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  Green Valley High School, home of the Trojans, I’m only here to get the damn paper that says I graduated so I can get a job at the local Mobile Movers moving company. It’s manual labor, moving trailers and people’s shit, but they require a high school diploma to work there. I may not have options, but I have a plan. And I will do what I need to in order to see this through. While I may not have the best plan, it’s my plan. I will make shit work for me even if it takes me extra effort to do so.

  I may come from shit, but I will rise out of this and be better than the fuckers who made me.

  Chapter Eight

  ~Avery~

  “A very, precious Avery.” His voice grates, crawling down my spine as he whispers in my ear. “Such long, pretty hair. Your mom always says your hair is so soft, so silky. She wants her hair to be like yours.”

  My hair drives me insane. My mom asks me to keep growing it out. I want something easy. She works in a children’s oncology clinic. Seeing all those kids lose their hair from chemo, she wants us both to do what we can to be a blessing. So, I grow my hair out and then at thirteen inches, I will get it cut, donate it, and some kid gets a wig. The process then begins again and the whole time, she tells me how beautiful my hair is reminding me it’s going to make someone else happy. Sometimes I don’t want to make someone else happy, I just want to find my happy. Butch, though, he uses it against me. He uses anything and everything he can against me.

  “Butch, please,” my voice cracks as he yanks on the strings that tie my hands behind my back. I tug again wishing I could find relief from my bindings and a way to escape this hell. The quicker I give in, the quicker he will finish, I try to calm myself.

  “Thought you’d fight me; thought you’d fight giving me what’s mine. I married your mom just to have you.” The words make my stomach roil. The fantasy of the happy family we could be left a long time ago.

  He presses firmly between my shoulder blades, forcing my chest into the kitchen table.

  The pain. I know the pain that is sure to come. He kicks my feet apart after yanking my pants and underwear down. Each breath becomes harder to take as I anticipate what’s coming.

  The bile rises.

  I swallow hard.

  He grunts behind me as he presses in.

  I inhale, fighting back the tears. My chest hurts as it tightens, begging for oxygen. I try to breathe. I can’t find the calm. I can’t find the air.

  I need my inhaler.

  I won’t ask him to stop; he will just make it last longer.

  With every thrust, I choke, needing oxygen.

  Fighting to calm myself, I try to zone out, focusing on the need to breathe in through my nose and out my mouth. He won’t break me. No matter the many ways he fooled my mother, fooled me, he won’t break my spirit. One day, I will be out of here. One day this will be a tragedy from my past, but simply a part of my past. This will not be my forever.

  The air permeates with the smell of his sweat and sex as he continues to press in and out of my ass. I will bleed. It will burn for days to come. I will endure, though.

  Butch Sanders doesn’t get me, my love, or my adoration anymore. The man is a snake in the grass.

  I was six when he came into our lives. I was six when I believed he could be my daddy. I was six when I nodded my head and gave my mother permission to marry him. See, I can’t even just blame her. She asked me if I was okay with their relationship. I was at the time. Back then he came into our world, let our love build, and let our dreams come true. At six I was overjoyed to have Butch as my step dad. I was six when I allowed the devil to have my heart. Shame on me for falling for his lies.

  I was twelve the first time he touched me.

  For six years, I lived in bliss, believing in the good this man could be. He did all the things a dad should do. He taught me to throw a ball. He taught me to ride a bike. He used to start my mom’s car before she would leave for work and tell me how a man does this for his woman so she knows she’s treasured. He wanted to teach me things. Often times, he would adjust his work schedule to take me to school or pick me up after so I wouldn’t have to ride the bus. When mom would have an extra day off, he would take us all out to the lake to go fishing or just have a picnic. It was like everything my mom and I did actually meant something to him. This man, he wanted to spend time with us and we were important to him.

  Then, when I turned twelve, my mother asked Butch to “talk to me about the birds and the bees,” her exact words. Butch decided a real lesson was in order. How or why he snapped, I don’t think I will ever understand.

  He took me camping, just the two of us. This wasn’t uncommon. Often times, she would go with us only to be called back to town for a patient. Sometimes the kids didn’t have good reaction to the chemo and other treatments would be necessary. It happened and neither Butch or I faulted her for it.

  My mother knew anything outdoors was not my thing. I have severe asthma. I have never been able to do what all the other kids can do. I take three inhalers and two controller medications every day. Even with all that, I still need my rescue inhaler at least twice a month from some trigger or another. The doctors thought I would outgrow it, but I haven’t. Regardless of how much it irritated my lungs, I would go knowing I would be living with my inhaler practically glued to my hand.

  We were in the woods with no one around to hear me, save me, or see me as Butch took what he wanted from my body. He was teaching me what a man would want, how a man should take, and he made it clear the pain he would put both me and my mother through if I told a single soul.

  I will never forget that first time. In the last three years since then it happens more and more frequently. He is like a man in the desert seeking water.

  I fight back the tears as I feel my insides pull and tear from his onslaught. Refusing to vocalize my pain, I don’t grunt. The only noise between us is him thrusting and my body pressing into the table over and over. I can’t catch my breath. From the inside out I am in pain.

  “My little treat, my treasure,” he whispers like always as he stills inside my ass with his hot juices spilling out and trailing down my thighs.

  Abruptly, he yanks out. I feel my ass cheeks clench, finding relief. The burn is bad, but he’s done worse. Once again, I survive. My breathing comes in pants as my body seeks air.

  As he bends down to lift his pants to cover himself, he bites my right cheek hard, no doubt leaving a mark. Then he smacks my ass on each side before I feel the knot release in the strings around my wrists. I want to vomit.

  Walking away with a whistle, Butch is a satisfied man.

  I lift myself up slowly, my chest heaving, seeking oxygen as panic and pain try to control me. Twisting my wrists, I loosen them before I bend over to lift my pants and underwear, covering myself enough to get to my bathroom and wash him off.

  Butch continues to whistle all the way to the garage where he no doubt will have an after-sex cigarette. He will ignore me for the rest of the night since my mother will be home in an hour or so. She will be so lost in whatever happened at work today she won’t even notice when Butch doesn’t join us for dinner.

  It’s a tangled mess.

  The man is sick. He’s twisted in the way he touches me, watches me. Yet, every time after he does what he does, he can’t bring himself to look at me.

  Then again, I can’t look at me either.

  I shuck my clothes off after I turn the water on, all the way to hot. While cold air would ease my breathing, I need to wash him off which requires the hottest water I can get. With my chest still tight and seeking air, I reach in the cabinet and grab my emergency inhaler. Two puffs and I feel the tension in my chest loosen as my airway opens up.

  What did I do to ask for this?

  Stepping under the spray, I let it scald my skin.

  How did I end up in this situation?

  I have never been normal. While all the kids wanted to run and play, my body revolted the idea. When the seasons change, I can bar
ely walk outside without the air borne allergens causing my airway to tighten, narrow, and restrict all the flow of oxygen. The only relief I can find comes from several puffs of medicine.

  My body is skinny, lanky, even with the steroid inhalers. The doctors told my mom to expect me to gain weight and get a rounded face, but I didn’t. For years, I have had the same regimen of medication and I’m still beanpole skinny. I have chicken legs and my face could be on a poster for anorexic teens anywhere.

  I can’t fight back against a man Butch’s size.

  I tried to the first few times. That’s why he ties my hands now. When I fight him, he makes it worse. The things he has done … the things he has stuck inside me …

  I heave inside the shower. Curling into a ball, I slide down the wall until I’m sitting in the bathtub, letting the water scald me as I hold my stomach, continuing to heave until the contents spill out into the bath. It mixes … the water, the puke, his come, and my blood.

  It all mixes.

  I watch it get sucked down the drain, wishing I could drown in it all.

  There is no escape.

  There is no reprieve.

  There is nothing.

  My chest tightens as the panic attack assaults me and I relish the pain. My breaths come in heavy pants as my body trembles from the shock.

  No air.

  I can’t breathe.

  I’m suffocating.

  The air is thick; the steam from the shower building higher and higher.

  The water pelts down on me. My skin is red from the temperature. I don’t reach out and escape. I take the pain.

  Breathing in, I find no air.

  My body hiccups, trying to find clean air.

  Nothing here is clean.

  My eyes roll back.

  Blackness, it’s all I see.

  I find comfort in it.

  Chapter Nine

  ~Mitchell~

  T he trailer park Mom got us kicked out of has a covered bus stop. It’s a small, cement block, three-wall shelter with a tin roof. Last night, with my duffle bag as my pillow, I slid under the built-in bench and made myself a crash pad for the night.

  It is far from staying in a penthouse suite, but it kept me out of the elements at least for one night. While I would gladly crash here every night, I’m not stupid enough to believe it’s possible. It is only a matter of time before someone figures out what I am doing and kicks me out. At least it’s something for right now, though. I will take what I can get.

  I am so tired. It’s early morning. I don’t know what time, but it’s before any of the kids have come out to find me here. Which is good. I need a minute to get my shit together.

  Slowly, I slide out from my spot and stretch. Looking around, I find no one around watching so I reach in my duffle and yank out a new shirt, changing quickly. My pants will have to work until after school.

  While the football team practices, the boys’ locker room will be open. I can take a quick shower there. Maybe I can manage to wash some clothes by hand if time and traffic permits. It won’t be the first time I have used the school facilities. My mom has always been inconsistent with the utilities staying on.

  Going to the dumpster, I look for blankets and garbage from our old place. I noticed the men cleaning it out last night before I took shelter at the bus stop. Bernadette never returned for me or our things. Again, I am not surprised. I gave up hope of having a mom who gave a shit a long fucking time ago. Little boy dreams died before I could even realize I was holding onto some sort of hope for a different life.

  I fight the urge to punch the dumpster as I look the few meager belongings we had over. Someone’s garbage bag busted over the two blankets I can easily reach, so those are going to need cleaning. Too bad I don’t have a place to store them until I can get them cleaned. I will have to leave this shit. I have enough mix of clean and dirty in my bag as it is. While a blanket or two would be nice to hold onto in the winter months in case I don’t have a place to live, I can’t lug these around with no real plan to get them cleaned. I will have to scavenger for blankets when the seasons change.

  My stomach growls loudly, reminding me I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. I snag a few cigarette butts from the ground and a busted lighter. Okay, forget scrounging for scraps right now; I need to make sure I catch the bus. As tired as I am, my body needs the ride to school and the free breakfast. If I miss the bus, I will be expending extra calories to make the walk. Right now, every calorie counts. The food at school meets health standards leaving little fat for my body to store. There also isn’t enough food on the tray for me to sang something to save for later. When I can, I try to pick through the trash cans at school, however, I have learned the custodians empty those cans right after the final lunch period. In order to have a chance at that, I have to make an excuse to get out of class with my backpack. My stomach growls again and I feel the acid building where I am no eating away my insides with the level of hunger I currently face.

  I light one of the almost burned cigarettes knowing if I can inhale just a few drags of the nicotine, it will fill my body and make the hunger stop for a little while anyway. I started smoking last winter when it was in the thirties and I didn’t have a winter coat. I found lighting the butts and keeping them burning warmed my hands. Now, though, I find even a quarter of a cigarette wards off hunger pains for a little bit. Sometimes I only get a drag or two before there is nothing left to smoke, but it will get my mind and body off the lack of food.

  I settle back in at the stop, on the bench, and wait. Other kids come, but none of them speak to me. I’m sure my hair is a mess because, honestly, the last time I cut it was two weeks ago in art class with the school-provided scissors, and I didn’t do a good job. Typically, I smell. I can’t help it. I’m a teen boy who is trying to get through puberty. I wake up with a hard-on, I sweat without doing anything, and I have acne. I’m not the kind of guy all the girls are lining up to make out with.

  My mother never even attempted to come home last night. I watched. I waited.

  Like the pathetic son-of-a-bitch I am, I fucking hoped.

  Well, Ma, lesson learned.

  I knew it deep inside, but now my head gets it as hard as my heart – I’m alone in this life. Always have been, always will be.

  The bus comes not long after a few kids arrive, but none of them join me under the shelter. On the bus no one sits with me. They keep their space as always and pretend I’m not there. It’s okay. I prefer it this way. No friends mean no questions. No questions mean I don’t have to come up with answers I don’t have.

  Why is my life such a fucked-up mess? I can only say: it’s because I never should have been born.

  How am I supposed to tell someone that my mom doesn’t want me around except to claim me for some food stamps and on her tax return … I think.

  When the Mobile Movers were moving in a trailer two spots down, I asked the guy if I could get a job. That’s how I found out I needed my diploma. He also said I would need a social security card to get a work permit to work at fifteen anywhere.

  I managed to get my social security card from her last year after I lied and said the school nurse needed it to give me the free flu shot.

  I may have to wait three years for Mobile Movers to hire me, but that doesn’t mean I won’t bust my ass for someone else in the meantime. A job means money. Money means clean clothes, food in my belly, and maybe, one day, a shower I’m not sneaking in at school.

  All in due time , I remind myself.

  The bus ride is bumpy, and as soon as I get off, I head straight to the cafeteria for breakfast. Two small-ass, rubber-feeling pancakes smothered in syrup down with some plastic looking scrambled eggs, and an orange only take the edge off my hunger.

  The first part of the day passes in a blur. Pains shoot through my stomach regularly. Math with Mrs. Morris is my last class before lunch. Then I have to deal with Mr. Hill after lunch. With the way he’s been acting lately, he won’t let me out
of class to sort through the trash to see what I can stuff away for later. I just have to get through this to have a chance to put a little more substance in me. One meal at a time, it’s how I will have to face shit right now.

  Hunger pains, the real ones that come from deep inside, are distracting. The problem is outside of these free meals at school are my only promised portions. I might dumpster dive. I might eat shit most people would be repulsed by, but I’m not a thief and I am not someone’s pity case. I get by on my own.

  I take my seat just before a loud growl rushes out of my stomach.

  The bus broke down this morning and by the time they sent another one to pick us up we were late to school. Since I get free food and the school can’t take away our meals, I was able to grab a banana, apple, and a piece of toast. Somehow, the cafeteria didn’t know there was a late bus so the food was cleared leaving the few of us who do eat breakfast at school little choice with our meal. It just wasn’t enough to hold me over till lunch obviously.

  I feel my cheeks heat. Avery turns around to look at me.

  Avery Collins sits in front of me every day with long blond hair, tight pants, and shirts that always have a collar.

  Pretty.

  Too pretty.

  Metro.

  High-class.

  Everything I will never be literally sits right in front of me.

  “You okay, Mitchell?” There is so much concern in every word. It almost makes me want to smile.

  “Growing boy, I gotta eat,” I joke, wishing I could smoke in school.

  Avery turns back around without another word.

  There are nine-hundred and twelve students in this school. Nine-hundred and eleven of them never speak to me. Except Avery Collins.

  Avery is the only one who doesn’t look the other way when seeing me. Avery is the only one who dares to ask if I’m okay.

  Class begins with Mrs. Morris going on and on about scientific equations while Avery scribbles away at something. Is it class notes? Is it a drawing?