shattered sands

8/6/2019 Shattered Sands

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SHATTERED SAN DS

A Novel

By

Jeff Peek


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Shattered Sands - 2 -

Chapter ICan I do this? The emotions overwhelm me. I can barely handle the

pain that sits hard in my heart now and this is not over yet. It really has not

even begun. Everyday I face the same choice and wonder if this day will be

the last one. Her wish to live is paramount. But how long can I hold out?

How long can I endure my pain? When will the end finally come?

I give the Ruger Blackhawk .357 Magnum one final swipe with the

cleaning cloth and open the cylinder. Slowly, I take a hollow point shell from

the ammo case and load it in. I repeat this five more times until the gun is

fully loaded. I close the cylinder and lay the gun down on the felt pad and

stare at it in lethal silence. I pick up the leather holster and belt, scanning

them for any dirt or cracks. Satisfied, I slide the gun into the holster and,

taking the set out to the front entranceway, hang the belt on the hall tree. I

return to the kitchen, put away the cleaning gear, and turn to face my wife.

I put on a smile so that she will not see the fear in my eyes.

Ready, dear?

The morning sun rises as I carry her gently into the sunroom and to

her easy chair facing the beach. She smiles faintly at the roaring of the

ocean waves against the shore at the warmth of the sun on her pale skin.

This is her favorite place in the house. I will never be able to come here after

this.


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The calm of the oceans crush helps to soothe her pain. For me it is a

reminder of the tumultuous jangle of nerves I have become. She relishes

every call of the sea gulls; I cringe from their accusations. This is her place,

here on the shore in the warmth of the sun. I belong in the mountains

hidden by a cold winter sky. Nevertheless, here I sit with her day after day,

watching her closely: seeing her pain, hoping it will be over soon. The guilt

keeps coming back: Why did I do it? What can I do now? What will I do

then?

The doctor, an old family friend, has already made his normal morning

visit and has assured me yet again, that everything that can be done has

been done. We first met him after we married and continued to see him on a

regular basis. He is our family doctor and was there at the delivery of both

our children. He has seen much of our lives the joy and the pain. Even

though he retired a few years ago, he agreed to stay her primary physician.

When she started needing around the clock attention, instead of hiring a

nurse, I retired from my job and moved us out to this house. The doctor and

his wife came with us here to the beach so he could monitor my wifes

declining health. I bought a house for them close enough for regular visits

but not too close to intrude.

He and I have had many discussions about her diagnosis. He is a

compassionate man and has continually tried to comfort me and to ease my

guilt. Even though he is an old friend, he still does not know what I know.


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He does not know what terrible thoughts cloud my mind. How could he? I

have never spoken to him of them. He has not seen what I have done. He is

a good man but he just does not know about the battle raging in this very

room a battle for life and death, my deep desire to end it. I sigh deeply

thinking about what this day will bring.

At the sound of my sigh, the dog raises his head quickly and stares at

me. He moves from his usual place by the windows, comes to the chair, and

softly nudges her foot. He seems to know what is happening what will

happen. I have become like him: a patient waiter of ill news. He knows what

will be missing. Soon, he will only have me. Not a fair exchange. I have tried

to get to know the dog, but I am not used to animals in the house. He was a

gift, to her, from her parents. I did not say no. They did not ask my opinion.

He has given her comfort and for that, I am grateful. She senses his

presence and her smile broadens briefly.

We used to go for walks on the beach; the dog would frolic in the

waves chasing fish and crabs. No more. My wife is too weak to walk so I

carry her around the house. I remember carrying her across the threshold to

our new life. Now I must be careful not to bruise her or bump her. My

strength used to be a blessing. Now, it causes more pain than I can imagine.

This is not the future I envisioned we would have. Nobody could foresee this.

My routine is set: first I cook breakfast for one. She does not eat

much. I liquefy what food she can eat and patiently hand feed her with a


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spoon. It is a struggle for her to swallow. Next is her morning sponge bath.

Then we come here to the sunroom.

Quietly, we wait with only the sound of the ocean and the birds to

console us. There are no clocks, no watches in the house no tick-tick-tick

to sound the coming doom. There are no phones to jangle my frayed nerves

with their pleading sounds. There is no radio or television begging me to buy

this or that, no music to prompt me to dance or sing. In this part of the

house, there is not even the hum from the refrigerator begging me to come

partake.

There is only silence silence in the constant rush and retreat of the

waves to the shore. Maybe that is why she likes it here. In the noise, you

know that you are not alone; there can be no solitude on a beach. In the

mountains, at night when the snow covers the sound and there is no noise,

you can feel very, very isolated and alone. I like the mountains.

Time passes.

I hardly speak now. She does not speak because her time for speech

has passed and she knows this rather she patiently waits for me. I do not

speak because I will not. If I were to speak, it would be on matters very

close to the heart. What else is there to say at times like these? Anyway,

except during counseling, I have rarely spoken about such matters in all the

years of our marriage how can I start now?


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I quietly stand and retreat to the kitchen. I made some fresh iced tea

earlier and now I want a drink. I return with the pitcher and glasses and set

them on a small table next to her chair. She still likes tea, although I do not

know how good it is for her. I offer her a drink and she takes a small sip

through the straw. It is all she can do. As I straighten up, I brush my lips on

her forehead: a light kiss. I try to be gentle.

Every time I touch her, the pain returns: hers and mine. It is hard to

understand and even harder to determine whose pain is greater. We have

both chosen our paths and our pains hers when, after the diagnosis, she

signed the papers and mine when I committed my life to hers in marriage.

However, her pain will be over soon. I have seen to that. Mine is just

beginning. I have to live with all the things she will miss. I will have to see

and feel all the emotions she will not have. I will have to live through the

moments of our childrens lives alone, knowing that I am alone. She will not

sense the pride and fear of giving her daughter away in marriage. She will

not know the joy of being a grandparent. She will not be able to hold her

grandson and see him mature into a man. I will face these events and more,

knowing that I am alone.

Her pain will be gone and so too her suffering. Just as I will face the

joy alone, I will face the agony alone she has given me no other option. I

am not angry with her I understand why. But, honestly, she has never had

to face the pain of life alone like I have. Life is a beautiful thing but I know


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life means pain. I have seen much pain. Birth, humiliation, death, illness, the

unknown. Life has never been easy. It will be much harder now for me. All

her strength is gone, taken from me and I will have to stand on my own

something I have not had to do since I was much younger. What if I cant do

it? What if I dont want to do it? What choice do I have? This is what I must

answer today. Today it ends. I look down into her peaceful face and sigh.

She knows what the day will bring.

Her life will be gone and with it goes my chance for love. That is my

true pain. I was given a chance to learn love and to be loved and I blew it. I

will not get a second chance love comes just once. The emptiness I feel in

my heart will increase with her passing. There will be none to teach me.

She is resting now her breathing becomes slower and deeper. Will

she wake this time? What do I do? I decide it is time: time to be honest with

her and myself. I do not know if she will hear me, but I cannot wait any

longer. The words come slowly because I am not used to talking about these

things.

Thats been part of the problem I have never truly spoken to you.

Ive complained about how you dont know who I am, yet I have never really

given you the chance to know me. I have been afraid, a coward, all my life.

Nobody else knew my fear, but somehow you did. You knew it before I did

you saw it in my eyes and in my few words. Yet, you still encouraged me;

stayed with me through the tough times and gave me more than enough


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chances to change. But I didnt, couldnt, wouldnt change. I didnt know

how.

Her smile fades and is replaced by a grimace. I do not know if it is her

pain or what I said.

Im sorry Im not saying anything you dont already know. But I

need to say it to believe it myself. I need to work through this. All you have

to do is listen. You know my father drank. He was hardly home and chose to

work long hours, even weekends. I didnt understand why I rarely saw him.

Why when he came home, he would just sit in his chair wanting to be left

alone. He drove himself hard at work and was a hard man at home; my

brothers harder still. They thought I was our parents favorite child. I saw

myself as not living up to my fathers expectations. I never fit in. I wanted to

be loved by my father but never felt his affection or encouragement.

I take a drink of tea before continuing. The pause gives me a brief

moment to brace myself.

Being the youngest of five boys, I was the smallest, slowest and

weakest. I could never beat them in sports or even come close. My oldest

brother, who was ten years my senior, reveled in setting me up for failure.

He resented having to watch me when our parents were gone. He was the

one that made me play center with his friends on the football team. He

made sure I was hit and smashed to the ground on every play. I was the

one who learned not to go home crying to mommy. I learned that very


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early on. My father did not, would not intervene he said it would be good

for me, make me tough. So I became tough. I took it and smiled never

able to physically retaliate. I learned not to complain, to hide my pain and

injuries. I learned how to fight, not with my fists, since I could never beat

them, but mentally and behind their backs. I would play tricks on them.

They never caught me because I would make sure another brother got

blamed. I would try to pit one brother against another.

I pause in my recollections, smiling at the tricks I used to play.

One time, I remember sneaking out at night and letting the air out of

all the tires on my brothers car. He had gotten into an argument with

another brother the day before and so he immediately assumed the worse. I

woke the next morning and heard my brother screaming and cussing as he

beat the ever-living daylights out of the one he believed caused the flats. His

anger really scared me but I was relieved that he was not after me. As long

as they were mad at each other, they would not bother me.

On occasion, I would sneak into the basement just to mess with his

stuff. I got good at jimmying the lock. Once, I took some money from his

wallet and put the money in another brothers jacket. Sometimes, it was the

other way around. If I could get those guys on each others case, I would.

They would handle all the yelling and screaming. They never suspected me.

I guess they thought I was too much of a coward. I chuckle now at my

brothers ignorance.


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However, other memories come back to wipe away my smile.

I also learned to be very afraid, never knowing what they had

planned for me next. They were very cruel to each other and to me and my

sister, who was several years younger.

I can still see her angelic face. The images come rushing back

unwanted. The tears well up and fall fresh from my eyes, cooling my hot

cheeks. I have cried much during this time. I have learned how to cry.


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Chapter II

Growing up, my family and I lived on the outskirts of a small rural

community. The covered porch of our house looked out onto the large front

yard overgrown with grass and strewn with cars some working, some not,

some being worked on. The two-story house that sat back from the gravel

road was in poor shape. Faded green paint peeled off the wood siding and

the roof leaked during the typical spring and fall thunderstorms.

The inside of the house was in bad shape as well. The walls showed

the effects of raising six children dents, scratches, marks and dirty prints

were everywhere. The floors sagged and creaked and the railing on the

stairs wobbled. Walking into the house, you first entered the family room

with a sofa, coffee table, television and my fathers chair. On the far right

wall, stairs went up to the three bedrooms. To the left of the front door was

the dining room. Walking through the dining room, you got to the kitchen.

The kitchen had a large walk-in pantry, a door leading outside and access to

the utility room. The appliances were old and in need of repair. The counter

tops were marked with knife scorings and burns where hot pans and

cigarettes had been set. There seemed to be a never-ending supply of dirty

dishes piled in the sink. Once for a school science project, I collected

samples of the different bugs found in the kitchen and around the house.


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My fathers overstuffed recliner dominated the family room and sat

directly in front of the only television set in the house. Next to the chair was

a large rack filled with a variety of newspapers, magazines and other reading

material and when he was home watching his shows, he would have my

sister or I fetch his drinks for him. My fathers usual routine consisted of

sitting in his chair drinking, reading, and watching television. He watched all

kinds of shows: soap operas, talk shows, sports, sitcoms, news, and on and

on. You name it he watched it. His viewing came replete with a running

commentary on plot holes, poorly written characters, errors and generally

whatever he found to be inane, useless or downright stupid. The news would

particularly rile him up, causing him to, at times, rise from his chair and yell

at the TV.

I learned not to disturb him when he was drinking and watching

television. He had a temper if we bothered him and when angered, he would

storm around the room, yelling and throwing papers and books at anybody

or anything. Once riled up, he would either leave the house or go upstairs to

his bedroom. The shouting would not always end when the bedroom door

closed. My sister and I would have to find a place to get out of his way. My

brothers were able to drive away, if they happened to be in the house when

a tirade started.


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On one occasion, father was watching a news report about death row

inmates receiving very expensive and life-saving medical treatment. He

became outraged.

Whats the matter with these pansy-ass liberals? Here they are

spending thousands of dollars to heal a man that, in six months, theyre

going to kill anyway. They should just let him die now and save me the

money.

This tirade went on through the night and into the next morning. I

could hear him muttering under his breath about not treating the prisoner

but just getting it over with and kill the guy already as he walked out the

door to go to work.

We learned to leave him alone. If we left him alone long enough he

would fall asleep in the chair. I still do not really know what my fathers job

was I guess he was a salesman of some sort. He did not talk a lot about

his work but sometimes he would bring us little trinkets from places far

away. Sometimes he would take mom with him.

There were several other houses on our two-mile stretch of road

mostly older folk. There were not many children my age around so, if I

wanted to play, I had to make do with my younger sister.

She and I slept on small cots in the utility room off the kitchen at the

top of the stairs leading down to the basement. The oldest brother lived in

the converted basement that also served as a hang out for him and his


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friends. My sister and I were not allowed in the basement, although I did

sneak in from time to time to enact my mischievous plans of revenge. Large

glass bottles of foul smelling liquids cluttered the room. He also had several

hot plates with scorched pans lying next to them. The place smelled. When

my brother had his friends over, my sister and I would often take our

blankets and pillows out onto the covered porch to escape the loud music,

the shouts and the smells that penetrated the locked basement door. Two

brothers shared a bedroom upstairs next to our parents room. The next

older had a room to himself, which was also upstairs.

Out the kitchen door was the backyard, as overgrown as the front. A

small creek bordered the backyard. Over the creek was a large open field.

The field was a baseball diamond, a football field, a battlefield for our games

of war and a spiritual hospice when the big-tent revival started.

The neighbor who lived up the road was some kind of traveling

religious guy and his big spring and summer tour literally started right here

in our backyard. The rituals of spring for our small town included the return

of the robins, the birth of the calves and the raising of the revival tent. My

sister and I would sometimes sneak into the tent and hide in one of the

corners listening to the music and hearing the words of Gaawwd spoken by

a variety of ministers. I did not understand much of what they said but I

knew that the folks that showed up year after year took it very seriously, so

I listened carefully and tried to understand the importance of these words.


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They talked about the evils of drinking and lust. The sermons that

made me laugh, however, were their rants about the evils of money. I do

not mean to say that the sermons themselves were funny or that they were

meant to be funny. I often wondered why these guys were always asking for

money from those that came to the tents. If money was so evil, why was it

so important to them?


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Chapter III

Beyond our field was a large forest untouched by development which

bordering the eastern edge of our small community.

The small creek which divided our backyard from the field, ran parallel

to the forest and just past our house, it turned sharply east into the open

field and on into the forest, eventually spilling out into a large lake in the

middle of the woods. Our creek was full of minnows, tadpoles and crawdads.

The lake itself held perch, catfish and even some bass. If you went all the

way through the woods, you would eventually come to the main north-south

railroad line and the county highway.

Even though my sister was smaller and younger than I, my brothers

considered me the runt. My oldest brother in particular had to watch us

whenever father was out of town and mom was working. He did not like

babysitting very much. He also did not like me tagging along when he went

to see his friends. As I grew, so did his resentment of me. Once he learned

to drive, I hardly ever saw him unless mom forced him to stay home to

watch us younger children. He would then force some of the other brothers

to watch us while he went off. This did not endear my sister and I with them

either.

Therefore, during the summer months to avoid my brothers, we would

get up with the sun and leave the house early after snagging some bread


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and cheese for breakfast. I wanted to start the adventures early before my

brothers would wake up. This was not hard since they tended to sleep in

during the summer months.

Occasionally, we would take a break from our outdoor adventures and

ride our bikes to the local library. I enjoyed reading the adventure books and

my sister liked to draw pictures she saw in the books on animals. She

especially liked to draw cats: big cats, small cats, wild cats and house cats.

One summer, my sister and I tracked the creek to the lake. We spent

most of the summer months building a large tree house on the bank near

where our creek flowed into the lake. I collected materials from around the

house and we ferried them down the creek with an old canoe that we found

tangled in the weeds along the banks of the lake. I built a small outrigger

type structure that attached over the gunwales of the canoe allowing us to

carry larger pieces of lumber easier. During the hotter days of summer, we

cooled off by swimming in the cool water or paddling around the lake using

wood planks as paddles. Sometimes we would just let the canoe drift and

watch the fish swimming just below the still surface.

These times with my sister were very quiet and serene. It reminded

me of a story we heard at one of the library story times about several young

children who spent hours fishing and playing along the banks of a river.

There they found a pirates treasure trove. No matter how much we

searched, we never found any treasure but it sure was fun looking for it.


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Several other creeks, like ours, fed into the lake from the west. On the

eastern edge, the lake spilled over a small causeway and into a river that

flowed vigorously away. Once the lake fort was completed, my sister and I

decided we would ride the eastern river as far as we could.

Telling our parents we would be camping out, we stocked up the

supplies in the tree house and spent the night sleeping in the fort to get an

early morning start. The usually mild summer nights left us, as we had to

huddle in the one dry spot of the fort as a freak storm crashed down on us.

Lightning flashed, thunder boomed and trees fell. I felt captivated and

thrilled by the violence of the storm and somewhat afraid. The tree we had

chosen was very large yet it too swayed in the strong, turbulent winds. My

sister clung to me, hiding her face from the bright lightning flashes. At one

point, a large branch from above crashed down on the far wall, ripping away

part of the roof and most of the wall. More rain spilled in from this damaged

section. We held on to each other until morning.

The morning light came fresh and bright. We climbed down carefully to

see what remained. When the storm started, we had carried the canoe from

the lake back to our tree house, laid it over the supplies and tied it down. A

smaller tree, uprooted by the wind, lay across the canoe and supplies. We

had to clear the limbs and leaves off before we could see if there had been

any damage. There did not seem to be any. Looking back on it now, it would

have been better if the canoe had been destroyed.


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The creek by the tree house that flowed to the lake was running fast

and full. Even though we had spent most of the night drenched from the

rain, my sister and I played in the fast running creek, splashing and

throwing mud at each other.

After resting, we loaded up the canoe and floated it down to the lake.

We planned to paddle across the lake to the upper falls of the eastern river

and then portage the canoe around the falls. It was obvious that the lake

level had risen substantially over night. If the lake were higher, then the

causeway over the falls would be fuller. Maybe we would not have to carry

the canoe after all. Maybe we could go over the falls. Once we reached the

upper falls, we reconsidered the wisdom of trying to ride the falls and

decided to portage the canoe and supplies around after all.

So, we unloaded the supplies and carefully dragged the canoe down

the side of the causeway. The rocks were slippery so we went slowly. My

sister did not complain even when she slipped and scraped her knee on

some rocks. Numerous trips were required to bring down all the supplies.

Once the transport was completed, we loaded the canoe up and put in

a little down from the falls where the water seemed to be calmer. The first

part of the river was smooth and moved lazily away from the lake. We

stowed our paddles, lay back and watched the farms go past. There was a

lot of debris washing down the river along with our raft. I heard my sister


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shout and saw her pointing. Amongst the trees and wood there floated a

dead cow. This bothered my sister and she had to look away.

After awhile, I heard a faint roaring starting in the distance. Sitting up,

I looked down the river wondering what was there. I knew that we would

soon be coming up to the railroad trestle bridge crossing the river and I

thought that maybe I heard a freight train going by. Straining to see, I

noticed a great deal of mist rising up down river. The roaring grew louder

and the canoe picked up speed as the river entered a narrow chasm heading

for the train trestles spanning the river ahead. Fear came to me and I

screamed at my sister to paddle towards the near bank. My heart pounded

in my chest as we strained mightily at the oars but could not stop our swift

passage to the bridge.

More rubbish came down the river and slammed into our canoe. A very

large tree rolled through the water towards us and hit the outrigger

structure, snapping it off, causing the board nailed to gunwales to come

loose, hitting me in the back of head. I shook my head trying to regain my

vision. The branches from the tree raked across my face as it continued past

and got wedged between the two middle piers of the railroad bridge along

with a collection of other debris. We were heading right for this pileup.

I continued to paddle as blood dripped from cuts on my face and

mingled with the tears running down my cheeks. I was afraid that we would

die. Something had to be done.


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I looked over my shoulder again to see us heading straight towards

the debris created dam between the middle two pilings. We would not be

able to steer the canoe away and knew we would be pinned there by the

water pressure. The canoe hit the dam, turned sideways and began to roll

under. I climbed out quickly and yelled to my sister to climb up with me. She

was crying and frozen with fear. I knew I could not reach her in time. I

yelled at her that she had to move now. She looked into my eyes and,

overcoming her fear, climbed out to me on top of the dam. The canoe

groaned sharply as it bent in half, wrapped itself around the piling and went

under.

We sat on top of the trees waiting, watching as more and more

pressure built up, and more and more objects became lodged in the dam.

The water level started to rise and I knew that we were not safe. I grabbed

my sister and we jumped off the far side just as the dam gave way. The

swift moving water carried us quickly away from the debris. I still held onto

my sister and I struggled to keep our heads above water. I knew that I

would soon tire of holding us both up but I stayed focused on my sister. I

had to get her to shore.

Wood, trees, and even appliances hit us as they rushed past. Suddenly

my sister screamed and then went limp. I could not see what had happened

but something had hit her. I started swimming across the current trying to

make it to shore. The river carried us around a bend where the water


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became much smoother as it flooded out over a very large plain. I was able

to drag us both to the shore.

My sister was not breathing when I pulled her from the water. Frantic,

I began screaming and trying to wake her up. There was blood on her head

where something large had struck her.

People driving down the county highway had seen our wild ride down

the river and past the bridge. They quickly reached my sister and me and

took charge. Watching them working on my sisters limp body, I struggled to

build a coherent thought. Numbness from the wild ride, cold water and

shock crept into my heart. I felt distant from the frantic actions of our

rescuers and tried to focus on my sister. When she twitched and coughed up

water, I felt able to breath again. They had revived her there on the shore.

They bundled her up and drove us to the small county hospital. The

nurses placed my sister on a gurney and wheeled her into a room with a

curtain. I sat on small stool next to her getting stitches on the largest cut

down my jaw line. My sister was recovering and only had small cuts on her

hands and face. I smiled at her, glad that we were alive. I heard a loud

crash and my smile vanished as my father stumbled into the emergency

room.

You pathetic moron. What do you think you were doing? Huh? I

smelled alcohol on his breath as he grabbed me by the collar and pulled his

arm back. Youre so stupid. Ya almost got yerself killed, he yelled as he


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slapped me across my newly stitched jaw bringing tears to my eyes and

tearing open some of the stitches. How dare you! He reared back to hit me

again but the doctor intervened.

Sir, I am going to ask you to leave, now. I need to redo some of his

stitches and I cant have you upsetting him like this.

My dad glared at the doctor and was ready to refuse when a sheriffs

officer walked in.

Is everything alright, here? he queried. My dad looked back to see a

very large, uniformed man standing with his thumbs hooked in his belt. He

swallowed hard and turned back to face me.

Ill be right outside. You cant get away from me. He stalked out the

door and back into the waiting area. I could still hear him cursing me, the

doctor and anybody else who came to mind.

I hung my head as the doctor finished stitching up the wound. When

the doctors were convinced that my sister was in no immediate danger from

her injuries, they released us to mom who was kinder and hugged us close

while we walked to the car where my father waited. My fathers anger

subsided as we drove home but my brothers just howled with laughter over

our near-death experience.


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Chapter IV

My sister and I learned a great deal about each other that one fateful

day on the river. I learned that she was strong and could face her fear and

she learned that I would do whatever I could to take care of her. Our

relationship grew and we continued our adventures together. We did not find

any buried treasure but what we did find was good enough for us we

thought that we would stick together forever.

I smile briefly and rub the scar I still carry on my face.

We were the best of friends. Isnt it interesting how relationships can

change? Time can destroy all things even love between brother and

sister.

I stand and walk over to the side of the room. There is a buffet table

set against the wall. On the table are my sisters most precious belongings:

her cross necklace, her journal and her Bible.

Oh, what a road we traveled together, sis. I miss you very much.

I rub my hand over my face again, this time realizing I did not shave

this morning. I look over at my wife and see that she is still sleeping so I

decide to take this moment to finish my morning ritual.

I walk to the front of the house and pause in the hallway to look down

at the gun. I reach down and rub the leather, wondering about the

possibilities. I quickly pull the gun from the holster and hold it up. I relax my


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knotted up shoulders and slowly replace the gun in the holster. I give the

leather one last touch before walking off to the right into the bathroom to

start the hot water running. Once the water is ready, I splash some on my

face and, using the shaving brush, whisk up a good foam in my shaving cup.

This I spread on my face and then check the straight razor with my thumb.

After stropping the blade a few times, I begin to shave. I inherited this razor

and shaving kit from my father. The razor is old but I have kept it in very

good condition. The razor is very sharp. Very sharp indeed. Very sharp.

Sharp? I ask the mirror. Sharp enough?

I pause with the razor still held on my cheek. It would not take much

and my life would be over. I stare into the eyes looking for a reason

looking for a will.

Would it really end here?

There is no answer in my eyes. There is no answer in me.

Where is the answer? I need to find the answer.

The steam from the hot water rises and begins to fog the mirror. I

cannot see myself anymore. Am I to be hidden?

I move my left hand to cover my right the one with the razor. Slowly

I pull the razor away from my face. Once my hands and the razor are in

front of my face, I stare down at it. Shocked, I place the razor on the sink

and step back.


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What am I thinking? This isnt right. She still needs me. Letting the

razor lie, I lean over and splash the hot water on my face, washing off the

shaving foam. Closing my eyes, I reach to the right, pull a towel off the ring,

and use it to cover my face.

My hands are shaking as I dry my face and place the towel back on

the ring. Turning off the water, I pick up the razor, wipe it off quickly, close

it and place it back on the sink. It will be there when I need it.

I walk back into the sunroom and kneel beside my wife.

Im sorry my dear, I dont know what I was thinking. I will not leave

you.

I gently kiss her forehead and sit back down in my chair. I run my

hand over my face and begin to rub the scar. I drink some more of my tea

trying to calm my nerves.

To this day, I do not understand why my brothers hated my sister or

me. I could do nothing to please them. It was as if just my act of being born

was abhorrent to them.

My anger starts to rise but I try to keep it out of my voice.

The tormenting grew more heinous and vicious after the canoe trip.

They would douse us with cold water while we slept or lock us out of the

house at night, forcing us to sleep on the porch. There were other practical

jokes as well. One day before school, my sister and I found cow manure in

all our drawers. We had no choice so we wore the stinky clothes to school.


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Once, mom sent me to find my oldest brother and tell him that he

was supposed to drive her to the doctor. He was down the street talking to

his friends and smoking. Before I could even give him the message, he came

at me shouting. Leave me alone you brat. Go away! and so on. When I did

not leave, he knocked me down, grabbed both my feet and dragged me

down the gravel road back to our house as his friends hooted, hollered and

laughed at the scene. Mom was standing on the porch as he dragged me

into the yard.

My mother only said Dear, put your brother down. Its time for my

appointment. My brother was not scolded for beating on me. My hands were

pretty scraped up and took several weeks to heal. I dont know why he did it

or why my parents didnt stop it. My brothers didnt get along with most

people. It seemed they were always in trouble. If it wasnt the neighbors

coming by to complain about their driving, it was the police seeing if they

had an alibi.

I pause again to drink some more tea. The image of my brothers eyes

threatens to overwhelm me.

Once, when my parents were gone, I heard a womans shouting and

screaming coming from the basement. I tried to go down there but he had

locked the door, so I went outside and looked in from one of the windows.

All I could see were shapes and shadows, but it sounded like a fight. I heard

the womans voice saying No, no dont over and over again. Suddenly it


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all stopped and was quiet. Soon, I heard some muffled crying, and the

indistinct words of my brother. I then heard the basement door slam shut,

so I rushed to the front of the house just around the corner from the front

door and waited. Soon my brother emerged, pulling a young lady behind him.

I could see a bruise on her cheek and her jacket was torn. She did not

struggle as my brother shoved her into the back seat of his car and drove

away. I will not forget the look on my brothers face as he glared at me

when he drove off.

I shiver now with the memory of his anger and malice. Those eyes

have haunted me my entire life.

Several days later, the police came and took my brother away for

questioning. They claimed he had assaulted some girl. As he walked away

with the police, he gave me the same look I had seen that awful day. I knew

I could not tell anyone what I had seen or heard. He was let go when no

other witnesses could be found.

I hang my head, rubbing my temples with my right hand I try to ease

the throbbing.

Pause.

I told the police I wasnt home when the attack occurred. They

believed me.


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I hang my head, this time in shame. I never really stood up to them.

How could I? They tormented me relentlessly. Maybe if I had done

something it would have ended differently.

But what could I have done that would have made a difference? I

could not have stopped what happened.

Pause.

Could I?


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Chapter V

The images, the memories, and the pain return. There are many

horrific stories of abuse, but two nights in particular stand out. The first

occurred one night when my parents were out of town, my brothers dragged

me out of bed, taped my mouth shut, tied my hands and placed a bag over

my head. Out the back door of the house we went, into the pitch-black night

and out across the creek, through the large field and into the forest. I do not

know how far we went or where we were going. I knew my brothers had a

secret place somewhere out here but they never took me there. The one

time I tried to follow them, they beat me severely.

I supposed this was where they were taking me. Soon I heard the

crackling of a fire over the shuffling of feet on a leaf-strewn path. I smelled

the burning wood of a campfire and figured we were there. They threw me

to the ground and silently finished their preparations. Eventually, they lifted

me off the ground and tied me, spread-eagle, to several trees near the

campfire. They removed the bag from my face.

They stood before me, all dressed in dark hooded robes. They accused

me of trespassing on their land. They said they would punish and humiliate

me for my sins. Behind them, I saw a small stone and wood structure. The

door was made of solid oak and I could see a padlock hanging on a hook by

the door.


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The door opened and garish red light spilled out. Silhouetted in the

doorframe was my oldest brothers girlfriend. She walked over to me

carrying a large knife. My brothers started hooting and chanting as she

placed the knife against my belly and slowly cut through my pajama tops.

She took the tatters and placed them in the fire.

She then placed the knife in the waistband of my pajamas. My eyes

begged her, pleaded with her. Slowly she cut through the pajama bottoms

and stripped them off me, as my brothers hollering grew louder. These she

also placed in the fire.

I was naked, tied spread-eagle and disgraced. My brothers paraded

around me laughing, cursing and spitting. They poured beer over my head

and covered me with dirt. I saw that there were several girls from my class

in the crowd, pointing and laughing at me as well.

Tiring of this sport, they put the bag back over my head and cut me

down. I assumed they would take me back home. I was wrong. They tied

my hands together and took me farther into the woods. They hiked quickly

pushing and prodding me as I tried to keep up but I kept tripping and falling

down. Every time I fell, they would curse and kick me until I got up. Finally,

when I could not get up, two of them grabbed my ankles and began

dragging me down the path. We splashed through some water and on the

other side they dropped my ankles and left me there in a small clearing.


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I lay on the ground and waited for the end the final blow. However,

nothing happened. I sat up, raised my hands and slowly lifted the bag off my

head. They were gone and I was alone. My shoulders and back were sore

and I could imagine the cuts and scrapes I had gotten from being dragged. I

used my teeth to loosen the ropes and finally was able to free my hands.

Frightened and cold, I hugged my arms around my knees and slowly rocked

back and forth. I did not know where I was or what I should do.

I knew nobody would come looking for me so I needed to act. I knew

the stories of the animals that lived in these woods and did not know which

ones were true. I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that the

meanest creatures had just left and would probably not return.

The night was quiet and cool. The wind rustled through the leaves and

swirled around my body. A light fog moved slowly over the creek and into

the clearing. The sounds of the night came back I could easily hear the

frogs, the crickets, and the locusts. The other sounds were the ones I

strained to hear the hissing of the snake, the soft plodding tread of the

coyote and the low growl of the mountain lion.

I knew that the woods lay east of my house, so I looked to the sky.

With the stars as a guide, I was able to move in the general direction of

home. I tried to move quickly and quietly, not wanting to attract any

attention. At dawn, I came to the edge of the woods near where our gravel

road ended at the road into town. Remarkably, I was only about a mile from


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the house. I cut through our neighbors yard, avoiding the gravel road, and

soon I was in our backyard. I cringed from the pain as I used the hose to

wash the dirt off my body, especially my back, and then slowly crept back

into the utility room. My parents arrived home later that day. They never

found out what happened that night. My brothers never let me forget.


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Chapter VI

She moans softly and tries to turn onto her side to face me.

Shhh, dear. Dont move around like that, I whisper softly. Be still.

Its okay.

She settles back down and opens her eyes to look at me. She is not

angry; she knows the stories as well as I do. This has all come up before.

However, this time will be different. This time I will not let it stop there.

I take some time to wipe away my tears and calm down.

They hated me for no good reason. I didnt deserve what they did to

me. Im not to blame for my fathers inability to show love. I bow my head

and continue. You were right about them. I wont defend them any more. I

wont accept their lies. I believed that as long as they picked on me, they

would leave my sister alone. This was not true. They did what they did

because they were evil. What happened is not my fault.

I have never gotten this far before. When I say this, my head knows it

to be true but my heart looks the other way. I stare into the fires of her eyes

and force my heart to see.

_______________

Many months after the hazing in the woods, my parents planned to

leave for the weekend again. This time I was ready. I had prepared a hiding

place, another tree fort actually a sanctuary for my sister and myself.


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Across the creek and hidden in a stand of trees on the edge of the clearing

was a very large tree with a smooth trunk. I stocked it with food, sodas,

comic books, sleeping bags, pillows and blankets. This time after dinner, I

snuck out, taking my younger sister with me to our safe place. It was off the

beaten track but high enough and close enough, with my pilfered binoculars,

to see the back of the house and who was coming and going.

We arrived safely, climbed the rope ladder, and lay down to wait. I had

planned well. The fort spanned several large branches that came out of the

trunk at nearly right angles about 20 feet from the ground. The rope ladder

was the only way into the fort and we brought it into the fort with us. My

sister and I spread out the blanket and stared up into the leaves and I tried

to not think about my brothers.

Soon, I heard a loud noise from our house. The moon was out, so with

the binoculars, I was able to see the back of the house. Somebody had

brought fireworks and were now setting them off the back porch of the

house. My oldest brother had brought out his shotgun and was shooting

skeet with the bottle rockets and roman candles. Suddenly one brother, then

another came storming out the back door to talk to the oldest. Something

was up. I felt my fears were confirmed they had planned some more

mischief for me. I later learned that I was wrong. It wasnt me they were

after.


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One brother tried to track me into the woods but soon gave up and

returned to the house. I had no idea what was going on but I felt that we

were safe here in the fort. I tried not to imagine the sorts of things they

would do. I began to relax when I saw more people start to arrive. I could

see the car headlights coming down the road. Soon the music started

playing and the party began. I hoped that my brothers had forgotten about

me.

I must have dozed off because I awoke with a start some time later.

My sister had rolled up into a ball and was peacefully asleep. But there was a

sound that did not belong. I crawled over to the edge and looked down from

the tree. In the bright moonlight, I saw my oldest brother, obviously drunk

with a beer in hand, staring back up at me. How had they found me? He had

two friends with him. They were all grinning wildly.

Where is she? he screamed, his eyes wide. Bring her down here.

His horrific desire struck me hard.

No, you sick monster! Go away! Leave us alone. I screamed and

became scared that I had woken my sister. I looked at her over in the

corner; fortunately, she was still sleeping. No this was not going to

happen. A dark rage filled my head as I looked around for things to throw. I

could not, would not, let them take her. I had to stop them. I had not

planned to have to defend the fort but there was a hammer and some nails

still here. I hefted the hammer, testing its weight.


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I have one chance here, I considered. Once chance to kill him. I

stood quickly and threw the hammer with all my strength and pent-up rage.

It flew straight striking my brother on the side of his head. He collapsed in a

heap to the ground; his friends were stunned and not laughing any more.

Aha! Gotcha, you worm! Take that. You come back here and Ill hit

you again! I screamed defiance at his prone body, exhilarated by my

victory. My joy ended when he began to move. His friends helped him up

and he faced me again as blood ran down the side of his face. He glared at

me with his murderous eyes but did not say a word to me.

Stand here. Dont let them down. Better yet, if the little bastard

comes down kill him. He ordered his friends. They nodded as he went

back to the house. I knew they would not leave. I assumed my brother was

heading back to the house to get his shotgun.

I watched him go back to the house. I used the binoculars to follow

him as he entered the house and came back out carrying a gas can and

some fireworks. He was going to burn down the tree! Most of the people

from the party gathered on the back porch and watched my brother ranting.

His friends standing guard just looked up and started laughing again.

My brother began to have an argument with somebody in the house

and kept turning around and yelling and waving his arms. He dumped more

fireworks on the ground, picked up the shotgun he had left leaning against

the wall of the house and went back inside the house.


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Silence.

A high-pitched scream.

A shotgun blast. Then another.

People poured out of the house and scattered as my brother came

onto the back porch. He fired three more times into the backs of the people

running and two guys went down. I saw one of them trying to crawl away.

My brother reloaded the shotgun and marched around the backyard

firing randomly. One round hit the pile of fireworks and gasoline causing a

much louder BOOM as a large orange fireball rose high in the air. The

explosion threw debris in all directions. It even knocked down several other

people we were still trying to flee my brothers rage. The wood on the back

porch began to burn and the fire quickly spread to the rest of the house.

The shock of what I saw knocked me to my knees. Smaller explosions

went off in the yard as some of the cars caught fire, showering the yard with

more debris.

The two friends standing guard ran back to the house. They ran back

and forth frantically but they could do nothing. After a brief non-verbal

discussion, they got into one of the working cars and fled. As they left, the

community fire alarm sounded, calling the volunteer firefighters to the

carnage. Lights came on in the surrounding houses as shaken neighbors

awoke and came out to investigate.

My sister awoke at the sound of the explosion and began screaming.


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Whats that noise? Whats happened?

I crawled over to her to calm her.

Ssshh, quiet now sis. Its ok. Youre with me in the tree house. Just

relax, ok?

She trembled a little but nodded that she understood.

Come, Ill show you what happened but you need to promise to be

calm. Ok?

She nodded again so I stood with her as we walked to the front of the

tree house where she could see the smoldering form that once was our

house wreathed in flame and smoke.

What happened? Where is everybody?

I lied to protect her.

Somebody must have lit some fireworks off in the house. I dont know

what happened. I did not tell her that my brother had been here. I did not

tell her what he had said. But, if you are calm, we can go take a look. Do

you want to do that?

She nodded again so I uncoiled the rope ladder and went down first.

My sister slowly climbed down as I braced the ladder to keep it from

swaying. I did not talk as we walked back to the house. I made my sister

stay back by the creek as I went forward to the house as the first sirens

sounded in the distance. I knew there was nothing the firefighters could do.

The house was gone, just gone.


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The two friends who left the party tried to blame my sister and me for

the fire, but the sheriff did not believe them. He filed his report and closed

the case. No charges were filed against me.

In all, three people died the two my brother shot in the house plus

one other. Four others, including my youngest brother, were seriously

injured - most with second and third degree burns. A couple of others had

minor buck shot wounds including my other three brothers

Emergency personnel raced the injured, including my brother, to the

county hospital for treatment. The devastation quickly overwhelmed the

local volunteers so they drafted neighbors to ferry those with less serious

injuries to the hospital. My sister and I sat in the back of a smelly old station

wagon that had been used to transport chickens.

At the hospital, the doctors, nurses and candy stripers hurried about

oblivious to our presence. So we sat in the emergency room waiting area

and tried to amuse ourselves by playing games. A huge set of double doors

blocked my view of where they had taken my brother but on occasion, the

doors would open and I could hear snatches of tense conversations between

the doctors and nurses.

Weve got to stabilize him before he can be moved to the burn

hospital.

But hes so weak now there isnt much more

Its better if he does not wake up, poor soul so much pain.


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Are his parents here yet?

Increase the drip and push saline. Weve got to keepem hydrated

In the early morning hours, a nurse coming on duty saw us sleeping

on the coaches and prodded us awake.

Are you waiting for someone?

They brought our brother in last night the fire. I rubbed sleep out

of my eyes and tried to focus. My sister awoke with a start and cringed from

the strange lady standing over us.

Where are your parents?

I dont know. They went out of town.

Come, you must be hungry. Let me get you some breakfast.

My parents found us in the cafeteria gorging on eggs, pancakes and

cereal. Father seemed especially angry but controlled himself and did not

speak. Mom had been crying and continued to wipe tears from her eyes as

we walked to the car.

My sister and I were taken to stay with the neighbors. Our parents

stayed by his side. We saw our brother one more time. He was conscious but

could not speak. Gauze bandages wrapped his face, arms and legs. His eyes

were fixed on the ceiling and his breath rattled in his chest. My sister hid

behind me as I stared at my brother. I heard voices in the hall.

Is there anything else you can do? My dads strong voice broke.


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Im sorry, sir, but all we can do now is keep him comfortable. A

deep, cultured voice spoke.

How long? mom sobbed gently.

It is hard to say, maam. A day, a week but thats just a guess. Said

the deep voice.

Hes still in pain, isnt he? My father gained control of his voice.

Yes sir. Third degree burns over 70% of his body.

Cant you stop the pain?

We are giving him all the morphine we can. Any more and he would

stop breathing.

Is that a bad thing? I mean, at least his pain would be over.

I strained to hear the doctors response. He paused, trying to choose

his words carefully. The pause lengthened and I turned towards the door.

As a doctor I took an oath. That oath, and my own beliefs, prevent

me from taking a life. Even in these situations. Im sorry, but there is

nothing I can do.

You cant pull the plug?

There are no plugs to pull. We are not using any machines to sustain

his life. We are just administering drugs to ease the pain. My father tried to

say something but the doctor interrupted him. Sir, this conversation is over.

I will not discuss this matter with you. Good day.


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Mom opened the door to the room and saw me looking at her. She

quickly ducked into the room, walked over to my sister and I and gathered

us up in a big hug. She began crying again.

My father did not speak as they drove up to our neighbors house. My

brother clung to life for six more days with unimaginable pain before finally

dying.


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Chapter VII

As the images fade, my voice returns.

It was not until much later that I understood why my brother started

shooting. It is not my fault those people died. I did not make my brothers

use drugs or drink. I did not start the argument that led to the explosion. I

was doing what I could to protect my sister and myself. My parents did not

believe the sheriffs report. They did not accept that their sons had been

arrested. They didnt want to believe their sons were involved in any illegal

activity. They tried to find another reason why their youngest son died so

they blamed me. Why wasnt I there? I must have started it. Nothing I said

could convince them otherwise.

I shift uncomfortably in the chair then lean forward rubbing my hands

together. I force myself to focus on the memories and to describe the pain.

I walked over to the house from the fort wood, metal, glass and

brick were everywhere, I approached a smoldering body lying on its stomach

on the back steps. I couldnt get too close because the flames were still

pouring from the house. I couldnt even tell who it was their clothes were

burned off and the skin was blackened. I stepped back and started calling

my brothers names. Unbelievably, the body on the steps started moving

and a ghastly moan escaped from the burnt throat. Horrified, I backed up

quickly and tripped over some debris. The ravaged face turned to me as the


45/236


skin melted away and the body fell to the ground. I crab-crawled away and

upon reaching the small creek starting vomiting. It was disgusting.

I was stunned by the death lying on the ground in front of me, beside

me, all around me. The acrid smell of burned gunpowder couldnt overpower

the sickly smell of burned flesh. I couldnt breathe. I couldnt stand.

Exhausted, I collapsed by the creek and watched as the firefighters put out

the fire and began pulling the bodies out of the ashes and lay them out in

the backyard.

I stand abruptly, the images of their charred faces in my head, and

walk to the window. I look out towards the ocean as I talk.

As bad as that image is, it does not compare to the final time we were

brought to the hospital to see my brother. He lay in the bed surrounded by

machines, wrapped in gauze, and with a breathing tube down his throat. He

could not speak but his eyes betrayed the pain even through the morphine.

To tell you the truth, I wasnt really bothered by my brothers arrests

and convictions. In my mind, they deserved it for what they had done to my

sister and me. Even the pain the younger brother endured was justified.

What bothered me was that my parents poured their grief and anger out on

me. I didnt understand that.

Of course our family had to find somewhere else to live, so my father

moved us into a small house in the next town. But even the distance

wouldnt make us unknown. Reporters from the big city came to describe the


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devastation and loss of life. The tragedy quickly spread as reporters from

much larger cities farther away arrived to witness the pain. It was apparent

that everybody in the county saw the pictures of the burned out house,

knew the number of dead and injured. The people in this new town became

afraid of us. They started to shun us. Nobody talked to us directly. Every

time we walked down the street, I would see people talking behind their

hands and looking at us. The isolation was deafening.

So my father moved us again; this time across the state line to a

smaller house in a smaller town just past the railroad tracks.

_______________

A dump really the house only had two bedrooms, one bathroom with

sagging floors and hard water. My sister tried to find adventure in the

neighborhood but there were no trees or creeks around and no place to play.

My dad grew desperate. One sweltering summer night, I overheard a fight

between Mom and Dad.

But dear, what about the kids?

What kids? Those two? No, my life ended when my sons were taken

from me. You wonder why I drink? Huh? I drink to forget because every time

I see those two, it brings back the pain and the grief. Ill never forget what

they did to them. Never.

It wasnt there fault, dear. They didnt do. Her words stopped as I

heard a loud slap.


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Dont ever say that again. I wont hear it.

My mom wept softly before speaking again.

But what are we going to do? Without a job, how are we going to buy

food and pay the rent?

Dont worry about that, I got a friend on the railroad who said he can

get me some work. I gotta go now. Ill see ya later. With that, he walked

out and I heard the front door slam.

I quietly snuck out to look into the living room. Mom sat on the worn

sofa, her head bent and she was crying. I could see a red mark on the left

side of her face.

Mom? You ok? I ventured out into the room. She quickly wiped her

tears away.

Fine, dear. Why are you still up? Its way past your bedtime.

I know. I heard the door close and wanted to know what was going

on. Where did dad go?

He, uh, needed to talk to somebody about work.

He lost another job?

No, hes just looking for a better opportunity, thats all. You need to

get back to bed now, ok?

Ok, mom. Good night. I wanted to go up and give her a hug and a

kiss, but she quickly stood and walked back into her bedroom.


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His drinking worsened and there were more outbursts late at night.

Once, during one of the late night fights, I came out of the bedroom.

Leave her alone! I shouted. He stood startled as I ran out to stand in

front of mom. Stop it.

He looked at me and this weird smile came across his face.

You want some of this, do ya? He grabbed my pajama top and pulled

me close. His breath reeked of beer and cigarettes. You little punk. I oughta

throttle ya right here. Teach ya a lesson. You ruined my life! He swung back

with one hand and delivered a sharp smack to my cheek bringing tears to

my eyes. This infuriated him more and he reared back to hit me again.

Stop! My mom pulled me back quickly. He paused and then gave her

a stinging slap across the face. I closed my eyes and waited for more blows

to fall but, instead, he just walked out and slammed the door as he left.

He doesnt mean it. Mom hugged me tight as she sobbed.

But, why? Why is he doing this?

He misses your brothers, thats all. Hes still very sad and doesnt

know what else to do. I thought he would eventually get better but he

hasnt. He keeps drinking and his anger just keeps building. I dont know

what to do anymore. Sometimes, when he comes home, he doesnt even

talk to me. He just sits in his chair and looks at their pictures.

But why doesnt he just go see them?


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The federal prison is too far away and really hes just afraid of going

to them. He doesnt want to look them in the eyes so he acts like they really

are dead somehow it makes it easier for him.

I did not know what to say. I just let her hug me until she stopped

crying.

You sure are getting big, arent ya. Growing like a little weed. Pretty

soon, youll be bigger than us all. But right now, you need to get back to

bed.

Mom, Ill protect you. I wont let him hit you again. She stroked my

face and pulled my hair out of my eyes but did not reply. I quickly hugged

her tight and went back to bed. She was right. I was getting bigger. I hit a

growth spurt a few months back and I had been running and lifting weights

at school. When I also saw that my dad did not have to look down at me

anymore, I knew that I could do this. I could stand up to him. After that, I

stayed awake until he got home. I would sit with my mom in the living

room. We worked jigsaw puzzles or played some silly card game. He did not

hit mom again. If he started yelling, I got in his face and shouted him down.

Then he started going after sis.

One morning we woke up to find him in the living room, still awake.

My sister and I had dressed for school and eating breakfast when he came

up behind us.


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Is that what youre wearing to school? What are you some kind of

whore? Go get changed right now! We sat stunned. Sis wore the regular

dress coded approved clothes. She always wore the same type of clothes.

When she did not get up, he grabbed her arm and pushed her out of the

chair.

I said go change your clothes. Now!

I stepped in to protect her.

Dont you touch her again. You do that, and Ill kill ya in your sleep,

you coward. Cold anger welled in my chest as I balled up my fists, leaned

into him and looked him in the eye. His teeth clenched, his eyes bulged out

and his breath came out in snorts. After a short ten count, he slowly raised

his hands and backed out.

You think youre so big and smart but, dont worry, youll get yours.

He picked up his overcoat and left. I stood clenched ready for him to return,

but he got in the car and drove off.

He did not return home for several days and when he did, he was so

drunk he passed out in his own vomit on the living room rug. I woke that

morning to the stench of sick and had to pick him up, carry him to the

bathtub and rinse him off while my sister tried to clean the rug. The cold

shower revived him and he just stared at me blearied eyed while I got his

clothes off. They needed cleaning as well, or better yet, burning. I do not

think anything could remove that smell.


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He seemed better after that and for several weeks, the house ran

more smoothly.

Then came that awful day.

It started, as usual, with my sister and I going off to school while he

scowled at us. But when we came home, he was already there. I could tell

he had been drinking because he slurred his words and could not seem to

focus. I hung around the house to make sure he did not strike out at

anyone. But he did not move from his chair in the living room. He did not

even watch television. He sat, drank and stared at the pictures next to him.

When mom called us to dinner, he rose and noticed me for the first time as I

stood.

What are you smiling at, punk?

Youre drunk dad. Why dont you just relax and get something to

eat.

Who are you to talk to me that way? Apologize. I just smiled at him

and held my ground. You know, youre just like me: slow, stupid and

angry.

I measured my words carefully.

I am not like you at all. I care about people and I work hard. I have

ambition. I wont end up a drunk like you with no drive and no heart. You

disgust me.


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Then he hit me. Not a slap but a real punch to the face. Stunned, I

rubbed my jaw. His punch did not hurt. He could not hurt me. I struck hard

and fast not a big roundhouse punch but a quick, strong left jab followed

by a sharp right cross. Both punches connected on his chin, and he went

down in a heap. I kicked him in the chest as he lay on the floor. He slowly

got to his hand and knees but I was ready for him. Instead of coming after

me again, he knelt on the floor catching his breathe. He raised his head to

look at me and instead of anger, I saw sadness, pain and despair. Tears

rolled down his cheeks. I lowered my guard, confused by the emotions. He

stood slowly, winced at the pain in his ribs and sat down to eat.

_______________

He died later that night; a single car accident on the county road

leading to our old house. It seemed he just gave up.

I pause here, turning away from the window I go to stand by her. If it

really was not my fault my brother died, was it my fault my father drank

himself to death?

No, it wasnt, I answer aloud. He chose to drink; that night in

particular. He didnt want to deal with his pain so he drank. Her eyes soften

and she nods ever so slightly. She knows. She has always known and on

many occasions she has tried to get me to see the truth. Today I see my

father for what he was: angry, loveless. A man who by his own choice and


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decision lived a lonely, angry, bitter life and died an agonizing death, by

himself on an empty road leading nowhere. Was I on that same road?

NO! I am not my father! I have been marked by him, but I am not

him!

The finality of the words crash around and through me and I fall to my

knees next to her chair and cry. She slowly strokes my head to comfort me

through her pain. She has always tried to comfort me not shield me from

the truth of my past. How she knows, I have not figured out.

My sobbing subsides slowly. I stay by her chair. This seems to be the

right place for me right now. I am comforted and at ease. My pain lifts as I

see the light in her eyes: the glow from her face, the love she shows. I used

to be afraid of this look, of this compassion, but now I embrace it and am

thankful for her life and her gift.

But why? Why has it come to this? Why has it taken this long for me to

see? I know that I am not fully aware yet, not as fully alive as she is. What

more is there? Can I take the pain of removing the layers that cover my

heart and eyes? I do not know if I can take it, but I know that I must: for

her sake. Is it too late? Am I too late? What have I started? Can it be

finished before she goes? I fear that I am too late.

There it is again. Fear the heart stopping emotion of stagnation. Fear

its had me in its grip all my life. Fear of my fathers rejection, fear of my


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brothers torment, fear of my sisters pain, fear of my failure. Fear the

growth stopping pain of life. Can I face it now? What choice do I have?

My life now hangs in the balance. Do I give over to the fear of loss, or

face this enemy with strength? What strength? Not my own; I have never

been able to face my fears before. If I do not face it now, I will face the Colt

.357 Magnum later. I have to choose.

I turn away to avoid looking into her eyes now. She knows the choice

before me and if I see her face I will lose my will to live. I will lose the fight.

I know she believes her life will not end with this death. I know she is

looking towards heaven. If I believed as she did, I would go with her. I have

to know before she goes. I have to understand. My life and death are

waiting.


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Chapter VIII

I rest in her presence and enjoy this time together. Her peacefulness

is soothing and she goes to sleep again. Staying awake is very difficult for

her now. I need to be ready to speak whenever she is awake but I need

some sleep as well. Even though I am anxious, I stretch out in the chair next

to hers and close my eyes. I need to sleep to be done with this. I know I

should not lay here, time is running out, but I do not want to face any more

of this now. The warm sun relaxes my muscles, easing some of the tension.

Please let me rest, let me be.

Uh? What? I quickly sit up and rub my eyes. The sun is not where I

left it. It is higher in the sky. I must have dozed off. I quickly turn to my

wife who is awake and looking at me. I get up, kneel by her chair and kiss

her forehead.

Sorry, I must be more tired than I thought. Do you need anything?

She slowly shakes her head then, closing her eyes, sighs deeply.

How is the pain? Should I give you something?

Again, a slow shake. She opens her eyes, smiles and then winks. I

smile at her playfulness and gently pull the hair back out of her face. She

tries to speak.

Childddrr her soft voices trails off.

The children? Where are the children?


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A nod this time.

Theyll be here tomorrow. In fact, they are probably already on their

way. You know how long it takes to get here. Is that ok?

Pause. A nod.

I cant do anything else I cant get them here faster. I bow my

head. Im sorry, I cant change things.

Slowly, she reaches up and strokes my face.

Be at peace, my wife. I love you.

She drops her hand and sighs deeply again, the exertion too much for

her. I straighten her blanket and move back to my chair.

Cant get here any faster. Being this isolated has been great but it

does have its problems. The only person nearby is the doctor. He comes by

every morning to examine her.

The children were here two weeks ago. They have come many times in

the past months to help and be with her in these last days but I sent them

back to their responsibilities. This is mine. This is my last chance.

So, they spent time with her and tried to make their peace with her

coming death, knowing as I did that they would probably not be here when

she died. They did not have to make peace with her. My son was hardest hit

by the news but absorbed it well. Maybe too well. He is like me. If I survive

this, he and I will need to have a talk.


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Our daughter is still very upset by it all. She does not understand and

wants to find someone to blame. The stress is evident in her voice. I have

tried to comfort her, but I am not good at that. She needs what I cannot find

to give right now.

Thinking of our daughter brings me back to my past to Mom.

_______________

With the loss of her sons and then her husband, my mom just died on

the inside. She was not strong and now had the two of us to care for by

herself. Her weakness ruled. I had learned to protect myself from my

brothers and now I learned how to protect my sister from the world. My

mom could not do it.

We quickly used up Moms savings and my fathers life insurance and

had to move in with Moms mother and father.

Her parents were very supportive of their daughter and were even able

to arrange part-time work for her and for me when I asked. My Mom was

not happy about this at first but I was out of her parents way most of the

time and they seemed to prefer that. It seemed that our fortunes were

changing for the better but Moms strength did not last. Her sorrow made it

hard for her to concentrate on her job and her parents assistance took away

any remaining pride she had.

Soon I was bringing in the only income we had and we relied more on

the gifts from her family. My mother started to slip away.


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For over two years my sister and I watched our mother become a

ghost of a human shambling aimlessly through the day and crying through

the night. She hardly spoke to us, not wanting to bring back the memories

that constantly haunted her mind. She was too strong to die and to weak to

live. Her broken heart won out eventually, as it must, and she took her life

quietly one night.

Her parents took the death very hard. Their grief boiled over and

became directed at me. They blamed me for their daughters pain.

It was time for my sister and me to leave. I had been saving money

from all the odd jobs I had. It was not much but it was enough to leave the

anger of my mothers family. After the funeral, my sister and I were on a

bus going somewhere else. I have not been back since.

_______________

My sister needed me. I couldnt just leave her there. Could I?

She slowly shakes her head.

What more is there then? They were wrong they were weak. What

can I do about that now?

Her eyes were pleading with me now. I do not know what she is trying

to say. I look deeper into her eyes and lean closer. She tries to speak, tries

to tell me what her eyes beg for me to know. There is a very hoarse, very

slight release of air from her lips.

For ggive them.


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A rocket explodes in my head consuming my heart and my thought.

Forgive?!? Forgive?

A fiery anger wells up in me and rises to the top. Tears stream down

my face, flowing freely again.

Never! I shout to her to my heart to the sky to the ocean

waves.

The vast waves on the shore easily consume the flames of my ire and

no one else even hears my screams. I find that I am standing now with

clenched fists raised to strike out. At what? Where is my enemy? Who is my

enemy?

The outburst leaves me drained but oddly refreshed. I had lived my

life with an internal tension that was now gone. This feeling surprised me.

I glance at her and do not see the condemnation of my outburst as I

expected. I sit down and wipe my tears away. Tears do not embarrass me,

but they do make it hard to see clearly sometimes. Sometimes they bring

life into crystal clear clarity. This is such a time.

Her simple words brought it all into focus. Through the tears I see

them now, more clearly than I had ever seen them before. My brothers, all

of who eventually died in prison, stand there with their hearts revealed and

laid bare. They cannot hide from me now or from the truth.

I see worms and maggots crawling through their broken souls. I see

how my brothers fed their souls with anger and malice. These are the ones


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who for years tormented me and tried to break me. I see now that they

were afraid afraid of life, afraid to love, afraid of me. I chose not to be like

them. I did not realize at the time, but I had made the choice to live, to be

alive, and to be separate from their evil.

I forgive you, I whisper to the specters, reaching out to them. They

shriek and shrink from my words and my hand.

They cannot escape.

I forgive you, I say louder through my tears and with more

confidence. I then speak the words to my brothers I thought I would never

say.

I love you.

The darkness erupts in them and is consumed by light. The light burns

through the pain, through their pain and scours the house clean. They had

died in the explosion many years ago but I had let them live on in my fear of

them. Their hatred of me and my hatred of them still controlled me and my

actions. In my pain, they still lived and maliciously tore at my soul. I was

still tied to them; still their puppet, the object of their ridicule. The strings

needed to be cut.

No more.

My father is there as well. His weakness is paramount and he has no

words to say. I see him now in the true light of who he was. He let fear rule


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his life and he passed on without ever really living. I see him as he really

was: the walking dead.

My mother is hiding in the shadows as well. She sits with her back to

me not able to stand because she is weak. She never did stand up and face

her husband or her older children. Fear ruled her life as well: fear of

rejection, fear of loneliness, fear of life.

Mom, dad I forgive you. I say as I reach towards the images.

Slowly, my mother turns and there is a smile on her face. I look at my dad

and he is smiling as well, tears in his eyes.

I am free free of them all and free to choose, to love and to forgive.

I breathe deeply to soothe the sobbing in my chest and to calm my

heart. The sun returns to its normal luminance. The dog has moved over to

sit by me. He is looking up into my eyes as if questioning my relief. Slowly, I

reach down and rub his head gently. He never let me do that before he is

our dog.

I am able to breathe normally now. I know that I am not finished but I

feel time is running out. Now that I have started down this road I know what

is next and what is required of me. There is no easy way to go through life

particularly if you are at the end trying to understand the beginning.

All men strive to be free. To many, death is the ultimate freedom,

release from responsibility, release from debt, release from sorrow. This is


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what my Mom thought. I know that is wrong now. The ultimate freedom is

life!


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Chapter IX

The sun climbs farther into the sky. It must be about midday. Slowly, I

move to the kitchen to make a sandwich for my lunch. We are all creatures

of habit. One of my habits has been my daily lunch, a bologna and cheese

sandwich with mayonnaise on toasted wheat bread. I place the bread in the

toaster and get all the ingredients needed out and ready before the toaster

pops. It tastes best when the bread is still warm and the cheese slightly

melted. I wrap a napkin around the sandwich and walk back to the hallway.

I take a bite from the sandwich as I look at the gun hanging on the hall tree.

Nope, not yet. Not ready. I mutter and head back to the sunroom. I

eat slowly, enjoying the tastes and textures. As I eat, the dog sits calmly in

front of my chair waiting for a crumb to fall. I tear off a corner of the

sandwich and give it to him.

A storm cloud builds out over the ocean. I watch as it grows bigger

and darker. Nature has patterns. This is one of the seasonal afternoon

showers so common here. This storm will brew, come inland drenching the

land with torrential rains; its ferocity will strengthen the soil and plants

bringing life. The storm will then leave. The land will dry and the storm will

come the next day.

I wait for the first flash of lightning for the first crack of thunder. I

enjoy watching these storms. They make the tumult inside seem small by


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comparison. The storms bring an easing of tensions, a

shattered sands

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