Page 7 of Burn For Me

I sat at the edge of the playground, tossed a small pebble along the sidewalk, and watched it roll into the grass and disappear. I wanted to be that pebble. I wanted to disappear. Other kids ran around with a football or tossing a baseball, their smiling and laughing faces irritating. I’d bet the idea of not going home was the furthest thing on their minds. No, those lucky dicks had parents buy them ice cream and asked if they were okay when they fell. Not me, not in a very long time.

Sighing, I hooked my thumbs into the straps of the backpack and knew I had to get going, and yet I would’ve preferred to sleep on the bench that my ass was sitting on. The problem was I knew what happened to kids like me—a twelve-year-old with no home, no family, no money, and no place to stay ended up dead or sucking dick for old men to make a buck.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew it was a cycle that would never end, one that you thought was an escape. Only to realize too late that it was a different kind of hell all on its own, one in a different beer-stained shirt. I’d thought about it, and even spent a night in the shelter pretending to be mute to investigate, but at least at my house I knew all the escape routes. A place like that was a different kind of danger. My hand rubbed at the sore spot on my arm under my long-sleeve T-shirt. The area was now a black bruise from the hand that had gripped me last night and wrenched my arm behind my back because I hadn’t cut the lawn the way ‘dad’ liked. I’d made the mistake of asking him how I was supposed to know when he didn’t tell me, but that only angered him more. The handprint—that I had to hold an ice pack against to make sure it was gone to come to school—told that story.

I’d finally got up my nerve to tell my teacher about the abuse, but nothing was done. Social workers called before coming to the house. They looked around, staring at empty rooms filled with emotionless items. Like that would tell them all the secrets they needed to know.

Of course, my dad lied and said, “he’d been known to yell.”

But then he placed a hand over his chest and swore to god that he’d never hurt his kids. My mom nodded and lied right along with him. My little brother looked up to me, his eyes asking what his voice didn’t, ‘What should we do?’

What the hell was I supposed to do?

I couldn’t say in front of my parents that my dad was an asshole that liked to hit me. If they didn’t cart him away and lock him up, I would end up with more than a few bruises, I’d end up buried in the backyard. So, like the chump, I shook my head and said that my dad had never touched me.

The idiot woman left, and as she drove away. I wanted to pound my fists on the door and scream, ‘Come back!’

Why couldn’t she see that we didn’t dare open our mouths? Couldn’t she feel the tension or see the fear in my eyes?

“Who the hell do you think called Social Services,” my dad asked my mom and grabbed her arm, shaking her hard.

“I don’t know.”

“Was it you, you bitch?” His hand cracked across my mother’s cheek.

“It wasn’t me, I swear, I didn’t call. I’d never call.”

My dad grabbed his keys and jacket. “I’m going out.”

He stormed past me and knocked me aside like I didn’t exist. Hitting the wall, I fell along with the small decorative picture and crashed to the floor helpless as I watched, the screen door slam in my face.

I rubbed my eyes at the memory and knew it would come up again. My dad would ask something like this repeatedly until he got the answer he wanted, whether it was the truth or a lie. We’d have to blame a neighbor or the school at some point, but I couldn’t say it was me. No, I didn’t dare do that, or he would kill me for sure or punish me so much that I’d wish he’d kill me.

Pushing myself off the bench, I made my way along the path and tried to imagine what it would be like to be one of those kids with great parents. Would I smile and laugh like they did? Would I picture a future that didn’t include killing my father before he killed me?

Someone was yelling, and of course the voice was coming from my house. The sound bounded up the driveway, and the old woman who lived next door gave me a sad look, but she turned and walked away like everyone else. That’s all anyone ever did was walk away.

The yell sounded again, and it wasn’t from my mom. Oh god, it was my little brother. Bursting into a run, I yanked open the front door. My dad had Asher on the ground, his big fist hitting his little body so hard that I thought he was going to kill him. Asher must have done something really bad to upset him because Asher was Dad’s ‘golden child’ and never got hit.

“Hey, asshole,” I yelled, not even giving it a second thought until my dad’s bloodshot, livid stare found mine.

He ran at me like a charging bull, and I sucked in a breath just before he slammed me into the wall.

As I awoke to a dark room, the screams that I heard were coming from me, and they only got worse when I looked to the side of the bed. The twisted and contorted images of my father’s body, face, and eyes stared back at me. Blood was dripping from his bulging eyeballs as he crawled toward me, his back arched over in an unnatural position.

“Get away from me, stay away!”

The door to my room burst open, allowing light to pool in. My terrified wails only increased as I yanked my arms away from the men who grabbed for my arms and legs.

“No, stop. He’ll get me,” I yelled and pulled harder, but soon there were too many men to fight. They were going to trap me in this room, defenseless and unable to move with the thing that looked like my father.

My father’s head poked through the body of one of the men as it stared at me with its black eyes and mouth hanging open. A cool breeze brushed over my skin as one pale fist pressed into the mattress, and a gurgling hiss left the thing’s mouth.

I could hear swearing as my foot connected with something solid, but it only registered as something sharp was stuck into my arm.

“No, don’t drug me. He’s going to get me!”

My heart hammered in my chest, and I fought the restraints like a wild man as my body thrashed like a worm. The men didn’t listen, and the deformed shape of my father crawled onto the bed and sat on my chest, staring down at me. It got so close that our noses were touching and every hair on my body rose on end. The door to my room was closed and locked, bathing the room in an unearthly darkness. I couldn’t breathe, and gulped at the air trying to fill my lungs.