Prologue
Age Thirteen
"What the fuck you doin' boy? Quit lookin' at me like some kind of freak!" I flinch and curl into myself with each lash of his words. I look down at the floor, but I know that's just going to end up making him even more mad.
Everything makes him mad.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you!" He bellows.
My watery gaze shoots up to my father. I hate the look in his eyes. That disgusted sneer that he sends my way whenever I'm in breathing distance of him. My gaze flits quickly to my mom sitting on the chair in the other room, but all I can see is her shaky palm hold the pencil as she tries to finish that damn Sudoku.
She wouldn't dare say a word, anyway.
They keep me near because they have no other choice, but I know they wish they could toss me in the trash bin like the moldy bologna in the refrigerator.
It hasn't always been this way.
They've never been a loving family, but I used to be shown respect and treated like a human, not this beaten and battered dog they think I am.
It all happened when I was five. My mom and dad asked me to watch by baby sister so they could go down to the bar for a little while and celebrate their friend Jolene's birthday party.
My sister, Wren, was a year old, and she usually napped a good portion of the afternoon. With the bar just across the street. They usually had me watch her enough where it was nothing new to me.
When they came home two hours later, my mom went right into Wren's bedroom, and only a second later I heard her scream. My dad ran after her, pushing me out of the way with such force that I fell over and knocked the back of my head into the corner of the lamp.
I tried to clear the fogginess as the police officers and ambulance showed up and tried to do CPR on Wren for what felt like hours.
SIDS, they say.
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
It's rare after a child turns one, but I guess we ended up being that small percentage that gets the shit end of the stick.
The ambulance left with its lights off and my baby sister in the back. My parents were rushing around to follow them, faces void of all emotion. I sat in the corner and stayed near that damn lamp that gave me a cut on the back of my head.
Right before my parents walked out the door, it's like my dad finally remembered I existed. His face went from white to red as he stalked over to me, lifted me by the back of the shirt and threw me into our tiny coat closet.
"Don't even think about leaving this spot. Not to eat. Not to piss. You fuckin’ stay here until I say otherwise." Then he slammed me into the darkness and didn't come back.
Not for five days.
I peed my pants instantly, out of terror and grief. The hunger didn't hit until day two, and at that point it felt like my insides were trying to claw their way out of my skin. The gnawing hunger made me feel sick, but with my stomach so empty I just ended up curling into myself and crying in misery.
My mouth was so dry that my tongue felt swollen. I could barely swallow as my lips started cracking and my tongue kept sticking to the roof of my mouth.
My parents came back on day four. I perked up from my barely conscious nap and was about to open the door when I remember what my dad said. How he looked.
Instead, I started tapping on the door, "Mommy? Dad?"
"Randy, he's been stuck in there all this time?" My mom gasps, walking closer.
I get up on my knees, ready to get out of these crunchy, urine ridden clothes. I stopped peeing yesterday, but the smell took over the entire room to the point I can only breathe out of my mouth, unless I wanted to get dizzy from the powerful scent.
"Mary, don't you dare open up that door. He needs to learn his lesson. It's his fault! Let him sit a while longer."
I could feel my mom on the other side of the door, teetering on what she should do. I heard some whispers, and then listened as the footsteps retreated to the living room.
I tapped on the door, "Daddy, please. I'm sorry!"
"You say one more word, Jackson, and I'll fucking kill you myself!"
I instantly start crying and crawled to the back corner of the closet. I've never heard him yell at me like that before. I've never heard him so angry, so hateful.
So instead, I curled in the back corner of the pitch-black closet. The only light I had was the crack underneath the door. For the next day, I get excited when I see a shadow pass underneath the door, hopeful that the nightmare is about to end.
I'm asleep when it finally does end. Light filters in for the first time in five days, and I have to shield my hand over my fast as my eyes adjust to the bright light.
"Get up, boy." I wasn't boy before the nightmare began. But now it seems like all I am is boy. I lost my sister, and I lost my name.
I stand up, weak in the knees and more dizzy than I've ever been in my life. I watch as my dad's nose wrinkles up at the sight and smell of me.
"You smell like shit, boy. You better not have ruined the carpet in there!" He shouts, walking up to me and standing toe to toe.
In the next moment, I get a fist to the cheek and many to the stomach. My lights go out quickly. I'm too weak to defend myself, and at this point, I don't think I deserve to.
"You're a murderer!" Was the last thing I heard out of him that day.
It was the first time my dad hit me, but it wasn't going to be the last.
I snap out of my thoughts when my ear gets yanked and I get a fist in my side. "I didn't say look at your mother, boy. I said look at me."
My eyes go back to my dad, fear and exhaustion mingling, but I could never let him see that. Because I'm now thirteen, I'm considered a man and can't cry, even when it's my father who's beating the shit out of me.
"I told you to take the rest of this fucking garbage out. We have to get going. Now are you going to sit there like a retard and stare into space, or get the hell moving?" He looms over me like a hulking shadow, and I back up and grab the red strings attached to the garbage bag next to the front door.
Even though my side hurts, I still raise up my chin and respond how he wants, "I'm sorry, Dad. Won't happen again."
"You're damn right, it won't." He mumbles about useless kids, and I take that as my cue to get the hell out of dodge.
Out front is our conversion van, packed to the brim with the belongings we're able to take with us. I'm excited, because today we're moving. Not even my piece of shit father is going to dampen my day. I don't know much of what's going on, but apparently my dad got a job with some guy named Rich in Minnesota, so we're leaving our rust bucket trailer down in Iowa and driving the five hours up to the Grove.
The Grove.
I hope things change for us there. I hope it's a nice place, filled with nice people and nice friends where I can finally be a kid for once. None of the kids want to be around me here, we're the family with the abusive father, drugged up mother, and murderer son. No one wants to be around any of us.
I'm also excited to leave this trailer behind. I hope it rots and falls to pieces, because no one should have to be around a trailer such as this one. It's cursed. It's got to be. The amount of times I've spent in that damn closet. It's been the brunt of my nightmares for so long that I can't even look at it as I walk past. I've long past taken everything out of there that I would ever use.