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After Rafael left, John spoke to me
about going back to school. Turns out while I was at Rafael’s place John
had called the school and told them I would be going in for the first
time all school year tomorrow. I put up a huge fuss but eventually gave
in once John explained to me that I would have nothing to do here while
he was at work. The buildings were practically next door to each other,
so he agreed to drive me to school in the mornings. Though, my school
uniform from last year that I would need to wear tomorrow was still at
Ron’s place. I would have to sneak into the house in the morning and
grab it before Ron woke.
Later on, John continued working on some paperwork—I never knew what he
did with those—while I surfed his laptop computer. It had been a few
months since I had even been online. I never really did much on it; I
never felt a need to. I hated all the things our society nowadays came
up with to keep ourselves occupied. They were all just sorry excuses of
modern entertainment to make ourselves feel better and take the focus
off our own pitiful lives.
The time was around 9:45PM when I noticed a message pop up in the corner
of the screen. Instinctively I clicked it, though I knew it was for
John.
While it loaded I mustered out a “John, you got a message.”
“What’s it say?”
Now the page had fully loaded. I began reading aloud but stopped when I
realized who it was concerning: me. I continued reading, this time in my
head.
It read:
“BOY OF FIFTEEN SUES ABUSIVE FATHER.”
Page 14C, tomorrow’s issue.
Thanks for the info.
-Pete, Chicago Sun-Times.
I read it over a few more times and heard John repeat his question.
“What does it say?” He asked.
I spun around to look at him. “What the fuck is this?”
He still had his back turned to me, but once I spoke he twisted in his
chair too. The look on his face looked like he had utterly no idea what
I was talking about.
“What’s going to be in ‘tomorrow’s issue?’” I raved, quoting the
message.
John’s face somewhat relaxed when he realized what I was talking about.
He stood and leaned over the couch, reading the message but not
answering my question.
“Tell me!” I raised my voice.
“Alright, alright, just stop yelling at me please,” John now raised his
voice too, to match mine. He leaned back, standing upright now. I glared
at him still, waiting for explanations.
“The Chicago Sun-Times contacted child services and managed to get in
touch with me a few days ago. They think your story would be an
interesting read in the paper.”
I paused, just staring at him, then continued to speak in clear words as
if I were talking to a child. “Don’t you understand? My father does not
know I am convicting him.” I was fuming now, and I wasn’t trying hard to
hide it. “If he reads this…” I was going to say something but I couldn’t
seem to find the right words so I shook it off.
John leaned over the top of the couch; two hands pressed into the
leather. “Shuro, it’s okay. He can’t harm you anymore now. If all of
Chicago is going to be aware of his actions, I’m thinking he is going to
be the fearful one. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, I don’t?” I started, furious. “Well what if I don’t want all of
Chicago knowing my story, huh? Did you ever think about that?” I stood,
setting the computer aside. “No, of course you didn’t. You didn’t even
bother telling me about this!” I couldn’t help but explode like this.
The words just lashed out of me like throw up. “You never consider my
feelings, do you?”
“Shuro, I was going to tell you,” John started sympathetically. “It was
going to be a surprise…”
I cut off his composed words with my violent ones. “Oh, shut up. You
were never going to tell me anything. You were going to wait until it
was published and hide it away, hoping I would never see or hear about
it, weren’t you?”
John shook his head incredulously. I could tell he was starting to get
angry himself by the way his tone changed.
“No, Shuro, of course not.” Once again he raised his voice to meet mine.
He made it seem like I was talking about something so absurd like
walking on the moon.
“Then why’d you do it?” I asked, trying to calm myself down a bit.
I waited impatiently while John took his time thinking up how to word
his next answer.
“Because you shouldn’t have to go through this alone,” he said sedately.
“I’m not alone; I have you,” I insisted.
John rubbed his lips and chin, looking down now. He sighed. “You’re
right. I should have told you sooner instead of waiting until the last
minute. But you’re only seeing things as a negative, Shuro. Think of
this as another step forward in your life. Now people will be aware of
your father and his actions and it won’t be so hard winning the case.”
“Just how much did you tell them?” I asked uneasily. I wasn’t sure I
wanted to hear the answer.
“The article is very small. I didn’t tell them much; just the basics and
about the conviction. Not so much into your personal life.”
For that I was grateful, but even still, my mind wandered back to the
fact that my story would be in the Chicago Sun-Times.
John shifted and noticed my discomfort. He sighed again. “It’s not too
late to tell them to take the article out,” he said, even though I was
doubtless that it was. The papers were probably being printed as we
spoke.
Once given the opportunity, though, I wasn’t sure I wanted the article
to be scrapped. It seemed a hell of a lot more difficult trying to get
them to stop the printing than to not. Without an answer I left the
room, heading for the upstairs bathroom where I could clear my head.
I splashed water on my face and examined my reflection; a thin,
disheveled boy with messy jet black hair like the night sky, cold brown
eyes and the occasional beauty mark on my face. My back slid down the
side of the counter and I rested my arms between my bent knees. The
tiles were cold yet somehow relieving. All the yelling that was
exchanged today echoed through my thoughts, making my head hurt.
My mind took me back to the day my father left my mother and me on our
own. The fighting and shrill screams had been unbearable. My mother had
made the mistake of exclaiming she didn’t care if he left, and that it
would actually be better for me if he did. I was hiding at the top of
the staircase when he pushed her up against the wall by the front door
and began to strangle her at the neck. I saw her legs frantically
kicking, her arms trying to release Ron’s grip. If there was any
fraction of a father-figure left in Ron at that time, it died then and
there. I panicked, not knowing what to do. I sped down the stairs
yelling at the top of my six-year-old lungs for him to free her. The
next minute I was on the ground with a stinging red cheek. At least he
did let go of her neck. My mother, with barely any air in her lungs,
fled to me and hovered over me in horror and dismay. She rubbed my
shoulders but her eyes lay piercing through the very soul of my father.
He picked up his bags and left after that, never to be seen, or at least
not for another few years.
I now tried to shove other horrible thoughts out of my head as I rested
my head down on my knees. I heard John knock at the bathroom door and
wondered how long I had been in there. I just looked up at the closed
door before he knocked again, this time asking gently “are you okay?”
I looked in another direction, considering my answer. “I guess.”
“Look, I’m sorry about the newspaper thing. I feel really bad,” came the
voice on the other side. “It was wrong of me to follow through with it
without consulting you. How can I make it up to you?”
I had actually completely forgotten about the stupid newspaper article
until he brought it up; my mind was on other subjects. “You can start by
coming in.”
Within the next few seconds I was looking up at John’s smiling face. It
lightened my mood about a hundred times over. He put his hands in his
jean pockets and stared down at me for a bit before sitting down
himself, right in front of me, once he realized I was still low and not
saying much. He just looked at me, though I tried not to make eye
contact.
My mind still burned with thoughts of the past, tormenting me and
bullying me like a sixth grader would. There was something I had been
holding back from John. Something so huge, yet seemed so microscopic
since it had been shrugged off by adults my whole life, not one of them
willing to listen to my story.
“So what do you want me to do for you?” John asked again.
I couldn’t hold back the words any longer. I finally turned to him once
I had organized my thoughts. “John,” I started. “If I told you something
extremely important, could you promise me you won’t just shrug it off?”
John’s eyes stared back with subtle puzzlement for a brief second, then
relaxed as he smiled. “It depends what it is…”
“I’m serious, John.” My eyes had never been so intense. “Please.”
John’s expression changed to match mine. “Okay,” he nodded.
I didn’t know where to begin, so I unlocked our gazes by scoping around
the room with my eyes, as if the words I was searching for would be
floating on the ceiling. John just waited patiently.
My mind replayed violent flashbacks over and over, torturing me. I
pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to shove them out. “My father…” I
began. The words wanted to come out so bad, but there was something
blocking them, something I had given in to once I gave up on trying to
tell anyone the story. “My father did it.”
John shifted in closer to me. “I don’t understand. Your father did what?
What did your father do?”
A different feeling in my throat now. A lump deep down, so powerful that
it made me choke, slowly crawling up my esophagus. I couldn’t hold
anything in any longer. “He killed my mother.” |
