Home

A young adult revisits the home that he was abused and kept in as a child.

Home

The moss growing around the headstone bothered the man. He’s the only one who visits anymore. He walked back to his bike, hopped on sans helmet, and rode home. The story he read earlier that morning had his head spinning. He opened up the paper again when he got home.

 

--Penn State Community Shaken: Sandusky Charged With Ten Counts --

 

He poured himself a bowl of cereal and flipped on the TV. He watched as the reports come out and damning evidence against the old man surfaced. He became unraveled. An upheaval of emotions. Memories sped to the surface and thoughts that made him shudder. They were brave. They came out and told somebody. Not me though. Not today. Not ever. It began to rain. The man walked outside. Still frightened by the rain. A sun shower. It made matters worse. Natural elements and the man didn’t get along. He was sheltered from them for so long and they still didn’t feel natural.

For the third time that day, the man went back down the old road. He rode through the corroded archway and down the cobblestone path that hadn’t been cleaned in a long while. And finally back to the stone the size of a brick. Initials only, carved in black granite. Mumbling to himself, the man realized it was almost dark. So frustrated with himself that he began to talk s**t about the pretty sunset falling over the birch trees to the west. Back on his bike he rode down the street and back to his house on the corner of Azimuth and Frontier. He stepped over the doormat and the dog, ate slippery pork lo Mein for dinner and went up to his cot, lacking in both space and support.

After changing into ratty pajamas that probably needed a good washing, the man lay in bed sideways staring at the wall. He prayed more casually than most.

 

I don’t want to tell anyone.

 

You don’t have to.

 

Don’t I?

 

No. Get some sleep. I will still be here for you tomorrow.

 

You are no help at all.

 

Please rest.

 

And so he did.

 

            Early the next morning the man had breakfast at the diner in the center of town, intermittently spotting a friendly neighbor or someone who hung him by his underwear in high school. He had been around town for far too long. He walked or biked everywhere even though it took him awhile. The man loved the outdoors. The crisp, tart sensation of wind in his face. He felt his brake’s quality begin to falter, so he brought it to the store, where he talked to the mechanic while they were replaced.

 

You see this whole big thing on the news?

 

With all them football boys over in Pennsylvania? Yeah sure.

 

Scary stuff huh? I can’t believe the kids really came out and spoke up.

 

Oh I can. You can only hold that sorta thing in for so long before you do somethin’ about it.

 

Yeah I guess that’s true.

 

            After exchanging handshakes, the mechanic refused to take the man’s money, citing good conversation as payment enough. This stoked a fire in the mans heart. He gave real thought to what they had talked about now that the mechanic had given it meaning. It gave him good reason to call up an old friend. He had meant to a while ago but never knew what he would say. Only what he wanted to. So he called up the other man. He came over for a spaghetti dinner.

 

It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you. How have you been?

I’m doing alright, just got a job at the market managing the floor. Nothing fancy, but it pays.

Does it? I’m surprised. I’m working down at the power plant. I hate it but it’s the only thing I’m any good at.

How’s the wife?

Gone.

Sorry.

Eh.

So did you see what’s on TV?

What, you mean the new Walking Dead?

No dumbass, the scandal.

The scandal?

The scandal.

Of course I’ve seen it.

Well?

Well what?

What do you think?

I don’t.

What the hell do you mean you don’t? It doesn’t make your mind wander? Your thoughts bubble?

Look I’ve put that in my rearview. Just like the rest of this dead-a*s town.

You can’t tell me you don’t think about it.

I try so hard not to. But it still comes back in fragments.

Well I think about it all the time. Ever since that creepy old man at Penn State came clean.

 

            The men finished their dinner and exchanged their new phone numbers. They quarreled a bit more over their past, and the man opened a redwood cabinet and unscrewed a small safe. He pulled out a manila folder and spilled the contents onto the table. The other man stood in silence, thoughts pouring out of his ears onto the table.

You still have them?

Well yeah.

I burned them.

It’s a f*****g police report you can’t burn that.

Oops.

So I have the only copy?

I guess.

A newfound burden cascaded down. Only two people knew what had happened all those years ago and that he had the proof. The other man left frustrated with his friend but understanding. The man walked upstairs to bed. He picked up his copy of the crossword puzzle and finished it.

Around one the man stopped his study of the inside of his eyelids and stared at the ceiling. It was egg-wash white but he couldn’t tell in the pitch darkness. He thought about dinner from the night before and all the nights he had spent laying on the ground as a kid. He got up and out of bed. He put on a barn coat and boots and walked out the door. Turning left out of Azimuth he walked down past the cemetery and past the general store and the bookstore and finally hung a right onto Elm Street. Third white house on the left. Except it wasn’t really white anymore. More of a decaying shade of natural timber. He sat down on the sidewalk next to the light post. The light was out which didn’t help. He debated with himself. An introvert that didn’t know quite what to do now.

 

Go inside.

I don’t wanna.

Go the f**k inside.

I can’t. I won’t.

Don’t you want to go home?

That’s not my home anymore.

But it was for so long.

It’s over.

Then you shouldn’t be afraid.

S**t.

            He stood and peaked through the window. A rotten window beam broke and fell on his hand. It shook his insides. He was on edge already. The door was sealed shut so he went in through the same window. A resting raccoon scooted past him as he made his way to the kitchen. He placed his hand on the burner. A familiar feeling. He matched the burn on his index finger to the inside circle of the stovetop. He moved to the coat closet and opened the creaking door. a small family of rats poured out of the crack, running over his leather boots. He was shaken further. The yellow numbered police cones were still in the closet. They trailed out into the living room and right to the basement door. the Red Dawn poster was almost completely peeled off the door, and the doorknob was missing. He reached through the hole and pulled open the door. There were eight stairs and eight police cones. The stains, despite Stanley Steamer and steel wool and scrubbing bubbles, wouldn’t come out. They looked like wine stains, but it didn’t take long for anyone with a brain to know what they were. He retraced his steps and tried to turn on the light, forgetting that it had been years since the house had electricity. He heard an echo from downstairs. Undoubtedly some vermin scurrying across the floor. He reached the last step and briefly hesitated. Deep breathe. Another one. One more.

            And down the step he went. The floor was rockier than he remembered. The hallway was slimmer and the ceiling lower and it was shorter even in the dark. He hadn’t been here since he was nine. He ran his fingers on the left wall, finding his balance and place within the thick putrid darkness. For only a moment he expected to find a door to open until he realized where he truly was. His left hand stopped at a gap in the metal. He faced left. He was blind. He pulled out his phone and used the screen to light up the space. Thick metal bars off their frame still stood in the doorway. Tears beginning to well up. Wiping at his eyes with one hand he pushed the bars out of the way with the other. He walked in. images came back to him in droves. The itchy cot that used to reek of urine and the wool blanket that was always stained with salty sweat. The only amenities provided to him. The ring of keys that he could hear coming off the hook at the top of the stairs each time the old man wanted attention. The whistling. The f*****g whistling and the singing. Flipping through his keys, unlocking the door. Every week for three years the man had suffered. The abuse he had taken evident on his body. A map in sexual perversion and physical abuse. The man collapsed onto the old cot. S**t and mold covered the floor and walls of the cell. He was home.    

Down the old man came. That’s how the boys referred to him. “Dad” had gotten a little too friendly since mom died. But the boys had been behaving themselves for so long that the old man had gone soft. He decided he would open up the cell doors for all three of them and actually let them eat at a table. The first key turned in the lock of cell one and the door swung open faster than he predicted. He forgot to tether the boy to the cot. The boy had sat and waited the whole night. Resisting the urge to call for the old man. Instead he had waited for the opportunity to come to him. His nose now broken and mind reeling the old man tried to regroup. The boy ran out with his blanket and wrapped it tight around the old man’s neck. The man squirmed and screamed.

You little f*****g b*****d.

Stop it now!

Please..

            The man’s final breath exited his nose and his head rolled on the sheet rock. the boy hadn’t realized. An open wound in his leg. The man had plugged him one final time with the knife he kept on his left side. Leg bloodied he grabbed the keys. He unlocked the cells of his two friends. They helped him up the stairs. They saw sunlight for the first time in three years.

            The man shot back into reality. Shaking violently, the walls began to shrink. He was sobbing. His nose filled with pungent smells. Why did he come back? The worst idea in history. Emotions welled up and the levy broke. He got up, climbed the stairs and began tearing the house apart. The Red Dawn poster down. Door broken. Windows smashed. Microwave torn out of the wall. Television smashed with a pole. Chairs broken until they resembled sawdust. He went into the garage and grabbed canisters from the shelves. He still remembered the old man kept gas in case his truck ever ran out. He brought it back in and pried them open. The man painted the room in Jackson Pollack fashion. Covering every inch of the room in fluid. He had sadness in his heart but violence in his eyes. The man had finally given in. He had lost his sanity. He pulled out his Zippo and dropped it on the couch. The gaudy tapestry caught fire. He left the house, aware that the place he grew up in would soon be home to ash and smoldering embers.

 

Author's Note

Looking for feedback on plot, as well as the use of flashbacks towards the back end of the story.

Reviews

[writerwish]

Very captivating. Good opening. Flashbacks about the whistling, the feel of the cot is especially good. I would elaborate more on the ending as far as describing feelings within the man at the point of relief from bondsge and what happened after. Why not give him a name. The perpetrator too. Great job. Keep writing.

[Drew]

Thank you for the feedback! i appreciate the positive input. I'm undecided on a name, any suggestions? The assignment was actually to write in a Cormac Mcarthy (The Road, No Country for Old Men, All the Pretty Horses) style, which doesn't typically include names.

[bean60]

Good story! Couple of inconsistencies I noticed: 'Natural elements and the man didn't get along.'& 'The man loved the outdoors. The crisp tart sensation of wind in his face.'
Those statements are in consistent - not a big problem, but...
also: 'Only two people knew what had happened...' & 'He unlocked the cells of his two friends.' That sounds like three people. Not big problems, but need to be made consistent.
Good story; the flashbacks at the end made sense to me and I liked them. Burning the house is exactly the right way to end the story and maybe bring some closure to the protagonist! I get the 'not using names' in this story; not every story has to have names, descriptions, etc. to have the story complete. Some, like this one, are complete without those things.

[Mary E Green]

Thank you for sharing! Excellent piece- I am left hoping this character found the closure he so desparately deserved...

[critic h]

its nicely penned down. characterisation in such stories should be in the beginning which it has. the story pulls feelings out of your heart. well written.

[Drew]

Thanks! I really appreciate the feedback! Glad you enjoyed it!

[Sara]

This was really good, I was captivated the entire time.
I've noticed that most stories are either 'pulled along' by plot OR characterization. I feel this story had both, the characterization in the present and plot in the foreshadowing and flashbacks. I feel that the plot builds up to its climax at the flashback and his trashing the house as the recovery; it works perfectly.

You might on the other hand involve more descriptions (Ones that could alsot push the plot) about the house and about the protagonist. But the way this is written I feel like I'm in his head so describing the protagonist might not be necessary.

The only other feedback I could give would be about grammar; you forgot to capitalize a few things. (I suck at grammar and spelling so I'll stop here :P)

[Drew]

Hey thanks! I'm new here and I really appreciate the feedback!

[Sara]

No problem! I reviewed because I loved your story.