Chapter 13 #2
Micah leaned his butt against his desk, arms crossed, lips pursed in irritation or disgust, which one I couldn’t tell.
At the sight of us, he rolled his eyes and tossed up his arms. I didn’t focus on him, not with the small sobs coming from Boyan’s bed.
I ran to Boyan’s side, pulling his little body into my lap.
Or attempting to, because the way he flinched and cried out before wrapping his little arms around me made him collapse awkwardly.
“It hurts,” he cried into my abdomen.
“Where, chipmunk? Where does it hurt?” I caressed his hair.
“My shoulder.”
He whimpered as I slipped his shirt over his head. My fingers gently brushed over the large red welt between his left shoulder and collarbone. Even that little touch pitched his sobs higher as he buried his face in my clothing.
“What happened?”
“Fell against the bedpost,” Micah stated apathetically.
I bristled. “Seriously? He fell? That’s what you’re going with?” This looked like a belt whipping. Boyan nestled himself closer around me until every part of his front was touching some part of me.
“Not my goddamn fucking beef.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I’m not taking no shitty fall for you,” Micah spat. “I told them exactly what they needed to know.”
I looked over Boyan’s body, ignoring Micah’s mouthy, colorful language that he’d acquired both from Charlie and the gang he hung out with after school.
Aside from that large belt welt, there were two other smaller ones across his right side.
Those seemed to be the only three strikes that left marks.
“It was Charlie,” Lou sobbed. “Marlene said you were nothing but a thief and a no-good nobody and that nobody loved you. Boyan got mad and hit him. A lot. But Charlie hit worse.”
Bile crept up my throat. I couldn’t even look at Micah. “You should have stepped in.”
No one deserved this, but especially not Boyan. My sweet, adorable chipmunk with a heart of gold.
“And what? Take a beating five times as hard? Yeah, no thanks. Kid needs to toughen up. This is nothing.”
I bit down on my lower lip to stop it from quivering.
This was already too much. No kid should ever have to deal with this.
I used to hear about child abuse in movies or TV shows.
I knew it happened. I understood what the words meant, but it always seemed fictitious.
What kind of parents hurt their own kids?
What kind of people hit innocent children?
It used to sound far-fetched, even absurd, when my parents barely ever spanked me. That was before.
Now I knew better. Most people took advantage of others any way they could.
They were selfish. They degraded those they saw as inferior because it somehow made them feel better about themselves.
They hurt them to feed their need to feel superior.
And even if they weren’t the ones causing the pain and suffering, they looked away and ignored what they didn’t want to know.
“Chip, I need you to try and move your arm.”
“I don’t want to,” he said softly, his breath moistening my shirt and warming my skin underneath.
“I know, but I have to make sure it’s not broken.” It wasn’t like the Hayeses would take us to the hospital to check, but if he couldn’t move it at all, I’d carry Boyan all the way there if I had to. He lifted his arm, inch by inch, whimpering and wincing in pain between sobs.
“So brave.” I kissed his head and caressed down his spine. “You did good. I don’t think it’s broken.”
Lou climbed in behind him and slipped her arms around his waist, clutching him close like a teddy bear.
“I’ll take care of you,” she said.
I ran my hands over their heads. Their little cherub faces, one dark, one light, both with wide, teary eyes, stared back at me. So innocent. So vulnerable. They deserved to be protected and cared for. But how could I do that when I couldn’t even protect myself, and nobody else cared enough to try?
The first time I witnessed the Hayeses beating Micah, I went to the cops, even though Micah argued not to bother.
I answered their questions. They were understanding at first, asking me for details, for proof of the abuse, like images, and if the victim would come forward.
The moment I used the words “foster parents” and said that Micah refused to come, they pulled my file.
Their attitude changed quickly after that.
No more sympathy. No more listening. The report was closed, and they chided me for making false accusations.
They accused me of placing my bitterness on the shoulders of a good community couple trying their best to help ungrateful, troubled children like me.
The second time I went to the cops, the welts on my ass hurt so much I couldn’t sit in the interrogation chairs.
I was embarrassed when they asked to see proof.
At first, I agreed to show one female caseworker.
When I was told photos were needed, I refused.
The more they pushed, implying I was lying, the more hopeless it felt.
All that was before my file came out, with my previous incident report listed as a false accusation.
I left with a limp and absolutely no improvement in my situation.
It only got worse when I returned to the Hayes house.
Charlie knew what I’d tried to do this time.
They must have called him. I learned that day never to rely on the cops again.
“There you are, you little thief.”
Marlene’s strides thumped against the hardwood floor.
My heart rate picked up, and I tried to shove myself to my feet and away from Boyan’s bed as fast as possible.
The strike came faster than I’d thought.
One moment, I was upright, the next, I was whacked to the floor, my feet kicking at Boyan’s bed frame on the way down.
Both kids cried out. My head and left shoulder knocked against the floor.
The entire right side of my face burned from temple to chin, where she’d hit me.
My right eye watered, and my vision blurred.
Blood poured over my gums from where I bit my tongue on the impact.
“You thought you could steal from me.”
A heavy weight smacked against my ribs.
“Where’s my money?”
More strikes came down—to my head, to my shoulder. My arms wrapped over my face.
“Nothing but a stupid girl who’ll end up whoring herself out.”
My ears rang with every hard thud of whatever she’d chosen to pummel me with.
The kids cried and wailed. I stared at Micah’s shoes, my vision half blurred, too dazed and exhausted to try to fight back.
Thankfully, Lou and Boyan didn’t intercede, but neither did Micah.
He could’ve fought back if he wanted to. I guessed I wasn’t worth it to him.
“It’s gone,” I told her.
“You good-for-nothing little hussy.”
Two more hits, and then her weapon of choice, a hardcover, landed inches from my nose. I stared at it cross-eyed, tired and numb.
That night, I fell asleep right there on Boyan and Micah’s floor, too sore to move. The kids covered me with a blanket and placed a pillow under my head. Both took turns kissing away my boo-boos like I did to them, their sobbed whispers carrying me off into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning, I woke up with my first black eye ever. I never could have predicted how much it would change our lives.