Grayson (This is Our Life Book 1)

by Adams, F. G.

  Copyright © 2016 by F.G. Adams

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, named features, artists and bands are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used for reference and without permission. The publication / use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.

  Cover Design & Photography:

  Bre Clark Photography

  Model:

  Benjamin Bartholomew

  Interior Design:

  Daryl Banner

  Editor:

  Julia Goda

  Proofer:

  CJ Fling

  Dedicated to all the men and women

  serving our country at home and abroad.

  Thank you for your service.

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Acknowledgements

  Running as fast as my short legs allow through the dense canopy of oak trees, I dodge the thick underbrush on our ranch. I’m almost to the moon-shaped windowed door of the enormous two-story log home we live in. I hear a thundering roar and cringe from the movement coming directly over the hill off to the left.

  I push the heavy wooden door open, shuffling through before it slams shut behind me almost like a beacon bringing in ships. Languidly, yet as stealthily as a seven-year-old boy can be, I run down the hall to find my hiding spot. If I make it there, I might be safe.

  If I'm quiet and don't move, maybe he won't hear me, won’t find me. I'm so scared. My fear is tangible. I can taste it all around me. Why did I go outside? Why didn't I listen? Bump, Crash! I hear the sounds getting closer. I hope he doesn't find me. I curl up in a tight ball in the corner of the closet as I wait for the inevitable.

  My thoughts begin to wander, thinking about my four sisters. My older sisters, Fallyn, Jo, and Sage, left me and my baby sister, Adalyn, who’s small and helpless. I have to protect her. At all costs. Surely this is why? The reasons they all fled this house. And one day I will too.

  My head hurts, and the scratches on my legs from the barbed wire fence are slowly bleeding and pooling on the floor below. Sweat is trickling down my back from running so hard outside on this warm summer day. It's quiet. Please don't find me. Maybe I can rest now, drift off for a few minutes, hours, seconds...time really isn’t relevant for me at my age.

  My thoughts are interrupted when the sturdy door of my secret security closet swings open. BAM!

  "There you are. I told you if you ran, it would be worse. You asked for it," a gruff, colossal voice yells.

  Standing before me is the monster from my nightmares, my father. He's so big compared to me. He is looming over me dressed in overalls, wearing his Stetson, and holding his token of choice, the leather belt. My fear escalates, and black spots overtake my vision.

  "Please don't, I'm sorry, sir!" I holler.

  I'm caught. Grabbed by my shirt and yanked out of the closet, there is nowhere left to run. Struggling to escape, I twist my body from left to right, violently flailing my arms and kicking my legs. Praying to escape this nightmare before it begins.

  "Please, don't, I'm sorry, sir!" I scream at the top of my lungs.

  I'm thrown across the room, and my body collides with the adjoining wall. A picture falls and glass shatters all around me, cutting my arms. Little drops of blood form from the openings on my flesh. In slow motion, my arm is grabbed, and I'm hauled back toward my bed. Trying to find traction to stand, I slip and fall backwards, slamming into the lamp on the nightstand. My Ninja Turtle lamp succumbs to his fury, too, as it bursts into small pieces. Scrambling free, I rush toward the door, trying to bypass his long reaching arms once more. Only a few more feet and I can run.

  "Please don't, I'm sorry, sir!" I howl, hoping against all hopes that my plea reaches out to the angels, but my prayers won't be answered today. They never are.

  That's when I feel the sting of the frayed leather strap as it bites against my back through my clothes, shredding my tender skin. Welts are instant. Blood is what he requires to sate his demented craving. His anger is palpable. It feeds his monster. The monster his father created in him. Passed from father to son. From generation to generation.

  This is going to be really bad. My pleading and cries go unnoticed with every painstaking slash, swing, and the onslaught of punishment begins. It will all be over soon enough, but I have to endure, I must take it, to keep my baby sister safe. That's when I retreat into that safe place in my consciousness that stays untouched...even by him.

  Ten years later.

  Waking from another bout of my father’s glorious learning exercises, I see mother is sitting quietly in the corner, staring out into the darkness, singing while rocking sweet little Addie. “Amazing Grace. How sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me….”

  Even though Addie is ten now, mom loves to hold and rock her, and Addie seems to enjoy the attention. It’s a place of peace for mom, a reprieve she gets so little.

  Being the fourth child out of five, the only boy at that, my protective instincts kicked in when I was younger. I fiercely protect my mom and baby sister, even when the consequences have nearly killed me a time or two. It’s my job to protect them.

  Her face contorts in pain when she notices me watching her. I can tell once again she tried to intervene, and now her body bears the consequences.

  "You shouldn't have tried to stop him. You knew he’d use you as his punching bag. He’s done it before. I can handle it. You’re fragile, mom. Why’d you do that?"

  "Grayson, my dear sweet son, what kind of mother would I be if I hadn't? He wasn't going to stop this time," she replies.

  Knowing she’s right, and as much as I try to remember why I have to be strong, I'm not Superman. I'm fighting a battle against Goliath, and I'm the pion he's about to squish. My father gets this way all the time. His normal persona is viewed only by family. It can be the slight closing of a door, walking down the hallway too fast, or maybe just chewing my food the wrong way that sets him off. This has been happening for years.

  My oldest sister, Fallyn, left home when she was sixteen; and she is finally happy. No thanks to dear ole dad. He tried to control her, but she had too much of grandma’s stubbornness inside her to give up. Talk about a war...my sister not only won the battle, she escaped hell and his grip. But I was just a baby when all that went down. The other two, Jo and Sage, their stories are a little different, but the end result is the same. They’re gone too. Released from this giant chasm of hell. Home sweet home.

&nbs
p; Looking over at mom, I can't help but wonder why she stays. She's beautiful and intelligent. She is a great teacher and loves her job. We could leave. She could take Addie and I far, far away, and we could live without the fear of making a wrong move, but she won't! Please, mom, tell me why? I've asked this question so many times, and she always shakes her head and gives me a lopsided smile. She will never leave him. She doesn't know how. Mom truly loves the monster she shares her life with.

  "Don't worry, momma, this will be gone in a few weeks. I can hide it and no one will know. Let's just forget it happened," I quietly murmur. She cringes and barely nods.

  Subconsciously, she knows I speak the truth. This isn't the first time he's lost his temper over nothing. When I was younger, it was worse, but as my body grew and he aged, the pain wasn't as intense. Don't get me wrong, it still hurts like a son of a bitch, but I've learned to garner that pain and turn it into something productive. My own personal vengeance. I will never be the rancher he wants.

  Slowly but surely as my sisters returned to Lakeview, it’s helped rein in his fits of anger. My father is aware of their presence and won’t act out while they are around. In their own way, they are protecting us. Ensuring he walks the line...straight and narrow. Addie is the one who’s benefited the most from their presence. He’s never touched her in anger, and they won’t allow him to. Thank God.

  My father’s abusive nature was bred from his father’s. It’s a dirty secret the infamous Blackwood family has tried to contain, and only a few have witnessed the brutality. He’s a well-respected deacon in the church, rubs noses with politicians around the State, and sits on several committees for some of the wealthiest businessmen in the Panhandle. Shit! He’s one of those wealthy men! Looking in from the outside, he is the perfect husband and father.

  "I love you, my sweet boy," mom whispers. Standing with difficulty, she takes Addie by the hand and leaves my room.

  I'm left feeling bereft. My body is on fire as a constant reminder of what started this mess. Earlier, we were all sitting around the dining room table eating dinner. Mom had made the best chicken potpie, and I was on my second helping when I casually mentioned my intention to apply to West Point. That was the moment his fist flew across the table and connected with my body. Dishes crashed to the floor along with me. From there it escalated to his favorite leather belt and several unwanted bruises along my back and torso.

  How would I know that he had other plans for furthering my education? He's never before called attention to where I should go. That's the problem. He never asks me anything. When he decides it's time for whatever he has concocted in his head, I'm told what to do and how to do it. Some things never change.

  The next morning, I'm woken to the light blaring in my eyes and my father fiercely shaking me. In an unconscious moment, I move quickly, escaping his reach. Years of practice and know-how have taught me that maneuver. Sleeping lightly is the other. I'm on the other side of my bed, using it as a barrier between us. Trusting my instincts to keep me from harm and out of his reach.

  "Grayson, you're making us late, and I need to leave here in the next five minutes!" my father yells as he exits my room. It’s his usual demeanor. You can't change the spots on a leopard, I'm told.

  I remind him as he retreats down the hallway, “I have ROTC practice today, sir.” He mumbles his disgust as his heavy footsteps retreat down the hall. My whispered hope is that he’ll leave and I can drive my truck today. One can always hope.

  Another day in the life of Grayson Blackwood. Stumbling into my bathroom, I jump in the shower and get ready for school. School. It's the only venue I have to express myself. I'm not an artist. Couldn't draw stick figures. No artistic talent here. Although each member of my family is musically gifted in one way or another. My talent lies with a six-string guitar.

  Just one more year, I tell myself, one more year until I can leave this wretched house and never return to Lakeview, Florida, I vow to myself as the water washes away all of the filth from the day before, washes it away down the drain along with my free will. For now, I have to bide my time. Just like my older sisters, I’ll make it out. I have to.

  "I'm coming, just a minute!" I yell through the stuffy little house. I finish my makeup, then with one more glance in the mirror at the image staring back at me, I'm ready for whatever the day holds.

  My family and I live in a cramped, insignificant dwelling with nondescript white siding and blue trim. The front porch has just enough room for my mom's favorite pastime, her rocking chair. It's one of the few moments of peace in her existence from the disease that cripples her body. She enjoys gazing at the small flowerbed with pink azaleas in the front yard. The yard has been neglected for weeks. Not to mention, it's in a really poor, unnerving part of town close to the railroad tracks. Just like my dad craves. The more we blend in with the natives, the less attention we attract. He's the reason we are here.

  "Sure thing, Ella honey. Hurry up 'cause you're going to be late!" my mom hollers back from the kitchen.

  This is my usual morning. Wake up, fix breakfast for everyone, and then hurry up and get dressed in enough time to leave for school, but not before making sure that my little brother is getting ready and on his way as well. I guess I should be thankful, and really, I am, but it's just that sometimes I wish I didn't have to take care of everything that goes on in our house.

  You see, that's my life. I'm sixteen years old with all the responsibilities of most grown-ups. My parents, well, they aren't really what you'd call typical parents. Mom is sick and has been for a long while now. They'd called it terminal years ago, but by the grace of God, she's still with us. However, it's only a matter of time before her roll is called. I pray every night that God will let her stay with us just a little longer, and so far, He's answered my prayers. She just can't help out in the normal ways a mother should or could. But that’s alright, because one more day with her is worth all of it.

  Then there's my dad. Well...he's a grifter of sorts, a con artist. That's what brought us to this little town here in Florida two years ago. He was once again running away from another con, another fella he wronged. Lately, he's started dabbling in drugs. He keeps telling me it's not true, but I know what makes him tick. He lives for the thrill of the chase and the almighty dollar. Like I said, I'm much too old for my age!

  As I leave my bedroom, I spot my mom in our quaint, outdated kitchen, trying to pack our lunches and struggling as she does so. "Mom, I'll finish this up," I tell her, grabbing the bread to make my brother's special PBJ and banana sandwich. It's the only one he'll eat.

  She flushes with obvious relief. "Thank you, baby girl." I immediately feel guilty that I didn't do this earlier. Mom tries so hard, but she’s just not strong enough anymore. Her disease is crippling her slowly, and it's painful to watch. Her body has become her prison. Just another reason I have to try harder for her.

  Finishing up packing our sacks, I help mom back to her wrought-iron bed, fluffing the pillows as she reclines. I kiss her cheek, inhaling her unique scent. I know this is where she'll stay for the rest of the day, until we come home. I usher Evan out of the little house in a panic so we won't miss the bus.

  I call over my shoulder, “I love you, mom!” It's just another day in the life of Ella Anderson.

  Finally, I'm alone in one of the only places where breathing is bearable. Somewhere that’s my domain, the ROTC (Reserve Officers Training Corps) room. That’s right, Grayson Blackwood is a pro at taking orders and giving them. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. “Yeah, right!” I laugh at myself. Again trying to push away the brutal thoughts of my father and his wayward tactics. Like his father before him, it’s all he knows. But it doesn’t make it any easier as the bile moves up my throat.

  I sit at the table, eagerly leafing through different military colleges; the one that continually catches my eye is The United States Military Academy at West Point. It's located North of New York City on the Hudson River. The application process is
long and tedious, and I've been secretly working on mine for the last year. Anticipation and longing stir in my restless soul. Imagining a new beginning away from my current circumstances solidifies my resolve in making my dream a reality.

  I sigh, “This is it. My real fuckin’ chance of getting away and doing something important with my life.”

  My father wants me to run the ranch when he retires to carry on the Blackwood name. He's been relentlessly trying to acclimate me to the whole process, and if I’m honest with myself, that’s really not where my interests lie. Somewhere above the Mason Dixon line is where my dream begins.

  Being part of ROTC gives me purpose, a meaning that’s been cultivating since I first joined. Sergeant Wiley continually guides me on the path to becoming the man I want to be. He saw something in me the first day I walked into his room. I’m grateful for all he does.

  Serving my country, doing my duty as an officer in the military, is all I can think about lately. All my hopes and dreams are riding on it, on receiving an appointment to the academy. I’ve been told you have to be the whole package; smart, a leader, instinctual, they only want the best and... The recruiters have me in their sight! I am at the top of my class. I’m not bragging, but I’m really freaking smart, it comes so easily. Sometimes I choose to act the jokester, ‘cause it makes people think they can get one over on me, try to best me.

  Playing games is my forte and helps the boredom when you live in a small town. But I don’t play games when it comes to applying and getting into West Point. And the best part is, it’s a full ride scholarship opportunity. Won’t need a cent from the old man. One less thing he can’t hold over my head.

  “I have to be fucking perfect,” I mumble to myself. Again relishing in the fact that I can do it. I have to. Failure is not an option.

  Hearing the classroom door open, I realize my quiet time is over. “Are you coming out to practice or what?” I hear her say. Her name is Ella Anderson.