Page 6 of Claiming What's Mine
Yet, I was still here, still living—and to add salt to my wounds, so was my father.
But it wasn't even the fact that I had lost my mother and my asshole father was still living; the part that bothered me more than anything was that it felt like she lied to me.
There was no such thing as a broken heart, there couldn't be, because Ididlove my mother, I loved her more than anything else on this earth. If her story was true, I would have died the second God took her home.
Yet, every single day my eyes still opened, every single day my heart kept beating, and every single day death laughed in my face, allowing me to live in fear.
What kind of God does that to a child?
“God dammit, boy! When I get my hands on you. . .” His voice echoed through the air as he moved around the property. “Where the fuck are you?”
Making sure the coast was clear, I cut across the grass and through the stable, doing my best to be fast and undetected. As long as he couldn't see me, he couldn't find me, and most importantly, he couldn't hurt me.
With steel and grit in his words, my fathered yelled, “Boy! I said come out here right now or I'm going to make you wish you were never born!”
I already do. . .
His punishment for whatever he thought I had done wrong, wouldn't just be a firm lashing of the tongue, filled with verbal assaults; no not with him, not my father. He'd make sure I could see how upset he was the next day.
“Fuck, boy, you just wait!” The tone in his voice was clear, if he caught me, I'd have trouble walking for a week.
So I ran.
I ran through the open field behind the empty stables, hopping between the slats in the fence. I ran through the cornfield, not caring that the leaves whipped my face and sliced my skin. I ran because I didn't have a choice.
Holding my arms in front of my face, I pushed my legs harder. The tall stalks were packed together tightly as I ran with no real direction in mind. I didn't think about where I was going, I didn't really care, so long as it was far away from him.
With one final shove of my feet, the cornfield spat me out like a giant hairball. Tumbling forward, I fell to the ground, catching myself with my hands. I felt the pin pricks of sharp thorns and the gritty burn of sand across the skin on my elbows and knees.
“Ah, shit,” I said out loud, sitting on my backside and looking down at my hand. A thick thorn was jammed deep into my palm, causing a throbbing sensation under the surface. The stumpy brown edge was just peeking from under a thick layer of skin, causing blood to back up into a bubble beneath the tip.
Running my thumb back and forth over the end, I tried to grab the small stub poking out. “Come on you dick.” Huffing out a breath, I attempted to grip the thorn with my teeth.
“What are you doing?” a soft voice asked.
Angling my head, I squinted my eyes and looked up. A young girl was standing a few feet away, her arms tucked behind her back as she balanced on her heels.
She had long black hair, so long it wrapped around her arms, spiraling around her wrists. Her dress was navy blue with pink polka dots, reaching down to her calves. A big pink bow was holding back her bangs loosely, allowing thin strands to get captured in the wind and blown around her face.
Blinking with wide open eyes, the sun caught the hazel orbs dancing around my face as she squinted a brow and waited for my answer.
“I have a splinter,” I said, lifting my palm to my mouth and trying to grab the end again with my teeth. “It's in there pretty good.” My words came out sounding like I had a mouth full of food as I dug the sharp edges of my teeth into my hand.
“You should leave it alone, it'll come out when it's ready.”
“What do you know, girl?” Cocking a brow, I rolled my eyes.
“I know lots of things.” There was no shyness in her voice, only confidence. She wasn't afraid of me, not in the least.
And that surprised me. I was a Henry, a dirty, ratty, bad-mouthed Henry. Everyone in our small town knew who I was, even if I didn't know them.
The labels were there, given by preconceived notions that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
I was a troubled child, the son of a dead woman. I was the kid parents didn't want their children hanging around with because I knew bad words and liked to use them. I was the poor boy with worn and dirty clothes.
There were so many whispers and rumors about me being a thief, about me damaging property and causing hell in school.
But that's what happened when you lived in a small town, and the village drunk was your father. It would have been really nice if someone who was so eager to spread rumors would see the truth and step in.
