Red

Chapter 8

Nate

"Well I had a fairly normal life until around my tenth birthday. My father was fine; my mother was fine. My mom was even pregnant with my little sister," I said smiling at the faint memory. I'd been so happy back then. "Anyway, one night my dad got really drunk and had a bit of a rage. He tore through the house, breaking everything he could. The last straw was when he found me, hiding behind the couch, and, in his drunken rage, punched me in the head, knocking me out cold." I heard Mike gasp a little at that, but now that I was telling this tale, I couldn't stop; the words flooded out of my mouth.

"When I came to, I was lying on my bed, and my mother was packing all our things. She finished packing the third suitcase as I woke up, and when she saw me, she handed me a case and took my hand. She told me we were leaving, that we were going far, far away from him. So we left the safety of my room and crept past my father, who was passed out on the couch. He woke as we were getting in the car to abandon him. Somehow, I don't know, he knew where we were. He stormed out the front door, and ran toward us. My mother hurried me inside and locked all the doors as soon as we both were safely inside.

"She started to drive away, but my dad ran up to us and opened my door, grabbing me and pulling me out. My mother just sat there in shock as my father held up his own set of keys, grinning. Then he dropped the keys and whipped out a knife and held it against my throat." By now, tears were forming in my eyes as all the emotion from six years ago threatened to take over once more.

"Me," I said bitterly, "his ten-year-old son, he held me hostage against my mother."

I took my third deep breath. This was hard to talk about.

"M-my mother immediately got out the car to save me from my maniac father, but he just started backing away, toward the house, saying 'You try and rescue this kid and I'll chop his head off.' I remember my mother shouting. Well, actually, both of them shouting.

"When we got in the house, my dad grabbed a rope that he had apparently set there before hand, tied me up, and shoved me into a corner." I was crying at this point, hot tears pouring down my face, but I couldn't stop. I needed to tell this now. I needed to finish. "I-I couldn't move, so whe-when my dad started punching my mom I couldn't do anything. Not like I could do anything. I was too small.

"Then my dad pulled out the knife again and-and–" I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. Mike quickly ran to my aid, muttering comforting words. "It's okay, you don't have to finish."

"Yeah, yeah I do." When my breathing calmed down enough, I began again. "He stabbed her, over and over to the point where her blood was painted all over him. Some of it was even on me. Then he walked over to me and said: 'Looks like you're sticking around." Then he dragged her body out of the room. I still don't know where he buried her. Hours later he came back to an emotionally scarred and damaged kid soaked in his own mother's blood. He left me there, tied up and crying in a corner, for two days. After that, every night he gets drunk, and he hits me, punches me, kicks me, whatever he can to hurt me. Some days he'll just tie me up again and whispers things like 'Your mother gave her life to protect you, you sorry excuse of a man. Suck it up. I'm trying to help you. Save you.' It hurts. It hurts so much."

I just cried when I finished. I was so emotionally drained and scarred from living that over I couldn't do anything else. I sat there on the floor, crying my eyes out while Mike whispered soothing words in my ear.

I stopped crying after what seemed like ages and stood up. Mike stood with and gave me a hug. "You okay, man," he asked, pulling away and holding me out at arm's length. "Y-yeah," I said, wiping my eyes, "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just...man, I didn't know talking about it would hurt so much."

He eyed me critically. "But do you feel better?"

I nodded, pushing up my broken glasses. "Yeah, yeah, I do, actually. I feel a lot better. Emotionally drained and scarred for life, but better. It's like the elephant that's been sitting on my chest for the past six years decided it had better things to do and left." Mike cracked a smile. "Good, now let's see Clarissa. Who knows what we sounded like from out here."