Welcome to Gaia! ::

Wow, Kirby this is really, really depressing. Great, but depressing. Still I love how Kahme brings so much hope into the story. It's one of those bittersweet stories I just can't stop reading. I mean, I know it has a happy ending, but still.

Yeah, I've been reading this for a while, but just now got around to posting. I'm lazy. xp

This latest chapter was really good too. I think the dad was the scariest here so far, just because of his strange silentness. And the whole window thing was pretty cool. It made me stop and think about that more than I would have normally.

13
The next day, my dad was just as scary; everything came to a head before I had time to recuperate. That day was bipolar, full of mixed feelings; it was both the best and worst day I’d had in a long time.
I somehow (through fifteen straight minutes of alternate arguing and pleading) convinced Kahmè to stay home with me again. I couldn’t risk making Dad explode when he was like this; I wanted to be good. I told Kahmè it was only temporary, and it was. I would walk on eggs until Dad got out of this strange mood; because if I made him mad now, who knew what he could do?
The night before, I had observed Dad as carefully as he was observing me, though more discreetly. I noticed that his eyes were shadowed, red-rimmed. He seemed weary, detached. Yet I sensed something going on in his mind, something I couldn’t see; my imagination and my nightmares ran out of control, imagined the ticking of a time bomb, the haunting of thousands of ghosts. Had he seen Mom, as I had? Was he trying to decide something about me—was he going to kill me? Sell me off? I was confused, and therefore I was scared.
After I’d woken up a third time from a nightmare of cold, detached Dad calmly following me with a loaded shotgun, cornering me, aiming, firing…I decided to screw the whole idea of sleeping and read instead. For once it failed to distract me; I tried to stop thinking about it, but failed, and instead of focusing I pondered that awful mystery—what was going on in Dad’s mind?—that had so much to do with me and my well-being.
That morning I tried to do everything perfectly: breakfast, coffee, cleaning. Kahmè, thankfully, kept her mouth shut, though I could see she was unhappy about staying home another day. I promised her again and again that as soon as my dad felt better, we’d do anything she liked; I don’t know if that appeased her, but she didn’t say anything about it again, at least. I felt terrible, uneasiness and uncontrollable fear combining with guilt that I’d dragged Kahmè into it too, even though I’d done all I could to convince her to go out and play by herself.
Dad was still watching me as carefully as the day before. He leaned against the wall of the kitchen and wouldn’t budge, watching me work, saying and doing absolutely nothing. I had to force myself to slow down; I was on the verge of a panic-induced breakdown. Kahmè was worried about me, but I shook my head at her and she had the sense to keep quiet.
I kept messing up, kept knocking things over, scratched the window with the top of a bottle of Windex, spilled bleach all over the floor. Small things, clearly—not enough to get a response out of Dad. But I was getting worse, shaking uncontrollably so that even the smallest tasks required my full focus, which I couldn’t give them; I was scared out of my mind.
Of all things, I should have been careful around the photos on the mantelpiece. A window, a floor tile, a handful of cutlery had no sentiment, meant nothing to anyone, but these pictures were our distant past, windows to things, people, times that we would otherwise never see again. But I was too stressed, too panicked, and all I could focus on were Dad’s eyes on my back….
Why’s he acting like that, what did I do? What’s wrong with him, why won’t he stop looking at me, oh God, if I screw up now, I’m f—ed, what’s he gonna do to me if I—?
I honestly don’t know how it happened. One moment I was reaching—well, grabbing—for a picture…the next, it was falling through the air, tumbling down, down, Mom’s eyes catching mine on every revolution, slow motion, and there was nothing I could do…I reached for it anyway, but missed….
CRUNCH.
I swear my heart stopped, as if it, and not the picture glass, had been crushed.
There was silence for a long, deafening moment. I stared, everyone stared at that face-down picture frame. I had done that…horror pulsed sickeningly through my body…I hadn’t meant to, it was an…an accident….
My eyes were pulled, like magnets to a huge and vengeful North Pole, to my dad. He was staring at me, accusation tainting the air around him. I was bolted to the ground. Petrified.
My mouth had already fallen open; I took an automatic step back, my heel sending a fragment of glass skidding everywhere. Our eyes were still locked, Dad was still staring at me, and I imagined pure hatred radiating from his eyes, burning me…. Words tumbled out of my mouth, tripped over each other, stammered, broke.
“I’m s-s-s-sorry…Dad, I…didn’t mean to…I’ll fix it I swear…don’t…Dad, don’t….”
My words seemed to jolt him into action; I flinched as he moved, made a noise of absolute terror, but he turned away from me, marched across the room, up the stairs.
I couldn’t move. Nothing in my body would obey my commands, my legs wouldn’t run, my head wouldn’t stop spinning…useless, stumbling words still fell out of my mouth, dropping and shattering onto the floor like the picture frame. I heard Kahmè’s voice saying something, but couldn’t understand through the ringing in my ears. My heartbeats followed Dad’s footsteps upstairs…what was he going to do to me? He had a gun hidden in his nightstand, oh God, he was going to kill me, someone please help me, it was just an accident, I swear….
“EVAN!” Kahmè shouted, shaking me hard; my eyes snapped back into focus. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter, Evan?”
I was still babbling stupidly, defending myself with fragile, breakable words. “I didn’t mean to…just fell…tried to catch it…don’t, don’t, I swear I’ll…I’ll….”
“Evan! SNAP OUT OF IT!” she screamed at me, her nails digging into my shoulders; she was scared, she didn’t understand what was going on, what was going to happen to me….
“Kahmè, I didn’t mean to,” I begged her, my eyes wide, trying to make her understand. “I didn’t….”
“It’s okay, Evan!” she squeaked at me, her voice high-pitched with worry and panic. “It’s just a stupid picture frame—”
At that moment my dad’s heavy footsteps shook the walls. I whimpered, stumbled into the wall, dizzy and sick with fear. He appeared, nothing at all in his hands, but his eyes saw only me, small and terrified and directly in his line of fire.
“You.” He raised his hand, pointed at Kahmè; she had been only confused at first, but at his sharp voice she jumped and drew closer to me; I subtly, automatically pushed her behind me, my arms raised fractionally to protect her with what little I had. Mom had always told me to be a gentleman, keep chivalry alive…I didn’t know she’d meant it like this, but what else could I do?
My dad gestured to the door. “Go home.”
I was shaking now, realizing what he was doing…she couldn’t see, she wouldn’t be able to blame him…oh God, what was he going to do to me? Kahmè looked at me in confusion; I nudged her, and she flitted reluctantly away. The door closed; we were alone. For a moment I thought, Thank God…. But then my dad and I locked eyes again, and I knew in every cell in my body that he was going to hurt me.
He stared me down for a moment that lasted an era; the suspense, the waiting was worse than any pain he could inflict upon me. I trembled, cowered, as mesmerized and frightened as a mouse before a snake.
He spoke. The low, deafening syllables shook the world around me.
“Get your shoes on, and get in the car.”
I had to listen to the echoes of his words in my mind what felt like a hundred times before I understood. The warmth, the air, the life was sucked away from my world.
He was taking me somewhere.
He was going to get rid of me.
He was…he was…. My imagination had a hundred thousand situations lined up for me. Sell me into slavery, to a drug dealer, to a terrorist. Drop me off in front of an orphanage, a homeless shelter, in a dumpster. Beat me half to death and leave me. Shoot me, strangle me, stab me, throw me in a ditch, in the ocean, in a trash can; it didn’t matter where if he killed me straight out, but if he left me there to die…. Horror stories, all of them happening to kids my age, older, younger.
Someone help me, please, God, please, someone, anyone help me….
Dad scowled when I remained frozen in place. “Evan! Go!”
I faltered, stepped back, wanted to run but couldn’t. I knew what he was going to do, I had to get away, had to go somewhere, but what could I possibly do? Help, please, help—
Impatient to get everything over with, my dad reached for me and grabbed my wrist; I tried to scream but could only procure a hoarse gasp; he snatched my tennis shoes from by the door, pulled me behind him, dragged me outside in my socks. All I could manage were small, weak struggles and a pathetic, “Let me go, Dad…please…I didn’t….”
The bright sunlight mocked me, showed everything clearly to people that weren’t watching. It knew, it knew everything, but all it would do was smile and laugh and shine harder at the knowledge of my demise. My eyes searched for Kahmè’s, I somehow knew exactly where she was hiding, in the bushes next door; I gave her a wide-eyed, desperate look, tried to beg her for help, she mouthed something and gave me a frightened look, but I didn’t understand.
Dad jerked open the passenger door, shoved me forcefully in, tossed my shoes to the floorboard, and slammed the door shut. The vibrations rattled me, scared me; I was going into shock, I was petrified, I was almost ready to pass out with fear, but my body wouldn’t let me.
Dad slid into the driver’s seat, started the car. “Seatbelt,” he snapped at me. I struggled with it, taking too long; he reached over and smacked me in the chest before grabbing the device from my hands, buckling it and pulling the shoulder strap until it caught. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, my entire body almost aching with the overwhelming fear and panic. He wasn’t supposed to pull it like that, it tightened relentlessly until I couldn’t breathe, it would crush my ribs if we hit anything…maybe he was going to wreck the car, just walk away…maybe he thought I would hop out at a stoplight and run….
He drove smoothly, steadily, swinging out of the driveway and heading down the street. I stared at the dashboard, not tall enough yet to see much over it, absolutely frozen. Dad’s driving was perfect, he didn’t seem agitated or remorseful, didn’t seem to be feeling anything that would minimally affect his concentration. I whimpered at every stop sign, wondering if it was the end, but so quietly that no one heard me, not even I could. My mind was racing, going onto one of its morbid tangents, thinking about last words, last breaths, what dying felt like, if I was even going to die at all. I was so scared that I felt like I was going to cry…so scared that the tears were frozen inside me.
I started praying as Dad drove us away from everything I cared about, everything I knew. Please God, don’t let him hurt me…please, I’ve done everything I could, I’ve really done my best, haven’t I? I’m sorry if I haven’t, please, please forgive me, don’t let him do this, please don’t let him, I just want to go home, please God, I know I never went to church or prayed or anything but please, please, I’ll do anything, please just make him turn around and take me home…please….
The car kept going in a straight line. We weren’t going home. Didn’t God exist? Didn’t he care about me? Anyone? It would be such a simple thing, just a flat tire…empty gas tank…somewhere safe….
I stared out of the window, desperate, reading every sign that came my way, hoping for a message from God. Speed limit 45…left lane ends…Railroad crossing ahead….
I swallowed. Skyland city limits.
I was too scared, I couldn’t stay quiet. I would have started screaming if I hadn’t spoken up. My voice trembled, was barely audible over the engine.
“Daddy?”
He ignored me, save for a slight tension of his grip on the wheel, an almost intangible tap on the gas pedal. The car sped up at a steady pace now, inching over the speed limit. I couldn’t choke back a sob; I did my best to turn it into words.
“Dad…Daddy, where are we going? Where are we?”
He said nothing me, watching the road, but the speedometer needle crept up, too fast. I whimpered again.
“Daddy…?”
The needle ticked down; the trees stopped rushing past. Dad answered my question in a flat, quiet voice.
“We’re going to see your mother.”

noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Why couldn't Nana staaaay??? omg! that was an insanely tense moment... LOVED IT!! Dramatic moments don't always have to be bad ones, razz and loved the vocabulary with the old guy and the conversation with him... that was a silent revelation Evan didn't realize it but he could perhaps realize it later. wink

“Oh, there’s time,” he scolded me, suddenly wide awake. “You listen here, boy, there is time and tide fer everythin’ you can think of. The people who say there ain’t time for anythin’ are jus’ ignorant, you hear me? Ignorant, and narrow-minded. There ain’t gonna ever be more time than we got now, ‘cause time’s an infinite sorta thing y’know, we got all we need, an’ sayin’ there ain’t no time is wastin’ breath, an’ wastin’ life worryin’ and whatnot. Now, when I had everythin’ you had, I LIVED, boy,” he told me, his eyes closing again. “Didn’t worry about the future, no sir, didn’t worry ‘bout nothin’. Jus’ played all day, worked a bit, lived an’ learned an’ had good times an’ bad an’ a lot of fun jus’ livin’ life. Bit sad, doncha think, that we only appreciate all this when we’re old an’ can’t run around no more?” - thats the revelation razz

Poor Evan. At least he got a bit of a break this time, although it's really sad Nana couldn't go with them. She's such a nice lady. She reminds me of this little old lady who used to live on our street and always invited me over and baked me cookies. biggrin

But, this was so...intense. The tension...wow. It was really good though. In fact, I think this was my favorite chapter/part yet.

I really liked the old guy too. He had some really good things to say, nice advice.

Great chapter! I can't wait for more; you've definitely got another fan. heart

heres the long awaited next chapter!!!

14

Dad slammed his car door, snapped at me, sped away well over the speed limit. I clung to my seatbelt, terrified. He wasn’t just pissed; he was furious.

We returned back the way we had come, Dad deliberately punishing both me and the car by pushing the speedometer to 80, making sharp 50 mph turns, stopping so suddenly that he almost detonated the airbags. I’d tightened my seatbelt myself to keep me from flying around, and by the time we had reached the city limits, the two straps had left welts beneath my shirt.

Dad calmed down between Gardnerville and Zephyr Cove. At least, he slowed down. I was wide-eyed, frightened beyond words, my nails biting into my skin as I clutched at the seatbelt. When my dad started to slow, I could suddenly feel my legs again; I was burning up, by blood racing with fear. I didn’t like going fast; I felt dizzy and nauseous and I panicked as I imagined flying into a tree, a ditch, a building. Dad knew that, he was doing it on purpose.

I didn’t even realize the implications when Dad stopped the car; all I could register with my spinning head was the sweet relief of stillness. I turned the air up and pointed the vent directly at my sticky forehead. I saw my shadow in the side mirror; I looked like the demented ghost of a skinny little bug. I lay back in the seat and felt my heart start to slow, gradually, into its usual pace.

It was only after I’d calmed down and started to breathe again that I decided to look out the window and see where we were. Fear clenched my stomach again.

A liquor store.

Oh, s**t….

Dad came out after a while, and I knew instantly that he had gotten drunk in the store. What on, I had no idea, as he didn’t carry anything with him, but he was wasted, and he was getting behind the wheel in about ten seconds. I thought about locking the doors, but I knew it wouldn’t stop him when he was like this. All I could do was tighten my seat belt again and pray.

I didn’t look at him as he slid into the car. He started it and backed smoothly out of the parking lot, turning into the road. His turns were too wide, and his reactions were delayed, but other than that he kept calm and followed the rules. I watched him from the corners of my eyes, waiting for him to explode; there was absolutely no way alcohol would make him a BETTER driver. There was no way…but then, I wouldn’t know, I had barely ever been in this car….

Somewhere between the panicking and plotting stages, Dad spoke to me at last. I was so surprised by his tone that at first I couldn’t understand him; I had been expecting a shout.

“Your grandmother is worried about you,” he said conversationally.

I swallowed. I knew where this conversation was heading. But I couldn’t let him know that….

“R-…really?” I stammered. “Why…?”

“Apparently you’re too skinny for her tastes. She thinks you’re malnourished.” He paused pointedly, his eyebrows arching. “She thinks I haven’t been taking good care of you.”

The silence that followed was long, painful, and unbearable. I bit my lip, waiting for him to speak again.

“You do eat properly, don’t you, Evan?” he inquired politely, but I knew it was a trick question. I didn’t know what to say; did he know the truth and want me to admit it? Or was he just trying to scare me?

I nodded. “Yessir,” I said softly.

“And I take good care of you, right?”

That one was definitely a trick question. I knew the answer immediately, but for some reason, I couldn’t choke it out fast enough for him. “Y-…y-y-yessir,” I told him as soon as I could.

He wasn’t satisfied. “Of course I take good care of you. I don’t neglect you, do I?”

“No, sir,” I said quickly.

“And I help you out? You can come to me for anything?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Never give you more than you can handle?” he prompted.

“No, sir.”

“And you know I’d never hurt you?”

I swallowed, tried to speak, failed, swallowed again, tried harder. “Yes…sir.”

“That’s right,” he said, pleased. “I’d say I’m a very good parent, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I said in a tiny voice.

“And you and I, we’ve never had any problems being on our own, have we?”

I didn’t know quite what to say to that one.

“No, no problems at all. Work is fine, pay’s good…the bills get paid, the work gets done, and there’s still time left over to enjoy the day, isn’t there, Evan?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, ready this time.

“And of course you don’t have any problems.” He laughed. “Still in grade school,” he chuckled to himself. “Of course not. You’re never lonely, are you?”

“No, sir,” I assured him, completely nonplussed. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t possibly be one of those rambling drunks…nor could he be a euphoric drunk, not in the least…that would completely disprove everything I’d seen from him in the past four years.

“You’re happy with your books and s**t, arencha?” Dad laughed to himself again, finding that amusing in some way.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yeah, you’re fine,” he decided cheerfully. “Doesn’t know what’s she’s talking about…you’re fine. We’re both fine. Unnecessary,” he muttered.

“Yessir.”

His eyes snapped to me, and I knew instantly that he hadn’t wanted an answer. “What?” he snapped.

I cowered. “Yes, sir,” I said again, terrified.

“Are you calling your grandmother a liar?” His voice rose to a shout that shook the car, which swerved into the other lane; someone honked, but he ignored them.

“No!” I screamed, closing my eyes so I couldn’t see the road swaying in and out of the window. “Daddy, watch the road!”

I couldn’t tell if he was or not. “I’M NOT LETTING YOU GET AWAY WITH THIS s**t, EVAN! YOU WILL GIVE YOUR GRANDMOTHER THE RESPECT SHE DESERVES AND YOU WILL TREAT HER LIKE A F—ING SAINT OR SO HELP ME I WILL BEAT THE s**t OUT OF YOU ‘TIL THE KINGDOM F—ING COMES, DO YOU HEAR ME?”

“Yes,” I wailed, covering my ears and trying to curl into a ball. “Dad, please please please slow down….”

I felt the car, in spite of my pleas, speed up beneath me. It veered with sickening speed to the left; my head smacked into the window, and I felt on the other side of me several resounding blows, fists connecting with every inch of me they could reach.

“WHO THE F—DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU STUPID F—ING CHILD? DON’T YOU EVEN THINK YOU CAN TELL ME WHAT TO DO, IT’S BECAUSE OF YOU SHE WAS WORRIED, IF YOU WOULD JUST STOP EATING LIKE A F—ING GIRL AND GROW BALLS ENOUGH TO STEP INTO THE F—ING SUN ONCE IN A WHILE NONE OF THIS WOULD HAPPEN!”

“I’m sorry, Dad! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I screeched, almost sobbing with fear. “Stop it, please, stop it!”

He didn’t. “AND NOW YOU THINK YOU CAN GIVE ME THIS s**t AFTER ALL YOU’VE DONE, YOUR GRANDMOTHER IS SICK, EVAN, SHE CERTAINLY DOESN’T NEED TO WORRY ABOUT YOU EVERY F—ING MINUTE, YOU COULD KILL HER WITH ALL THE STRESS YOU’RE CAUSING HER, OF ALL THE THINGS SHE COULD WORRY HERSELF OVER SHE HAD TO PICK /YOU/, GOD KNOWS WHY, AND YOU SITTING THERE LIKE AN ALBINO FREAK IS NOT HELPFUL, YOU STUPID CHILD—”

I screamed again and tried to sink out of his reach, truly crying now. “Daddy, stop, stop it, please, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, stop it, STOP IT!”

The car veered, crunched on gravel at the side of the road; someone’s horn blared as they zoomed past us; I was sobbing in earnest, cowering against the window. I’m not sure which it was that brought Dad to his senses, but in the time of a heartbeat he was back in control, as in control as a man intoxicated by rage and liquor can be of a vehicle, and was driving along as if nothing had happened. And to his mind, nothing had.

“Dry up before I make you,” he snapped at me, and I hastened to calm myself down so I could obey. I turned away from him, watching him carefully in the reflection on the glass; he seemed to be fine again, though he was muttering acidly to himself. I heard his name for me several times—“stupid child”, as it were—and once distinctly heard him say, “—do NOT beat my child, Mom, HONESTLY,” and wondered if he was in denial, or if he just didn’t remember. I preferred not to, myself; why should he be any different?

I stared out the window for the remainder of the drive, spending a few minutes thanking the Lord for tinted windows—no one could see the silhouette of my dad attacking me from any angle, all they could see was darkness, and I preferred it that way—and then after that contemplating how every single answer I had given to my dad’s strange questions had been a lie.

That told me something. It spelled out, explicitly, that my dad neither knew anything about me, nor cared to know. He didn’t give a s**t about me at all. But (and though I couldn’t be sure about this, as he was drunk, I felt that it was true) he wasn’t aware that he was doing anything wrong.

I didn’t know what the problem was, and couldn’t let myself panic over the possibility of something being wrong with my dad, so I did what I always did in times of stress, and still do today: I blamed whiskey, and cursed the man who first made it. One of those avoidance strategies of mine, the kind that is both entirely unhelpful to the situation and psychologically damaging. Oh, well. It’s not like I needed any help accumulating psychological damage anyway.

Dad took it easy through a few side roads, sliding calmly into the parking lot of the old church. He drove to the back of the lot and took a turn down the winding lane that led through the ancient cemetery. I despised this place; I’d only been once, three or four years ago, when I’d panicked and demanded to know where my mom was, and Dad had decided to show me. I shivered as we drove past a huge building with a side constructed entirely of little drawers, like some lady’s dresser, each engraved with a name and stuffed with a body. The thought of being buried in a drawer…it was worse than being buried in dirt. At least with dirt you’d die faster. But wouldn’t you be dead anyway?

Dad drove far below the speed limit; we were almost crawling through the graveyard. I wondered if he was doing it on purpose, to torment me. He knew most of my many irrational fears, dead people being one of them; although I doubted he knew why, or that it was his fault I had all of those nightmares of rotted hands shooting out of graves and dragging me into damp, suffocating coffins…. I woke up coughing on rank, moldy, nonexistent air; to me, the dreams were too real for their name.

Finally he stopped, and I recognized the place. Mom’s grave was just around the corner, a lonely little thing with scraggly grass struggling to survive all around it. We were now in the shadow of a huge oak; at its base on the other side was one of those benches dedicated to a dead person, with flowers closing their blossoms all around it. The sun was getting ready to set, it would be pitch black in an hour and a half. I shuddered.

Dad stopped the car and got out; I hastened to follow him, wary of being left in the dark. He saw me and scowled, and before I could dodge him he caught me by the collar and shoved me back into the front seat.

“You stay here.”

“But Dad—“

He slammed the door, nearly catching my fingers in the door in the process, and locked me in before he shoved the keys into his pocket; I stared incredulously (and a little desperately) after him, but he didn’t look back. He turned the corner, and I was alone. In a graveyard. At dusk.

F—.

I tried not to think about it; I closed my eyes and focused on the last faint rays of sun touching my cheek. I wasn’t in a graveyard; I was waiting for mom to come back with our ice creams, from talking with a friend. I wasn’t twelve, I wasn’t battered and sore; I was seven and whole and happy again.

When Dad didn’t come back after five minutes or so, I was almost aching with worry and fear; he was taking his time, I consoled myself, but I was still frightened. I didn’t know if he would be in a bad mood, and deliberately keep me shivering in here until it was pitch-black, or if he would come back in the next few seconds and take me home. I was so exhausted, it had been such a long day…. I rested my head against the cool glass of the window and curled up in the seat, closing my eyes and letting my overactive imagination take a rest.

That’s not really how imagination’s work, however; mine relaxed but did not stop, imagining Mom laying calmly in the sunlight like Snow White. Mom would look pretty dead, I decided, like fairy tale princesses did. And if someone gave her a kiss or a hug, she would wake up and smile at me again…. But no, I told myself sternly. She was buried under 6 feet of dirt and worms and dead grass, she was by now an array of rotting bones and decaying clothes and bug-eaten eyeballs, she couldn’t come to get me even if she wanted to, and she didn’t, of course; there were plenty of ghosts and zombies, but she would never bother to become one to come and help me…she’d abandoned me for this place….well, I hoped she was happy….

I don’t know if I fell asleep or not; all I know is that the lock clicked and the door suddenly disappeared from beneath me and I slammed to the ground, rolling once before Dad snatched me up and started shouting at me. It took me awhile to understand why.

“—DISRESPECTFUL, ABSOLUTELY THE RUDEST LITTLE F—ER I EVER SAW, SLEEPING IN THE F—ING CAR INSTEAD OF VISITING YOUR MOTHER’S GRAVE, DO YOU KNOW EVERYTHING YOUR MOTHER DID FOR YOU, DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD SHE WORKED JUST FOR YOU, JUST FOR F—ING YOU, WASTED HALF HER LIFE AND NOW HER SPOILED LITTLE BRAT DOESN’T GIVE A s**t ENOUGH TO COME PAY SOME F—ING RESPECT TO HER GRAVE—”

My temper flared; I dodged another punch and wriggled further away from him. “You wouldn’t let me!” I objected. “You made me stay in the car!”

He ignored me, swinging at me again—I couldn’t duck that one. It hit me in the eye; I staggered, blind, and clutched my throbbing eye as I struggled to focus on the crushed pansies growing from the soil. “UNGRATEFUL LITTLE b***h!” Dad yelled, tearing my hand away and hitting me again in the same place. “HOW MUCH OF A F—ING EFFORT WOULD IT BE TO GIVE YOUR DEAD MOTHER HER F—ING DUE ONCE IN A F—ING WHILE?”

I gasped in pain, stumbling back from him, pressing both hands to my eye. My anger had only strengthened; if Mom had been more than a stupid rotting corpse in the church’s graveyard, none of this would be happening to me. “Why should I?” I snapped; the traitorous words were out before I could stop them. “If she….”

I had the sense to freeze there, but the damage was done. Of all the stupid mistakes I’ve ever made, that one definitely made the top ten.

My dad snapped. “WHAT DID YOU SAY?!”

And anything he screamed at me after that was lost in the blur of punches, kicks, whatever else he could devise. My anger bled out; I, devoid of spikes or a shell, nevertheless did what any animal with a brain and short legs would do, and cowered down, covering my face with my arms whenever I could. It rarely did anything, my dad was too strong for me; he could do anything to me he wanted, and I was powerless to stop him.

I zoned out, struggling to keep count as the blows kept coming, until Dad struck a blow that left me finished; he knocked my hands aside, grabbed my hair, and threw my head hard against the trunk of the oak tree. Colors exploded behind my eyes; I heard myself groaning and felt my face pressed against the rough soil; Dad kicked me so hard that my stomach heaved and I retched, and he hissed something at me before his footsteps stomped away.

I gagged and threw up again, though this time I had nothing left to give; the convulsions racked my entire body, set every new bruise throbbing and burning, and in between coughing and spitting out a foul-tasting mouthful of God-knows-what, I moaned again.

But there was no one left to hear me—even as I was struggling to my knees in the patch of soil, I heard the car’s engine fire up. My eyes snapped to the silver blur, tried to focus…I tried to cry out, but it was too late; Dad drove away, leaving me crumpled in the dirt.

I stared after him long after he turned the corner, long after the sound of his engine faded away. The truth took a long time to sink in; I started to cry, wiping my mouth on my dirty sleeve and stumbling into the road, to the corner, tears blurring the road as I searched it desperately for his car. There was nothing left but dust now. I’d never catch him.

He’d left me.

I hid my face in my filthy hands and sobbed, yelling after him even though I knew he couldn’t hear, didn’t care. Daddy, Daddy…my voice sounded like a very small child’s, a small unprotected thing with no sense of reality, no distinction between fear and logic. Every place in my body, every piece of my heart throbbed, and there was no way for the pain to end, no one to help me.

And as I stood like an idiot in the middle of Cemetery Drive, a shadow passed over the skinny little moon, and I remembered where I was: in the middle of a graveyard, so late at night that all the lights were out. There was only the moon, and the stars.

The shadow had been a flicker of cloud; as I looked up to see, the rest of the cloud moved across it, and the graveyard was wreathed in the grey-black cloak of night. I felt my eyes widen, dilate; I looked around and saw shadows upon shadows, headstones, monuments, an avenging angel with a spear facing me with blank eyes. It was not pitch black, I could see everything; but the semi-darkness blurred the sharp edges of objects, made the shadows seem sinister and alive, brought delicate whispering noises into the open air.

And it was then that I knew for sure: things lurked here, things that were neither dead nor alive, things that could hurt me in ways I never imagined.

I was too scared to cry, to scream. My heart twisted and crushed in on itself and caused me no agony, but immeasurable fear; my limbs shook, and I couldn’t stop reversing myself, turning around to check that nothing was coming behind me, though I didn’t know what I would do if it did. I was petrified, so afraid that I felt no pain, only an icy, electric chill that had nothing to do with the warm summer’s night.

The pressure built up unbearably, and I started hyperventilating, feeling creatures with shadowy tendrils reaching out to snatch me; a gap in the clouds let the moon shine for a moment, just long enough for me to see the light and have the sense to scream, a long piercing note that no one but the dead heard.

Then the light was gone for good.

I twitched, shivered, sucked in sobbing breaths, scared out of my mind; every fallen branch looked like a hand ejected from the graves, every headstone hid a secret threat, every tree bore in its shadow a family of wraiths, all waiting to torment me with silent whispers and threats and secret little touches that left icy ribbons curling down my spine.

A breeze blew, shook the treetops, and I felt my scream, my moan of fear, freeze in me; the wind brought little whispers in the dark, sinister little promises of more fear, more pain, more misery. It died, but it still shook me when it left; I was rooted to the ground, shaking, almost about to faint from too much thrust onto me at once.

I probably would be there to this day, below the ground instead of drifting on top of it, if my imagination hadn’t started overreacting again. When we are afraid, our mind does strange things; it gives us fear so we know there is something wrong, it gives us the urge to get away. Sometimes our common sense gets in the way of our fear, however, and we try to convince ourselves that there is nothing to fear. Our mind doesn’t want us to remain in that situation, so to convince us further it creates fears and images that aren’t there, that can’t be there, to try and get us to leave.

Let no man doubt that at that moment, I wanted to leave; I wanted to get the hell out of there and never be alone in the dark again. But I had taken too long, I should have started moving before the fear took its grip on me; so my mind started freaking out on me then and there, succeeding in scaring me further.

I saw ghosts, I saw the soil of the graves shift aside, I swore the angel moved, tensed its marble wings…but what forced me into motion, what made me scream aloud as I tore away like an arrow from a bow, was the sight of my mother, perched on top of her headstone. She was both her spirit form like I saw her everywhere in my house, transparent and piercing and sad, and a new, terrifyingly real form I’d never seen anything in before; the bark of the tree behind her and the dappled shadows combined and melted and twisted to give a body to her spirit, one that was gnarled, beaten, torn, decayed. Half-ghost, half-corpse; a nightmare in the form of my mother, my sweet dead mother, fingering the letters I knew were carved into the headstone beneath her in Elizabethan script: EMILY MARIE MOOR.

She looked up at me, stared straight into my eyes, and mouthed my name; I could swear I heard the whisper carry in the breeze. I didn’t wait to hear any more; I bolted, shrieking as I tore off after my dad’s car, stumbling and panting down Cemetery Drive.

I wouldn’t let myself stop, even though my aching ribs and stomach were in agony; I kept walking, jogging, walking again until I calmed down enough to realize that I was going the wrong way, and was lost….

My God, I was lost in a graveyard.

I didn’t stop; I just took the first right turn I came to and followed the road. There were dozens of headstones still grouped together on each side of the drive, but they were older, crumbling away, and there were more mausoleums with entire families stuffed inside to rot, I guessed. I was still petrified, but it was a different kind of scared-out-of-my-mind; this graveyard was filled with nothing more than dust and bones and calmer spirits who weren’t going to chase me, just watch me with sad forlorn eyes. I hated it; I shivered and couldn’t help crying as I passed baby’s graves, lone spirits, husbands and wives buried together, black yawning maws of mausoleums that blended with the night.

I was exhausted; I had to slow down, drift into progressively newer parts of the graveyard, aching all over and completely spent and wishing something would just eat me already. I wanted to lie down at the side of the road and sleep, let darkness take me away, but I knew that if I did that I’d never get up again. I had to keep drifting around until I found some way out, or collapsed.

It must have been nine or ten before I finally found the main building and could run and leave the city of Necropolis, as I called it, behind. I wasn’t any less exhausted; there just comes a point where your legs can’t stop moving, and I’d reached it. After the graveyard you’d think that I wouldn’t be scared of mere ordinary darkness, but I was still terrified; I saw spirits and shadow creatures and huge black spiders around every corner. I walked in the middle of the street to avoid most of the shadows and stay in the occasional streetlight. My chest was tight and it was hard to breathe; I couldn’t walk for much longer.

A sudden crunching and a flash of bright light made me shriek and turn around, staring terrified at the car coming right at me. He was driving slow, the rugged driver with the paper coffee cup in his hands, and coasted to a stop; I couldn’t see much of him with the lights, and it took me a minute to figure out that he was waving for me to get out of his way. I sometimes wonder what he saw, that man: did he see a ghost boy, drifting too far from the cemetery? Did he see a demented delinquent roaming the streets for something to steal? Or did he see a little boy covered in bruises and soil and filth, pale and scrawny and sickly, clothed in too-big, worn-out, vomit-stained clothes and afraid of the dark?

Whatever he might have thought of me, he generously didn’t run me over, instead waiting until I was out of the way before driving off and leaving me without a word or a backward glance behind. I stared after him until his lights disappeared, glad for his company to alleviate the fear for a moment but wondering, all the same, if he could possibly have known what I had to go home to, and if he would have cared if he had…?

I swallowed. I had to go home. Maybe if I was really, really lucky, Dad wouldn’t wake up until late in the morning. Maybe if I was unbelievably lucky, I wouldn’t wake up at all.

But I wanted to get home. My house, haunted only by Mom in all her transparent harmlessness, with its bright lights and its warm baths and my comforting bed….

I wasn’t lost after I’d found the first street sign, I knew every road in the place, but it was still a relief to turn onto my own street. There’s just something about a familiar street that’s close to home, even if you don’t have that wonderful a home to go to. I speed-walked down a block, ran across the street, and jogged into my driveway and around to the back door. The porch light was on, but the house was dark.

“Kahmè?” I called softly, but she didn’t answer; I stood on tiptoe and found that she wasn’t in the playhouse. God, it had been such a long day…I’d forgotten all about her….

I waited a little, but she didn’t come. Naïvely, I assumed she’d be fine by herself, and then deemed it morally righteous to unlock the door with the hidden key and let myself inside.

The first thing I did was turn on the kitchen light and stand directly beneath the fluorescent strips. I closed my eyes, smiled, and opened them again to look around: no shadows, nowhere for ghosts to hide. I was finally safe, at least in one way.

I caught a look at my face in the glass of the oven; God I was a mess. Soil had browned the right half of my face, and my eye was swelling; my shirt was ruined, besides, unless I didn’t give our laundry machine enough credit. F—, now I had to ask for a new shirt…I couldn’t buy new ones; it would draw attention to my source of income, but asking for them ended painfully.

Speaking of pain….I winced as I moved to the sink, holding my aching ribs. Damn them for protruding so much…. I poured myself a glass of ice water, drained it, poured another, and sipped gratefully at that as I rested against the counter. I left little dirt marks wherever I went, sprinkling dried soil onto the tiles, but it was no matter—who cleaned the place anyway? The problem was stopping Dad from noticing.

I cleaned my face off, relishing the cool water against my forehead. I thought I had contracted another fever; I felt my forehead and didn’t like how hot it was at all. Maybe it would be better in the morning….

…no, no, I really had to take that back now, I thought to myself as I painfully climbed the stairs only to come face to face with my dad. Not a whole lot was going to get better anytime soon.

Before I could even gasp in shock to see him standing right beside me, he shoved out an arm; it smacked me in the chest, I overbalanced, and the next thing I knew I was sliding to the bottom of the stairs, the carpet chafing at my bruises beneath my shirt.

Before I could stumble up, my entire body one huge ache, Dad stepped down and wrenched me up by my collar. I winced as his voice whipped across my face.

“What the f—are you doing in here?”

I could tell at once that I had woken him up. I could also tell that he was, by now, completely sober…but going by his expression, it didn’t make much of a difference.

I was more frightened than I had been outside. It was a different kind of scared; it wrenched my chest and forced tears to my eyes. “J-just g-g-g-going to bed, D-D-Dad,” I stammered.

His hand shot out and slapped me, hard; I cringed as my skin smarted and burned. “I thought I told you not to bother coming home. Are you deaf, or just stupid?”

If he had, I didn’t remember; but I knew it was exactly the sort of thing he’d say. I swallowed a sob. “B-b-but I—”

“Stupid useless child,” he cut across me with a sneer, smacking my head hard against the wall. There was already a huge throbbing bruise there; I gasped in pain as it stung anew. “What the f—do you think this is, you think you can tear the house to pieces and disrespect your mother on top of tracking s**t all over the floor and still come crawling back at two in the morning expecting me to welcome you back?”

I glanced swiftly over to the mantelpiece; the broken frame was gone, only broken pieces of glass remaining. So he’d just thrown it away? I looked back at him and flinched at his flat stare, his eyes filled with utter loathing. The tears burst through, overflowed.

“I…I’m s-s-sorry….” I whimpered, not knowing what else to say.

Dad shoved me forcefully away from him; I staggered backward, catching myself on the wall before I fell. “Get out.”

Cold fear spread down my spine, flowed through my heart. Back out there? “I don’t wanna go back out there!” I cried, shaking my head hard; the words were bold, but my voice was weak. “I’m scared—!”

Dad grabbed my wrist and pulled me back to him, twisting it ninety degrees in a way it wasn’t supposed to go; I cried out, sobbing in pain as numerous bruises throbbed, the entire left side of my body leaning with my arm to prevent it from breaking. Dad saw how much it hurt me and twisted harder, forcing a scream out of me.

“Scared of the dark,” he spat, glaring down into my tear-drenched eyes. “Pathetic. Thought a few hours of it would’ve weeded it out of you.”

My heart swelled; I couldn’t breathe. He knew. He’d done it on purpose.

“But my dad always said,” he informed me coolly, pulling my wrist up as well as twisting it further, “that you can’t fix stupid. And he was never wrong.”

Three years later, I’d have been willing to take fifty-to-one bets on that, and I’d have bet as well that my dad didn’t believe what he was saying. But then, my life depended on his every word and move. I couldn’t do anything; all I could do was wait in agony for him to judge what would happen to me.

“You listen to me,” he snarled, freezing me in place with his glare. “I don’t give a f—what you’re scared of, or what you want to do, and I don’t give a f—what happens to you. I never want to see you in here again. You can go join your f—ing mother for all I care.”

The words hurt me; I started crying so hard I could barely breathe. “D-Daddy,” I choked, but I couldn’t say anything more, and don’t know what I would have given the chance.

He let go of me, shoving me roughly away from him. “Get out.”

I ran away from him, stumbling out the back door and into the darkness of the yard; anything was better than hearing more. I heard the door slam and lock behind me and started to cry in earnest. The lights from the house flicked off, and I was left alone in the inky blackness.

Dad didn’t want me. He didn’t care if I was dead or alive. He hated me…he was ashamed of me….

Though this was by no means new information, he had never stated it so openly before, so bluntly. I don’t give a f—what happens to you. You can go join your f—ing mother for all I care. Those words hurt me in a place that I had never even known existed, a place I wouldn’t ever really be able to define. A small, buried marble-sized area in my heart, where everything I’d tried to hide lay in darkness.

I couldn’t handle it anymore; I gave up on being scared, on making sense out of it all, on blaming myself for everything, and sobbed hard enough to cut my breath short, hard enough to make me forget everything and stop thinking for a blessed while.

Kahmè found me curled up in the darkness, not quite finished crying yet. I didn’t know how late it was; I felt like I hadn’t seen her in days.

“Evan!” she cried, running over to me. “Been looking for you for forever, why’re you…what’s wrong?” It was then that she noticed that I was crying. I couldn’t answer her. Were there even words? “Evan?” she insisted, an edge of panic in her voice now. She shook my shoulder, didn’t see me wince at her touch. “Evan! What’s wrong, what’s wrong, tell me!”

I tried to make a sound, but all that came out was a thin sob. I tried again, and again. “I…I’m s-scared of the…of the dark….”

“Oh,” Kahmè said, and I instantly knew that she understood. A sort of pressure relieved itself in my chest; I’d never told anyone that before. For some reason, it made me feel at once more vulnerable and much safer than before. Kahmè knew; she could exploit my fears like Dad did, or she could protect me from them. I didn’t know what to expect.

Kahmè recovered quickly. “Well why’re you out here then?” she demanded in an alarmed little whisper. “Go inside, go on, Evan, it’s late and your dad’s been waiting for you forever and ever….”

My heart twisted; I sobbed again. She was so naïve…but how could she possibly know? It was common sense for a girl like Kahmè to assume that any dad always loved his kids. Most people would assume that. But I knew that it was all a deception, a façade, like a house I’d seen once: the front was beautiful, made of stone and freshly painted and neat, but the sides and back of it were covered in plastic siding, ramshackle and dirty. Every house held a secret, though most were very, very carefully hidden from the world.

Like always in situations like this, I couldn’t find the proper words to explain what was in my head. Maybe if I had been more articulate back then, I could have gotten help; Kahmè might have been able to save me sooner and stop so many people from getting hurt. But I was not. Instead of telling her the truth, I merely choked out, “Can’t,” and hid my face in the grass so she couldn’t see me crying.

“Wh-…why…?” She didn’t understand, but obviously after a minute it occurred to her that even if she didn’t get it, something had to be done. “It’s okay, Evan,” she said quietly to me. “It’s okay. You can spend the night.”

The term was so childishly inappropriate that for a minute I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Then I realized: she was inviting me up to her playhouse, into her bed. I blanched at the mere thought of moving. “Nooo,” I moaned pathetically. “’M staying here….”

“But Evan,” she protested, beyond confused now. “It’s all dark…and….”

I didn’t answer. I knew it was dark. Of course I knew.

Kahmè knew too. “Stay here,” she said suddenly, and then slid away and left me alone.

I was still crying, but now the sobs returned in full force. Alone again, left alone in the dark, where ghosts and bugs and snakes and demons and creatures from nightmares lurked and waited to pounce….

A light flashed in my face; I screwed my eyes shut and covered them with my arm. The light moved to my navel and quivered there; I saw blood on my shirt, and when I looked up at Kahmè, I knew she saw it too. She carried her blanket over one arm and one of the pillows from her bed in her hand. I avoided her demanding expression by looking around; I was lying against the back of the house, in a patch of grass beneath the living room window, almost invisible from the back door.

Kahmè dropped the flashlight so it shone in no particular direction and ministered to me, propping my head up and tucking me into the blanket. I didn’t let her see my face, but she could see my clothes well enough.

“What happened?” she demanded over and over again. If I had to answer, I just murmured, “I dunno,” but otherwise stayed silent. She was not convinced.

“Evan? Evan,” she said urgently, touching my arm to make sure I was listening. I was really worrying her; I wondered if I looked as sick and weak as I felt. “Are you gonna be okay? Can you wait ‘til morning? I can find stuff then…. Are you gonna be okay? Evan?”

I didn’t know what she meant by “okay.” My mind tried to think at a pace like molasses in January; I didn’t know how late it was, but I knew when we’d gotten to the cemetery, and I could guess…it must be past midnight. What would worry Kahmè so much that she’d have to ask me if I could “wait” five more hours until daylight? Did she think I was going to die?

Fear gripped me again, horrible sickening sudden fear; WAS I going to die? I couldn’t move, everything hurt, did that mean…?

“EVAN!” Kahmè nearly screamed, and I wondered how many times she’d called me. I muttered something, I don’t know what; she asked me again.

“Evan, ‘re you gonna be okay until morning? Evan…? Evan, answer me, please….” When I couldn’t, she half-rose to her feet, her voice breaking with worry. “Bad, bad…I’m gonna go get your daddy….”

“No!” Somehow I managed to speak aloud, grab her wrist before she could do something stupid. “Don’t, Kahmè,” I rasped, when she gave me a questioning look.

“I’ve gotta, Evan,” she pleaded with me, as if I was the one who was stronger, held more power over her than she did over me. “You’re hurt….”

“No,” I repeated. She took it as an answer, I don’t know what to, and sat down again, but I could see her worry—just one notch away from panic—as she looked down at me. I avoided her eyes.

“You’re hurt,” she told me again, as if I didn’t know. Her hand reached out and fluffed my hair, very lightly, trying not to hurt me I suppose. “You’re really hurt….” The back of her hand pressed lightly against my forehead. By the look on her face, I could guess that she felt the same heat I felt, though my limbs were shivering uncontrollably.

“It’s okay,” she told me softly, reaching down to hug me. I let her; there was no way I could stop her anyway. It almost felt…nice…in a way…. “It’ll be okay, Evan….”

I don’t remember what happened after that. I think I told her not to go get my dad again, and she must have listened, because after that, and throughout the rest of the night, I felt her hugging me loosely, resting against my now-uncurled little body, sharing the pillow with me. Her warmth helped me to sleep as long as I did that night, fighting away the monsters in the shadows, and I made an amazing discovery then, that I could only be lucid enough to realize later: when Kahmè was with me, I wasn’t afraid anymore.



It took me about four days to recover from just the physical abuse. I woke up that morning to Kahmè flitting around with hot water and herbs and sugar, biting her lip and muttering, “Ohhh…oh, oh, oh…” at random intervals, interspersed with German swear words. Her hands were shaking, or maybe it was just me.

She saw my eyes open and started freaking out. “Evan! Evan, you’re awake oh I’m so glad sheiss, sheiss, I’m sorry, I’m working on it but I dunno…I just dunno…what it’ll do….”

“What?” I mouthed, but nothing came out. She stirred frantically at the mixture, cursing the sugar when it wouldn’t dissolve quickly enough. I couldn’t understand her behavior; I buried my nose in the blanket and shivered with my eyes shut. I felt even shittier today than I had yesterday.

“Here,” she finally told me, offering me the cup. “Drink it, go on, Evan.”

I let my eyes fall open, stared at the drink with listless eyes. I saw her bite her lip with worry.

“Well, go on, Evan!” she repeated. “You gotta drink it, you gotta…you’ll feel lots better….”

I couldn’t move to take the cup; I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. Kahmè made a worried little sound in her throat.

“Evan,” she whimpered, “you’re really sick…. Gotta get you to the hospital, Evan….”

The hospital? Her worry had increased during the night. I had taught her 911; I had to stop her from remembering it, or I was f—ed.

“No,” I insisted, and with a tremendous effort lifted the cup and held it to my lips. I spilled a lot of it, but it looked like I drank more than I really had; it tasted like watery oversweet tea. That satisfied her just a tiny bit, enough to let me convince her not to call an ambulance. Was it really that bad? I started to get scared again.

Kahmè took care of me that whole day except for the few moments where my Dad left the house. I heard his footsteps, heard the car door, heard him drive away; I didn’t know where he was going, but I knew that he didn’t want me along—he didn’t want me at all. That upset me, and Kahmè became worried that I was crying over something different; she asked me what was wrong, what had happened last night, but I couldn’t tell her. Yet I had to keep the conversation up to stop her from freaking out again, so with a huge, stumbling effort I asked her what she had done the night before.

She explained to me that she had been really worried for me because I had looked sick before I’d left for Nana’s, but when she saw Dad take me away she thought that if he had any sense at all he would pick up some magical American medicine on the way back from the picture frame store. Kahmè was so naïve about everything; she thought every object in the world had its own store right in Skyland, including one especially for pictures (she thought you bought them somewhere, separately) and frames. What really amazed me is that she thought we were going to a store like that at all, and that she thought Dad would waste even a quarter (heaven forbid) on the panacea she was certain Americans possessed and wouldn’t share with anyone else. She’d waited and waited but Dad hadn’t gotten home until after sunset, and even then she saw that I wasn’t with him. She was confused by this but not alarmed; she figured that he must have dropped me off someplace. But then she’d watched him through the window, carefully, and studied his actions; he’d seemed upset, and for a while he’d take turns drinking brown liquid, that whiskey stuff, and drifting outside and peering down the street. Then he’d sat on the couch and waited for me to come home. It was then that Kahmè decided—

I had to interrupt at this point. Dad was waiting for me? Yes he had been. How did she know? Well it was obvious, he was just sitting there for no reason. Was the TV on? Yes. Well he was just watching TV then, wasn’t he? But no, she objected, he wasn’t; he wasn’t watching the TV, he was just staring off into space, and he seemed very upset. I insisted that she was just making things up; she insisted just the opposite.

I let her go, feeling a curious mix of annoyance, disappointment, and grief. Dad didn’t want me. She was just making it up; he hadn’t been waiting for me at all, why should he? I told her to go on with the story, and she did.

It was then that Kahmè decided that if my dad didn’t want to go outside, she would look for me herself. So she drifted around in the dark, calling for me, a little scared but not much. She’d checked back after awhile, but I wasn’t there, and the house was dark. She’d gone looking again, come back, and found me. I thanked her, vaguely, and felt the urge to sleep; she asked me again what I had done, and again and again, until I managed to answer simply that I had been at my Nana’s. When asked how I was hurt, I said nothing. Kahmè was worried again, but I was too hurt and tired to try and cheer her up again.

She sat by me from the time I woke up to that night, fussing with my blanket and my hair, comforting me when the knowledge that I could never go home overwhelmed me. I was paralyzed by fear of the unknown; I knew Dad didn’t want me where I was, but I stayed anyway, too weak to move with the thought of making it on my own. Kahmè stole food for me that I couldn’t eat, tried to make me drink a few sips of water an hour, searched in vain for extra blankets or some American cure-all syrup (she was convinced as well that everything good for you came in an herbal tea or in syrup form). She kept me company most of all, in between miniature panic attacks in which she begged me to let her call a hospital or Dad, and lay by me at night to keep away the cold.

The next morning I woke up alone; confused and disoriented, I blinked and yawned until the back door opened. I watched Dad look around the yard with a pang of mixed bewilderment, shame, and sadness; then I stiffened with fear as he saw me.

He grabbed me and dragged me up by the collar, yelling at me, where the f—had I been, the house was filthy, etc., and I found that I could move after all as he shoved the blanket and pillow into my hands, slapping me and calling me a lazy little thief, and half-dragged me back into the house. He was disgusted with me; he told me to clean everything up, starting with myself, but then shouted for me to go to my room and stay there. I compromised orders, taking a long, wonderful, slightly painful bath before retreating to my room. While bathing I noticed dozens of bruises, so many that there was more purple and black and yellow-green on my skin than my original ivory color. I couldn’t move without pain; there was an injury to my mouth from where my teeth had split my lip, and my head throbbed so badly that I could barely see without my vision being covered with bursts of color and darkness.

I crawled beneath my blankets in my room and fell asleep—or rather, fainted—until the afternoon, when my dad burst in and shouted; did I not hear him say to clean the goddamn house? It seemed that he was determined to yell at me no matter what. He didn’t hit me; I did as I was told, ducking away from him and starting to clean. It was tough work with all of the injuries to watch, but I was slightly more refreshed now; I managed to do it before bedtime. I'd do anything he wanted at this point--it had finally hit me that I could come home again. I wasn't abandoned. If I was really good, I could stay home. I was so happy that if I hadn't been tone-deaf, I would have broken out into song.

The next day, I could finally eat a little, and move around without wincing or limping; it was then that I knew I was healed. But though the physical wounds eventually disappeared, to be replaced with newer ones, the psychological trauma, the emotional abuse, never healed. And for long afterward, the effects of it would haunt me; cemeteries, ghosts, funerals visited my nightmares for years after that. Of course, the funerals never were for me, not the nice, pretty ceremonies anyway; mine were the ones where the living people looked without interest at me (or rather, my corpse), milled around eating and chatting, remarked about how unattractive and quiet and weak I had been in life, the priest drunk and singing, my dad getting up to speak about how useless I had been and how glad he would be to bury me forever. Invariably, no matter whose funeral it was, I was the one who was locked in the coffin, interred in a dark, dank hole. Unless it was the particular nightmare where my dad poured an entire bottle of whiskey over me and lit me aflame….

I preferred to pretend that one hadn’t happened, but it still haunted me. All of the nightmares did. And they would until someone decided to step up and instantly set me free…or until I was dragged out of that house in a body bag, an ambulance, or the back of a police car.

I think it’s pretty obvious which it was, knowing my luck and the many little verbal traps and threats that my dad had trapped me with. From the time I was eight, I knew as Gospel truth that I would never be free; if anyone knew, they and I would both suffer. My dad was all-powerful, he controlled the universe and all its comings and goings; so he said it, so it would be.

But it didn’t matter if I told or not, because in that respect my dad dug his own grave; he didn’t know about the quiet little intruder in our personal life, he didn’t know that I had a guardian angel, and when she found out, it was the worst weapon against him I could own.

The trouble was, I didn’t want to fight him; and when I finally did, it was by then too late.

dundunduuuuuuunnnn.

Am pretty far in the next chapter. Gotta go write thoguh...later people ^^

The kid's hate her because of her ghostly appearance, and because she remebers what the sun looks like. You see, the sun only comes out every seven years for one hour.
The day it's going to come out, the kid's lock her up in a closet.
"And then the children were driven, like so many stakes, into the floor."

OMG I read that too!!! O.O ...and I think it was Mars mby....


thats awesome...