Skyanna the Whirlz

Life is hard. At least, that’s what I’ve always been told. They try to lighten things up – say that things get easier the older you get – but I’ve known for a long time that’s not true. My family is a perfect example of “Hard.” When I was only seven, I knew how to avoid my parents and sneak out of the house or act asleep. I did this because it was the only way for me to survive. My father was terrible. He would beat my mother until she wailed or was knocked unconscious, and he would do the same to me if I was in range. I would always see him drunk – in fact, I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t – and he became your worst nightmare with alcohol. My mother would always rock me to sleep and tell me that when I woke up things would be better, but after she left my room I could hear her crying in hers every night; every morning things would be the same. Anything my father would do, my mother would flinch, and I felt the pain when he hit her. When I was older I tried to avoid going home at all costs. After school I would go home with a friend, and when it was time for me to leave I would beg them to let me stay. But no one knew my family’s situation. Before going to church or any public events, my mother would put tons and tons of makeup onto her bruises and scars, and many times she would arrive with a black eye. She would smile at everyone she went by, hiding the truth, and when someone would ask her, “How are you?” her answer would always be the same: “Never better.” When she went somewhere with a black eye, people would ask her what happened, and she would simply answer, “I ran into a door.” or “I hit myself accidentally with a metal kitchen pot.” There was even one time when two ladies became suspicious. They called the police and they came to our door. My mother and father acted like everything was just peachy, but I could see the pleading in my mother’s eyes. Finally the police were convinced that everything was fine, and they left us in “peace.” Once they had left and had driven down the street for a while, my father turned to my mom with rage in his eyes. He held up his fist and walked towards her slowly. “You decided to be a tattle-tale, huh?” he asked her, thinking that she had told the women. “No, please, it wasn’t me, I promise! I didn’t say a word! Please!” she pleaded back, beginning to cry and backing away. Hearing this, my father only became angrier. “Denying it won’t help you any! I know what you did, and I’ll teach you never to do it again!” Then, with great force, he did things to my mother it is painful to repeat, and he called her things I am taught never to say. After he was finished beating her, he went into his room and slammed the door. Taking this as an opportunity, mom slowly got off of the ground and limped to our car, having me help her along. We drove to a doctor’s office – the doctor a friend of my mother – and she helped her recover from her wounds. “You’re all patched up,” the doctor told her when she was finished. She looked into my mother’s eyes pityingly and gently touched her arm. I could tell that she suspected the truth. “Are you okay? Is there anything you want to tell me?” My mother squeezed her arm tightly and looked into her eyes. She was about to tell her the truth, but she closed her eyes and felt the pain of her beating. She opened her eyes and released her friend’s arm. “Please, Rebecca, don’t say anything,” she told her instead. The doctor nodded and smiled sadly. Mother and I left the doctor’s office and drove back home. When we arrived at our home, I stood by her side on our porch as she began to turn the doorknob. With her hand on the knob, she was about to open the door. But she paused, closing her eyes and shaking her head. She released the door knob and turned to me. She put her hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes intently. Then, quietly, she said, “Joshua, tonight, when your father is asleep, I want you to grab all that you can fit into a backpack, and run as far away from this house as you can. You don’t come back, and you find a family that will take care of you. You hear?” She had tears rolling down her cheeks, and so did I. “I don’t want you to see another beating, or have another sleepless night. I love you with all of my heart, Joshua, and I always will.” I hugged her and the tears flowed freely. Then I hugged her tighter as I whispered into her ear, “I love you, too, mom, and I always will.” After a long while, she pulled out of our hug and held my chin. “You promise me you’ll leave?” I nodded solemnly, and we hugged one more time. Then, when we were ready, she slowly turned the knob and we went inside.

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That evening, my dad sat in his recliner. He was watching a football game and yelling at the TV, and I sat at the kitchen table, listening quietly. It wasn’t that I didn’t like football games – in fact, I quite enjoyed watching them. I refused to go into the room while my father was in there, because if his team lost and he was drunk enough, he would throw items at anything alive in the room. Naturally, my mother stayed away in the same circumstances. When one of the players on the team dad was rooting for missed a shot, he slammed his fist onto the desk next to him, making my mother flinch. After this, she turned to me and spoke loud enough so that dad could hear. “Joshua, you should be getting up to bed. It’s close to your bedtime, and you have a big day tomorrow.” I knew what she meant and I nodded, then I went up the stairs to my room. I lay on top of my bed on my back, interlocking my fingers and resting the back of my head on my hands. I stared at the ceiling and thought to myself in the silence. What will I do when I leave tonight? I’m only 15. I sighed and got out of my bed. I figured that I should start getting things ready if I were to run away soon, so I grabbed an old backpack out of my closet and unzipped the top. I expected it to be empty, but to my surprise, there was a picture inside of the main pocket. I brought it out into the light and examined it. It was a picture of my mother and me watching the quiet ocean – her arm around me and my head on her shoulder. I smiled as I reminisced of the times when it was just her and me. My dear mother; she hadn’t always been married to the monster of my father. When she was in her late teens, she married her high-school sweetheart. He was so kind to her and loved her, and two years after they were married, they had me. Our family was happy…that is, until my father left. I remember the day he left well, though I was only 5. He kissed my mother on the forehead and rumpled my hair as he gathered a few more things. He was going off to fight for his country, but never did it cross my mind that he might not be coming back. About a year and a half after he had left, my mother was washing dishes when the phone rang. She picked it up, and after saying hello, she was silent for a long time – I could even hear the person on the other end saying, “Hello? Hello?” After a long moment, she told the person on the end, “Thank you,” and she hung up the phone. Her hands were shaking, tears filled her eyes, and she put her hands over her face as her knees buckled under her. Then she cried out in pain – not physical pain, but inner pain. She sobbed. It didn’t take me long to figure out what the man on the other end had told her, and I tried to comfort my sweet mother, but I myself was crying. For a while after my mother heard the news, it was just her and me. I missed my dad greatly, but at least I had my loving mother to comfort me. We did everything together, and it was wonderful. But after a while of looking at the bills, my mother decided that her son had to have something better. She married my stepfather, who seemed so kind at first, but once they were married, his real self came out. A tear rolled down my cheek as I looked at the photo, and I wiped it away as I came back to the real world. I put the picture back into my backpack and set it down as I gathered various things to put inside of it – A few memories, like an old baseball glove from when I was younger; some necessities, like clothes and some snacks I had in my room; and bedding, like a small pillow and a warm blanket. After finishing off my supply of things I would take with me, I zipped up the backpack and set it down as I looked at the clock on my dresser. It showed the glowing numbers “12:00”, so I quietly opened up my bedroom door and listened. One of the qualities of my stepfather now came in handy as I heard him snoring away loudly in his room. Knowing what this meant I went back to my backpack and swung it over my shoulder. As I went to my door, I stopped in front of a mirror. I looked myself over silently for a long time. After a while, I turned and examined my room. I would miss it. Sure, it wasn’t a king’s palace, and it was in the house of my stepfather, but it had memories. Finally, after I was satisfied, I went outside my bedroom door, and after one last look of my room, I closed the door. I went down the stairs as quietly as I could. Though my father would probably not wake up from a squeaky stair, as he slept like a rock, I didn’t want to take any chances – for I would not forsake my promise to my mother. Once I reached the bottom of the stairs, I went to the last door I would walk through before leaving the house forever. I put one foot outside the door, and was about to walk through the doorway, but I heard the floor creak and I whipped around, thinking it was my stepfather. Thankfully, it was only my mother. She came and stood in front of me, looking her son over. As the realization came to me that I would not see my mother for a long time – if not ever again – tears filled my eyes and I began to cry softly. My dear mother wrapped her arms around me and cradled me for a while. Finally, when we both knew it was time for me to go, she kissed my forehead and released me. She held my hand and interlocked her fingers with mine, then motioned to the door with a soft smile. I nodded, and after squeezing her hand, I let go and went out the door – having come to terms with the fact that this was how it had to be. Then I waved goodbye to her, and with tears in my eyes, I walked away with my backpack over my shoulder.

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I was on my own now. No plan, no ally; I had only myself and my backpack. I began walking into the huge forest next to our house. Only semiconscious of my surroundings, I walked through the forest in deep thought. I wanted to forget everything – to remember only my dear mother, my real father, and the good times we’d had together. But I knew that this was impossible. Suddenly, I tripped over a tree stump and fell flat on my face. If I had been watching where I was going instead of brooding, I would have walked around the stump and avoided my injury, so obviously this had been my own fault. But I instead blamed the tree stump, and once I had gotten back to my feet, I kicked it. The obstacle was harder than I had expected, and now both my face and my foot hurt. I would have liked to say that I reacted to my injuries in a manly fashion, but to tell you that would have been a lie. Instead, I sat down onto the tree stump and sobbed. I was already overwhelmed by everything that had happened at home, and that had been the last straw. I sat there for a while, quietly getting my anger and pain out through the tears. It felt good to let it all out. Finally, after a long time, I wiped away my tears and looked around. It was dark – as well it should be, being in the middle of the night – and quiet, except for the chirping of a few crickets. I looked at my watch, which I was now glad I had brought along with me, and it read “1:00.” Then I heard rustling in some bushes not too far away. I looked around and stood up from my make-shift seat, now wishing I had brought some sort of weapon. I quickly unzipped my backpack and searched through it – looking behind me every few seconds. I pulled out a pencil and held it with the point facing outward. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. All of a sudden someone jumped out in front of me, and figuring that a pencil wasn’t a big enough weapon, and being scared out of my wits, I grabbed my backpack and conked them on the head with it. “Ouch!” yelled the man, gently rubbing his head. He had an Irish accent. "What'd you do dat fahr? O, me 'ead!” I held my backpack, ready to do it again if need be. “What did you think would happen if you snuck up on someone like that? Who are you?” He stopped rubbing his head and looked up, rubbing his thumb on his chin thoughtfully. “Well, you see, laddie, I’m afraid I can't 'elp you dere, because I'm naht sure me self! I dink me name is Ryan. Ahr Connor. Pahssebly Kevin. Maybe Sean… Either way, I’m sure it starts wit a J.” I burst out laughing. It was the first good laugh I’d had in a long time. The man stood looking at me in bewilderment as I calmed down. When I could talk again, I said, “Sorry, your statement just caught me off guard.” I lowered my backpack down to my side again. This man seemed pretty harmless. I looked him over for the first time. He had gray hair and a long, gray, straggly beard. His kind brown eyes reflected a struggle in his past. “So you say you can’t remember your name?” He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid naht. In fact, I dahn't remember moech o' anythin! I dahn't remember who I am, where I'm frahm, who me family is - ahr fahr dat matter, if I even 'ave a family!” I thought to myself for a moment. “Well, by your accent, you sound like you’re from Ireland! Does that bring any memories back to you?” He thought hard. “It doesn't bring back any memories, but it does sound familiar... Perhaps you're right, laddie!” I smiled as his eyes lit up. Maybe I could help this man? I did need someone to talk to... “What’s the first thing you remember?” I asked him. He thought for a moment. “I remember talkin to a man who I knew... I can't poehll oehp what was said, boeht I do remember 'is face. 'e 'ad brown, roehmpled 'air, and a goatee. 'e also 'ad a lahng scratch ahn one side o' 'is face.” “Hm. You said he had rumpled hair and a scratch on his face, right? Maybe he got into a fight with someone?” I was beginning to feel like a detective. He shook his head slowly. “No, I dink we 'ad been tryin to... escape? Now dat I dink abooeht it I kend o' remember bein dirty.” “Trying to escape from what, though? What was so dangerous?” He thought hard, but he shrugged and the brightness disappeared from his eyes. “I'm sahrry, I dahn't remember,” he answered sadly. I sighed. There went the detective feeling. It felt like we weren’t getting anywhere, but I kept on an encouraging smile for the sake of the old man. Now I knew what it had been like for my mother all those nights. “What do you remember after talking to the man?” “Well, de last I remember was dat I was roehnnin frahm sahmethin... boeht den I 'eard sahmeone talkin behend sahme boehshes, and I figured maybe dey cooehld 'elp me. So I came over de boehshes, and now I 'ave dis nice boehmp ahn me 'ead,” he explained, pointing to the place I had whacked him with my backpack. I laughed. “Yeah, sorry about that. So you say you were running from something, but you don’t know what?” Suddenly there was a growl. We looked over towards the bushes and began backing away very slowly. “I think I found what you were running from,” I whispered to him. “Dank you, boeht you can poeht it back now!” he answered. We turned and ran as fast as we could possibly run, and the jaguar followed after us.

Want to read story 2? Try -Eden-
Want to read story 3? Try -Lianna-
Note: The stories are not connected, they are all separate story lines. Stories 2 and 3 end on a sentence that does not sound like an ending, as I am not finished with them yet. Also, the stories are better as they go, so I would suggest reading them in order.