Sticks and Stones

Chapter 1

I woke to pitch blackness, so dark that I blinked a few times to be sure my eyes were really open. I flicked my gaze towards my clock on the nightstand. 5:30. I inwardly groaned and quickly went to sit up, only to drop back down as my muscles screamed in protest. Mindful of my sore limbs, I carefully eased myself up onto the edge of my bed and stood up. I hobbled into the bathroom gritting my teeth.

The tile was cold on my bare feet as I crossed the small room to turn on the shower. My shower has two temperatures, the fires of Mordor or the Arctic Ocean. I twisted the knob to point towards Mordor levels. As the water heated I stepped in front of the sink. My reflection stared back at me from the large, square mirror above it: my short, wavy blond, hair mussed from sleep, fell into my chocolate brown eyes. They looked worn and weary, the dark circles under them seeming permanent by now. When was the last time I’d looked in the mirror with any real shine in them?

I peeled off my shirt and twisted around to assess last night’s damage. Dark purple and red splotches covered my skin, obscuring the mottled greens and yellows of past episodes. Like always they stopped just short of where the hems of my T-shirts come.

***

“No dad, don’t! I’m sorry! I’ll do better next time, I promise.” I whimpered as he followed me.

“This is unacceptable! Hales are not anything less than perfect, don’t you understand?” He shook my progress report at me, the single B standing out like a crow in a flock of doves. I eyed the belt in his hand, backing up until my back rested against the counter.

“Why can’t you just behave? Michael always is good. Why don’t you listen to him? Michael always does what he’s told!” he advanced across the kitchen floor.

“I can’t be Michael. He’s dead and gone and isn’t coming back!” I pleaded with him. It was the wrong thing to say. The wild light in his eyes faded, leaving them looking glassy and dead. My blood froze as he stepped closer, whiskey tainted breath hot against my face.

“You’re right. He’s gone. And it’s all because of you!” He snarled as he brought the metal buckle down on my shoulder. Tears welled up involuntarily at the pain, but I hid my face from him, turning to face the marble countertop.

“Take off your shirt.” He commanded. Wordlessly I obeyed. Fighting and yelling only made it worse when he finally won. I closed my eyes and waited for the next blow to fall, my mind already pulling me away from the dark room. The sound of leather on my bare flesh seemed far way, like it belonged to someone else and the tears running down my face were those of a stranger. I floated, watching my body with the offhanded interest people give others passing them on the street. The boy’s body begins to tremble and his legs start to buckle. He grips the counter white-knuckled, sweat running down his brow. And still his father continues to bring down the cruel leather again and again.

The sudden absence of blows pulled me back into my own skin and I dared a glance back at where my father was standing, arm half raised. His eyes were fixed on something behind me. I fearfully followed his gaze and when I saw where it rested my stomach twisted into an icy knot.

“No! I’m sorry!” I cried, attempting to bolt past him. His hand flashed out and caught my arm.

“Filth, that’s what you are.” He said, his eyes and voice dead. I struggled and thrashed, fear making me strong, but he held my wrist in an iron grip.

“Filth.” He intoned again as he dragged me towards the stove. He shoved my head down next to the burner, so close even the air was hot enough to scald my face. His hand loomed over me and I closed my eyes, waiting for my unprotected skin to be pushed into the burning metal. Instead he reached over me, snatching up the heavy, metal frying pan that had been left on the stove.

“You are scum, oil, filth! You took my family from me! This is what you deserve!” He snarled as he emptied the boiling grease from dinner across my shoulders. I dropped to the ground, mouth open but unable to make a sound. The pain was unbearable. I could feel my skin bubble and blister as I writhed on the linoleum floor, clawing frantically at my fat coated back. I reached for my discarded T-shirt, desperate to wipe the grease off. As I struggled I swore I could hear my father’s pitiless laughter echoing my screams.

***

Gingerly I traced the blotched burn scars running across my upper back. He’d stuck to beatings after that. Maybe the smell of my burning flesh had awakened some bit of human emotion inside of him. Or more likely he was running out of excuses for me to miss school. Now the bastard only hit me where it wouldn’t show.

I dropped my shorts and stepped into the shower, the hot spray soothing my aching joints and muscles. It was one of the few times I felt almost free of pain. The water that swirled down the drain by my feet was tinted red as it washed away the blood where my skin had split. At first the water stung like little needles but soon the feeling faded to a comforting numbness. My little haven only last a few minutes however. All too soon I was forced to shut off the tap and step out into the steam filled bathroom. Only ten minute showers, daddy’s orders. I dried my hair with a fresh towel and then wrapped it around my waist.

My room was a disheveled mess: clothing hung from the back of my desk chair and lay scattered on the floor where it had just missed the hamper, books were overflowing from my old oak bookcase, and plates from numerous meals were stacked on various pieces of furniture. No one ever came in here so it didn’t really matter. Whenever my friends wanted to hang out we went to Rory’s house or sometimes even Jessabell’s, but never mine. It was all I could do to escape this prison. I crossed the room to my closet and pulled one of my many graphic T’s off its hanger. This one read, “There are 10 kinds of people in this world: Those who understand binary and those who don’t.” A brief smile slipped across my face. Rory never understood why I insisted on wearing them.

“I must be best friends with the only fashion challenged faggot on the face of the planet.” Were his exact words, but that’s just kind of Rory for you, blunt and in your face. The image of him puzzling over today’s shirt, brow furrowed over questioning brown eyes, was enough to bring the smile back. I continued getting ready, acid washed black jeans, studded belt from Hot Topic, and maroon flannel hoodie completing my signature Benjamin Hale look.

After one last glance in the mirror I scooped my backpack off my desk and slung it over my shoulder. I trudged down the stairs, not bothering to be quiet. Dear old dad should be passed out on the couch by now. Hopefully not in a pool of his own vomit this time. I slipped into the living room and cast a baleful look at the old, thread-bare sofa. My father lies there in his old pajamas, his drunken snoring louder than the blaring television. The whole house is plunged into silence as I snatch up the clicker and aim it at the cable box. The old man cut off mid-snore and jolted awake from the shock of the sudden silence. He blinked bleary eyes at me, scratched unmentionable areas, and then reached for the bottle of Jack on the coffee table.

“You have to be at work in an hour.” I said, struggling to keep the disgust from my voice. I failed miserably, prompting his eyes to narrow.

“Watch your mouth with me you little faggot! If you want to keep those teeth in your head you will show me some respect. Or did that cunt of a mother teach you nothing?” He snarled, slamming down the bottle with enough force I expected it to shatter. I felt my fingers twitch into fists as the blood rushed into my face but I forced the anger back down. He wanted a fight, one I wouldn’t win.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” I muttered, keeping my eyes down. I couldn’t risk him seeing the blatant hate I’m sure radiated out of them. He grunted and I took it as a dismissal, shoving my still clenched fists into my pockets and walking towards the kitchen.

“No!” My father suddenly boomed, “Little pricks aren’t going to be fed with my money! Maybe going hungry will teach you to watch your mouth.”

My nails dug deeper into my palms but I said nothing, turning and striding out the door before he issued any more ultimatums. There’s no way I could take his bullshit this early in the morning. I shoved my headphones into my ears and cranked up the volume, Draimen retching out the beginning of Down with the Sickness. The air was hot and humid, making my breath hang around me in a cloud. I jogged down the street to the corner where Hemlock and Pine Knob met and retrieved my cell from my back pocket.