Chapter 4

Chapter 4

           

            Inserting the knife into the doorknob, I began twisting and twirling it, trying to find the right way to unlock it without breaking my blade.

            No luck.

            I narrowed my eyes, trying hard to make the knob turn. Frustration began boiling inside of me, and I was having trouble seeing because of how dark it was, even though moonlight beamed into my prison.

            I angrily threw down the knife and sighed, flipping on the light. That could’ve helped me earlier, I thought to myself. Dan’s right- I am stupid.

            I flopped down on the carpet, face in hands. I stole a glance at the closet mirror, and quickly looked back, disgusted by what I saw, almost unable to recognize myself.

            My shaggy, dark brown hair was tangled and ragged, beginning to grow past my ears. Some of my bangs were falling in my face so I swept them back behind my ears, and continued studying the creature (also known as me) in the mirror.

            My holey, oversized gray shirt was stained with blood, hiding my skinny, boney frame. I assumed the rusty colored blood was from my nose, and I stole a quick glance at my nose, noticing how blood was staining and crusting above my lip. My green eyes flicked around, scared and nervous.

There was a small nick on my throat, that still oozed out a little bit of red blood.

 Licking my lips, I stood up and walked over to the closet, reaching behind its door and pulling out a wire hanger, the metal cold on my callused, sweating hands. I had heard once that you could unlock a door by inserting a bendable wire into the keyhole and screwing around with it until it unlocked.

“Dad is such an idiot,” I mumbled to myself as I bended the hanger to fit the keyhole. “He should have remembered to remove the keyhole on this side.”

I carefully inserted the wire into the keyhole, twisting it and experimenting with which way worked best.  I tried this for twenty minutes, but I was unsuccessful.

“I can’t even pick a lock,” I murmured to myself, face palming my head. I glanced out the window; the moon was dipping lower in the sky, and I could see the world beginning to brighten up from its slumber. I sighed and shook my head, disbelief setting in.

This would be one of the last sunrises I would see (or moonset, whichever is correct).

I turned my head from the window and dropped the wire next to the knife, plopping down next to it with my legs crossed.

I rubbed my eyes, tired and sore. I yawned and observed my prison, watching the silent, gray-walled room close in around me.

            I closed my eyes, my stomach rumbling, my throat sore, my face swollen-

            Click, click.

            My eyes snapped open. I snatched my pocketknife, my heart beating faster as I watched the door, eyes wide.

            Click, click.

            My muscles tensed as I stood up, ready to attack the intruder. My palms were becoming sweaty, and I gripped my blade tighter.

            The door swung open, and I pounced on the stranger’s back, shouting and yelling for him to get out.

            “Get off me, you stupid boy!” I recognized the voice- Dad’s. My muscles froze.

            I’m dead.

            I’m dead, I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead. I repeated in my head as Dad tried to throw me off of him. But my hands were locked around his neck, black knife at his throat.

            His life in my hands.

            I swallowed hard, and mustered up the courage to speak. “Stop, or I’ll kill you now.” I murmured in his red ear, my voice shaking. I swallowed hard.

            He laughed. “Ha! You, kill me?” He smirked and quickly grabbed the knife from my hands and flipped me off.

            I tried to make a run for it, looking out at the front door past the living room, but he quickly tripped me, knife in hand, and threw me against the wall, gripping my shirt and lifting me off the ground.

            Though my father was ugly and a drunkard, there was one thing he had from the boxing lessons he had in high school- muscles.

            He got his face close to mine, the knife now at my throat. I turned my head to the side, sweat dripping off of my forehead, my heart beating at about one hundred miles a minute.

            “How ‘bout I kill you instead?”

            I glanced down at his fingers that were holding the knife. They were right next to my mouth, his forefinger stretched out. I strained my head and bit him as hard as I could in his finger, feeling warm blood seeping into my mouth.

            “Ouch!” He yowled, and dropped the knife and me. I fell onto the ground and watched as the knife skidded away from us on the hardwood floor towards the couch. We glared at each other, and raced after it.

            I beat him to it, thanks to my skinny and agile frame. I landed on the floor, reaching under the couch for the knife. I felt the cold handle touch my hand, and I pulled it out, glaring at my hated father.

            Too late! He grabbed me by the throat and threw me on the ground, putting a boot on my chest, disabling my ability to get up. He bent down, putting more pressure on my cracking ribs, and punched me hard in the face.

            “One for your mother.” He growled, and punched me in the neck, nausea settling as I struggled to breathe.

            “One for your brother.” He punched me in the side of the head, stars buzzing in my eyes.

            “And one for you.” He punched me directly between the eyes, hitting my already broken nose.  

            I hazily watched as he snatched the blade from my non-resisting hand, and put it next to my eye.

            “Let me give you a kind reminder of how much I hate you.” He pushed the blade close to my eye and began pulling it down my cheek.

            Pain screamed in my face, and I yelled and cried and begged for him to stop, pleading and screaming. Tears formed in my eyes, and I could feel a salty tear soak into the cut, increasing the pain tenfold.

            Blood began pouring down my face, clogging my ears. I was glad that I couldn’t see myself.

            I could feel myself weaken as I continued to scream with no breath in my lungs, no hope in my heart, and waited for death to claim me. I cried, and suddenly the weight on my chest was lifted, and I heard people screaming, and I felt myself lift freely, up and up and up without a worry, and I suddenly felt very sorry for the poor boy that was lying dead on the ground in the evil man’s house…

***

            “He ain’t dead! He can’t be dead!”

            “Ma’m, I’m sorry, but-”

            “Try again!”

            “He has no pulse or heartbeat. It ain’t gonna work.”

            “Try it! Please!”

            “Last time, ma’m. Last time.”

            A sudden jolt awoke me, and my chest threw up into the air. I took a sputtering breath of oxygen, and my eyes fluttered open.

            “He’s alive!”

            Suddenly, a bunch of people in white outfits came swarming around me, shouting things I couldn’t comprehend.

            “What’s going on?” I yelled and sat up, panic taking over. My eyes darted around, trying to figure out where I was.

            “Hush, son.” A man in a white overcoat said, pulling on a pair of blue rubber gloves.

            “Tell me where I am!” I demanded, and tried to get up, but just collapsed back on the bed that I was lying on. Why couldn’t they just tell me where I was?

            A few more men came around me, and little needles of pain shot in on my arms. One pushed me down when I tried to get up again.

            “Son, you were severely hurt, and now you’re in the hospital.” Doctor Rubber Gloves said, now pulling on a turquoise surgical mask.

            “How did I get here?” I said, dazed.

            “Long story, explain later. Now, I want you to count backwards from one hundred…”

            My eyes fluttered closed, and peacefulness settled over me.

            I don’t think I even made it to one hundred.

***

            I woke up a few days later, tired and sore, wishing that I could just go back into my dreamless slumber again. I fluttered open my eyes, absorbing the white room I was lying in.

            There was a curtain on my right side, and a wall with a window on my left. I peeked over the windowsill, observing the view of Rugem to find a huge parking lot full of different cars, and ambulances and police cars weaving in and out. My eyes followed the road that led out of the hospital lot, following the road to a stoplight, a mall, and many other modern shops and buildings.

            I realized that I was in the heart of the city.

            I turned my head away from the bright window and touched my face, suddenly remembering the incident with my father. I felt a little bump along the side of my face, following the bumpy texture. I realized I had stitches.

            There was a hand mirror on the oak side table, and I reached across, picking it up. I put it up in front of me, studying the long cut along the side of my face, black stitches keeping the skin together. It stretched from the corner of my left eye down to my chin, and I realized that I would bear this mark of abuse for the rest of my life.

            Anger began pulsing through me. My green eyes flashed, and I threw down the mirror, shattering the glass.

            “What’s got you troubled this fine morning?”

            I looked up, temporarily forgetting my anger. “What?”

            “I said, what’s got you troubled this fine morning?” The voice repeated. I turned my head to the curtain, pulling it back to reveal an old, shriveled man who was smiling. His head reminded me of a cotton swab that had lost most of its cotton.

            I hesitated to answer. “I’ve been better.”

            “Me too.” His gray eyes were smiling also; he looked at his hands, then back at me. “I’ve been much better than this.”

            “What’s wrong with you?” I blurted, then realized how rude it was and blushed, looking down at my white bedspread.

            He laughed. “No need to worry, young lad. I have many things wrong with me. But I’m assuming your wondering why I’m lying in this hospital bed next to you, right?”

            I nodded.

            “Cancer. Lung cancer, actually. Smoked for too many years.”

            I remembered how Dad smoked night and day, and anger pulsed through me at the memory of him. I looked away from the man.

            “Why are you lying in here?” He asked, his voice getting soft.

            I sniffed. “Because my stupid father beat me to death-literally- and now I have a long cut going down my face. See?” I turned my head so he could see the mark.

            He gasped slightly. “Jesus Christ, son! Your father did that to you?” I turned back to him and watched his eyes turn angry.

            I nodded. “Yeah.  And as I said, he beat me up. I was dead apparently, but I don’t remember much.” I focused hard on trying to remember the period of blank between the fight and waking up, but nothing came.

            He angrily shook his head. “Why did he beat you? Did you do somethin’ to make him kill you?”

            I glanced at him. “You could say that. He locked me in my room for about three days without food or water-he wanted me dead- because I burned my hand, and then I grabbed my blade, he came in, I jumped on him, and almost killed him. But he turned around and killed me instead.”

            His eyes turned soft again. “I see. Well, if we both get out of this hospital, how about you come live with me and my wife, Janie?”

            “But I don’t want to be a burden or anything-” I began, feeling my ears turn red.

            “I ain’t gonna have any of that, son.You deserve way better than that. You seem like a fine boy to me. Do you have any relatives?” He abruptly asked, and there was an awkward silence for a moment.

 

“Well, yes, I do, I have a brother who’s eighteen, but he’s leaving Texas without me, with his fiancé. So technically, no.”

“Then come live with me. We would treat you well.”

I thought for a moment, and a surge of relief swept over me, images of living with this kind man and his wife sounded very good. “Why do you, of all people, want me?” No one’s wanted me before, I thought to myself.

“To be honest, I just feel bad that a good lad like you is in such a bad home. And I also think that Janie would like to have a young boy running around. She’s been really sad since our own children left long ago.”

“Where’d they go?” I asked.

“They went with the Lord in his kingdom.” He quietly replied.

“I’m so sorry.”

“No need to be. It was nobody’s fault but the man who killed them.”

“What happened?” I asked, curiosity filling me. I uncomfortably twirled the white sheets in my hand.

“They were out on a Friday night, coming home from a party, when some drunk man came and killed all three of them with his hand gun.” He said sadly.

Suddenly, I remembered something that Dad had said when he came home drunk once. “Were they two boys and one girl?”

He looked up abruptly, shock on his face. “How’d you know?”

“I think I know who killed your children.” I murmured.

He sat up, looking at me with confusion. “Who?”

“My father.”

Just then, the door behind the man swung open, revealing a man with black hair and a white overcoat came swiftly walking in, holding a clipboard. Behind him, another man came walking in.

“Daniel!” I said, unsure of how I felt to see him.

“Good morning, Skyler. How are you this morning? I’m Dr. O’Brien. ” The doctor said, looking at me.

“Oh, what am I? Chopped liver?” The man said.

“Sorry, Ben. Hi.”

The man- Ben- rolled his eyes.

“I’m…alright.” I answered.

He wrote something down on his clipboard. “Well, we have bad news.”

My stomach dropped. Thoughts of cancer and disease and death spun through my head. “What is it?”    

            “Your father has been killed.”

            My jaw dropped. “What?!”

            Daniel looked at O’Brien. “Let me talk to him. Alone,” he added, and shooed the doctor out.

            He stared at me, then smiled. “He’s gone! He’s dead, Skyler!” he reached down and hugged me.

            I smiled and hugged him back. “How’d he die?”

            Dan sat at the foot of my bed. “Well, I came home with Sandy-”

            “She say yes?”

            He smiled, his cheeks turning red. “Yes. We’re getting married next November. Anyways, I came back home and opened the door, but Dad was right there, running out. We ran into each other, then I pushed him down and looked behind him, seeing your dead body on the ground and him holding your blade, and then I realized what happened. But then he stood up, told me that I didn’t see anything, then punched me in the face and ran out.

            “Then, he ran into the street, and I watched in disbelief as a car came round the corner, and the next thing I know, his body goes flying up into the air, and he’s dead on the street.” He finished with a curtly nod.

            “So, how did I end up here if I was already dead?”

            “Oh ya! So I told Sandy to call the police and paramedics. They came, took away Dad’s body, questioned me, and the paramedics took your body, then performed emergency surgery on you.”

            I sat back in my bed. “Where’s Sandy?”

            “She’s out getting me a soda. She should be back soon.” He smiled, and as if on queue, a gorgeous woman with long, golden hair and big blue eyes came walking in through the door. I smiled up at her.

            “Hi, Sandy.” I said, looking up at her. She was holding a Coke, and she handed it to Daniel.

            “Thanks, sweet thing.” Daniel gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and opened up the soda.

            “Hi, Skyler. How are you feeling?” Sandy asked, walking around the bed.

            I glanced at Ben. “I’ve been better.”

            “Oh, you poor thing! That dumb father of yours…” She trailed off. “Well, your safe now.” She smiled.  “Soon, you’ll come live with us-”

            Daniel shifted uncomfortably. “Sandy, I need to talk to you about that…”

            Just then, the door barged open again, revealing two police officers wearing dark sunglasses. Once officer had blonde, curly hair and a bulky build and a toothpick in his mouth, and the other officer had flat, black hair with a police hat.

            They came around my bed. “We’ll need everybody evacuated out of this room so we can question this boy.” Said the officer with the toothpick.

            “Sir, you can’t just expect me to wheel out this man-” O’Brien began, pointing at Ben.

            “Actually, we do expect you to.” Officer Toothpick sternly said.

            Ben interrupted. “Don’t worry, officer. I’m going to die soon anyways, so it doesn’t matter. I won’t be listenin’ anyways.” He reached from underneath his sheets and pulled out a bulky iPod, putting in the earbuds and smiling a toothy grin.

            Officer Toothpick hesitated. “Er- alright.” He turned to everyone else. “Out, now.”

            Everybody evacuated the room, leaving me, the two officers, and Ben listening to his iPod.

            The officer with black hair pulled up two chairs, seating himself and Officer Toothpick next to me. “Alright, son.” He began. “My name’s Officer McBane, and  my partner here is Officer Wright. Now, we’re going to ask you a few questions, and we expect you to answer honestly, understand?”

            I nodded. “Let’s begin.”

Author's Note

Let's just say that Sky's life is taking an interesting turn.....

Reviews

[pamzilla. &hear..]

Let me make this clear,
Skyroo,
You better update this story,
and extremely quickly,
or I'll Eat You.
Nuff Said.
-♥Scrunchie

[CompellingComposer]

Awesome! A magnificent story indeed, great plot and interesting characters. You have done an amazing job with this. Love this story so much, bravo! Can't wait to read more!