The Boy Next Door

Chapter 1

I try to survive like a good boy. Try to survive the hard beatings, the raging storms of fury, and the starvation without complaining. Sometimes in those unlucky moments I let my voice slip and grunt a protest to the horrid of life, then my mother would come down into my room and yell and scream. Sometimes she'd even throw my books and rock collection that I was lucky enough to smuggle into the house without getting in trouble. I try to survive, but sometimes while I'm beaten and lying on the cold cement floor of my room with blood stains from my weakened body, I tend to think about another life. One not so hard and unforgiving. One where I could be loved and appreciated. Only in those moments do I feel hurt and guilty for thinking of leaving my mother. Even though she beats me into a bag of bones and skin, she's my mother, right? You always love your mother no matter what, right?

If that is so, why do I feel a burning hate whenever I see or hear her coming down the stairs? Why is it that in all of the books I've managed to find around the room, they tell of a loving mother and a loving son, but all I've seen is hurt and bad things? Those stories seem like a fairytale to me. I can't imagine a world where a mother could be loving. Where the son can go to a place called 'school', or can make friends with kids his age. I know there are kids my age, I have a little brother and an older sister, both hate me too. Maybe they hate me because I can't speak like them or write. All I can do is think and grunt. I can't even form words anymore; Mother stole that away from me too. I used to when I was about five through eight. My eighth birthday present was a beating and the cutting of my tongue. It hurt a lot and there was blood everywhere.

I can't remember a time when Mother or my siblings were loving and kind. They all hate me. I'm the middle child, shouldn't Mother appreciate that. I can't cook, draw, write, speak, or make my family love me. Luckily I taught myself how to read. If in books there are siblings, mothers, and fathers, then where is my father? I've never seen a man in my life. I've never seen the upstairs house in my life. All I've known was this basement, this dirty, dripping, cluttered basement.

I look around my room now. I see my blanket on top of my hay mattress, my ten books hidden under the used pile of bike tires, tools all old and unable to work, small broken mirrors, a broken bookshelf, and the creaky rotten stairs leading to the forbidden house. Many times I've tried to go up those stairs and many times Ma caught me and kicked me down. I've given up going up those stairs when I was four, about seven years ago. How do I know this? My mother comes into my basement screaming happy birthday while beating the organs out of me. Of course she comes and goes more times than I can count, but that day is 'special'.

Carefully, I walk over to the window to look out on the deserted, powdery yard. The snow only covered the ground enough to make itself known but not enough to hide the rotting leaves underneath. The basement window is about as big as a one by two foot plank. Its frosted window is cracked which allowed the already cold room to let in snow. I grab my torn, thin comforter - which isn't very comforting anymore - and sat in front of the window on my perch of cinder blocks.

I must've fell asleep for I opened my eyes to Mother's screaming and banging. I don't know what set her off, but she came charging down the stairs and yanked me off of the cement blocks. I fall with a bang on the hard floor on my back. I groan and turn over; I need to walk this pain off. I stood and started limping away due to my leg that was broken and never set. Mother screamed her perfectly practiced rage. She grabbed my shoulders and threw me down again, letting my back hit the floor again with a sickening thud. Over and over her fists came down on my head, back, stomach, private, anywhere she could reach. Finally after what felt like hours but was only minutes, she stood and gave me one final kick. She spit on me, then left. I lay there for about twenty minutes after hearing Mother step heavily up the creaky stairs. Slowly and carefully I try to stand on newly weakened legs with a clouded mind. I have to stand still for a minute or two while my mind was clearing the cobwebs of pain, hate, and sorrow.

I walk to my pile of hay I call a bed. I carefully lay down and cover myself with a thin rotting comforter. I still can't figure out how I was born into this 'family'. After what seemed like eternity I slipped into sleep.