The Boy
By: Aaron Finos
The boy sat underneath the table. He was terrified. Terrified from the truth, from what he did, and of what was still to come. He didn't think what he did was wrong, but his parents will certainly think otherwise. Last time all he did was spill his milk and he received a quick slap across the face. This time it was far worse, it was more then just crying over spilt milk.
At only eight years old the boy understood the difference between good and bad parents. He ran his hands through his knotted and dirty black hair as he thought about what a good parent was. Someone who didn't strike their child when the smallest wrong took place. Someone whose best friend wasn't Jack Daniel. Someone who actually loved their children. By his definition, he knew he did not have the gift of good parents.
He had been hiding underneath this table for the past three hours. It was night now, around eight o' clock if he assumed correctly. His father will be returning from his car mechanic job very shortly, and his mother should awaken from her drunken sleep. It was the same every night. If his father had a good day he'd bring his mother into their bedroom together and... well the boy doesn't know what they do together in that room, but they certainly do make enough noise. After that his father would go out back and smoke. He didn't smoke cigarettes or cigars though. Whatever it was it took a lot of preparing before he could stick it in his mouth. If he had a bad day he would come home, slam the door, and start yelling for the boy’s mother. He would immediately start hitting her, and make her cry. The boy never understood what exactly she did to deserve this but he didn't dare ask. Whatever the reason was, it was probably the same reason why he gets treated the same way right after that.
A set of moving lights shone through the window. They moved from left to right, illuminating the dark room temporarily. A picture of Jesus Christ could be seen for a split second as the lights hit the picture. His father was home.
He heard the loud rumble of the engine as it was turned off. A single tear rolled down the boy's cheek. He could feel the warmth of the tear on his cold, cold face. He focused all his thoughts on that tear, on the warmth. He began to picture himself in some far off place, on a warm seaside with his toes in the sand. The boy's father slammed his truck door which quickly brought the small boy back to reality.
"Jesus fucking, Mary and Joseph!" his father yelled. "Woman, where the hell are you?"
The screen door to the front opened and the boy's mother walked out. "I'm right here, honey," she answered.
"I lost my job, I lost my fucking job," he said as he kicked his truck. "Shit! I dented my truck, I dented my fucking truck! My foot! My fucking foot! God damn it, this isn't my day."
The boy knew that his father would beat him tonight, before and after he found out what he did. Nothing this bad has ever happened to his father before. His mother and father started to discuss the situation at hand as the boy began to think about what was still to come. A wave of fear washes over him as he thinks. Never before has he felt so much fear. Fear for himself, fear for his mother, and fear for anything or anyone who gets in his father's way.
His father began to scream and yell at his mother. Every second word that came out of his mouth was the type of word that a normal parent would prevent their children from using. He heard the sound of skin hitting skin. It started. Even though he couldn't see what was happening he knew every detail. It was always the same. His father would have her by the arm so she couldn't escape. He would slap her continually until her face was red, and her eyes were filled with tears. The thought of the situation began to make him feel nauseous. He could feel the spurts of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had to do something. Sitting underneath this table sulking wasn't going to accomplish anything.
The boy ran from his hiding spot towards his parents. He emerged from the darkness into the bright front porch light. Still running, he reached his parents and began hitting his father.
His father refrained from hitting the boy's wife and looked down at the eight-year-old nuisance, tapping his leg.
"Damn it boy, get the hell away from here," he said as he took a swing at him with his fist. It hit him directly in the face and sent him flying through the air and into the ground. As the boy struggled to get to his feet he could taste a coppery liquid on his lips. It was the blood that was gushing from his nose. His broken nose.
He could barely stay on his feet. It was like there was an invisible ghost continually trying to knock him over. Somehow he managed to stay on his feet and he walked back over towards his parents. He didn't know exactly what he was doing but he still kept walking.
His father let his mother go and looked down at the boy. "What do you think you're doing, you little ingrate? Haven't learned your lesson yet or are you back for more? Go make yourself useful and get my bottle."
The boy just stood there, in the shadow of his father.
"I'll get your bottle for you," his mother said as she ran into the house. The boy could hear her crying.
His father stared down at his son. "What are you doing? You know you're just asking for trouble."
The boy just stood there, motionless. He couldn't move. He was frozen from something, whether it was from fear, anger, or hate. He just wasn't going to move. All the drinking, the yelling, the smoking, and the abuse. He wished it could all end and they could be a normal family, but he knows that can never be.
His father's eyes narrowed as he looked down at his son, who he liked to call a “mistake”. The boy wouldn't move so it was his job to move him. As he raised his hand ready to strike the bloody nosed boy again, his wife called for him from inside their house.
"Uh, Honey, it's not here. None of it. It's all gone." The boy's crime had finally been revealed. He could hear her crying again from inside, she knew what the boy had done. "None of your drink is here. I don't know where it is." The boy could hear the fear in her voice. He hoped that disposing his father's liquor would convince him that he has a problem.
"What did you do with my liquor, son? You better tell me or you'll get the beatin' of a life time," his father yelled.
The boy looked down at his Father's fists. He was clenching them so tightly that they had turned white. He knew there was no way out of this one, and he was going to accept whatever punishment he was about to get.
"I dumped it all down the river," the boy said. To his surprise he wasn't afraid, even though he knew what might come next.
The boy's father stared once again at his son. He lowered his fists and took a deep breath. His mother came to the door and looked out. The boy could see her tear filled red eyes.
"You stupid kid!" he yelled as he sent another fist in his sons general direction. It hit him in the side of the face and once again the boy found himself eating the dirt on the ground. "I'll kill you, boy!"
"No!" his mother yelled as she ran towards her abusive husband. She grabbed his arm before he had the chance to hit their son again. His father immediately turned his attention to his wife. He punched her in the face and she also found herself on the cold ground. "Run! Run away and don't ever come back!" she yelled to her son.
The boy staggered back to his feet. He knew that if he ran his father would beat his mother senseless. If he stayed he would still beat his mother senseless and then kill him. The boy had no choice. He took one last look at his family as his eyes began to fill with tears. If only he hadn't dumped his father's bottles this never would have happened. The boy turned around and started to run towards the forest.
He ran through the forest. It was pitch black and he had no idea where he was going. The sounds of the wind and the animals made him nervous. He could hear wolves howling in the background. They were hunting. The boy would be easy prey for a pack of wolves especially because he was injured. The boy started to get dizzy from running and from the loss of blood due to his broken nose.
He came to a break in the trees where a road passed through. It was highway 97, the main highway that ran through his town. He couldn't go any further, he had been running for twenty minutes straight and he was exhausted. He sat down on the edge of the road to rest and catch his breath.
In the far distance he could see two lights, gradually getting brighter and larger as they moved towards him. The boy started to shake from fear as he suspected that it was his father, coming to finish the job.
The lights stopped in front of him. They were shining in his eyes so he couldn't make out who it was. The boy didn't move, he didn't want to run any more. He was just going to sit here and take it.
The door to the vehicle opened and he could make out the foot that hit the ground. It wasn't his father's foot that was for sure, unless his father started wearing high heels. As the person moved towards the boy, he could easily make out the face. It was a women, in about her late thirties. Her long blond hair was swaying in the wind as she lowered herself to his level to speak to him.
"My God, son. What happened to you? Are you all right?" she asked.
The boy could smell her sweet perfume. She wasn't wearing a lot but it made the boy feel at peace. "Um... Uh..." were the only words he was able to throw into the air.
"Come with me, son. I'll bring you somewhere safe. Somewhere where you will never be hurt like this again." The sound of those words made the boy feel like he was in heaven. No more yelling, no more hitting, no more pain, and this woman who he didn't even know was going to help him.
She picked him up and started carrying him towards her car. "What's your name son?" she asked.
His parents had never called him by his real name before and now this woman wanted to know what it was. Just the fact that this woman wanted to know his name made the boy realize that from now on everything was going to be all right.
"My name? My name is..."