Echoes of Divergent Paths

Chapter 15

Jake

I woke up in the same position I fell asleep in. Using my good arm, I pushed myself up and crawled over to the clean clothes that my father had left for me. Trying my best, I pulled the shirt over my injured body, with every slight movement of my arm causing excruciating pain. I grabbed my old notebook, putting it into my fragile backpack, and walked out of the basement heading to school.

I knew that I would be the talk of the class for missing three days of school at the start of the school year. But I did not care. Escape from my prison was more important to me. And it had also been a long summer without my good friend, Claire.

As I walked into the school building, to say that people were staring at me was an understatement. In the past 15 years, I had walked the school grounds unnoticed, like a ghost. But now, the amount of staring was scaring me. Then I saw her, Claire, standing by her locker, talking to another girl. I stood there staring at her; she was even more beautiful than I remembered. I started to walk towards her, and then I saw Roy. The stab of pain in my heart was indescribable. I turned into the nearest hallway and attempted to disappear. But as I was turning, Roy called out, "Jake, where have you been?"

Claire's face snapped towards my direction, and she began to run toward me, falling into my arms. I flinched from the pain but hugged her back with my good arm. Breaking the hug, she looked up at me and said with a smile, "You have grown." Then she frowned and asked the question I knew was coming: "Where have you been these past three days? I was so worried."

I wanted to tell her everything, but then Roy walked over to us, and my mind went blank. "I was sick," I replied. She looked at me, reading through my lie, and nodded.

"What happened to your arm?" She pointed towards my injured arm that had not been cooperating with me.

"Oh, nothing," I replied. Pulling all my strength and holding back the pain, I lifted my injured arm to show her nothing was wrong. Then the first-period bell rang.

I walked behind Claire and Roy, towards our first class. Walking into the classroom, I took my seat at the back. And then Mrs. Evelyn, our teacher, came into the room and started by taking attendance. When she called out my name, she asked for me to meet her after class. I just never thought that it would become a regular occurrence.

As the school year progressed, Mrs. Evelyn became extremely concerned about my condition. As I got older, the bruises on my skin became more pronounced. For days I could walk around with deep cuts on my body or dark black and blue patches, even the limping would get her worried.

Last week, my father wore a ring, and when he punched me in the face, his ring cut me. The cut was deep and hurt a lot, but when I came to school, Mrs. Evelyn stopped the class, took hold of my arm, and dragged me out of the classroom. She brought me into the teacher's lounge, sat me down, grabbed a damp towel, and began to clean my wound.

She looked into my eyes once, and then her focus went back to the wound.

"How did you get this, Jake?" she asked.

I continued to stare at her hand, and then at the ring on her finger. I was afraid to tell her. I understood I was a big fifteen-year-old boy afraid to tell the truth. But I did not want to become an orphan. I also knew that if she were to tell or even ask my father, then my father would get mad, and I would get hurt.

Mrs. Evelyn saw that I did not want to tell her what happened, so she said, "The truth will come out one way or another, even if it is not today." I looked up at her. I was confused about what she meant by that, but I got up and followed her back into the classroom.

When I arrived home, my father came storming in my direction. "What did you tell them, you little prick?" he yelled in a very loud voice. I looked at him, lost, "I didn't tell anyone anything," I protested. My father took his right hand and hit my already sore cheek hard, sending my body flying in the other direction. He continued yelling and screaming in my face. I wanted to hide because he began to scare me. "You put our family in danger, you don't think before you speak." He began to kick me over and over, knocking the air out of my lungs. My father took my limp body and threw me down the stairs. He locked me inside.

I stayed locked in the basement for days. My father would toss some food to me from time to time. Every day, he beat me to teach me his cruel lessons. I missed two weeks of school. When I returned, I was a mess. Mrs. Evelyn was no longer my teacher; she had been fired for complaining about a student, and I knew that student was me.

When Claire saw me, she gasped, left Roy, and came running to me. Her eyes were filled with worry as she hugged me, her tears soaking my shirt.

"I thought something happened to you; you scared the life out of me," she said, her voice trembling with tears.

I was too weak to reply, too hungry to concentrate. As she let go, pain in my rib flared up again, prompting me to grab my side and apply pressure. She took my wrist and led me to the girl's bathroom. There, she sat me down on a toilet seat and knelt beside me. "Are you okay?" she asked. I nodded and closed my eyes, the pain intensifying. I tried to apply more pressure on my rib, but she gently pulled my hand away, lifted my shirt, and revealed the extent of my injuries. Even I was shocked at the sight of my body, covered in black and blue bruises, swollen spots, and bloody patches. The scars upon scars told the never-ending story of my father's abuse.

Claire pulled my shirt back down, unable to look at it any longer. "Why?" she asked. "Why won't you tell anyone?" I looked into her green eyes and slowly exhaled. Then I explained my fear of telling anyone. I didn't want to leave my little brother Jordy behind and risk him becoming my replacement. Despite him barely knowing me, I loved him. I would rather endure my family's brutal beatings until the day I die than subject my little brother to the life I have endured.

We cut school, and Claire brought me to her home, where she tended to my wounds. As she saw the wounds on my arms, legs, and back, her hatred for my father grew. I felt horrible that she had to witness this. The bruises on my back were so dark and nasty; I didn't need to look to know. My father had relentlessly kicked my back, leaving unmistakable marks.

When it was time for me to leave, Claire hugged me tightly for a minute or longer. She then whispered in my ear, "Please come straight to my house if it gets too extreme; you are always welcome here." I returned home and instantly fell asleep in the basement. My dreams took me to my mother, who cared for me as I rested my head on her shoulder.