by Paige Dearth
NEVER
BE ALONE
PAIGE DEARTH
© 2018 Paige Dearth
All rights reserved.
ISBN 10: 1983422843
ISBN 13: 9781983422843
SOME DIRT ON THE AUTHOR:
Born and raised in Plymouth Meeting, a small town west of Philadelphia, Paige Dearth was a victim of child abuse and spent her early years yearning desperately for a better life. Living through the fear and isolation that marked her youth, she found a way of coping with the trauma: she developed the ability to dream up stories grounded in reality that would provide her with a creative outlet when she finally embarked on a series of novels. Paige’s debut novel, Believe Like A Child, is the darkest version of the life she imagines she would have been doomed to lead had fate not intervened just in the nick of time. Paige writes real-life horror and refers to her work as: Fiction with Mean-ing. She hopes that awareness through fiction creates prevention.
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Find all of Paige’s books here: Books by Paige Dearth
Dedications
For my child…You will always come first. You are the love of my life.
~Mom
For my husband and best friend.
What did you wish for when you threw that rock?
I love you.
Acknowledgments
To all those who have been homeless or even close to it: may you find the peace you so deserve. We can make a home anywhere as long as it’s filled with love and laughter.
Many thanks to all the people who continue to read my work—without all of you, my dream would be nothing more than a bunch of lonely words.
For all of the book bloggers and reviewers, I would still be hidden in the darkness if you hadn’t shined your light on me—thank you all so much!
Big E, thanks for standing by me! Love you, brother!
Contents
Just A Child
The New Family
Chapter One
Chapter Two - Three Years Later
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
One Year Later
Two Weeks Later
The Beating Path
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Just A Child
She’s a girl, just a child, no older than fifteen.
She’s dirty. Her clothes are frayed. She wears her hair long. It’s knotted and greasy. You don’t want to get too close—you may catch what she has. Can you catch homelessness? You tell yourself it’s a ridiculous thought, but you still don’t dare approach her. Although she is weak and fragile, the girl scares you.
One day, the girl catches you watching her. Your eyes meet for a split second, and blood rushes to your face, guilt filling every crevice of your body. She’s a girl, just a child, no older than fifteen.
As summer fades and the first autumn frost chills you to the bone, you wonder where she will go, how she’ll stay warm.
By early November, it’s been weeks since you’ve seen her in the alleyway begging for money, the same spot she sits in every morning. You wonder what happened to her. Two weeks go by, and still there’s no sight of her.
At the end of the third week, you panic. You should have helped her. She’s just a child. You find the courage to venture closer to her edgy friends, the others that know her, the ones that are like her. You ask, “Where is she?” But they do not answer. One of them holds your gaze steadily until you look away. You can’t stand the pain in those eyes, such weathered skin on a teenager, the bony face and neck— because food is a luxury for them and they don’t have enough of it.
Now, every day, you stop on your way to work and stare at the spot where you last saw the beautiful girl who looked so lonely. You wish you would have asked if she was okay. Maybe you would have helped her find a shelter, said a kind word…made her feel like she was human.
Months later, buried deep inside the newspaper, you see a picture of the homeless girl. Her body was thrown away on the side of the railroad tracks, like garbage. In the picture, she is homeless—you recognize the alleyway where she sat. She is smiling, but her smile reveals her pain.
The news story says the girl’s death was no accident. She’d been beaten, tortured, and sexually assaulted—reduced to nothing. She was left naked in the mud next to the train tracks.
Later that night, you awake from a nightmare, sweating…but you’re safe in your home. You pull the covers up to your chin and settle back to sleep. But sleep rejects you, and all you can think about is the girl and the other children living on the streets.
She was a girl, just a child, no older than
fifteen when her life ended. If only you had helped.
~Paige Dearth
The New Family
Jamie pulled up in front of a dilapidated house and parked. Eight-year-old Joon held her breath and looked around at her surroundings. Her insides felt weightless. The little girl hunkered down in her seat, determined to stay inside the confines of the metal-and-glass box that stood between her and this other, unknown life.
Joon peeked out the car window with unblinking, wide eyes. So much had changed since her parents had died. She had been ripped away from her friends and teachers, her sense of security torn away. She was reeling from the rapid changes in her life. She fought the urge to scream. Her anguish and loss overwhelmed her as her eyes roved over her new home.
The house was weathered. The small yard was neglected, with patches of overgrown weeds poking out of the dirt where grass refused to grow. Joon’s gaze followed the broken walkway to the porch and the screen door hanging from a single hinge. She looked over at Jamie with apprehension, wishing she were back in the modest but well-maintained home where she’d lived with her parents, where she felt safest.
Hot tears stung her eyes. “Is this it?” Joon squeaked out.
“Yes.” Jamie rested her hand on Joon’s shoulder. “Now don’t worry. It’s going to be fine. Your foster mother, Aron Remmi, is excited for you to live with her. You have two foster brothers too. I think you’ll love it here.”
“But the house looks scary,” Joon said, her bottom lip quivering.
“Well, I’ll admit, it’s a bit run-down on the outside, but Aron keeps her home very clean inside, I made sure of that,” Jamie said proudly. “When I place a child in a clean home, that’s when I know I’m doing my job right. Every child deserves a good family and a clean home. You’ll have both of those things here, so don’t worry.”
Joon’s eyes dropped to her lap, and she rubbed her sweaty palms on her thighs.
Jamie leaned toward the child. “I know this a big change for you, Joon. I’m sure it feels very scary, but I need you to trust me on this. Being in a single-family foster home is better than all the other places you could have been placed. You’re one of the lucky kids. There are a lot of kids just like you that end up in group homes. Here, with Aron and her two sons, you get to have a real family.” Jamie patted Joon’s shoulder. “Now put on your best smile and let’s go meet them.”
As Jamie and Joon walked up the porch steps, Aron pulled the front door open. The woman wore a warm smile, and Joon noticed she had large teeth. They weren’t unattractive, but they stood out against her blotchy, white skin, wide nose, and big ears. Her long, wiry, brown hair hung below her shoulders. She wore a beautiful yellow-and-white sundress and smelled of honeydew and cucumber lotion. The smell reminded Joon of her mother, Gwen, and sadness pressed in on her until she felt weighed down with it. She fought the urge to drop to the ground and cry.
Aron stooped and rested her fingers on Joon’s shoulders. “You must be Joon. Welcome home, sweetheart.”
The tears building in Joon’s eyes spilled over. It didn’t matter how nice Aron was—Joon feared her new home. Until now, she hadn’t known where she would live, but she’d been comfortable at the temporary shelter. The people who worked at the shelter had told her it was temporary housing, but now that she was at her new “home,” the reality, the permanence, of her situation was all too real. In the first days following her parents’ deaths, she’d hoped they were still alive, that it was all a big mistake. As the shelter workers had waited for a foster home to become available for her, Joon had waited for her parents to come and rescue her.
Now, Joon looked at Aron, and her guts knotted. She wanted her mother and father. She didn’t want to live with strangers.
Aron narrowed her eyes. “Are you gonna say hello, honey?”
Although Aron was smiling, Joon noticed the tightness in the woman’s jaw, and her senses went berserk. The woman gave her the willies, and she instinctively stepped toward Jamie for protection.
“Come on, Joon. Say hello to Aron,” Jamie urged. The social worker gently pushed her toward Aron again.
Joon looked up at Jamie, her eyes pleading for her to stop. The caseworker, feeling sorry for the girl, tried to comfort her, forcing a smile on her face again, and nodded in Aron’s direction.
Joon turned to Aron. “Hi,” she said in a small voice.
“Well, I see that you sent me a shy one,” Aron said, her lips in a tight line.
Jamie stepped closer to Aron. “Joon has been through a traumatic experience, losing both parents suddenly. I think she needs some love and care. She’s going to adjust just fine in your capable hands.”
Aron bent, took Joon’s hand, and moved toward the front door. Joon tried to dig her heels into the aged wood of the porch, but Aron steadily pulled her along.
“Let’s go now,” Aron said. “I want you to meet your new brothers.”
For Joon, going inside the house meant closing the door on her old life—the life she’d loved. She had cherished being an only child, as her mother and father had given all of their attention to her. But her life was different now, and knowing she had foster brothers made her more nervous. Joon clenched her teeth, worrying that the boys would be mean to her or even hate her. She wasn’t used to living with other children and all the changes about to happen overwhelmed her.
Aron tugged on Joon’s hand, and her muscles tensed as she guardedly followed her new foster mom into the house. Just inside the door, Aron turned back to Jamie and stared into the other woman’s eyes. “I can take it from here. I think it’ll be easier for my new foster daughter,” she said kindly.
Jamie nodded. “You’re right. Bye, Joon. I’ll be back to check on you in a month or so.”
Joon’s eyes grew double in size, and she clutched at her own neck to contain the bile burning the back of her throat. “Do you promise to come back and see me?”
Jamie nodded. “I’ll see you real soon,” she said, before turning and leaving the house.
Aron shut the door and pulled Joon into the living room. “Boys, this is your new foster sister. Her name is Joon,” she said and cackled. “Such a stupid name. I don’t really like it. In fact, I hate it. I’ll have to think of another name for her. Anyway, this is Deen and that’s Dobi,” Aron said, pointing to one boy, then the other.
Deen, the older of the two, eyed Joon. “Yeah, Joon is a dumb name,” he stated.
“I love my name,” Joon mumbled, wrapping her arms over her chest and pressing her lips together. Her new foster family glared at her, and she felt the world around her darken—she could feel their coldness through their dead stares. She felt trapped, and fear rose from her stomach, pushing harder at the bile in her throat. Her body trembled.
Aron raised an eyebrow at the child. “Looks like we have a girl with no manners. I’ll need to tame that if you’re going fit in here. You need to tell Deen you’re sorry.”
Joon shook her head. She wasn’t sorry. She didn’t want to lie. Besides, he was the one who’d been mean. Shouldn’t he apologize?
“Okay. I’ll show you to your room, and you can sit in there until you’re ready to tell Deen you’re sorry for being rude to him.”
Minutes later, Joon was sitting alone in her dingy bedroom. Aron had instructed her to sit on the edge of her mattress, feet flat on the floor and hands in her lap. So Joon sat still, her heart hammering away in her small chest, fear creeping up her spine and clenching tightly around her heart. Aron scared her. She was nothing like her own mother had been.
As she waited, Joon thought about her name. She had always loved it. She replayed a story her mother had told her often over the years: “Before you were born, your dad and I only had each other. Both of our parents were gone, and being only children, we had no one else…well, we had each other but we wanted a family. The doctor that delivered you laid you on my chest, and my heart filled with a love I had never known before, and I started to cry. Your father and I looked at ea
ch other, and he said, ‘We finally have a family.’ We were so excited to have you in our lives. The nurse gently touched the top of your head and asked what your name was. Your father and I felt silly because we hadn’t decided on your name yet; we wanted to wait until we saw you. The nurse smiled at us and said, ‘What about Joon? Joon means ‘life.’ That was it for us. The name settled into our hearts, and we knew we’d love you forever—our Joon, our life.”
Joon’s parents, Gwen and Rich, had met at a bowling alley when they were in their early twenties. They moved in together the following year and married six months later. They had a solid marriage and great love for each other. And they were good to Joon. Rich was a third-grade teacher and Gwen had quit her job as a secretary for an insurance company to stay home and raise Joon. Even though they had little money, they had an endless amount of love for their daughter. They always made certain she had decent clothes and plenty of food.
Joon’s favorite memory was of Christmas morning when she was six-years-old, when her parents had given her a new bicycle. It was pink and purple, with a white basket on the front. For Joon, the bicycle represented fun and freedom. Over the summer, she had seen the other girls riding their bikes up and down the street. They had all looked so happy, riding along with their hair blowing in the wind as they raced to an invisible finish line. Now, Joon could zip through the streets too. Rich had taught Joon how to ride it as Gwen stood on the sidewalk and cheered her on. When she’d fallen off, her mother had taken her inside, made her a cup of hot cocoa, and told her to try again. After, Joon had rushed outside and climbed back on her bike. That night at dinner, Rich and Gwen told Joon how proud they were of her.
“Remember,” Gwen had said, taking the child’s hand, “you can do anything you want in life as long as you don’t give up.”
Chapter One
Joon’s teeth were clenched and her lower lip trembled as she sat on the floor waiting for the pain to follow. She would have welcomed death, but instead, all she could do was cram herself farther into the corner of the kitchen, between the cold plaster wall and the wooden door that led to the dreaded basement. She wanted the hurt to stop. It had been three months since she’d been placed with her new foster family—three long months of terror and torture for anyone, let alone an eight-year-old.
