Chapter One: Skellar Hart

This is the first chapter of a story that I am writing. It revolves around a boy named Skellar Hart, whose life is constantly bombarded by reminders of his family's strained relationship, and tortured by thoughts of his nightmarish past. Skellar is lonely

 

Skellar Hart

 

    I was the secret that nobody knew, an island in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle. People didn’t seem to be able to make eye contact with me, God forbid they might be seen looking in the direction of the misfit. Loser was contagious. However, at Rodville High, stupid was an epidemic.

    The mutual dislike extended far beyond my peers. I wished it would wipe out all life, mine included. I had always hated people. All people. I hated the way they stared at their shoes when I walked by, the way they were always laughing together like the world was just a big joke, and especially when they decided a lost cause like me wasn’t worth their time. It always hurt, each time worse than the last.

    By my junior year, I had exactly one friend, and even he was only an acquaintance. His name was Forrest Liegar. We had Miss Honeywell’s class together. I don’t remember much about her, other than the fact that she was a total b***h, and that she was hot and blonde.

She was a horrible teacher, overloading on homework and barely giving any lessons. I think that contributed to the bitchiness…along with the fact that she liked to hold me after the bell. Stupid w***e, all she wanted was to pester me about my home life. As if I ever wanted to think about that if I could help it.

Forrest caught me by the shoulders and slammed me into the lockers as I stormed out of the classroom.

“Dude, where have you been?” He asked, giving me a final push before letting me go. I glared at him.

“Wow, you look pissed.”

“No s**t, Sherlock.”

I tried to dodge Forrest to slip away out the back doors into the parking lot, but he caught me again.

“Let me think -- did she try to get you to talk about your dad or something?”

The heat rushed up my veins, and before I knew it, I had practically thrown Forrest across the hallway. I walked over slowly, and pinned him against the wall. He looked at my furious face with panicked eyes. I knew exactly what he must have been seeing.

“Don’t you ever talk about my dad. Don’t even mention him.”

“You talk about him like he’s a monster,” Forrest sneered. His confidence was shot after being completely shown up in front of the various bystanders that had stopped and stared, sensing a storm brewing. He was only trying to up his own ego, but my temper flared. I punched Forrest in the nose. It gushed blood. And so, I was completely friendless.

Forrest swayed dangerously, but soon regained his balance. He came at me suddenly, full speed ahead, and hit me in the jaw. It wasn’t a hard hit by my standards, and I was undaunted. However, I was now, officially provoked. We fought and the other kids jeered until security came to separate us.

After the fight, I didn’t bother to stay and receive my punishment. Instead, I melted into the shadows and retreated off-campus to take care of my bloody lip. I never got detention or anything. Nobody bothered to find me. The last thing I heard as I was leaving was Forrest, yelling “You know what? I was wrong, Skellar. It’s not your dad who’s the problem. You’re the monster!” There was hatred in his voice. It was the worst punishment that anyone could have given me. I walked away, silent and cold.

Once the school was out of sight, I sunk down on the curb and thought a moment about my next move. I couldn’t go back to The Shack. I didn’t know who was home, if anybody, and I didn’t want to take that chance. So I went to the only other place in town that would let me in: Vinny’s Deli.

I went to the bathroom right away; I couldn’t let Uncle Vinny see me all bloody or he’d start asking questions. He’s my dad’s older brother, so telling him about what started the fight at school wasn’t an option. The second I got into the little room, I locked the door securely behind me.

I didn’t want to look in the mirror. I never did. My dark, almost black eyes, my shaggy, dark hair, my tan skin, spattered with blood, and especially my square jaw, are his. I look just like him. Except for the way my eyes sort of sink into my skull and my cheekbones – that was what little I got from Emmy – and the jagged scar on my neck…but I couldn’t let myself think about that now.

Gently, I removed my lip ring from my bloodied mouth and dabbed at the cut Forrest had made with a paper towel. Once the bleeding had stopped and I had established that I didn’t need stitches, I put my lip ring back in. I took a final look at the person in the mirror, and punched the crap out of him before I left the room. Damn kid knew how to take a hit…

Uncle Vinny was out front, grotesquely chopping the heads off of chickens as a mother chattered on her cell-phone, obviously paying no attention to her screaming small children. I quickly ushered them away from the scene of violence and drew some jolly ranchers from my pocket.

“HE’S HURTING THE CHICKIES!!!” The little kids screamed.

“No, those aren’t real chickens,” I lied, handing the kids some candy.

“They’re the fake kind that the clowns have at the circus.”

“Oh,” the little girl whispered, popping a cherry jolly rancher into her little, pink mouth, and drying her tears. Her younger brother, perhaps five, stopped crying and smiled real big at the sight of the candy.

“I’m Matilda. I’m seven,” the girl declared, holding up her fingers to illustrate her age. At that moment, their mother ended her telephone conversation, noticed her kids were with some scary looking teenager, and rushed over to us.

“Matilda, honey, what has Mommy told you about talking to strangers?”

Matilda’s cheeks flushed, and she looked guiltily at the floor. Her mother turned her attention to me.

“Look, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you need to get this through your head: these are my kids, and you stay away.”

“Easy, Mama,” Uncle Vinny laughed.

“Skellar won’t hurt the kids none.”

“He’s Vinny’s nephew,” Veronica explained. Veronica was Vinny’s main girl at the time. He paid her to stick around the Deli all day and pinch his a*s under the counter. Frankly, I never think Vinny’s girls get paid enough.

My Uncle Vinny is fat and hairy, smells like salami, and is definitely over the hill. Why would those pretty young hookers want to spend a moment of their lives chilling with an ugly old guy in a deli? I don’t understand chicks…or psycho working moms. The kids waved at me as they left. Their mother gave me a dirty look.

“Come again!” Veronica called after them. As soon as the little family was out of sight, Veronica pulled Vinny down under the counter. I decided to retreat out the back exit and stand alone in the alley.

The air there always smelled like smoke. I longed for a cigarette, remembering when Uncle Vinny and I used to take breaks from working at the deli and chill in the back alley together. We’d always smoke, and he got me addicted – but that was another story.

I blocked out the cigarette thoughts with a jolly rancher. That’s why I always carried them in my pocket; they made my mind go blank. I never figured out why that worked, but it did. I’d rather not question it.

I swept the floor and packaged cheese until closing time. Then, Uncle Vinny handed me a twenty and sent me packing. I wrapped my worn, black, hoodie, tighter around me as I ventured back out into the January air. My eyes never wandered away from my feet, studying the holes in my three-year-old, classic converse, as I endured the death march home.

Once The Shack was in view, I stopped walking. After a moment of mental preparation, I decided I was ready to approach the small, brown, dilapidated building on the end of Hollaway Drive that I called home, and to deal with whatever I discovered behind its warped wooden door.

The first thing you’d see when you set foot in my house was a wall. On it were several pictures in frames that were slightly crooked. None of them were of my family. I doubt there was a single picture of me in my entire house.

If you walked forward, you’d find a disheveled space that served as our living and dining room. Blood was spattered on the walls. Furniture was overturned. Pain hung in the air and beer cans littered the floor.

On the right side of that room was a doorframe without a door. That raw passage led to our kitchen, Emmy’s pride and joy. It was the only nearly peaceful space in our house, kept spotlessly clean, painted canary yellow and a clean shade of white, soaking in the light from our largest window. It always smelled sweet, with a hint of potting soil and a little flour, just like Emmy did.

Off of the kitchen were some stairs that led into a tiny patch of yard. It had exactly one tree, and that tree held the swing that had been mine for as long as I could remember. In the opposite corner was Emmy’s herb garden. Sometimes she let me help her with it. It helped keep her almost happy, so I’d probably have laid my life on the line to protect it. Emmy and I were always very close, and I was protective of her.

Getting on with the tour, next to the kitchen was our craptastic excuse for a bathroom. Just call it a mildew paradise. Across from the hall from it was Dad’s ugly plastic fish. He probably bought it while he was drunk, especially because instead of being hung by the little loop of cable, it was pinned to the wall by a large nail in its back flipper.

Emmy and I both hated that fish. Emmy said that it looked “primitive and animalistic.” It just reminded me of my dad when he was drunk, which made me shiver and made Emmy lay a slender, fragile hand on my shoulder.

My two least favorite rooms lay on the far right of the house. I hadn’t been in our den for three years. The last time I went in there for any reason, something bad happened that made me never want to go there again – because it wasn’t just any den -- it was my dad’s den.

The one place on earth I hated more than the den was the master bedroom. Once upon a time, it was my parent’s bedroom. But then something worse than what happened in the den happened there…three years ago. On the same day as the other bad thing. After all that, the master bedroom just smelled like screaming. It tasted like despair and desperateness. It felt like a tomb.

Emmy slept on the living room couch and dad slept in the den. I think there might have been a leather armchair or something for him to use as a bed…? Honestly, I couldn’t remember. It’d been too long and I didn’t really want to.

Near the entrance to the den was a flight of stairs. They were dark, and they groaned whenever anyone set foot on them, and yet they led to my favorite room of the house: mine. Well, actually, it was the attic, but it was spacious, surprisingly cool, and held my entire life behind its door.

The walls were filled with Emmy’s books, hidden where dad couldn’t hurt them, treasured pathways and sacred havens. My bed was safe and warm, pushed up against the slanted wood, with a little window in just the right place. I loved looking at the stars.

I had all sorts of posters pinned up everywhere and a shaggy rug that felt good to lie down on. Back in the dark corner was my broken-in denim sofa with overstuffed arms that always looked like it wanted a hug. Next to it was a little table with a lamp and a picture of my parents, framed, back when they were happy. I could never remember back to that time, but Emmy used to talk about it occasionally. Never in the past three years, though. It’s like the entire world has forgotten what used to be.

So, I had got my closet, filled with everything I wouldn’t want the world to see, and a few shirts lying on the floor. Other than that, my room was relatively neat. I had a sparklingly clean bathroom off of it that Emmy liked to put flowers in, even though I told her not to. However, I never kicked her out; I wouldn’t wish the downstairs mildew horror on my worst enemy. Well, maybe on my dad. He was never allowed to set foot on my stairs, let alone in my room.

I had a desk and an ancient computer, a flickering TV that doesn’t get cable, my guitar that I rescued, and, yes, my dad’s piano. The only good memory I had of him was his music – back when he played. The piano got dumped on me when I was 13, and I almost feel a connection with the old man when I play it. Key word? Almost.

Then, there was my best friend. Her name was Speckles. She was my cat, my love, my secret. Emmy rescued her. Dad still didn’t know she existed. She stayed in my room at all times and was very smart. When she was a sickly kitten, I taught her to stay in my room; she never tried to escape. And she loved me enough to never want to leave.

She was a good cat, and I spent hours lying on the carpet, just running my fingers through her black fur, splashed with white. Something about its softness always comforted me. Thinking about my room and Speckles waiting for me made me want to take the risk and enter The Shack, getting my frozen limbs out of the cold.

Emmy came rushing out of the kitchen at the sound of the front door closing. The entire house smelled like cinnamon-apple, and I winced as my injured lip curled into a half-smile as a greeting for my mom.

“Hi honey,” Emmy said with a smile. Then she noticed the small cut that was my souvenir from the day’s events.

“Skellar…? What happened to you?”

“Nothing, Emmy. It’s just a scratch, don’t worry.” I made like I wanted to retreat off into my room, but Emmy caught my elbow. She pulled me back, and when I tried to leave again, she caught my chin with her cool, gossamer fingertips, turning my head towards her. I refused to meet her eyes, but I felt her looking down on my injured lip, scrutinizing. Suddenly, she seemed to lighten up. Letting it go?

“Want some pie, babe? We’ll talk…” Emmy offered. I rolled my eyes, and she became serious again.

“I’ll eat, but I might not talk,” I warned her.

“Fine by me,” she promised, but I knew she didn’t mean it. I can sort of read people like that.

Emmy’s real name is Mischa. She is tall and willowy, and used to be pretty, but now her pale skin looks sallow, and her brown hair hangs limp and dead. Her eyes look like mine, except lighter and with a certain warmth and love that I drank up as I grudgingly retold the story of the day. The only part she reacted to was when Forrest gave up on me and basically told me I was worse that dad. F**k him. Emmy obviously agreed.

“Oh, my love…” she whispered and pushed my plate of pie out of the way as she wrapped her arms around me and gave me a little squeeze.

“You are a good person, Skellar,” she said, drawing back and running her fingers through my shaggy hair.

“Never forget it.”

I drew back quickly, and mumbled “I won’t, Emmy,” as I began to shuffle out of the room. Just then, we heard the door open. Emmy slowly got up and walked around to the front of the house.

“Welcome back, Donner,” she said, coldly. I could imagine her face, stony and brave.

“SKELLAR!” she shouted back into the kitchen. “Come out here and say hello to your father.”

Reluctantly, I forced myself to trudge into the living room and stand before him. Looking at his face was looking at a mirror. I hated it.

“Boy.” He offered a hand, hoping that I’d shake it. Screw that. I just turned around and left him standing there.

Later, I heard the sounds of him ambling around the house, drunk.

“Mischa? MIIISCHAAAA??? Whereareyou…babe? I want me some suuuuuggarrr!”

“Donner, I am going to clean the kitchen for a little while. Go to the den and watch some shows. Ask for “some sugar” when you’re sober.”

“Commmmeeee onnnnn!!! Don’t be like that…Mischa, baby…”

I locked my door. It made me feel safer as I tried to sleep. At least my dad was in lonely drunk mood, rather than its usual angry counterpart.

I usually have no dreams, but that night, I dreamt about the first time my dad abused Emmy. That was, you guessed it, three years ago.

I caught her in the mildewy downstairs bathroom, putting make-up on these enormous bruises. They were all over her body -- purple, fist-shaped monstrosities. She jumped when she saw my face, dark with anger in the mirror.

“Who did this?” I demanded.

She stared at me, empty and sad. It broke me to see her that way, but I refused to look away.

“Your father,” she replied, and then turned away so that she no longer had to see my face, identical to his, horridly contorted in fury.

“I’ll kill him,” I spat. She winced, and continued dabbing at her upper shoulder with the make-up sponge.

“Skellar,” she begged, “Please don’t. He’ll hurt you. I couldn’t watch that…”

“Then don’t look.”

And she didn’t.

I found my dad in the den. He was standing in the corner, a big bottle of wine in his hand, which he sipped directly from. He had that dangerous, drunken look about him, but I refused to leave. When he met my eyes, the spark ignited, and my temper blazed. I ran up to him and attacked.

“Nobody hurts my mom!” I shouted as I punched him again and again. My anger filled the room, and my dad felt it. He wrestled me to the ground and pinned me down; though our strength was almost matched, my dad seemed to have a little more skill than I did. Probably from bar fights.

 His eyes were filled with some sort of mad desire, and he drew a switchblade from his jacket pocket.

“If you scream or try to run, I’ll kill you,” he slurred.

 So I stood there and endured it as he broke my arm and beat the crap out of me. The entire time he repeated, “One day you’ll be me. You have no future. Nobody loves you. Someday, everybody will want you dead, like I do.”

He punched the arm I suspected he broke, and then kicked me in the stomach, hard. I almost blacked out from the pain, and my legs gave out. I sunk down to the ground. My dad took that as a protest, and drew the knife again.

This time, he brought out the blade to glint in the sunlight. Gently, like petting a baby, he grazed it along my neck. As it slid along my flesh, the sharp blade cut a deep gash in my skin. My blood was warm and sticky as it dripped and pooled and slid down, slowly.

The last thing I could remember from that day was his face. My dad’s face, mutilated with inhuman hatred. And then the entire world melted away into nothingness.

Author's Note

I am aware that this is technically a chapter, not a story. However, the thought of it evolving into a book intimidates me...
Anyhow, constructive critisism is always appreciated =)