Between These Walls

by John Herrick

  BETWEEN THESE WALLS

  A Novel

  John Herrick

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright (c) 2015 by John Herrick

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014948188

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9915309-2-2

  ISBN-10: 0-9915309-2-6

  Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE(r), Copyright (c) 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation.

  Used by permission. www.Lockman.org

  From The Dead excerpt copyright (c) 2010 by John Herrick.

  All rights reserved.

  ALSO BY JOHN HERRICK

  Fiction

  The Landing

  From The Dead

  Nonfiction

  8 Reasons Your Life Matters

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author's Note

  Prologue

  Part One: Secrets/Silence

  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

  Part Two: Trust/Facade

  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

  Part Three: Stain/Mercy

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Part Four: Freedom/Hope

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  Preview: From The Dead, a novel by John Herrick

  About the Author

  Online Links

  DEDICATION

  To Pam Rempe.

  You’ve encouraged me through every book.

  This one’s for you, friend.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  At the risk of overlooking anyone, thanks to the individuals who helped make this novel happen …

  To my family. In the years since my first novel hit the shelves, God has expanded us. By the time the next book is published, someone marries or a new baby is born. Therefore, I’ve decided to keep this generic so nobody will find themselves excluded down the road.

  Healing Touch Massage in Agoura Hills, California, introduced me to the world of massage therapy.

  By God-coincidence, Michelle Sutton was the first to know what this novel was about, and for several years, she was the only one who knew. She encouraged me that this story was needed and had faith that I might communicate the story in an effective way. A fearless writer, she has urged me to be fearless with the written word. I appreciate her prayers and words at the right time.

  Kelly Corday had no idea of the subject matter of this book, but she knew I had a story burning in my heart. When I shared one of the trigger events that pulled me toward the development of this book, she encouraged me to follow my heart and flat-out said, You need to do this. Kelly, your friendship is a gift from God. You’re one of the most genuine Christians I know. Thank you.

  Maryglenn McCombs is a talented publicist but, more importantly, a kind and generous soul. She believed in this story, believed in me as a writer, and provided vital input without knowing whether she would be hired to promote the book. When I was tempted to ditch the Prologue altogether, she convinced me to keep it as part of Hunter's story. She was a Godsend.

  To Pam Rempe, Marnie McDole, and Christen Santoscoy.

  To all the friends who have provided moral support and listened to my ugly vents of frustration.

  To the reviewers and bloggers who have helped increase awareness of my work, starting with From The Dead in 2010.

  To those I have forgotten or who have lent their support without my awareness.

  To my readers. Thank you for investing a portion of your life with this novel. You are appreciated and loved.

  Finally, to God. Thanks for not giving up on me. I would’ve given up on myself long ago.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Readers ask why I choose particular storylines for my novels. Many stories are worth telling, but I’ve discovered the best stories result from characters who come to me when I’m not looking for them.

  Such was the case with Hunter Carlisle and Between These Walls.

  Early in 2011, I had almost wrapped up the first draft of my third novel. One afternoon, when I went for a walk, a character arose within me: a middle-school kid who was a Christian but harbored an attraction to the same gender. I pondered facets of this character’s circumstances as I walked. His fears, his feelings of guilt, the hits to his self-esteem—everything about his struggle grabbed my heart.

  At that point, I wouldn’t have had the courage to write a book about him. But when characters arise from within, I believe it is God’s way of telling me individuals share the character’s struggle and need a book written for them right now. A novel about homosexuality, however, would test the boundaries of my comfort zone. Though I hate to admit it, I worried about what others might think. So I tucked the idea, safe and silent, in the back of my brain.

  But as the ancient prophet Jonah discovered, you can’t hide from God. He’ll find you.

  One year later, the concept remained unexplored—until a feature story caught my attention on the television news. The nationally syndicated story revolved around the plight of a high school student on the verge of suicide. This student, about fifteen years old, had endured a continual onslaught of bullying.

  The bullying occurred for one reason: The kid was gay.

  After enduring all the emotional damage he could handle, this kid reached his breaking point. Desperate and exhausted, wrought with pain, he posted a video online. Too hurt to speak—I imagine the bullying included poking fun at the way he spoke—the kid had written his words in black marker on sheets of paper. So here sat a blond-haired kid who looked like an average high school freshman, wiping tears from his eyes, making a desperate plea for somebody to hear him, for someone to care … for someone to offer him hope.

  My heart broke for him. I know nothing about that student. The reporter didn’t mention the his name. She didn’t mention his city or state. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. But I couldn’t erase the sight from my memory.

  Anger arose in me. My immediate gut response was, Never again. Not on my watch. Not if I can help it.

  Allow me to explain: A close family member of mine ended his life at sixteen years old. I was thirteen at the time. If you’ve never experienced such an event, trust me when I say it changes you forever. It changes your perception of life and people. From that point on, you view life
with the awareness that many people appear happy but live in pain. You look into some people’s eyes and wonder if their happiness is a charade. You wonder which individuals feel they don’t matter. While others might assume few individuals consider suicide, you know better.

  As I pondered the news story about that high school student, I thought, Nobody that age should know what it’s like to feel that kind of pain.

  Never again. Not on my watch.

  At that point, I knew I needed to pursue the book topic and pursue it immediately. So my third novel, still in its first draft, returned to the back burner, where it has resided off and on for eight years. I began work on my fourth novel, Between These Walls, which you now hold in your hands.

  My novels aren’t geared toward the Young Adult genre, and I wanted to make the book accessible to as many individuals as possible. So I took my initial character idea—the middle-school kid—and doubled his age, which brought him into early adulthood. To capture the struggles and vulnerability of his teenage years, I could weave some of his memories into the fabric of the story.

  I don’t have quantitative data to back up my hunch, but I’ve long believed more people deal with same-sex attraction than we assume. I believe many simply hide it well or have a simultaneous attraction to the opposite gender, which enables them to live a “typical” life without raising suspicions. Therefore, I constructed Hunter as a character who finds himself attracted to both genders—technically, a bisexual male—with a stronger attraction toward males. This characteristic would allow him to remain in hiding for years. In fact, I chose the name Hunter to call to mind a hunter-gatherer image, the classic male stereotype—and the last place we might expect to find a gay male. His name symbolizes his attributes and interests, yet belies his deepest secret.

  Regardless of whether the reader has experienced Hunter’s battles, I attempted to tell his story in such a manner that the reader can find points of commonality with him. So, as a reader, you might not have experienced homosexual feelings, but you might hold another secret that torments you. A dark secret you never want revealed. You might relate to Hunter’s fears or guilt. In that respect, perhaps Hunter’s story is your story, too.

  Between These Walls is not a political statement or a judgment of church bodies. It is not an attempt to interpret Scripture or resolve an argument. My purpose was to put the reader into the shoes of one character, to experience his emotions and inner fire—a story behind the story.

  As you read this novel, I hope you know you are loved.

  John Herrick

  June 30, 2014

  PROLOGUE

  JULY 1995

  If six-year-old Hunter Carlisle had secrets to hide, he would have kept them in this room.

  Deep underground, the room had no windows along its walls. Were it not for the overhead lights he knew must exist or the handful of nightlights he spotted throughout this finished lower level, Hunter could imagine himself descending into cryptic, furry blackness. But surrounded by his brother Bryce and three other teenagers, Hunter felt safe.

  Fourteen years old and too young to drive, Bryce and his friends found themselves stranded, limited by how far they could walk or ride their bicycles. Football practice had not yet begun. By this afternoon in early July, boredom had set in.

  Today marked the first time Hunter had entered this house. Bryce’s friend Pete, who flipped on a light switch, had lived here for as long as Hunter could remember—a time period which didn’t stretch back far, but to Hunter, it seemed an eternity.

  Hunter found the silence strange. He couldn’t recall walking into someone else’s house without finding an adult inside. For young Hunter, the rare occasions in which he couldn’t locate an adult nearby were when Bryce babysat him for a few hours.

  Hunter could trust his big brother Bryce and felt secure in his company. Bryce was almost as tall as an adult and had muscles that peeked out beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt.

  With Bryce around, no harm would come to Hunter.

  Upon entering the house, the first thing Hunter had noticed upstairs was how sunlight gleamed through windows and cast shapes upon the carpet. He’d never given much thought to the noise that home appliances made, but in the stillness of Pete’s empty house, Hunter heard the low murmur of a refrigerator and the hum of an air conditioner. But he had seen neither en route to the basement.

  Now, as Hunter reached the bottom of the stairs and peered around the basement, the room looked like a fancy cave. Its brightest feature, besides the lights, were its tan walls. The carpet was the color of the chocolate candy bars Bryce often bought with his allowance.

  Drake and Ethan, Bryce’s other two friends, made a beeline for the air hockey table in the corner of the room and plugged it in. Hunter wandered over to watch, though the tip of his nose brushed against the upper edge of the table. Within seconds, he watched a plastic red puck dart back and forth across the slick surface. Puffs of air tickled Hunter’s nostrils as they blew through tiny holes that pockmarked the playing field.

  With a tad too much aggression in his block, Ethan sent the puck airborne. When it made contact with Hunter’s forehead, Hunter giggled. No pain, not even a sting. In a way, it made Hunter feel part of the game, accepted by the older boys.

  Ethan grunted. Hunter smelled bologna on his breath.

  “Bryce, why don’t you grab your little brother?” Ethan shouted. “He just fucked up my shot over here!”

  Hunter cringed. If Hunter said a bad word and his parents heard about it, he knew punishment would be imminent.

  Drake snorted. “Whatever, man! Blame it on the kid because you can’t score a goal without a gallon of sweat dripping off your forehead. And that’s a foul. My move now.”

  Bryce jogged over and put his fingers on the top of Hunter’s head like a suction cup on a science-fiction gadget. He turned Hunter around and guided him to the sofa, which sat in front of a big-screen television.

  “Why’d you bring your brother along, anyway?” Ethan asked, waving off a cheer from Drake, who had scored a goal.

  “My mom’s at the grocery store. I can’t leave him home alone.” Bryce turned toward Pete, who was on his hands and knees at the side of the sofa. “Pete, are we watching your Jim Carrey movie or not?”

  Pete swiped his hand back and forth beneath the sofa. Hunter wondered why he would look so hard for a lost popcorn kernel.

  “Not if I can help it,” Pete said, a strain in his voice as he thrust his arm behind Bryce’s legs. “Change of plans. My mom isn’t home. I’ve got something better for us.” At that, Pete grinned and let out a sigh of relief. “Whew! Thought they might’ve found it.”

  “Found what?” asked Drake as he yanked the hockey table’s cord from the electrical socket. He wandered over and sat against the edge of the sofa, next to Bryce’s feet. Hunter bounced on the middle cushion beside his big brother. Ethan leaned on the back of the sofa.

  Pete stuck a video cassette into the VCR, flipped off the lights in the room, raced over to the sofa, and plopped onto the remaining empty cushion. Though Hunter tried to hide it, he felt a bit scared in the pitch blackness. He wished the nightlights were brighter, but the older boys would laugh at him if he asked them to turn the lights back on.

  “Check this out.” Pete aimed the remote control, turned on the television, and hit Play. The television emitted an initial gray glow, a comfort to Hunter. “My parents have no idea; I’ve been putting it together at night after they go to bed. They think I’m down here watching Beavis and Butt-Head till all hours.”

  The first thing Hunter noticed about the program before his eyes was that it wasn’t Beavis and Butt-Head. It wasn’t even a cartoon. Squinting, Hunter leaned forward and tried to decipher the scene on the screen. In the background he saw an abundance of white and silver: a small white sink; a narrow, silver shelf with jars of cotton balls and cotton swabs; a white floor. He heard a high-pitched sigh, the sound of a woman, but she didn’t sound like she was in trouble.
The camera panned left, where he noticed the edge of a vinyl cushion and—now he recognized it. It looked like a doctor’s office. The sighs continued and, once the camera finished panning left, he discovered the source.

  The woman had blond hair that fell to her waist. Her fingernails, which she dug into the examination table, were a fiery red. Eyes shut, she tilted her head back, whimpered again, and smiled with a wide, open mouth.

  She wore nothing. A fully dressed man pressed against her and smothered any view below her waist. But from under the man’s hands, Hunter caught a glimpse of the woman’s full breasts.

  The woman tugged at the man’s tie. He loosened it, then tore it off over his head while the woman ripped open his shirt, button by button.

  Hunter fixated on the images before him as the camera angle shifted to a side view. At this point, as far as he could tell, the man would take whatever action occurred next. So enthralled with the video, Hunter forgot about the other people in the room. Drake’s voice startled him.

  “How’d you get this channel on cable? Did a storm knock it in?”

  “My dad subscribes to this,” Pete said. “The channel has a parental control on it, but I figured out the code to unlock it. It’s the same damn code he uses for the garage door opener!”

  Riveted, Hunter returned his attention to the screen, where the man had undressed almost all the way. Would he? Hunter couldn’t imagine himself getting undressed with someone else present in a doctor’s office. Curious to see what would happen next, he leaned forward. From the corner of his eye, Hunter noticed Bryce, who looked uncomfortable as he shifted in his seat. Bryce caught a quick glance at Hunter, then turned his attention back to the screen. Bryce’s foot tapped in furious rhythm on the carpet.