Dark Days

Chapter 27

Dark Days

 

If there was a God he forever remains silent in my life. Some still say he watches over me, but I have come to believe that this is a load of crap. I don’t care how you say it. That God has given us our free agency in regards to how evil, vile people like my parents and other types of criminals in the world we share with them. That God allows them to do their worst and not interfere because of free agency. It makes very little sense to a boy of fourteen or an old broken down man of fifty-two. I ask where are his angels of mercy? Where are the people that actually care; and are willing to do something about it?

My Aunty M is dead; my grandmother basically never left her home afraid to venture out where stairs and steps impede her path until her dying day. My relatives won’t lift a finger; in fact rather stay far, far away from where they can ignore it. Even today nothing has really changed. I am still alone in this heartless cold world. All around me I see death, wishing it would come quickly. I am eager to brace its cold hands in hopes of finding peace beyond the grave. Jeff telling me and giving me no rest until I write this Biography of my life and my series “what’s behind the looking glass,” before I can seek the rest I so desperately seek. In hopes others may find my life inspiring, a guide to some that are facing or have faced the same Darkness; and are able to escape its clutches before it’s too late.

I have been putting off facing this chapter of my life, the very nightmare that still holds me trapped within. I had hoped to bury it so deep into the darkness that it would never see the light again, but it refuses to let me go.  I had thought my life couldn’t get more worse, but seek and you will find a greater darkness that awaits. I should have stayed hidden in Arizona; I should have sacrificed my love for my brother. So many things I should have done. But my heart wouldn’t allow it. It would have been easier if death took me then than face what about to take place.

Three hours was nothing to me as I scrubbed clean the putrid bathroom floor with a small non-descriptive toothbrush; washed stinking vile laundry that had been sitting too long gathering mold spores. I loved the Downing’s more and would have sacrificed any amount of hard labor; if that is what it would take to be in their arms again. I refused too let my parents rile me into anger. I would picture often my Ma and Pa holding me tight; my brothers surrounding me, protecting me from the dark anger, and thoughts that crept into my mind. I would scrub; I would bleed on my knees as they turned raw against the hard tile floors. My fingers stiff and sore from hours of scrubbing walls and any surface that was vilely dirty. Just for a bowl of watery tasteless soup and stale bread, barely eatable after a long hard days work.

I would cry holding my brother tight at night, begging him for forgiveness. Knowing I would never see him again. I would hold him close as the lightning struck and the wind howled the pain I was feeling. I would lay there next him feeling his sleeping breath against my bare shoulders. Listening to the creek of the door and the rattle of the lock as my parents made sure I was still here unable to flee. I would gag a thousand breathes as I used our portable toilet or pee into a jug that had yet to be changed. The window barred and locked in place from the inside preventing any escape. I had watched my father check the long metal bar that held the bars and thick glass in place each and every night.

My breath held still with each passing moment, willing the clock to move faster. I survived my first night of hell hearing a car turn into the driveway, hearing my mother voice stalling for time as my father quickly removed our temporary bathroom from the room hiding it under the trailer. Explaining the reason why the bars are on the window and locks on the doors to prevent me from running away. Stating there is no law against it to his knowledge from preventing him from keeping his home safe. Doctor Whitmore sighed as one of the two officers with him noted it anyway; doubted it too. Doctor Whitmore tried very hard to retain his anger in a more professional manner; while they waited for my father to unlock the bedroom door.

They stared blankly at me and my brother as he held his breath. His face was tight with concern as he quickly dismissed them and closed the door while one officer stayed on the other side of the door. The examination didn’t take long as we whispered as I quickly hand him the film I had taken earlier. Giving him a quick run down what I had experienced so far of day 1, and half of my visit. Noting the worn knee holes in my pants and the scabs on my knees; again there is no law stating that they could prevent me doing chores during my visitations as long as they didn’t lay hand on me. He was not happy with it, but nor could he do much in regards to my brother's upkeep; except too mention that he was displeased and would be reporting it. Not that it would do any good except giving them a fair warning, in hopes that my brother's condition would change.

My sisters snickered and scowled as they passed us. Noting the nice clean dress they were wearing compared to my brother's rags as they tore a new hole as I helped him put his shirt back on. I could see the anger in Doctors Whitmore’s eyes as he fingered it, knowing this too was nothing he could do. It was what it was, the laws once again restrained regarding a child’s care.  He may be able to help when it comes to abusive behavior but was held back in regards to neglect according to the bylaws. Yes, he was clothed; yes he was fed and had a place to sleep with a roof over his head. The laws say nothing in regards to how they are feed or how they are clothed. Only that they do so. My parents were doing the bare minim if that.

Soon after the visit, I was sent out to work again. Mowing lawns in the hot sun and not allowed to take off my shirt or put on a pair of shorts, when I did so regardless of how he felt about it. My father yelled angrily at me for my immoral and immodest behavior ordering me too put my shirt back on. When I refused he picked up my shirt and forcefully put on me. Not once was I let out of his sight, it didn’t matter if it was in the trailer park or the church house, his eyes never left sight of me. If I was inside the church, he would lock me in the room until I was done. If the door couldn’t be locked he would sit and watch until I was done or he was satisfied. It may have been only three days, but they were three of the longest days. I was so ever glad to be back in my Pa’s and Ma’s arms, yet I was also very sad too.

Knowing that I was leaving my brother in a home that held no love for him, and knowing sooner or later they were going to kill him or he would end up facing the cold cruel world just like me. And there was nothing I could do about it. Life was just so unfair, cold and cruel just like my parents and the people like them. What God would allow things like this too happen? Perhaps he too is ashamed is the reason why he doesn’t listen to a child’s prayer, nor render his angels to help. Some would say it is my cross to bear, and this so-called God lets us bear it alone.

Time was never on my side as I helped my brothers and Pa set up our staging area. Building animal pens, planting crops or whatever it took. I was seldom allowed to travel with them to our farm in Utah as I stayed with Ma and my sisters. I hated knowing each day that passed was another day of hell my brother was living. Each day I would ask Jeff if my brother was still alive. Some day’s he answer some days he wouldn’t instead he would place his hand on my heart asking me what do I feel? I would try to sense my brother. I trusted Jeff with my life, for he has never lied to me that I know of, but it still didn’t make me feel any better. I would call my grandmother once week ask if she’s talked with him. Sometimes I felt she was lying to me just to make me feel better.

Each month passed quickly, and each month I’d spend three days visiting my parents and my brother; repeating the same chores, the same living conditions. Except after the third month, my father or my mother would check my backpack finding the camera and the extra food my Ma had packed for me and my brother. It angered them finding it; it angered them more knowing that I had taken pictures the previous months. It angered them even more that they couldn’t lift a single hand against me. As I watched my father punch a hole in the wall where I was standing, missing me by inches.

My father busted the camera with a hammer, and my mother threw the extra food into the trash. Punishing me with more chores and no supper for both me and my brother; I was used to going without a meal once and awhile. Considering I could even tolerate the food they gave us in the first place. My brother too was used to going without, but it bothered me when I watch him eat heels of moldy bread and sometimes maggots on rotten meat. Protein is protein, but yew. Yet sooner or later in my life those maggots would seem like a feast, sooner than I would like to remember. Life was just about to get worse not that it was bad enough already.

I soon learned four months later that my father and mother had been busy planning something so vile that it is so hard to believe, yet it is true as the sun rises. Pa and my brothers had nearly completed the move to the staging area in Arizona and were in the process of moving things across the United States into Canada, and the six month probation period was nearly up. My parents insisted that I would stay the entire week for a family camping trip. They had easily gotten permission from the State two months prior, considering they have done everything to accordance with the law. The State had no reason to doubt it, even though Jeff tried his best to in his own way, stating it was a very bad idea. Yet again he could not be clear.

The Downing’s tried to convince them that this was a bad idea. Yet again they had no proof, and the proof they did have wasn’t enough to stay them. Ma and Pa either had to let this visit happen or end up in jail, losing me into the system. I was warned if I run away or they prevented me from going. That it would break the probation and I would be placed back under my parents care or sent to a new home or a home for boys until I turned eighteen. I would never see the Downing’s again in either case.

If only I had known what the future held by spending that week with my parents; I would have taken the chance of fleeing to Canada then, where the United States Courts couldn’t touch me. We needed more time, we needed a month’s time, and time was not on our side. We argued with the State over and over before the date of the visit, yet they refused. My parents won. It would have been better if I died that day then live the worst nightmare that soon took place.

There would be no Doctor to stop them considering it was a family camping trip, but Pa was able to at least get one visit before they would leave to “parts unknown.” Mr. Stringum watched through his trailer window as he watched my father pack the car with tents and sleeping bags and other camping gear. Nothing looked out of place to expect Jeff paced. I would ask what was wrong, but all he said he will not leave my side. Not now, not ever. Yet he refused to say what if anything was going to happen.

I asked if I should consider running away, all he did was stare into a blank space and frowned at the idea. For the first time I should have disobeyed and done that very thing, but the mere thought of losing the Downing’s forever convinced me that I shouldn’t. Yet if I known by not doing so, would that have changed my future. As I think back on it; it, it would have been better to live in a home for boys than then live the future that would soon become one of my worst nightmares.

I was soon dropped off to face the terror. I knew right away I knew something was wrong when my parents greeted me with kindness. It scared the living daylights out of me seeing my father and mother smile at me and acted like I was their favorite son. The difference was there was no feeling of love in their comments. It seemed like something was off about them considering not once had they ever shown me kindness in the past, why would they now all of sudden? Doctor Whitmore whispered for me to be very careful as he tried his best to reassure me and my brother that everything would be alright.

Aaron was dressed in good play clothes, right down to his new sneakers. If that wasn’t enough my mother hugged us both while in front of him. While my father helped him back into his car and waved the officers and him down the road. My guts were screaming at me, telling me something was really wrong. And I was right as soon everyone was gone. We drove up Santaquin Canyon to a camping spot my parents had picked out. It wasn’t anything new having my parents having me and Aaron do all the work, setting up the tents and chopping the firewood.

My mother had prepared some sandwiches and offering us all soft drinks out of the cooler with store-bought cookies. Something she seldom did, telling us this is a special occasion, a celebration of sorts. Jeff was really agitated by this point. I was sitting next to my brother eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich which seemed a little bit off. I should have known better. For within thirty minutes I grew very dizzy. Aaron had fallen asleep on my shoulder with a sandwich falling into his lap and his drink falling to the ground. I tried to speak, but all I could do was drop my head as it felt too heavy to lift. I barely felt my eyes closed and the darkness quickly taking me away. I couldn’t hear Jeff screaming at me to wake up.

When I did awake, I found myself in a dark hole with my feet and hands tied up with rope. I single light bulb hung above me. Aaron too was tied and sat across from me. He no longer wore his nice play clothes and sneakers. Both our shoes were missing as I felt the cold dirt sift through my toes. Aaron and I were both gagged with duck tape across our mouth to keep us quiet.

The room we were in was cold, and the only noise we could hear was the gas boiler in the next room which was used to keep the hot water hot and building up to temperature during the cold winter months. I knew where I was as I looked around our tiny prison. We were being held in the church house boiler-room, in a room off to the side near the back where old furniture and stacks of old army rations were kept in case of an emergency. But now the furniture was gone except two old mice eaten mattress and our sleeping bags laid on top of them.

On the other end, my father had placed a wall made out of cinder-block and a small chain link covered the cinder-block and the door with old Sheetrock, to keep from prying eyes. Two small wires connected to something on the other side of the door and attached to the chain link. Even though I was gagged, I knew it would do no good to scream for help. Being this far deep underground and so far in the back that nobody would know that we were here; and knowing that nobody comes down here unless they were checking the boiler, which seldom happens. Yes if I was my father and wanted me out of the way, this was certainly would be a good place to do it. Jeff sat next to us as I ponder on how to escape this prison stating those two wires attached to a chain link are connected to an outlet. So if I wanted a good shock, I shouldn’t try it.

I wanted to laugh, thinking about how ingenious my father was. It seemed like hours before my father came down to check on us, even though I wished it was someone else. I hoped it was someone else that saw what my father had done was rescuing us. But it wasn’t. Not even God would rescue me. Why would he? He has never once stopped my parents from abusing me. Again I wanted to laugh knowing that I believe this counted as abusive behavior. Being drugged and kidnapped and placed in a prison-like cell; if this wasn’t abusive behavior than something has got to be wrong. I could hear someone moving furniture on the other side of the door. I could almost swear he was laughing, but hearing it sounded eerie and uncomfortable and sinister.

The door opened and my father stepped in with a cattle prod in his left hand and a gallon of water in the other. I will never forget the smirk he had on his face as he closed the door and locked it on the inside preventing our escape. I knew we were in trouble, but staying calm would do more good then lashing out or struggling. His words slurred saying “It seems boy you and your cursed brother have run away.” Laughing “well at least that’s what the outside world thinks, and I’ll be damned to let them think otherwise. You should have died when you jumped out that window. I should have smothered you until you couldn’t breathe a single breath, but your cursed grandmother stopped me.”

I knew that nightmare had to come from somewhere but to think it really happened as a baby made me wonder about all those other times he or my mother had tried. My other thought was why my grandmother hadn’t or my grandfather ever told me? Maybe even for them, it seemed so unreal that my own father their son would try to kill me. My father raved on as he struck me hard against my face, making my nose bleed. “But know it’s too late for that; you have made it too difficult for us to make you simply disappear without causing notice. This way everyone knows you are more than capable of running away, and nobody will think twice regarding it when you show yourself in a few weeks. They will blame you, not me for your cuts and bruises as we remain innocent in the world’s eyes.” His laugh sounded dark and I could swear the room grew darker and cold with each laugh.

I didn’t move as I tried to wrap my brain for ideas, but he was right. My past has caught up with me. Nobody will think differently, even though it has been two half years since I had run away from home. It doesn’t matter if I was trying to save my life, to them I will always be a runaway, a problem child, a disappointment, worst of all a murderer. It doesn’t matter how many times Jeff has told me it wasn’t my fault. I still blame my self for it. Having Aaron with me just says it all. I was beaten and he knew it. Jeff assured me that Ma would know and Pa and my brothers and sisters will know I didn’t. But I knew deep down if I didn’t find a way to escape this certain doom and the Downing’s and I was doomed.

My parents had won the battle and Family Court will rule the Downing’s and my Parents unqualified. Very few people believed the real reason I run away if only the laws would protect children’s rights instead of the parents that abuse their children. The LDS Church as I have stated before. Does nothing to prevent it, living in a world where they think things like this are not possible amongst their congregation or better said brainwashed sheep. So many people wear rose-colored glass and refuse to believe this happens. It is even worse than someone in their mist know someone that is doing it, like a neighbor or a close friend, but instead, they sit by and ignore it. After all, it’s not their problem, but they always say they are truly sorry when the child ends up dead because of it. That’s when people realize they could have prevented it, instead they did nothing.

My father was right. To the world I and my brother have runaway, the truth will never be believed. Nobody’s going to come and rescue us. All I could do is slump against a hard concrete wall. Watching the tears in my brother’s eyes, we were indeed doomed. I watched as my father picked up the cattle prod and placed it against my side. I screamed as the jolt of electricity hit me burning against my skin. My father growled angrily warning me if I moved so much as an inch while he freed my hands. He’d do it to my brother, knowing my true weakness. Then took me by my hair and forced me to look at him as he spits into my face. Then with his right hand punched me in the stomach, taking the breath out of my lungs as I doubled over, he then reached into his pocket and pulled out a pocketknife and cut the ropes and slicing my hands while he smiled watching the blood fall to the ground.

I screamed against the tape, he slapped me hard watching my head bang hard against the cement wall. I could barely feel the warm blood trickle down my fingers and the new cut where my check scratched the wall. He removed the tape slowly so the pain would be intense and slow. Just so he could hear me scream. I did my best to ignore the pain, which in turn angered him more. After he was done, he kicked me over and over again.

Punching me over and over as I rolled onto my stomach to get away from him, he growled angrily on how he was held back due to laws and Downing’s preventing him. He cursed his mother and even more as he punched me over and over when he said Aunt Margaret always getting in the way; yelling that she had no business interfering with family matters. I was almost unconscious by the time he left. I couldn’t move, for every part of my body screamed in pain. Aaron was crying but was left untouched.

It was a while before I was able to move and untie the ropes on my ankles. My father laughed when I screamed when he ripped off my gag. It was the only reason he did it. He wanted to hear me beg for mercy and giving me none in return. He wanted Aaron to hear my screams and feel the pain and watch him beat me unbridled. Telling him this is what his going to get when those State b******s finally leave him alone. He didn’t care if he killed us once he and our mother were done punishing us. We didn’t deserve to live and he meant every word.

Jeff left soon after to find Ma and tell her what was taking place. As I have said earlier she so far is the only one besides me that has the ability to see him. I had my doubts that it would be enough, but I knew Ma and Pa would move mountains to find me. It was the State we had to convince, and that wasn’t going to be easy. Considering they think I have run away. In truth, I wish I had as I laid there nursing my wounds as I freed my brother. I knew it would be sometime before my father would show himself. Considering they were all on “A family camp-out.” It would be hours if not longer for my mother to drive him back up the canyon. Returning home would not be wise, but I hoped that he would make that mistake, knowing that their house was being watched.

No. I hoped they would make that mistake having them arrive hours soon after they had just left without either me or Aaron. They would without a doubt thinking something was wrong and the search would surely begin. No. My parents will wait until the week is nearly done before arriving and spread the lie of us running away. Their plan was really thought out, leaving us enough food and supplies behind to keep us both alive.

Time works differently when you are left in a dark hole listening to nothing but a few mice and the gas boiler coming to life. The air stale and moldy and the one bulb was very dim as if it had very little life left. It seemed we were the mice that scurried around underground. The only good thing about it was I had my brother with me as I tried to stay strong for him. Every time I closed my eyes I could see my father and feel him beating the life out of me. Even to this very day I still dream of being locked in that dark hole listening to my brother cry as I try to comfort him.

Sometimes I was alone or my brother was dead lying cold against me. I hate the dreams; I seldom dare anymore to dream in the night, hoping that if I do dream. I dream of nothing instead of the living nightmares that come before the dawn. I used to wake up screaming as I relive these advents. Now I lay there until the break of dawn remembering Aunty M telling me. “Everything looks better in the daylight; even bad dreams hate the light.” I miss her even now as she would hold me against her, her arms wrapped around me; protecting me from them as I do now with Aaron in my arms.

Throughout the day and throughout the night, we would curl up next to each other while my arms held him tight against me just like Aunty M did when she was alive. I would pray that Aaron doesn’t dream or wake screaming into the night like I do. Hoping if there is a God that would erase these advents that have taken place in his life and give him a life better than mine; to think I still believed in prayer, but it is far better thinking you were talking to yourself. When I die I plan to ask one question. The question is why. Why did he stand by and do nothing? The answer better not be giving everyone free agency. For me, that is just a plain cop-out. I deserve a real answer for all the pain and misery I have gone through. Somehow I want justice in this life and the next if there is such a thing.