Diamond Shards

Chapter 1 : Vasquez

A timid good-looking man walked on a cracked sidewalk towards a worn-down wooden bench. The clouds were dark gray, ready to pour rain and shoot bolts. He sat on the brown plank and stretched his legs. Due to a previous traumatic injury, Bryce's head jerked sideways causing him mild pain that he was now used to.

He glanced over his shoulder to see kids playing on the swings. Middle schoolers. One of them shouted at the other, "Fuck you, Dylan! Your mom doesn't pick you up on time because she's on a wheelchair!" causing Bryce to chuckle.

The rain began to shoot down heavily. Bryce stood and continued walking. He slipped his gray hood on, covering his long wavy dark brown hair. Thunder roared above him. The memories of his childhood began flashing in his eyes. The pain in his mother's eyes. The evil smile on his father's face as he punched them both, mother and son. He shook away the memories, but it was no use. He was no longer present, but in the past.

He could remember vividly the first beating he received from his alcoholic father at the age of seven. There had been little work in their small town in Texas, and Bryce's father had been on lay off from his current job. Bottles piled on the dining table and Mexican ballads were being blasted from a small speaker. His drunk father sang along with teary eyes, but an angry aura. Bryce was in the living room trying to put together a SpongeBob puzzle, one where the sponge and the sea star were catching jellyfish with smiles. He can still remember thinking that the puzzle was going to be incomplete in the end because of a missing piece since it was bought off the thrift store. Just like his clothes.

The father's nose began to twitch, and he let out a small girlish sneeze. Bryce giggled, but at Patrick's goofy reaction in the image of the puzzle. His father turned to look at him, who was staring down at the cartoon puzzle with a cheerful expression. He growled and stood from the almost-broken chair. He almost stumbled, but managed to walk towards Bryce, who was still looking down at his puzzle.

"What are you laughing at, brat," he said, slurring over a few of his words. Bryce turned to look at him, half confused, and half scared. No longer amused. His father grabbed him by the collar of his school shirt, and Bryce asked what was wrong. "We have no money, Bricey! We don't have anything! Why are you laughin'!"

The present Bryce tried to flash forward through the memory but couldn't.

Bryce's seven-year-old face was now covered with only fear. He put his hands up to cover his face from his father's. The grown man raised his beefy arm, grown from years of lifting metal beams and carrying heavy tools. The stereo was now silent in the man's ears, he could only hear his angry pulsing heartbeat, and his son's gasps of fear. Blood covered the puzzle, on the yellow sponge's smile. A small tooth laid beside it. The child would lay on the carpet floor, wearing a purple bruised cheek. He would one day grow used to this rare routine.

His mother fled shortly after, running off with her sisters. Bryce would endure his father's abuse through his childhood onto his teenage years. His body grew into a well-shaped muscular tone, making it seem like he hit the gym daily.

As a freshman, his classmates ignored him due to the bruises on his cheeks, varying each month. They labeled him as a delinquent, sometimes even a thug. During lunch break, he'd sit in the corner of the small cafeteria reading a novel. Freshman year was the age of D.H Lawrence for him.

He would walk home, even during rainy and snowy days. The streets were filled with food stands and other students having conversations with one another. Bryce couldn't help but feel left out in a small town where everyone was connected except for him.

One day during March, he decided to continue walking instead of stopping to stare at his classmates. He walked through the mid-class neighborhood where most of the lawns were well kept and the houses were starting to look worn down. There was a singing bird on a tree branch. The wings of freedom thought Bryce. I need to find mine. The bird flew out of sight, leaving Bryce to ponder alone.

He continued his journey home, arriving shortly after his pondering session. His father was laying down on the couch, looking half dead. He reeked of sweat and beer. Bryce placed his black book bag on his bed and walked into the kitchen to find himself a snack. His father waved him over with a trembling hand. Bryce walked over.

"Take me to the hospital, Bricey," he spoke with a weak voice. Bryce stared at his hungover father with confusion and a dash of fear, just like when he was a kid. He grabbed his father and helped him to his feet. He leaned on his son's shoulder, and they walked together to the car outside. They didn't bother to lock the door, they had nothing worth stealing. Bryce entered the driver's seat after helping his father to the front passenger seat. "I'm sorry, Bricey. For hitting you, I mean."

"Dad, it's fine," he lied.

His dad spoke, sounding almost as he was about to faint, "That ain't me. When I drink that shit, it ain't me."

He passed out, leaning his head against the window. Bryce continued to drive slowly; his mind filled with driver's anxiety. He thought about random kids jumping into the road without seeing his small black vehicle. Their bones being crushed under his wheels. He would be held responsible and be sent to juvie, then when he'd turn eighteen, it'd be off to jail with him.

Bryce thought and shook away those dark thoughts. Now is the time to drive responsibly to the hospital.

He arrived and dragged his father to the waiting room where he was quickly attended. This wouldn't be the first time, nor the last.

His summer was uneventful. Bryce spent it reading. On weekends, he received beatings from his father. On a hot afternoon, he stepped out to read his copy of The Shining on the porch as he'd breathe in the fresh air. And then he saw a moving truck with a young woman staring out the window. She had dirty blond hair and a gorgeous face. An Instagram model perhaps? Thought Bryce as he looked up from his book. She glanced at him, causing him to quickly look back down to his book. The truck continued moving down the road, towards the sun, and soon out of sight.

That night, he sat up on the edge of his bed, not being able to sleep. The loneliness began to creep in, transforming into icicles of sadness that stabbed his heart. He looked at his phone. Who would I contact? He thought. When there's no one to reach out to, who do I ask?

He let himself lay back and feel the void in his heart. What's the point of a successful career in the future if I can't be happy about it? I can't be happy about anything. He clenched his fist and punched his wall, but not with enough strength to punch through it. He thought, I don't want the nine to five life. Waking up, working, eating, sleeping. I want purpose.

He stood and walked to his window. He opened it and stared out into the starry night. The sky was dark blue with stars spread out all over its surface. He glanced over to his father's pocketknife on their dining table across his room. His feet were cold against the old wooden floor. He touched his throat with two fingers and rubbed it gently. Bryce took a step forward towards the dining table but stopped himself. He looked back out into the night sky, a green star specifically. It glowed brightly, and his head jerked with pain. He fell onto the floor and passed out. He would not wake up the same.