MEAN
LITTLE PEOPLE
PAIGE DEARTH
© 2016 Paige Dearth
All rights reserved.
ISBN 10: 1544212658
ISBN 13: 9781544212654
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
For my daughter, the love of my life, the holder of my heart…you inspire me.
~Mom
For my friend George. You stood up for me without fear, guided by truth. Your uncompromised integrity and ethical compass have made a profound impact on my life. You’re the best kind of person, one who takes a staunch stand against bullies. I will always remember and be grateful for what you did for me. You are a good friend.
Morning George.
Love, Fred
For my Linda. Listen honey: You stood by me when everyone turned their backs to me. Our love runs deep for each other, which has always been, always will be and will never change. Thank you for standing by me.
~Turtle
Acknowledgments
To all those who have been bullied or are being bullied: may you find the peace you so deserve, and know that you are not alone. Be brave. Find the strength within you to overcome, to become the great person you were born to be; it’s the best retribution.
Love and gratitude to my kinder, softer half, my husband, Remo. Your drive to help me live my dream is nothing short of amazing.
My deep gratitude to Jaime Levine for pushing me to finish this book. This novel would have been gathering dust on a shelf if it weren’t for your honesty, persistence and words of wisdom.
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, I love you!
CONTENTS
COLDHEARTED
The Beating Path
Chapter One
Chapter Two
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
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred One
Chapter One Hundred Two
Chapter One Hundred Three
Chapter One Hundred Four
Chapter One Hundred Five
Chapter One Hundred Six
Chapter One Hundred Seven
Chapter One Hundred Eight
Chapter One Hundred Nine
Chapter One Hundred Ten
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
Chapter One Hundred Twelve
Chapter One Hundred Thirteen
Chapter One Hundred Fourteen
Till the End
Six Months Later
It Ain’t Over ‘till It’s Over…
The First Twelve Hours of Captivity
COLDHEARTED
“Someone once told me that I was coldhearted. They believed it.
I didn’t.
Kids learn how to cope. Bullied kids find that special superpower inside that pushes them to survive. They wear masks on the outside for the world to see, but inside they are raging, struggling to experience normal.
Bullied kids face fear every day. They are beaten by words or actions—both cause pain; both leave scars. Eventually, they build a strong armor around their hearts that thickens over time.
Bullies yell. They strike out with angry words and tight fists. Bullies grow puffy. They need power to feed their powerless existence.
Though they rarely know it, the bullied are stronger than their
enemies because they have the courage to face their demons every day and seek deep within themselves to find the serenity they so deserve.
Bullied children often replace pain with numbness; fear and anger with indifference; chaos with peace. They find a way to move on—sometimes they seek revenge; sometimes they become feared.
Someone once told me I was coldhearted. They were wrong.
I suppose they’ve never been bullied.”
~Paige Dearth
The Beating Path
Seven-year-old Tony Bruno feared the dark hands of death were reaching for him. His small feet pounded against the hot pavement as he tried to get away from the boys chasing after him.
In midstride two of the seven-year-old boys snatched Tony by the back of his worn-out T-shirt. His arms flailed spastically. He tried to make contact with his small fists. One boy got angry and yelled, “Knock it off, Bruno, ya little queer.”
Tony was dragged through the trash that lined the sidewalk.
“Leave me alone,” Tony cried in a high-pitched voice.
“Shut up, Bruno. I swear if ya open your mouth again, we’ll kill ya,” Vincent snapped.
Tony twisted and pitched against the boys. He fought with everything he had in him, but he was no match for the kids who used bullying as an after-school activity.
Tony’s eyes fixed on his surroundings as if he were seeing them for the first time. He looked into the open lot, taking in the small patch of trees and overgrown grass. On either side of the lot were brick buildings with broken windows that revealed the lifeless blackness within. Vines clung to the exterior as if they’d grown there from the inside out. Tony never walked between the buildings. It was taboo. This place scared him. This was the place where the monsters lived. He’d heard the groan of drunks coming from deep inside the cavity of the broken-down buildings when he’d walked by months before with his mother.
Tony fixated on his mother’s words now.
“There are googamongers that live in that place. Do ya know what a googamonger is?” Teresa had said.
Tony had shaken his head, scanning the trees and buildings, waiting for a humanlike creature to come after him.
“They’re real big. Bigger than your father. They got long claws for fingers and real pointy teeth. They like to eat children ’cause every time they eat a kid, they grow stronger. So you keep your skinny ass outta there.”
Tony was paralyzed with fear thinking about the googamongers. He kept fighting against his tormentors, but they dragged him deeper into the forbidden lot. Vincent and his friends forced Tony into the shadow of a small grouping of trees. Tony peed himself, imagining the googamongers watching him, getting ready to eat him. His stomach turned with a wispy emptiness. Tony made one final attempt to free himself and got one arm loose. Vincent punched Tony in the gut, and a few seconds later, Tony’s head slammed against a large oak tree.
Vincent poked his index finger into Tony’s sternum. “Give us all your money.”
“I ain’t g…g…got no money.” Tony stared into Vincent’s rich brown eyes through the jet-black hair that fell in front of them.
Frankie grabbed Tony around the waist and threw him to the ground. Then he pulled Tony’s T-shirt over his head and threw it off to the side.
“Look!” Frankie stood over the boy. “Bruno peed himself.”
The boys stood in a circle around Tony and laughed.
Vincent turned to his best friend, Patton. “Grab the bucket we left in the grass.”
Patton stared for a moment as if he was trying to read Vincent’s mind. He jumped up and down and clapped his hands together. “Yeahhhhhh…” he sang as he ran into the tall grass.
Patton raced back to the noisy circle of boys. Vincent pulled the old plastic clothesline they had stolen from the neighbor lady they called Mrs. Mean. He handed the line to Patton, who threw it over a tree limb while another boy turned the bucket upside down.
A few minutes later, Tony was standing on the bucket with the plastic cord around his neck. His fingers clawed at the cord with frantic desperation. His body shook. In the heat of the day, Tony’s teeth chattered. He couldn’t think. His mind went blank. While Tony didn’t comprehend the possible consequences of the boy’s actions, he felt he was in grave danger.
Vincent looked at Tony and smiled. “He looks just like that cowboy in the movie. They hung ’im from a tree; then one of the guys kicked the horse he was sittin’ on, and the guy fell off. He was swingin’ by his neck. It was so cool—his legs were movin’ like he was ridin’ a bike, and he was twitchin’ and stuff.”
The energy in the small group of boys was a blend of morbid curiosity and fear of the unknown. Tony’s motions were jerky. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The more his fear showed outwardly, the higher the energy level rose through the circle of boys.
“I need to go home,” Tony cried. “My ma will be lookin’ for me.”
“You’ll go home when we say ya can,” Patton hissed. Then he picked up a long stick and whacked Tony on his bare back. The rough, bark-covered branches dug into his tender flesh and left bloated, red welts.
“Wow! Let me try that,” Vincent said, picking up a branch and slashing it across Tony’s abdomen.
Tony continued to pull at the cord around his neck. Each time one of the boys whacked him with a stick, he flinched, and the rope tightened. After a short time, Tony’s muscles went limp, and he welcomed the numb feeling inside his head. His eyelids drooped, and he stopped fighting. His shoulders flopped forward, and his head hung. With a lack of oxygen, death crept upon him, bringing him the closure he longed for.
“Hey! What the hell are ya boys doin’ over there?” A male voice boomed.
Vincent turned and saw a delivery-truck driver at the edge of the lot; he was coming toward them.
Vincent screamed, “Run!”
The boys took off in different directions, but Patton hesitated for a moment and kicked the bucket from under Tony’s feet before he took off.
The cord was just long enough so Tony landed on his tippy-toes, but the initial fall tightened it around his neck, jarring him awake. Tony tried to suck in a breath, and when nothing came through, his panic heightened, and he lost his balance. He lost his battle against the strangling cord. His windpipe betrayed him, and the lack of oxygen gave him comfort again.
The deliveryman reached Tony right before he slipped out of consciousness. He lifted Tony’s small body and held him on his hip, as though he were a toddler. The man quickly loosened the rope around Tony’s neck. Tony gulped air into his lungs, and the bluish color in his face shortly returned to normal.
“What the hell happened here?” the deliveryman said. He pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the cord.
Tony rubbed his neck with his fingertips. He looked around with a pinched expression. Then he remembered. “Vincent and his friends followed me. And…and…they made me come here and…”
Tony sobbed from the memory that rushed into his mind.
“OK, big guy. What’s your name?”
“Tony.”
“Well, I’m Mac. Let’s get ya home. Where’s your shirt?”
Tony looked around the tall grass in a daze. It was gone. Carried off by Patton.
“Forget the shirt. Ya all right?”
Tony nodded.
“Ya think ya can stand?” Mac said, placing Tony on his feet.
Tony wobbled at first but then gained his footing.
“Where do you live?”
“Over that way,” Tony said, pointing in the direction of his row home.
Mac slowly walked Tony to his house and stood at the front door with him.
“Everything will be fine,” Mac said and softly rapped on the front door.
“What the hell did ya do now?” Tony’s father, Carmen, yelled, when he flung the door open.
“Nothin’,” Tony replied timidly.
Carmen looked at Mac, whose mouth hung open.
“What the hell are ya st
arin’ at, and who are ya, anyway?” Carmen barked.
Mac adjusted his stance. His legs locked at the knees and his chest pushed forward. “I just found your kid being hung from a tree. A group of boys were hurtin’ him. Those boys ain’t got no scruples. Your son almost died.”
“My son almost died ’cause he ain’t got no backbone. Now, go on and deliver your packages. Stay the hell outta other people’s business.”
Mac stared at Carmen for a moment. Then he bent down and looked into Tony’s eyes. “You take care of yourself. Stay away from those boys. Ya hear?”
Tony nodded. “Yeah, I wish they’d just leave me alone.”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud! Get the hell in this house before I give ya another beatin’.”
Tony knew from Carmen’s squinty eyes that his father was having a worse day than normal. For a passing moment, Tony wished that he could go live with Mac. He didn’t want to face his father, not alone, not again.
After Carmen slammed the door, he turned to his son. His eyes poured over Tony’s gangly body, and he bent slightly at the waist to look closely at the purple mark that the cord had left around his neck.
Carmen’s upper lip lifted. “Where’s your shirt?”
Tony sniffled, his fear ignited by his father’s venomous stare. He took a few steps backward and crossed his arms over his abdomen.
“I asked ya a question, boy.”
“The kids stole it from me.”
“Why did ya let ’em steal it?”
“I didn’t let ’em. They made me.”
“That’s ’cause you’re a little weasel. Ain’t got no man in ya.”
Carmen grabbed a handful of Tony’s thick brown hair and pulled his head back to look into his son’s green eyes. “You’re pathetic. Go to your room, and don’t come out till I say so. While you’re up there, I want cha to think about how much ya embarrass me. I swear your ma cheated on me with another man, ’cause ya ain’t no son of mine. Look at ya! Covered in all those scratches and bruises. The sight of ya makes me sick. Get outta my livin’ room before I slap the shit outta ya.”
Tony gimped up the steps as quickly as he could manage and shut his bedroom door gingerly. He pulled on a clean T-shirt and lay on his bed, waiting for his mother to come home. He rubbed his arms and legs with open hands. Pulling the blanket from his bed, he wrapped himself tightly and waited. He put his hand up to his forehead, expecting it to be on fire, but it was cold and clammy.
Mean Little People Page 1
