Chapter 52
CHAPTER 52
CASSIDY
T he old boys’ home loomed ahead, abandoned, windows boarded, and siding chipped and fading to gray. The place looked haunted. That was an idea. Someone should use this place to set up a haunted house. I had no doubt there were some ghosts lurking in the hallways. I parked the truck and climbed out, staring up at the structure that had been my home for far too many years.
This place was a twenty-minute drive from the ranch, but I’d avoided it for years. I had never been able to come face to face with my past. But here it was as ugly as I remembered it. There was a tight feeling in my chest. But I needed to face this place.
I walked toward the building, the gravel crunching under my boots. My gaze was focused on the building. It wasn’t as big as I remembered. Back then, it felt massive and cold. It was just a house. A big one, but nothing like the image I had in my head. Something drew me back here. Maybe to remember who I really was. Or maybe to remind myself why I wasn’t good enough for Karen. For her or our kid. This house was who I was. This was where I had grown up during my formative years. This place shaped me into who I was today.
I kicked at a rock on the path, letting it skitter over the broken and uneven cement sidewalk. It was quiet, dead quiet. Like even birds and wildlife decided the place was uninhabitable. I looked up at the windows, most of them broken. The ground floor windows were covered with weathered plywood that wouldn’t do much to stop anyone from getting inside.
I remembered the faces that used to look out of those windows. Those boys had been like family and yet treated each other like enemies. We had been nothing but a collection of angry kids who found ourselves thrown together in this shithole. We all had our own demons. Some had been orphaned with no family to take them in. Others had been discarded by families who didn’t want them or couldn’t handle them. And then there were those like me, whose parents were just gone. We were young boys with a lot of baggage and none of the adults were prepared or qualified to help us work through our various traumas.
A breeze whipped through the abandoned playground, causing the rusty swings to creak ominously. I could still hear echoes of our laughter, our shouts and even the cries from some of the younger boys. I had hated this place with every fiber of my being when I was a kid. Now, it felt like nothing more than a ghost town. In my head, I created this horrific place that would rival any theatrical haunted house.
I walked closer and thought about the one boy that had done the most damage. Not just to me, but to so many of the unfortunate boys that landed in the orphanage at the same time as him. Earl Hoyt. He was a different level of asshole. He’d been like a loaded gun. A loose cannon who’d reveled in making everyone around him squirm. Bully wasn’t a strong enough word to describe him.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, letting my eyes drift to the old willow tree out front. Its branches sagged toward the ground. I remembered the summer that tree had been alive and green. We used to pretend it was our fort. That summer, I hid under it, trying to keep to myself. I didn’t want to bother anyone or be bothered. Earl found me anyway. He always did. That guy was like a bloodhound. When there was a weaker boy in his vicinity, he sniffed them out.
I couldn’t help but flinch at the memory. I’d been eleven, maybe twelve. I was a scrawny kid, mostly due to a lack of good food. Earl had crept up and just laid into me, right there under the branches. I could still feel the sting of his fists. The laughs from the other boys echoed in my head like they were happening now. I’d had a black eye for a week. Every time I let my guard down that summer, Earl was there, lurking around corners just to see me flinch. It had been a game to him, the way I jumped in fear. He never let me forget it. He got off on the psychological warfare even at a young age.
My hands clenched into fists at my sides as I walked closer to the house. New rage for what I had gone through then to what Earl still pulled today burned through me. I kicked at the base of the steps, testing the strength of the wood. The paint flaked under my boot.
I took a step onto the porch. The wood was rotted, the boards warped. The door was nailed shut, covered with graffiti from local kids or maybe even guys my age trying to exact some kind of revenge on the place. I probably would have been one of those punks if Don hadn’t pulled me out of here. I would have been just like Earl. I would have grown up to be a bully, a hot-headed punk with a chip on his shoulder and a sneer on his face.
I took a step toward the door, feeling something stir in my chest. It was anger. Fury. How could someone who grew up here even think about raising a kid? I had shitty genes. My start in the world had been an exercise in hell. Back then, it felt like I was nobody. I felt like I was nothing. I felt like that kid all over again. Trapped.
I remembered the many, many times I decided to run away from the home. But I was too afraid to go out into the world. I was a coward. I felt trapped in the hell I knew, knowing the hell beyond the driveway was even scarier.
Without thinking, I kicked at the plywood over the door. The wood splintered under my boot, the crack vibrating in the quiet. It felt good—too good. I took another swing, my boot splitting the wood. I didn’t stop. I ripped the board off the door, the nail squealing as I pulled it loose. The anger roared inside me, pushing me to tear the place apart, one piece at a time.
I shoved open the busted door and stepped inside. The familiar smell of mold and dust hit me, thick and stale. There was a hole in the ceiling allowing sunlight from the upstairs to filter through. I could have found my way in the dark. I remembered it all too well. I stalked through the entryway, the memories snapping at me as I moved. The dining hall was to my right. I walked into the room that was dark, but I could still see the outline of the long wooden table. Mealtime had been another hellish exercise. I remembered the many times I had food dumped over my head in front of everyone. They all turned on me and blamed me for the mess when I tried to fight back.
I kicked over an old chair, watching it slide across the floor. There were ghosts here. Maybe not the kind that say boo or rattle chains, but there were memories that would forever haunt these walls. I hated every corner of this place, every memory it brought to the forefront of my brain.
I stared at the empty dining room. I could see the scene playing out in my mind. My younger self standing there, tray of food in hand, then the mess as the mashed potatoes and watery gravy got dumped over my head, laughter filling the room. I’d wanted to be anyone but me in that moment, anyone else who didn’t have to live this life.
And now here I was, realizing that maybe I hadn’t changed all that much. Maybe Don had saved me from one path, but I was still that kid at the end of the driveway, staring out at the unknown and contemplating what version of hell I wanted to live in.
I stormed down the hall, ignoring the dust smell of rot. I climbed the stairs. My foot went through one step. I stepped on the edge, keeping my weight on the riser. The place was falling apart, and as far as I was concerned, it deserved to rot. No one had cared then, and no one cared now.
I had been the little guy and bullied incessantly, but by the time I was sixteen, I was getting bigger. I turned into the bully. I was the asshole picking on the younger boys. Don stepped in and changed everything. And if it wasn’t for Don, if he hadn’t found me, I’d be exactly like Earl. I would be an angry and empty bully wreaking havoc in everyone’s lives.
The floorboards creaked under my weight when I hit the second floor. Sunlight filtered through broken windows and overgrown ivy that clung to the exterior walls. The doors to the rooms were open. It was like yesterday. I closed my eyes and could picture the hall exactly like it had been back then. I walked down the hallway, third door on the left and pushed open the door to what had been my room.
The same ugly bunk beds were in the room. Four boys per room. I stared at the top bunk against the wall and felt a wave of claustrophobia wash over me as I remembered the many nights I spent awake and terrified. The room was smaller than I remembered, or maybe I had just grown bigger, outgrown more than just the physical space of this place.
I moved to the window and looked outside. The view was just as depressing as I remembered. This was no place for a child, no place for any human being. I turned back to the room and looked around. I spent way too many years in this place. I wished I could forget all of it. I wanted to pretend it never happened, but how could I? This was who I was.
I was a grown man who had come a long way since those days but I was still that scared little kid on the inside. The anger lingered, the old pain clinging to me like a bad rash. The idea of bringing a kid into the world that had half my DNA terrified me. How could I do that when I still felt like the weak little kid helpless to defend himself? How could I raise someone when I couldn’t even keep my own demons at bay?
I walked back to the stairs. I had to get out of here. The place was nothing but bad memories. I rushed down the stairs, avoiding the weak spots, went outside, and took several deep breaths in an attempt to shake it off.
I walked back to my truck, anxious to get away from my past. I got in and started the engine, staring up at the house. My little trip down memory lane did little to make me feel better. If anything, it just reminded me why I had no business being a father.
I drove away. The house became smaller in my rearview mirror, but its imprint loomed in my mind. I remembered Don telling me a long time ago I couldn’t outrun my past but told me to make peace with it. I wanted to do that, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t know if it was even possible.