4. Gabriel
Chapter four
Gabriel
Wild night or night terrors?
~ The Next Day ~
“Where the hell are you, you stupid fucking boy?!” I hear his footsteps walking down the hall, doors being thrown open as he ravages through every room.
I duck deeper into the pile of clothes in my closet.
He already came into my room but didn’t think about checking the closet.
I just hope he’ll give up and turn back to whatever he’s been taking that makes him and Mom all sleepy.
It’s the only time they leave me alone; the only time I don’t do anything wrong and need to watch my back.
The only time I’m safe.
“That little piece of shit. He’s going to pay when I find him!” he yells from farther away.
For a moment, I can’t hear him anymore, and I think, maybe, just maybe, he gave up. But then his steps grow louder as he gets closer until my room door flies open and smashes into the wall.
“I know you’re in here, boy. Get out now, and I won’t be so harsh on you,” he taunts.
But I’m not stupid. I’ve fallen for that trap too many times. And it’s always the same; whether I hide or don’t, nothing changes. No more playing his games.
I’m twelve now. Ms. Winslow said I could get emancipated at sixteen.
She’s tried getting child protective services involved many times, but they never do anything.
They never believe me because I’m a reckless child who gets into fights all the time.
That’s how I end up with so many bruises every week.
A black eye, split lip, a few broken bones. Yeah, totally makes sense.
But Ms. Winslow, she believes me. She helps treat my wounds and brings me to the hospital when I need stitches or a cast. She’s the only good thing in my life.
My math teacher of all people. I hate math.
She recently got me to join the hockey team at my school, so that I’ll have a reason to be out of the house more often, away from my parents until I can leave for good.
Just four more years.
My closet door is ripped off its hinges, making me yelp in fear. The next thing I know, a hand grabs at my hair and pulls me out of my hiding spot. “There you are, you little fucker!” He continues to pull me out of the closet, then throws me on the floor in the middle of my room.
“You just cost me hundreds of dollars!” He kicks me in the leg as I huddle into a fetus position, trying to cover myself as much as possible. There’s no point in fighting back, it just makes it worse. I’m still not strong enough. But one day, I will be.
“What? You thought Mr. Baker wouldn’t notice the scratches you left on his car!? You thought you could get away with it? Like you thought you could get away with stealing my money?!” He kicks my arms, then stomps on my shoulder.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip hard until the copper taste fills my mouth. I will myself to stay quiet, to not cry. The less I respond to his assault, the sooner he leaves me alone.
It wasn’t even my fault that our neighbor, Mr. Baker’s car, got scratched.
Lucas, his son, had gotten a new bike and asked me if I wanted to try it out.
I’ve never had a bike of my own, and his looked cool, so I said yes.
But then his older brother, Marcus, arrived.
He’s three years older than us and a real bully.
He walked up to me and pushed me and the bike into the side of his dad’s car.
Lucas quickly told him to leave me alone and told me not to worry, that he’d tell his dad he did it.
But then Mr. Baker came out of the house, and Marcus told him I ran the bike into his car on purpose.
To which Mr. Baker said he would have a word with my parents.
I immediately rushed home and went to hide in my closet, knowing what was coming next. It happens every time, whether it was my fault or not. It even happens if I miss a spot while cleaning the dishes. Really, they just use any excuse to hurt me.
I wish I could say my mother wasn’t the same. She may not be as harsh, but she still smacks me every chance she gets or burns things I love. And when she isn’t hurting me in some way, she’s too high to remember I exist. I think that’s probably the point.
I don’t even understand why they had me in the first place, since they claim to hate me so much.
I don’t know why they don’t just let CPS take me away and send me off to a foster home.
Wouldn’t it be better for them if I were gone?
They wouldn’t have to deal with me or spend more money on food to feed me.
They always say they wish they could get rid of me, so why won’t they?
And the only reason I took the money, which happened one time, was for hockey gear.
Ms. Winslow had found someone who was selling their used equipment for fifty dollars.
She wanted to pay, but she had already done so much for me.
She still does. So, I told her I could get it.
I knew what the consequences would be. But I wanted to prove I was capable, that I could take care of myself.
“You’re going to pay for this! Every fucking cent I have to spend to fix that asshole’s car!
You’re always such a little shit! Always costing me money!
” He kicks harder, over and over again. Everything hurts, but I keep it all in.
Every sound. Until he kicks harder along my side and something snaps.
I howl in pain, no longer able to contain my cries.
“There. Now you’ve gotten what you deserve. Go see your bitch so she can fix you up.” He kicks my head one last time for good measure, then storms out of my room as I lie there, balled up on the floor, crying until the pain turns numb enough to get up and leave.
I jolt upright in my bed, gasping for air and panting. My shirt and boxers are soaked through, as well as my covers and sheets. My skin is slick and my hair drips as if I’ve just stepped out of the shower.
When I look down at my hands, I find them twisted in the wet sheets, tear marks from where my fingers clawed at them. Great, more sheets to buy. I really need to get these nightmares under control.
I untangle my hands and pass them through my wet, wavy, dirty-blond hair that reaches my shoulders, pushing them off my sticky face. The movement makes my side ache, and I wince, pressing my hand against the rib that was once broken years ago.
This always happens after my dreams. Depending on which traumatic moment from my past resurfaces, I’ll feel the pain where the injury happened as if it were still fresh. Usually all it takes is a cold shower and a few hours in the gym to set me back on my feet.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Five in the morning. Not too bad. Throwing the cover over the side of the bed, I stand and rip off the shirt that’s glued to my body because of the sweat. This is why I usually sleep naked. I must have knocked out before I could finish undressing.
I pull at the sheets, removing them fully from the bed and ball them up, then throw them by the door to take down to the trash. Beside my bed, I make a second pile with my comforter, shirt, boxers, pillows, and pillowcases.
I also remove the protective waterproof fitted sheet and add it to the growing pile. I quickly learned about this beautiful invention after having changed my mattress five times in the matter of a year because I couldn’t get the sweat smell out of it.
Once my bed is completely bare, I jump into a freezing cold shower, closing my eyes as the ice water hits my back, and try to think of a way to get rid of these horrible nightmares. The truth is, I’ve tried everything. Therapy, meditation, fucking rock crystals. Nothing works.
With a heavy sigh, I wash myself and then step out. After putting on a pair of joggers and a plain shirt, I head down to the gym for a little workout. I won’t overdo it since we’re training with the team later.
Two hours later, I’ve just stepped out of my second shower, and likely not my last of the day.
I grab the ripped sheets and carry them down to the kitchen, dropping them off on the counter, then head back up to grab the second pile.
As I make my way back down, I find Ronnie standing by the kitchen counter, with my shredded sheets in her hands as she inspects them.
Fuck…
Her head turns my way when she hears me take the final step to the landing. “Wild night?” she asks with a raised brow.
I lean against the ramp with a cocky smile. I can work with this assumption. “I can show you just how wild it was if you’d like.”
Her features transform into a scowl. “Not even twenty-four hours,” she murmurs through her teeth.
Noah appears behind me, smacking me at the back of the head on his way down. “Ellis, quit it,” he says harshly, then strides over to Ronnie. “Good morning, Veronica. Would you like a coffee?”
“No, thank you. I had one on my way over. I’ll just get to work,” she tells him, then puts the sheets back down and walks my way, her hands reaching out for the huge pile in mine. “I’ll take those. Wash I presume, or do these all have holes as well?”
“Nope, just needs washing. But I can do it.” I hold the items closer to my chest. I know they’re still damp, and if she sees them, she’ll either assume things or have questions. Hell, I’m surprised she even dared to touch the ripped sheets.
She frowns. “You’re paying me to take care of your place. Now give me that and let me do my job.” She practically rips them from my hands.
The pile is so big, it almost blocks her entire view, where she needs to tilt her head to the side to see past it. She doesn’t say anything or make a face when her hand touches the still wet spots. All she does is turn and head for the laundry room without a word.
I head for the kitchen and open the fridge, taking items out to make breakfast. One of the three things I love in my life. My career, my friends, and cooking. It’s fucking sad when I think about it. I’m twenty-eight years old and can only name three things I love. Pathetic.