small room, or turned off a light for weeks afterward.

And now I was back again….

You’d be surprised how quickly your energy can fade when you’re locked in a dark, silent, tiny place. It must be some kind of natural instinct. There is nothing around to excite you, agitate you, catch your attention. There is just blackness. And also, I think that a combination of hopelessness and a sort of subconscious logic—the brain knowing that the body doesn’t have the energy to fight if it must survive for days without nourishment—acts as a natural sedative. I sank into the darkness and fell into a dizzy, tortured sleep.

I kept waking and sleeping, mostly sleeping I think; but it felt to me like I was waking up to the same moment again and again. The light beneath the door changed; sometimes it was yellowy and bright, other times cream-colored and faint, other times nonexistent. The hall light never came on when I was in there; it would have lit up the entire closet with its wonderful, powerful glow. No one ever walked by. No one ever called for me. I thought I heard the faint, robotic sounds of conversation on the TV, but I couldn’t be sure. Time stopped for me. Dad was never going to come.

This can’t be happening, part of me kept telling myself. No one can just forget that I’m here. I have school. My dad needs me. Victoria will know. So will Kahmè. They can’t forget about me. They just can’t.

But then the rest of me attacked the tiny, rebellious part: No one cares about you. They quite obviously can and will forget about you. School won’t call until you’re gone for three days, and by then you’ll probably be dead. Your dad put you in here; he doesn’t care. Victoria will think you’re in a foster home. Kahmè went for a walk on Saturday morning; she won’t know where to find you. They’ll forget. They already have forgotten. Just face it—you’re going to die here until your dad remembers you, and this time I don’t think he will before it’s too late.

Dad would forget about me, I thought miserably. He will. He has.

And he did.

I had no way of telling time in that place; for all I knew the light beneath the door could be a lamp or the kitchen light, not the sunshine of mornings and afternoons. And for all I knew I could be waking up to the same possible morning (judging by the glow) or I could have slept for days. All I knew was that it seemed like a long, long time for me—time that slowed to a crawl no clocks could keep up with; the hands would seem like they had stopped. And yet at the same time, I felt like weeks were passing right outside the closet door.

I wasn’t dead before something finally happened, so it can’t have been more than a couple of days. I remember wondering hopelessly if, perhaps, Dad would remember to at least shove an IV beneath the door…and then suddenly, I heard footsteps, and for one insane moment wondered if my fantasy was coming true. Maybe Dad would remember me. It wouldn’t be so bad, being locked in a closet, if I knew Dad cared enough to remember me once in a while.

But those footsteps weren’t his. They were too soft and light.

Could they belong to…?

I heard doors opening and closing, soft rummaging through cabinets, the laundry machine and dryer doors shutting. And then a small, soft hand rattled the doorknob of the closet. I held my breath.

The voice I realized then that I was longing to hear whispered: “Evan? Evan, are you in there?”

“Kahmè!” I rasped; my voice was almost inaudible. “Is that you?”

I heard her gasp. “Great Spirit,” she breathed. “Evan! What are you doing in there? Did he lock you in there? How long have you been--? Evan, why can’t I open the door?! What happened? How do I get you out—?”

I was too groggy to make sense of this. “I…don’t know…” I murmured. I was still trying to get over the shock of another person talking to me.

Kahmè slapped her palms against the door in frustration; the noise startled me. “How do I get you out, Evan?” she demanded; the alarm was stressing her out. “Tell me, please, I gotta get you out—”

I paled. I don’t know why I never considered that option before, someone else freeing me beside Dad…but it was bad. Very bad. “You can’t,” I said hoarsely. “Only Dad….”

She pulled hard on the doorknob again. “Where’s the key?” she hissed, angry at herself. “Do you know, Evan?”

“There isn’t a key…he used a screwdriver….”

“Where’s that? The kitchen? Yeah—stay right there—”

“Don’t leave me!” I screamed in panic; she froze in her tracks.

“Evan, I’m getting the thingy…I’ll be right back….”

“It won’t do any good! He…he does something weird to it…I can’t do it….”

“Then I gotta go call someone,” she said distractedly. “Someone. What was it, 911? Yeah…don’t worry, Evan, it’ll be all r—”

“DON’T CALL ANYONE!” I screeched. “Don’t, please don’t, Kahmè, no….”

“I’ve gotta get you out of there!” she yelled back, her mind immobilized by stress. “You’ll…you’ll get sick, you’ll starve, you’ll die—”

I paled. Die? Help me, I prayed, please help me, God, please….

“I gotta get you out, Evan, you can’t die, you’re my best friend—” She made a tiny, distressed noise. “I don’t want you to die!” she wailed, suddenly sounding like the very tiny girl she was. “I don’t wanna be all by myself, please let me call someone, Evan, please don’t hate me, I don’t want you to die—!”

I started to cry, frightened beyond reasoning. “You’re scaring me!” I sobbed. “Stop it, Kahmè!”

She fell quiet. “I gotta call someone.” She sounded like she was crying too. “I gotta.”

“Please don’t, Kahmè, please,” I begged her. “Daddy will hate me…he’ll hurt me again…I don’t wanna stay here forever…he’ll remember me, I know he will, and then I’ll be okay, I promise—”

Kahmè only registered one part of that. “Are you hurt, Evan?” she asked me urgently, falling to her knees outside the door—I could see her shadow changing. “Did he hurt you?”

“I….” I flushed and drew back, even though she couldn’t see me. “Well, he….”

“Did he beat you up? Are you bleeding?”

“Y-yeah,” I admitted, crying even harder. At least, I had been.

“You’re bleeding?! No, no, Evan, I’ve gotta get you out RIGHT NOW—”

“No, don’t, Kahmè,” I sobbed. “Please…he’ll remember…I know he will…soon….”

“Soon? How long have you been in there?”

“I dunno….”

“Since when? What day?”

“S-Saturday…afternoon….”

She gasped; then she started spewing out multilingual swear words, or at least that’s what sounded like. “No, no, NO!” she yelled. “Evan, it’s MONDAY!”

Monday? “It is?” I whispered, feeling suddenly faint.

“Yes! It’s Monday!” She pounded on the door again. “I gotta get you out, I have to, please PLEASE let me call someone, Evan, please—”

“No,” I choked out; then I started sobbing all over again. “No, no,” I repeated, again and again, sinking to the closet’s floor, “he forgot…he forgot about me…I don’t wanna stay here anymore….”

“No, please don’t cry, Evan!” she squeaked. “You’ll get dehydrated…ohhh, this is bad, bad bad bad, I gotta call Mama--”

“Don’t call anyone…please…I’ll get in ******** TROUBLE!” she screamed, and I jumped; it was the only time I’d ever heard her use American swear words. “AND ******** YOUR DAD, YOU’VE GOTTA GET OUT OF THERE RIGHT NOW!”

She was frightening me; I cried harder. “I’m scared,” I whimpered. “I don’t wanna stay in here, he can’t forget, he can’t….”

I heard her breathing heavily for a moment; then she said softly, “I’m so sorry, Evan…I couldn’t find you…and HE was in the living room, I couldn’t come look…I’m sorry….”

“He’s not anymore?” I asked, worried. “Where is he?”

“I dunno. He left. I thought he’d never go away…he was just sitting there for EVER, he wouldn’t even go to sleep, he was just drinking and watching TV….”

“Where’d he go?” I felt hyperventilation starting up in my chest. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know…Evan, don’t cry,” she pleaded as I let out a frightened sob. “Please don’t, please….”

“He can’t leave!” I wailed. “He has to come back, he has to, he has to let me out, I don’t wanna be in here, I’m scared, he can’t leave me in here, Kahmè, he can’t!”

“Calm down, Evan!” she implored me. “You’ll make yourself sick…calm down…. It’s okay, I’ll call someone, they’ll let you out and you’ll…you’ll go somewhere safe….”

I buried my head in my arms, crying helplessly into the carpet. “Don’t, please don’t,” I begged her. “Please…I don’t want him to hate me….”

“Why can’t I? You’re SICK, you could DIE, why the hell can’t I?” She’d been hanging around me too long; she had never cursed so much in English in the entire time I’d known her.

I curled up miserably on the carpet. “He…he’s punishing me, Kahmè,” I told her quietly, my voice thick from all the tears. “I did something bad…I’m being punished, I gotta stay here…he wants me to….”

“Nothing you could do deserves this,” she told me fervently. “Nothing….”

I said nothing; I couldn’t, I was crying too hard.

“Don’t cry, Evan,” she told me softly. “It’ll be okay…look….” Her shadow moved; she slid her fingers beneath the door. “Can you see my hand?”

“Yeah….” I placed my own on top of hers. They were very warm, very soft, very solid. She interlaced them with her own.

“Spirits, Evan, you’re cold….” She rubbed my fingers with her own. “You need to eat something….”

“Daddy doesn’t want me to….”

“Evan, you’re not bad,” she insisted. “You’re not bad, you don’t do anything bad…you don’t deserve that….”

I started to sob all over again. “Victoria told on me,” I admitted. “She sent a social worker over here….”

“A what?”

I tried to explain, but I was crying too hard.

“Evan, wait just a second…I’m getting you some water….”

“Don’t leave me,” I said quietly.

“I’m coming right back…you need water….” Her fingers slid out of mine. I whimpered. “It’s okay, I’m going to come back…just a minute….”

“Don’t go,” I begged her, but she was already gone. I cried in earnest, the fear clouding around me, my tiny bit of light fading into the darkness.

But as she promised, she came right back; then she set something down on the ground and pushed it carefully beneath the door. I felt it; it was a shallow plate filled with water.

“Careful, Evan…drink it slow….”

I didn’t bother pulling it all the way through; I just bent my head, tilted the plate a bit, and sucked greedily at the cool water. It tasted like heaven.

“I’m still thirsty,” I told her.

“I know. I brought a glass.” She—I assume—poured more water from the glass onto her end of the plate; I drank it almost as fast as she poured it. “Slow down, Evan….”

She gave me all the water she had; then she filled the glass up again, and I drank that too. I was still thirsty, but felt sick at the thought of drinking more. The water sloshed plaintively around in my stomach.

“I’ll get you some food…maybe soup…hold on….”

My stomach lurched at the thought. “No.”

“Evan….”

“I’m not hungry.”

“But you need to eat—”

“I can’t.”

“Just soup?”

“Don’t make me eat, Kahmè,” I pleaded.

She sighed. “Just for now…later, you’ll have to….”

She tugged the plate back out and put it in the sink. Then she came back and held my hand again.

“What happened?”

“Victoria ratted me out.”

“How?”

I told her the story—how Victoria had been worried about all the bruises and things, how she had dug around to find the culprit, how she had guessed it was my dad, and how the social worker had come and didn’t believe a word I said.

“…and now they’re going to take Daddy away from me,” I cried. “And I’ll have to live somewhere else…it’s all my fault….”

“Evan, how is that POSSIBLY your fault?!” Kahmè demanded.

I found that I couldn’t answer. “W-well…I had to do something…really bad, to…to be in here….”

“It’s your dad’s fault,” she assured me, and talked over my denials. “No, it is. He just beat you up and locked you in here, is that what he did?”

“Yeah,” I sobbed. “And he forgot…he’ll forget again…he can’t forget, not this time, I’m scared, he has to remember….”

“Evan, he—” She stiffened. “/Has he done this before/?”

“Wh-…what?”

“Locked you in the stupid closet!”

“Uh-huh.”

“When? For how long? What FOR?”

I told her that story, too, as best as I could. She was swearing in Chinese by the end of it.

“I hate him,” she told me finally, in English.

“Don’t talk about him like that….”

“How can you possibly still stick up for him after this? Why don’t you just call someone, you see, they can help you, they’ll take you somewhere safe—”

“I don’t want to go!” I insisted. “I want to stay here…I don’t want Daddy to go away…I want to stay here…and anyway…I told you, with that guy…the social worker…Daddy can smooth over everything. They won’t take me, and he’ll be mad….”

“You have to try! He could kill you like this, Evan! He really could!”

The thought scared me; I grasped at something, anything, for comfort. “No, he needs me…he needs me…and anyway…I’m really lucky, Kahmè….”

“Don’t give me that!”

“Really…you should’ve heard…all these other kids that that guy saved….”

“Well, he saved them, and he said he’d save you too, you have to let him, I’ll help you, we can run away, Evan…he won’t hurt you anymore….”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“But Evan, it’ll just happen over and over again!”

“I don’t want to leave!”

My voice cracked as I said that; I felt self-conscious, realizing how pathetic I must sound.

“Oh, Evan,” Kahmè whispered. “You’re sick…won’t you drink some more water, at least?”

“No…no….” It was a mistake just taking what little she gave me. Dad didn’t want me to have water. He didn’t want me to leave. So I wouldn’t.

“I’m tired…” I murmured.

“It’ll be okay, Evan…just go to sleep….”

I wanted to. I curled up again, my forehead pressing against her warm fingers. “Mmkay….” Did Dad mind if I slept? I hoped not….

“Spirits, Evan,” she told me, “you’re burning up….”

“Mm,” was all I had to say about that. What else was new?

Her fingers stroked my cheek. It felt like a saving angel’s touch to me…. “It’ll be okay, Evan. I’ll find a way to get you out.”

“Don’t call,” I muttered.

“Evan, please, can I? Please don’t hate me if I do…they’ll help you….”

“Did they on Saturday? They can’t…don’t call…please don’t call….”

She could see that I was beginning to be distressed. “Okay, Evan,” she promised me. “I won’t.”

“You won’t?”

“No. Not until you want me to.”

“Thank you…Kahmè….”

“Just go to sleep, Evan…I won’t leave you….”

“Dad comes…if…go back upstairs….”

“Okay. I will. But I’ll stay with you until then. I won’t leave. Okay?”

“’Kay…Kahmè…?”

“Mm?”

“I don’t wanna…die….”

“I won’t let you. It’ll be okay.”

“Kahmè?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t like Victoria anymore,” I sighed. “I hate her.”

Her fingers tensed. “You hate people that tell on your dad?” she asked me tearfully.

“No…but Victoria…sh-…she isn’t here…she’d never be here. But you are….”

I hoped I got the message across to her. I had no way of knowing, because she didn’t say anything…she just stroked my cheek and my burning forehead until I finally fell asleep….

Ok, first off I take back everything I said about Evans dad having the capacity for loving him. If he really did love Evan he would take care of Evan not mistreat him to the point of malnutrition and paralysis. As for Victoria she along with Kahme ... I gotta say I like them both, both of them care for Evan only Kahme is there where Evan is so she can take care of Evan. I can't help but feeling like they are both the same person in a way. They are both amazing people about how much they have the capacity to care. I like both Kahme and Victoria.