Orsen (Robinson’s Lost Boys #2)

Chapter One

Orsen Catlow covered his head with his arms, protecting himself from the blows that rained down on him.

His father, Ambrose, had drunk too much again and now took his anger and frustration out on his only son.

A normal occurrence for Orsen. Ambrose couldn’t blame himself for the failures in his life, so the blame fell on Orsen, and he suffered because of it.

Over the years, Orsen had become used to it, even more so after Allison, his mother, had disappeared one night. He had suspicions about it but had kept quiet. He didn’t want to give Ambrose more excuses to hit him.

When Ambrose stood panting, a snarl on his face, Orsen slowly crawled away into his bedroom. Closing the door, he sat on the floor, leaning back against it, ear pressed to the wood, listening as Ambrose staggered away. Only ten blows this time and what did that say, that only ten blows had landed?

Once Ambrose passed out, Orsen would leave and find the first aid kit he’d hidden in the barn behind the shack they called a house.

It might have been a house at one point, but due to severe neglect, the place looked like a stiff breeze would knock it down.

At seventeen, he counted down the days before he could grab what he needed and walk out the front door, never to return. Eighteen couldn’t come soon enough.

When the snoring began, Orsen stood, wincing at the pain in his face and arms. Opening the door a crack, he peered into the living area, and once he saw Ambrose passed out on the broken sofa, he opened it fully and gingerly made his way outside.

The front door squeaked when he opened it, and he watched Ambrose to see if the noise had woken him, but when he continued to snore, Orsen exhaled, then stepped outside.

The darkness of the night welcomed him, and he stumbled down the sagging wooden steps and into the trees, the place that made his life hell disappearing behind him.

He knew where he had to go. The old barn on the outskirts of Crompton’s property where he stashed his medical supplies.

The thought made him pause. What kid had their own medical supplies?

He did. The child of a drunk who liked to use his fists as a form of punishment.

If life went wrong, then Orsen suffered.

If life went right, then Orsen still suffered.

Finding the fence that ran along the edge of Crompton’s land, Orsen climbed over it, then changed direction toward the barn.

He knew Crompton was aware of his visits and the traps he’d been forced to set up, but Crompton had warned him not to harm the animals and let him off.

Sheriff Redding had spoken to him as well and had let him go with a warning.

They both had to know what went on with Ambrose, and he knew they couldn’t do much because Orsen always kept his mouth shut.

Ambrose knew what to say when anyone came out to visit, including social services.

As for school? Orsen didn’t know. He didn’t go anymore, and nobody came to speak to Ambrose about it.

Ambrose could be charming when he wanted to be, but that facade soon fell away when the authorities left, and Orsen suffered.

He snorted as the barn came into view. Whatever happened, Orsen suffered so often it had almost become his daily life.

One day, he would be free, and he would walk away from Ambrose and never look back.

He’d thought about running away, but he had nothing and nowhere to go.

He knew Cody Paarman—though not Paarman now but Redding, after the sheriff—had left, and he knew that something had happened to him, but not the details.

Rumors had spread, but Orsen knew not to listen to the gossips.

They rarely knew the truth and usually spun a story to make it much worse.

The gleeful looks on their faces when they talked about someone… Orsen shook his head.

Reaching the barn, he opened the side door and stepped inside, pulling it shut behind him.

He limped over to the place where he hid his supplies and stopped when he saw the box out in the open.

Going closer, he opened the top and noticed it had been freshly stocked.

A note lay on top, and Orsen picked it up.

He could barely read it, some letters harder to understand than others, so he carefully folded it and put it in his pocket.

Sitting on a bale of hay, he cleaned his wounds, then looked in the mirror to see if any of his wounds needed stitching.

The one above his eye didn’t look too bad, but he cleaned the area, then placed some butterfly stitches over it to keep it closed while it healed.

Standing, he checked his body and noted the bruises already developing.

No doubt from where Ambrose had kicked him.

Sitting back down and ignoring the pain, he leaned against one of the stacks of hay and closed his eyes.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay for long, but to have a few minutes of peace mattered most to him.

Being out of the house and away from Ambrose meant everything because he knew at some point he would have to return.

“You need to report him to TJ.”

Orsen staggered to his feet, eyes wide, as he stared at Crompton. His heart hammered in his chest, then slowed when he realized Crompton wouldn’t hurt him. “I only have to manage a few more months.”

“Pfft, that means shit, boy. He’s hitting you. You should have him charged, then come and stay with me. I’ll give you time to recover and feed you right. You’ll work the farm and learn skills that will help.”

Orsen licked his lips, and stared at the ground. “I wouldn’t be any good to you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Crompton snapped. “Don’t put yourself down, boy.”

“I can’t read or write properly,” he admitted in a small voice.

“You go to school, don’t you?”

“Not really.” Orsen shrugged, then regretted it as pain slashed across his back. “He wants me to work to keep him in his drink.”

“And the school ain’t chasing after him?”

“I guess they forgot about me.” Orsen put his things away, then moved to the door. “I’ll get going now. Sorry for being here.”

“Next time he hits you, defend yourself. If shit hits the fan, I’m here and I know TJ will defend you, too. I can come and get you and we can—”

“No!” Orsen dragged air into his lungs, then murmured, “no. It’ll be over soon, and I don’t want there to be any problems. You know what he’ll do.”

“Daft bastard should have been kicked out of this town years ago for all the problems he’s caused.” Orsen could almost see Crompton’s white wiry beard bristle. “You come to me; you hear me? No matter what.”

Orsen nodded and left, following the path only he knew back home. Could he call it that when it felt more like his prison? A place where he walked on eggshells? A place that made his stomach knot, and his heart race, whenever he saw it, stepped inside it?

When his broken home came into view, the usual feelings of dread built inside.

Stepping through the front door, he had a second to duck whatever had been thrown at him.

He looked over at Ambrose just as the man loomed above him and his head snapped sideways when the punch landed.

Several more followed, and he fell to the floor, covering his head.

A kick to the ribs had Orsen falling to the side, and he saw the look on Ambrose’s face. One filled with rage and hate. Ambrose went to kick him again, but Orsen moved, and Ambrose staggered to the side, giving Orsen time to stand. He didn’t get far before a blow landed on the back of his head.

He spun around, narrowly missing the knife Ambrose tried to stab him with.

Eyes wide, Orsen stared at it, then Ambrose.

“Time I got rid of you. You’ve been nothing but trouble for me.

I’ll bury you with the bitch that birthed you.

” Orsen screamed and dove to the side, the blade slicing across his cheek.

The blood ran down his face, and he knew he had no choice.

He had to defend himself, because Ambrose wanted him dead.

Ambrose came at him again and he kicked out, catching Ambrose on the knee and knocking him away. He crawled to the front door that still stood open, but heard a cry filled with such rage that he glanced over his shoulder. That saved his life.

Ambrose had the knife high in the air, aimed at Orsen's back. Orsen rolled out of the way, his breathing as erratic as his heartbeat, and kicked out again, hoping to stop Ambrose. Ambrose screamed, slashing at Orsen and becoming more enraged every time he missed. “Fucking bastard!”

“Please…stop…please…” Orsen cried. Tears streamed down his face, and he grabbed Ambrose’s wrist when Ambrose almost fell on top of him.

Ambrose bellowed at him, putting both hands on the handle and trying to push it closer to Orsen’s face.

He somehow knocked the knife of course, and it slammed into his left shoulder.

He screamed out in pain as Ambrose laughed and tried to pull the knife free.

Orsen took a chance and kicked up, hitting Ambrose in the nuts.

He gritted his teeth as he wrenched the knife out of his shoulder.

Ambrose screamed again and threw himself at Orsen.

Orsen raised the knife, then grunted when Ambrose landed on top of him.

Time seemed to stop. There was no sound at all, as if everything had gone still.

Ambrose’s eyes widened, blood spilling from his mouth. “You fucking bitch,” Ambrose screamed.

Orsen pushed at Ambrose, who blinked and muttered, “I’m going to tear you apart…I’m going to…I’m going…you’re…”

Ambrose sagged on Orsen, his eyes open. Orsen tried to breathe, but he couldn’t get any air in his lungs, and he pushed Ambrose off, taking a shaky breath.

Ambrose rolled to the side and stayed there, his body crumpled where it landed.

Orsen watched him in case he came at him again.

His body tensed, waiting. Only he didn’t.

Ambrose didn’t move at all. Orsen sucked air into his lungs, his body trembling, and he reached out a hand and touched Ambrose, then snatched it back.

When Ambrose didn’t respond or blink, his eyes open and staring, Orsen saw the knife sticking out of Ambrose’s chest.

“Oh fuck…oh God…”

He rolled away, vomiting, the image of Ambrose stuck in his mind. He’d killed him. Orsen had killed his father. He needed to tell someone, but they had no phone. The closest place… Crompton’s.

Somehow Orsen managed to get onto his feet and stumble to the door. He stopped and stared at Ambrose, then ran. He ran and ran until he stood pounding on Crompton’s front door.

“Stop making that bastard noise! I’m coming.”

The door opened and Orsen fell into Crompton’s arms. “I killed him. I killed him,” he repeated over and over again.

At some point, Orsen looked up and saw Sheriff Redding kneeling in front of him.

Then came white lights flashing overhead, low murmurs, and finally a black tunnel as everything disappeared.

***

When he opened his eyes, the pain hit, then he remembered. “What have I done?”

“Here. You need to take these tablets for the pain. It’ll only get worse.” Orsen stared up into a young man’s face. He knew him, but he didn’t at the same time. Black hair fell over his forehead, and blue eyes met Orsen’s. A kind smile rested on his face.

He took the tablets and tried to swallow.

The rawness in his throat made it feel like he’d swallowed glass, but he managed to get them down with water from the cup the man held for him.

“Thanks.” Glancing around the room, he realized he lay in the hospital, but couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

“How?” he asked softly, his voice rusty, his throat sore.

“They brought you in last night. I’m Cody.”

Orsen glanced at him, then quickly away. “I’ve seen you around town.”

Cody nodded. “TJ will be here soon. You can talk to him about what happened.”

Orsen’s chest tightened, and he couldn’t breathe. “He tried to…he tried…”

Cody stood and held him. “It’s okay, Orsen. I’ve got you. You’re not alone now.”

Those softly words spoken opened the floodgates and Orsen cried. He cried so much but Cody never let go. He held him and rubbed his back, whispering, “You’re not alone now, Orsen. We have you.”