Casting Shadows

I don't have the right to say that it was difficult for me to adjust because I could only imagine how difficult it must have been for him. When he arrived he only carried a small bag of belongings, just clothes and a toothbrush since he had no toys. I thought that was strange. How did a 7 year old have no toys whatsoever? No action figures, no Lego, not even one tiny stuffed animal. I still slept with my 'blankie'; sometimes I even took it with me on longer car rides or to doctor's appointments when I knew I'd feel more comfortable holding on to it. But him? He had nothing to comfort him.

'Gerard, this is Skeeter. You already know her from school.' my mommy introduced me and I thought that was silly. Of course he knew me. I was in his class.

He just looked at me as though he had never seen me before. Only for a second, before he lowered his eyes again. He was also introduced to my brother Seth and my sister Lucy, both older than us, 9 and 11. I shared my room with Lucy and Gerard would be sharing with Seth.

My mom had made apple pie. It was sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, filling the room with its delicious, warm smell. We all sat down but Gerard hesitated.

'It's okay, honey. Here.' she said in a soft, soothing voice and pulled out a chair for him.

When he finally joined us at the table, he didn't look at either of us and we tried our best not to make him even more uncomfortable by staring at him. I remember that I had never seen him this clean before and then I felt bad for thinking that because even back then I knew it wasn't his fault. Instead of waiting for my mom to hand us each a slice of pie, I jumped up, placed the biggest portion on a plate and set it down in front of Gerard.

'Mommy made it just for you. And I helped.' I said proudly.

I think about the scene now and can't help but feel guilty. One of many memories that make me feel guilty. Because I had a mom. A mom who baked pie with me. A mom who didn't sit and watch while her husband beat up her son.

He didn't say anything. He also didn't touch the pie. He didn't eat anything until three days later.

My parents did their best. They were attentive and affectionate but not too much. Of course they knew that he needed his space, that he needed time. Some things couldn't wait though. On the evening of the second day, after I'd heard him weeping bitterly, I peeked into the bathroom where my daddy was changing the bandages on his back. I remember seeing the lacerations on his skin thinking that a big bad monster must have stuck its claws into him, that's what it looked like. And while my father carefully put ointment on the wounds before covering them with fresh gauze, Gerard just stood there and cried. I had never seen anyone cry like that. It was hard to watch. It was bewildering. He must have been in so much pain. He must have been so scared. Yet he didn't move, he didn't even flinch. The only movement came from the sobs that shook him.

Like I said, I didn't know. My brain wasn't able to put two and two together. It would take me another four years to connect the dots. Gerard's behavior, the injuries, the police car. Him coming to live with us, the scene in the bathroom. To me, it was simply unimaginable. That your own parents could hurt you, that your own mother would hold you down while your father sliced open your back with lashes of his belt. The horrors he had to go through were so foreign to me that I couldn't even picture them in my head, I couldn't even believe they were real. I still can't.

The look on my father's face reflected my own. He was horrified. Speechless. And all he wanted to do was care for this little boy who'd never had anyone care for him. Children often get jealous, possessive of their parents' love. Not me. All I could think was 'Love him, love him, love him. I don't even care if that means you don't have enough love left for me. Love him!'. Even though I didn't know why. I knew he needed it and that was all that mattered.

I gave him my blankie that night. He whispered 'Thank you.'

It was the first time he'd spoken to any of us.

*

Even now, I don't remember what was going through my mind back then. Except for one thing: what had I done to earn the love and care these people were giving me? All I knew was that I was a bad boy. That I didn't do anything right. I couldn't follow the simplest rules. Don't look at anyone. Don't speak unless you are spoken to. Be invisible and silent at all times. Don't complain or ask for food, ever. Even if you haven't eaten anything in days. Even when a meal is finally placed in front of you, you're not allowed to eat it. One time I did and once I had finished, my father yanked me up from the table by the collar of my shirt and punched me in the stomach. So hard that I threw up everything again. He told me I deserved it for being greedy. My mother yelled at me for making a mess. I remember cleaning up the vomit from the floor and I was so hungry that I would have eaten it again if my father hadn't been watching. But even when I didn't break those rules, I would still get punished. So obviously, I must have broken them, unknowingly. I assumed I had broken them just by being born. Just by existing.

I assumed that it was normal. That all parents treated their kids like that. The bruises, the burns, the cuts, the broken bones, the neglect, their degrading words - it all hurt but I still thought this was how it was supposed to be. When I started school and I saw all these other children, that's when I noticed that I was different. The boys in their shorts and shirts, the girls in the little sundresses, jumping around, their skin a healthy glow from spending the summer playing outside in the sun, unspoiled. Their smiles bright, their laughter loud and infectious; eager to make new friends, impress their new teachers, a bounce in their steps when they ran towards their mothers in the parking lot after the school bell had rung for the last time. Their mothers. Who would catch them in their arms and kiss their glowing cheeks and ask them how their day had been, if they'd had fun at school, if they'd liked lasagna for dinner. Instead of realizing that not all parents treated their kids like my parents treated me, witnessing all this only confirmed my faults. It confirmed that the blame was on me. I was bad. I was wrong. I deserved every bruise, every burn, every cut, every broken bone, and every degrading word.

Even the wounds on my back my gym teacher had discovered. When he had picked up the phone to call the police, I had wet my pants. I was convinced that I would be punished. For being a disobedient, naughty child. For causing trouble. For being different. It didn't help when the police officer put her arm around me and assured me that everything was going to be okay. That no one would hurt me ever again. I didn't believe her. In my mind, I deserved to be hurt.

'I'm sorry.' I said. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be bad.'

The doctors and nurses at the hospital tried their best to hide the appalled looks on their faces as they undressed me. I was scared and ashamed. Their hushed voices meant that they were keeping something from me. The way they touched me so cautiously while attending to my injuries; they were disgusted by me. I knew it, since I was disgusted by myself. They took photos of me, they asked me questions. People in uniforms. People carrying files. I zoomed in and out, overheard a phone call here and there. I ate a lot of jello. Which I puked just 20 minutes later. It was bright green. I braced myself, expected someone to hit me. The nurse just placed her hand on my shoulder and told me it was okay. That I didn't have to worry. I started crying again, muttering apologies.

Mr and Mrs Sloan picked me up. I didn't know why. Why would anyone want me? Maybe they were pretending. Or they were playing with me. My mom had been nice to me sometimes. Even my dad. He'd given me a Matchbox car once. But then I'd ruined everything again by being bad. I couldn't trust adults. Never. No matter how hard I tried, to trust, to be deserving of their love, I couldn't. Still, to this day, I don't trust adults, even though I'm an adult now myself. Funny, huh?

I felt like an intruder. I kept looking out the window at the house I used to live in. Although I never even lived there. Where were my parents? Had they abandoned me? I should have celebrated, I should have been happy that I was finally free, that I didn't have to go back to them. For some messed up reason though, and probably because I still felt that it was my fault, that I had wronged them, I felt guilty. What had I done?

I didn't dare to feel safe. I didn't want to trust anyone, I didn't want to let my guard down, still expecting, still waiting, for the beating I deserved for causing all this. When Mr Sloan took me into the bathroom, I felt as if the time had finally come. But no, once again he treated me gently, even apologized for hurting me as he treated my wounds. And it didn't even hurt, not physically anyway, but I started crying nonetheless.

The girl handed me her blankie as I walked past her room, and I accepted it with gratitude. My raw skin was still pulsing under the new bandages her father had put on my back, the tears on my cheeks hadn't dried yet - I was desperate for comfort no grown-up could have provided me. But she could. And she did. I pressed the piece of fabric against my cheek as I lay in bed; it held that comforting, clean smell of washing detergent, shampoo, even a hint of that apple pie I had refused the day before. It was a homely scent. I was less scared.

That night I dreamt about my Matchbox car.

Notes

So I decided to make shorter chapters (if you read any of my previous stories, you know one chapter usually includes 2x2 POVs) because it's easier for me. It's less pressure to 'complete' a chapter. Some others might be longer again. Some might be shorter than this one. Who knows. But shorter chapters mean more frequent updates....so for now that's the way I'm gonna do it :) Hope you don't mind. If you prefer longer ones though, lemme know.