Dark Secrets (PART 1)

Chapter 30

Dark Secrets

Part 1

 

It had been nearly an hour before Mr. and Mrs. Rothwell open the door as I laid there on the bed, staring at the bare white ceiling. It was either that or watch Jeff pace. I was arguing with him in my mind. Which was nothing new to us because of our strange connection, as I stated before; I didn’t need to see him to know he was there with me, I didn’t need to see his lips move or hear his voice aloud. It seemed almost natural to have two people in the same mind.

Yes, I know how crazy that sounds and how unbelievable it can be for people to believe what they can not see, taste or feel. It was just what it was; a curse for him or gift from God or curse for both of us; as I try once more to put the guilt of his death behind me. I have my doubts that I will ever forgive myself for his death. I don’t care if people think I am crazy, stating that I had an imaginary friend syndrome or split personality some doctors would diagnose it as The Three Faces of Eve and Sibyl later objected by Sigmund Freud. The truth be told, I needed him and he was there for me when no one else’s was.

We were arguing regarding me running away and finding a way to contact Reggie in Arizona and have him fly me across the Canada border. Each plan I came up with had risks, but right now I’d fight my way through a hoard of hungry zombies just to be in Ma and Pa’s arms. Each time I came up with a solution Jeff shot holes in it. Saying it was best to find out what was truly is going on in this home. Everything seemed to be laced with dark secrets. It was those secrets I had to wish we had left alone and taken the risks. I wasn’t worried about how to survive on the streets; I have mastered it long ago since I was almost seven. And I knew I could do it again. If there was a person or persons I could bet on when the chips are down; it was me and Jeff.

Mr. and Mrs. Rothwell quietly closed the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed. They could easily see I had been crying as I wiped my nose and tears with the sleeve of my shirt. I knew if I was with the Steeds and the Downing or even perhaps the Frys. They would have put me in their arms and comforted me. But they weren’t, and they didn’t so much as offer any kind of affection. Instead, I felt cold and abandon. If it wasn’t for Jeff being in the room keeping warm caring thoughts trying to lift the agony I was feeling. I don’t know what I would have done. I don’t want to think about what I would have done. Suicide might have been my first choice. Thought of grabbing a kitchen knife and opening a vain just to feel anything, as my life force was drained from me. I wanted to laugh thinking how my crimson blood would stain these carpets; to state my existences clearly in my blood.

The first thing they did was check the window making sure it was locked tight to prevent me from jumping out. This window was made of thick soundproof safety glass. I was told I could scream to my heart's desire and nobody would hear me. Even the walls were soundproof. I have explained the reasons why the room was left barren of objects to keep me from hurting myself. I would never be left alone except in this room for the time being to in quote, “ensure my safety.” Then other arrangements will be made. I had a bad feeling about those “other arrangements.” Running away was looking better and better.

I had learned that Mr. Rothwell worked long hours as a states prison guard for harden criminals. Stating he was more than capable of dealing with other peoples difficult and disobedient children. I had goosebumps just thinking about what he did to intimates and wonder if he used those skills here at home. He was built like a muscle builder he seemed to be bigger than Pa if that was possible. His light brown hair and bluish green eyes. Didn’t have the warmth in them as Pa’s; instead, they were cold and unfeeling.

His wife was a stay at home mom working as a secretary filling out bills for clients; so she could be home raising her children and running the day to day household. I was warned up front that nothing would be tolerated when it comes to any bad behavior. They expected obedience here, and at school, church and more so if we were in public. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of her, I kept getting mixed signals as if she couldn’t decide what side of the fence she was on, but I knew without a doubt that Mr. Rothwell scared the hell right out of me; more so than his wife.

The church was number one of all things that had to be obeyed or there would be severe consequences. They had arranged a meeting with their Bishop the following Sunday, and at that time if I had any sin that I hadn’t confessed to, now would be a good time to do so. I ask you what kind of sin would I have to confess too? After all, I was 14 and lived a clean and responsible life. I was considered a good and bright kid by most people.

The things that brought me down and made me question my biggest sins at heart were. Killing Jeff, being a master of running away? It has been more than two and a half years since I actually went to church. What was I going to say? The last time I been inside a church was when I was being held as a prisoner by my own father, so he could get away with beating me to death? Somehow I couldn’t wrap my head around it that nobody believes me; I am not a liar or known felon nor a drug addict. So really what are my biggest sins that I needed to repent and be forgiven for? Heck, I didn’t even have girl trouble considering I had never kissed a girl except for Ma and my two sisters Julie and Anna, but hardly think that counts, I felt confused and alone as I tried to rattle my brain of what sins I had committed against God.

It seemed my silence was suggested that I needed to repent as Mr. Rothwell grabbed me by my hair and held my head back as he looked into my eyes. Calling me a filthy liar, I was a blight on society and a murderer. Then threw me down on the floor onto my knees yelling for me to submit in prayer every a single deed that he found repulsive before him and God; Stating he has read all my crimes against God and I shall repent of every sinful deed. Spitting in my face as if I was scum; stating my true obedience begins now. I knew that any chance of a rescue wasn’t in my near future. I couldn’t believe that there are people worst than my parents as I spent the next three and a half years in total terror.

Jeff was indeed sorry for shooting down my ideas as I spent the majority of my time locked in this room. I was only allowed a fifteen-minute bathroom break every four hours, being told I had better pray to God if I don’t use this time wisely or be dealt with the consequences. Twice I couldn’t hold it during the night as I waited to use the bathroom ending up peeing my pants.

It was even worse when I had diarrhea from all the health food I was made to eat; Mrs. Rothwell stating angrily that my insides were filthily and she was cleaning the filth from the inside out. While she scrubbed my skin raw, bathing me like a small child with a coarse brush made for horses or a hard tile floor. I had no dignity in the home as she had me strip in front of her. I never felt so humiliated as she compared me to a dirty, filthy boy. Watching me cry as I try to cover up; which earned a slap across the face. Ma never treated me like this when I needed help due to my injuries. She was caring and understanding, not cruel. She would never ridicule me or tried to embarrass me. Even Mrs., Steed and her husband never treated me this unkindly.

I seldom saw anyone or was allowed to say anything unless I was asked a question at the dinner table. I was to remain silent unless I was told I could speak; another rule I had learned the hard way. Taking to task quickly while he ushered me to my room for punishment. While Mr. Rothwell bent me over the bed stripped me to the waist as he whipped me with his belt until I had learned my lesson. Then lead back to the dinner table. Nobody said anything as the tears run down my cheeks.

I was ordered to stop crying as Mr. Rothwell reached over to slap me saying he was more than willing to give me something to cry about. Calling me a big baby chuckling as he filled his plate with food. And in the same gruff voice gave the blessing as he quickly grabbed hand squeezing tightly making me feel that my hand was being crushed in a vice before he let go ending the prayer. If I had a prayer in me, I would ask that God would strike him down. Right here and right now; but as usual God was silent.

It was there at the table, my first night I was introduced to the other foster boy, another lie exposed. Remembering what Mrs. Rothwell said regarding them stating they were staying at a friends house over the weekend. Apparently, there had been two, but he had been sent away a few weeks ago to a boy’s home in another state. Something else that wasn’t was mentioned at the time. Hoping my social worker hadn’t noticed it. I was beginning to wonder what really happened to the boy. The meal at the table consisted of everyone as each had been assigned seats. Mine was always against the far wall and right next to Mr. Rothwell where he could deal punishments as he felt I had earned.

The boy across from me named Arthur Millet two years older than me, age 16. His hair brown straight and uncombed and his eyes blue or what I could tell from the brief glance he gave me. His clothing worn… almost could be called rags as they hung loosely around him. He was given a small rope for a belt and jeans had holes in the knees and his pockets. They were almost too small for him, but they were almost considered clean. Over his shoulders, he wore a vest made of sackcloth and hardened leather with no buttons or sleeves. That showed scares on his chest and arms. He too had been bathed the same as me, as I could still see his reddened skin from the course brush. I very much doubted Mrs. Rothwell and her husband treated him in such a manner, but their strictness was more than evident.

Arthur was skinny with a long stride when he walked; he wore size 12 shoes when he was allowed to wear them. Like me, we weren’t allowed any in the house nor outside of the home to prevent us from running away. It didn’t bother me, considering I hated shoes in the first place, but I wasn’t about to tell them that not that it mattered noticing everyone else was barefoot except Mr. Rothwell, apparently the same rules applied regarding shoes. Even Jeff felt it was a very good idea that I didn’t mention it as he watched standing in the corner of the room. He was also another secret I had left out, not that they would have believed me like most people.

I was learning quickly what to divulge and what not mentioned; even when Mr. Rothwell asked point blank if I still saw my “Dead Friend?” Laughing as if it was the biggest joke he had ever heard. I said. “It had been years since I had seen him;” taking a risk that my file didn’t elaborate on it or provide details. No. Going barefoot wouldn’t stop me from running away, and I chose to hold that card until the opportunity arose.

Arthur didn’t dare look up nor at the other people around the table. No one spoke to him as they would soon not speak to me; as soon as having the new toy or plaything wore off. I soon learned quickly that in their eyes we were nothing but scum or worse and would be for some time. We didn’t have rights as the rest of their children. We were breed for hard labor, nothing more than “mule boys.”

It was my new name “Mule Boy” as they would say as it if the words tasted bad in their mouth. Despite it was the name they had given us. Mr. Rothwell refused to call me EJ instead he would either call me Eric which sounds more like Earick. Stating it’s my given birth name. Regardless of how fondly I felt regarding my parents. I dishonor them which is a sin. Stating it is breaking one of the Ten Commandments of God. “Honor your father and your mother.” I was then told I was to call him Dad and his wife Mom or Mother. In honor of them being my new parents according to the laws of the State.

I wanted to spit on their very name but thought better of it. I wasn’t allowed to help myself to the food on the table like everyone else besides Arthur. If I even tried it, I earned another slap while he yelled at me to keep my filthy, sinful hands to my self; then calmly filled my plate and Arthur’s plate after everyone had filled theirs. Giving each of us a very small portion compared to the rest of the family; even though there was plenty to go around and still have leftovers.

Our portion was so small, that it left my stomach growling almost empty; to say I had lost weight was certainly true. After a month my clothes began to hang on me as Arthur’s did. I was so scrawny I looked like a seventy-year-old man with nothing but skin and bones. The lunch ladies at school always gave me double portions from time to time. Providing I could keep the food down.

The rest of the night I was locked in my room until it was time for evening family prayer as everyone prepared for bed. Dad as he would like me to refer to me call him against my better judgment in what a true father truly was, never made the mark in my book alongside my own father until he truly deserved it. Instead, the word Dad had a real bitter taste, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. Yet he was the one that demands everyone’s undivided attention as he says the prayer squeezing my already sore hand, from his display at the dinner table. Again I prayed in my heart that God would strike him down. But nothing happened as I peeked under my eyelids.

My new mother or Mom, I still hadn’t quite decided where she fits in. Sometimes I would glimpse kindness and like a snap of the fingers, it would turn to cruelty as if she fought a battle from within. They say the devil tries to turn a person soul from good to evil when they are at their weakest moment. I had little doubt that being forced to pray, morning noon and night regardless if you bare your very soul; counted as a real prayer that God would want to hear…

I call it going through the motions without achieving anything in the sight of God.  Jeff said to me as he observed what was really going on in this home hidden so well in secret, That in truth they are not fooling anyone and especially God. In time I will have my justice as Jeff is my wittiness will hide no longer the atrocities that I had suffered. There will come a time when the world will know the true evil that I have faced and the ones that caused it will face hell itself in this world and the next.

I surely hope it had something to do with my writing as the world reads my life story, either online or from a book on the shelves. Many will think it is fabrication because they refuse to believe people are not capable of this type of cruelty and can get away with it. Others will feel and see the truth because they are willing to believe and have seen the true hearts of men.

The next days seemed better as the routine started to become a habit. Every morning I would rise at four o’clock sharp, where Mrs. Rothwell would roughly bath me and embarrasses me in any manner she chose. Commenting on how small and dainty my penis was. I made the mistake of telling her I was more than capable of bathing myself and stop treating me like a child. She brutally beat me with the brush calling me nothing but filthy sinful boy that doesn’t know from one end of the soap to the other; nearly drowning me when she held my head under the water. She would bring me up for air coughing water out of my lungs; while she stuck the bar of soap in my mouth, yelling at me to be silent until given permission to speak.

I would then be escorted back to my room draped in nothing but a towel around the waist. Ordering me on my knees to pray for forgiveness, repeating everything they had considered I done wrong. Then allowed to dress for breakfast in my boxers like the rest of her boys, and for family prayer as everyone held hands kneeling in a circle in the living room. Apparently, my parent’s modesty and so-called immoral behavior doesn’t exist here, but their cruelty ran ramped does as look in their children’s eyes.

One of their boys would read a chapter of scripture, and Jody would lead us in a church hymn while Kerry played the piano. Soon after everyone was excused to do either do projects on their own or prepare for summer work. It was the first time I had seen Arthur since morning prayers as he sat on the floor in the kitchen dressed in tattered shorts and wearing a vest made of sackcloth and leather with no buttons or sleeves. He had numerous scars on his arm, legs, and chest.

Another dark secret was about to be exposed as I watched Shawn throw down a plastic bucket and a course brush spilling soapy water at his bare feet, striking him down for daring to look up at me instead of the floor. Slurring “Mule Boy scrub;” pointing to the kitchen floor. I couldn’t believe my eyes as if I was thrown back in time during the time of slavery; while I watched him on his knees scrubbing the floor and being kicked repeatedly for being too slow until his taskmaster was satisfied and moved onto his next task.

I knew without a doubt I too would be joining him sooner than later as I was taken once more to my room and locked in once more; finding a set of scriptures sitting on my bed. I made the mistake of setting them aside on the dresser when my so-called Dad entered the room. Apparently, I was supposed to be reading them on my own. He grabbed me by my hair making me sit on the floor while he towered over me.  Asking me with a low hateful growl if I knew how to read or was I too stupid?

I responded with a “yes sir, I know how to read;” earning another slap across the face for not saying it in a polite manner to his liking.  He then grabbed the first book indicating the page he wanted me to read. Ordering me to read it out loud, I ended up reading for a full hour; then once again I was forced onto my knees to pray for guidance and forgiveness until he was satisfied.

Informing I will be reading daily for an hour each and every day out aloud until he was convinced I could read. He too slurred the name mule boy as he brought in a sackcloth and leather, the same material as the other boy Arthur was wearing. Except this one hadn’t be sized or sewn together with thick coarse thread that looked like more than strings of leather shavings. Apparently, he intended to me to make my own vest  Stating that I was correct, giving reasons to provide me humility for all my sinful ways.

I was then shown briefly the lines to be sown taking a measuring tape and roughly and cruelly measured me. Draping the crude vest over my shoulders, he had then taken his cutting knife and cut the length he felt that would fit. Handing me a needle made of hardening bone with a large eye drilled through it. I had only seen one of these in books among Indian tribes when making clothes. It was the hardest sewing I had ever done in my entire life.

The bone needle had to be pushed hard making my fingers bleed and my blood made it slippery to pull the thread through. Several times I had to wipe the blood on my pants or my shirt, earning a slap if any of my blood ended up on the carpet. He would degrade me for being slow and worthless as I stumbled through missing the dotted line or not making the stitch straight. Yelling at me as he kicked me if I could do anything right or was I going to have to be taught like a little worthless child. To perform such an easy task connecting the dots with needle and tread. He called me such foal names. I am sure if Aunty M could have heard them, her ears would bleed from such vile cruelty.