Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Tony’s hand squeezes mine. I haven’t spoken about my dad in a long time. It feels good to get this off of my chest.
Losing myself in thought, I say bleakly, “I remember crying all night. All damn night. I was a mess. My dog was my best friend, apart from my brother. I was a child. Every child’s pet is their best friend.” Shaking my head as if to clear it, I continue, “The next night, I came home from school and Misty was wagging her tail at me like she’d always been there. And my heart broke all over again just from thinking she was gone forever. I cried and cried all over again. And there was Dad, smiling a cruel smile, knowing he’d broken a small piece of my spirit. When my brother started taking drugs to escape life at home, I knew I had to leave. Then my brother took off one night, and I had nothing to stay for anymore. So I left.”
As I finish, I find my hand being squeezed way too tightly. I look up to find Tony’s jaw set, and I attempt to laugh it off. “Mom wasn’t a bad person, she just wasn’t very maternal and worked long hours to get away from Dad.” When his face doesn’t change, I add, “Oh, look, it’s not like he touched me or anything.”
“Abuse is abuse, babe. Doing it to your kid, though…that makes it ten times worse. He might not have put a hand on you. Doesn’t make it any less painful for the kid.”
And he is one-hundred percent right.
Abuse hurts regardless of the form.
I pluck at his fingers. “Tell me about what happened back there at the grocery store.”
“Only if you tell me about your time on the street.”
I immediately concede. “Deal.”
He clears his throat. “Yeah. Okay. So I was a street kid for a long time. Until I ended up in juvie. I did my fair share of shoplifting because, hey, I had to eat, right? All grocery stores remind me of being caught and feeling trapped. I hadn’t been to one in a long time and I forgot why. Until tonight.”
The thought of him feeling like a trapped animal makes my stomach clench. I wish I could take those memories away from him. I wish I could make it better somehow. It doesn’t justify his reaction to the young store clerk’s attendance, but I do understand it better.
Linking our fingers, I tell him, “Next time, I won’t leave you. Next time, we’ll shop together, and every time you feel like something’s sneaking up on you, you just tell me we need to leave and we’re gone. Okay?”
He doesn’t answer my question; instead, he changes the subject. “You on the street. Spill.”
I shrug. “Okay. I walked out of my home with fifty dollars in my pocket that I had stolen from my mom, and a backpack full of clothes. I wandered around, caught buses to wherever they were going, and spent a lot of time trying to be invisible. Somehow, I ended up in Chicago. It wasn’t all that bad. I met some great people on the street. A girl I became close with, Fran, would be a lookout while I would sneak into people’s yards and steal whatever we could use or sell for money to buy food. We did this for months without getting caught, and we became relaxed about it.” Looking at him pointedly, I tell him, “Way too relaxed. If you get what I mean.”
He smirks, “You got caught.”
I smile. “I did. I got busted. The old lady who owned the home called the cops because I was making so much noise. I didn’t notice them ‘til I was being read my rights and lead to the back of a police car. They knew I was underage. I didn’t say a word. Not a single word to the police. I was so scared they’d send me home. Back to the place I worked so hard to escape from. Suddenly, I’m being taken to a halfway house in the city and given a bed to sleep in ‘til they can find out some information about me.”
I chuckle humorlessly, “The thing about cops is that you don’t know how smart they are. They figured out who I really was. I spent a week in a halfway house completely grateful that I had a bed to sleep in and food to eat, that I was oblivious to what decisions were being made about my life in that time.” My face falls. “They contacted my mom.” Looking up at Twitch, I smile sadly, “She didn’t want me back.” My throat thickens and I cough to cover it. “A week passes by and the police visit me at the halfway house. The senior officer asks me if I would rather stay there,” my eyes tear up and I choke out, “or if I wanted to be someone’s daughter again.”