“Wait.” I ran back to him, surprised he hadn’t moved. He was just standing there, watching me. “You forgot your chips.”
“Thanks, Sherry.” He took the bag and disappeared before I could respond.
“Bye, Hunter,” I whispered to the air. I smiled at the thought of going to the park again. My smile was smaller than normal because I was also nervous. I didn’t want my stuff taken away, but maybe Mom would never know. She’d never come outside before. And even if she did, I’d be okay. I wouldn’t have my toys, but at least I’d know that Hunter didn’t get in trouble.
Mom had long forgotten about my “imaginary” friend.
But as I stared at the empty space he had just been in, I knew I never would.
12 years old
SHE WAS STILL WAITING for me. The nicest, most beautiful girl I’d ever met was still waiting for me.
It seemed hard to believe. Especially when my father made a point to tell me how useless I was and how I was just a mouth to feed.
But Sherry… she wanted me. She wanted to hang out with me, and talk to me. She had become my best friend. Only she could make me smile after an argument at home. Only she could make me feel important when I was being ignored by my parents. I hoped we’d be best friends forever.
She was fun to play with at first, a good distraction from home. But over the past two years, she talked… a lot. We talked about everything, actually. Sometimes we would do nothing but talk.
I learned her favorite color—orange, her favorite food—pizza, animal—dog. I could go on forever… I remembered all her favorites. I had laughed, feeling like the tallest person in the world, when she volunteered that her favorite person was me.
We talked about sad stuff, too. How her brother, Bobby, died of cancer when she was nine and he was only thirteen. How her parents became a little distant because they missed him so much.
We even talked about my dad and how he hit me. About my mom and how she let him. I’d never talked to anyone about it before. But with Sherry, it felt right to tell her everything.
She had hugged me and told me I was special and important. I had cried a little, but instead of calling me a baby, she just held me tighter.
Before her, I had more bad days than good ones. Now, it was the other way around.
Unfortunately, the bad days still came. Because just as surely as the sun rose, eventually, my father would lose his temper and hit me again.
Today was a bad day.
This morning I had been walking through my apartment and thinking about Sherry, so I hadn’t seen it coming. One moment I was imagining her soft, strawberry blonde hair and the freckles across her nose, and the next, I was face-first on the ground.
Everything had happened in a blur, like he had been too furious to decide what kind of pain he wanted to inflict first.
Now, as I stood in front of the police station, I shut my eyes. I needed to be strong enough to do this; I promised Sherry I would do this, even though I didn’t want to. My arm was aching as I opened my eyes and climbed up the steps. It had been twisted so far up my back this morning, I’d thought he had finally broken it.
I stopped at the top, unsure of where to go.
“Hey, little guy.” I turned my head to see an officer kneeling down next to me.
“Hi.” My gaze moved beyond her to where a few curious glances were aimed our way.
“Can I help you with something?” she asked, bringing my eyes back to her.
I swallowed roughly. “I—I need to report abuse.”
Her dark eyebrows flew up her forehead toward her unnaturally light hair. “Who’s being abused, sweetie?”
“I—”
“Hunter? Is that you?” My palms felt slick as I turned to see Mr. Adams standing next to a younger officer I didn’t know. “I can take it from here, Sandy.”
The lady’s brows scrunched up. “Are you sure—?”
“Yes.” Mr. Adams’ voice was short and hard. I didn’t want Sandy to leave. But all too soon she was gone, disappearing into a sea of blue. My stomach felt heavy. Mr. Adams was a friend of my dad’s.
“Hunter. What brings you here?”
“I…” It was even harder to say the second time. “I need to report abuse.”
“Let’s take this somewhere private.” A heavy hand was placed on my shoulder and I winced slightly, but Mr. Adams didn’t notice as he guided me into a closed-off room.
“This is my partner, Officer Wagner.” I nodded at the other officer before shuffling into an uncomfortable plastic chair.
“Is someone hurting you, little guy?” Officer Wagner asked, sitting on the table in front of me with a soft smile. I saw Mr. Adams shoot him a look, causing him to shrink back and join his partner on the other side of the table.
“My dad, sir. He hits me when he’s angry,” I answered, no waver to my voice and looking Officer Wagner right in the eye.
“I know your father, Hunter. He’s a good man. You understand the allegations you’re making, correct?” Mr. Adams’ disapproving voice sounded loud in the tiny room.
“It’s the truth, Mr. Adams.”
“Officer Adams,” he corrected.
I looked toward Officer Wagner, whose eyes were shifting between the two of us, completely unsure of his place. “Sir, should I grab everything needed so he can make an official statement?”
“That won’t be necessary, Wagner.”
“Sir?” he questioned, his eyebrows pulled down toward the bridge of his nose.
“I said that won’t be necessary.” Officer Adams looked away from me and toward his partner. “Like I said, I know his dad personally. Does he run a strict household? Sure. He’s a strong man, who inflicts necessary and appropriate discipline on his son. A son who was caught three times last year for trespassing in a neighbor’s backyard. This is all inflated, I can promise you that.”
His partner looked unconvinced, and I thought, maybe Sherry was right… maybe someone would care. But the older officer sighed loudly, annoyed and losing his patience. “Hunter, can you show us any bruises that would indicate abuse?”
Other than the aches, I didn’t look too bad. He was careful. I slumped in my chair. Any bruises he’d ever left could easily be attributed to sports or “boys being boys.”
Shaking my head, I kept my eyes on the table. When no one spoke, I looked up into Officer Wagner’s now skeptical eyes.
When I met Sherry over two years ago, it wasn’t this bad. Most of the time, my parents just ignored me. But something had changed for my dad recently; he caught more of my screwups, almost like he was looking for them. And his punishments hurt more. It had never been okay before, but the only reason I went to the cops now was because it had gotten a lot worse.
But I knew this would be pointless, and I felt my anger rising.
I had hope when I walked into this building. Hope that someone would finally see what was going on; that someone would care about what was going on.
Maybe it wasn’t fair, but when it was happening, I looked for a miracle anywhere, in anyone. Even some random person I ran into on the street. I’d look at them and pray they could see that just that morning I’d been kicked in the stomach, or that they’d notice the fading bruise on my arm from when he grabbed me a week ago.
They never did. They looked away and kept walking.
It was stupid to be angry at them, but I was. Every day I prayed for a miracle that never came. But today, all those stupid and pointless wishes for miracles disappeared.
No one would save me.
I would be stuck in this life.
And I was suddenly angry at everyone.
Angry at my father for hitting me.
Angry at my mother for watching him.
Angry at Sherry for caring about me and convincing me to do this.
Angry at the officers for not believing me.
But mostly, angry at myself, for thinking I could change any of those things.
I hated her.
&nb
sp; Cowering on the floor, my blood smeared on the wall and droplets of it on the ground, I looked at my mother and I hated her.
There was a turkey on the table, surrounded by mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing, dinner rolls, and cranberry sauce. My mother had put her “fancy” decorations out. A festive tablecloth with leaves all over it and our nice silverware set atop. It almost looked normal, if you looked past the blood.
“HEY!” my father barked as his foot connected with my back. It spasmed, and I leaned forward to escape the pain. I was still staring at my mother, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of looking away first.
It didn’t take long.
She closed her eyes before turning her head, trying to block out what was happening… what she was allowing, any way she could.
My vision grew blurry. He came around and kicked me in the side of my head. Even without my foggy memories, I probably wouldn’t be able to recall what prompted this most recent beating. There was usually a reason, so I didn’t understand this seemingly random attack.
I closed my eyes, going to another place, just like I always did when he got violent. And I saw Sherry. Over the past six months, when the beatings had become more frequent since I’d gone to the police station, she’d started smiling less. She seemed to age years. Every time I’d come over to her place with a limp or new bruise, her smile dimmed a little more. But I could still imagine her wide, bright smile on that first day when I closed my eyes, and that became my escape.
My eyes flew open as he tugged on my hair and lifted me up. Tears clouded my vision as I struggled to rise quickly and keep the hair on my head. I was momentarily relieved when he released me. Until I realized he let go with momentum, shoving me into a cabinet. My knee connected with the glass door and my head slammed against the wood above. I crumpled to the floor, my gaze lifting and looking at all the “happy” family pictures on the wall.
“Richard,” my mother said.
“What?” he slurred as he kicked me in the ribs.
“Stop.”
It was stupid, and I should have known better, but my first thought had been finally… finally she was standing up for me. Even though minutes ago I hated her, apparently I still had hope.
But that tiny, fragile hope was shattered seconds later when she finished. “We can’t take him to the hospital like this. You need to quit while you’re ahead.”
“You’re right,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Forgive me?” He turned toward her, asking her for forgiveness, something she easily gave. I could barely make out the words between his unintelligible slurring and the pounding that had started in my head.
Everything was blurry when I looked up and saw my father stumbling away. He kissed my mother on the cheek before continuing out of sight. Her eyes found mine, and I thought she tried to say sorry. There was this brief flash where she truly seemed sorry. But it was gone before I knew it, and a second later, so was she.
It shouldn’t be so natural to recognize the bitter, metallic taste of blood. It shouldn’t be as familiar to me as having a soda or eating a hamburger. But I knew there was blood in my mouth even before it spilt down my shirt and onto the floor.
I’d never told Sherry, but he’d caught me a few times coming home from seeing her. Before I’d met her, I had been really good at not getting caught. But now… I was always able to convince myself to stay. One more minute. Ten more minutes. One more hour.
Sometimes it was fine, and sometimes it wasn’t. But I was always willing to risk it for more time with her.
Now, I didn’t know why I’d ever worried. If he wanted to hit me, he would. If he wanted to kick me until I was unconscious, he would.
He could do whatever he wanted, because no one was trying to stop him.
12 years old
My best friend was still imaginary. He made sure no one ever saw him, and I certainly didn’t talk about him again. It seemed impossible that we had kept this secret for two and a half years, but somehow we had.
And we had become best friends.
We talked about everything.
Hunter told me why he used to be so skinny—because his parents didn’t always have enough money to feed him. He told me why he limped—his father kicked him. And when all that got too sad, he told me all his favorites. Color—green. Food—hamburgers. Place—my backyard. There were so many favorites I’d learned since we’d met, and I remembered every single one. My brain catalogued everything Hunter-related.
Even things I didn’t want to know.
At first, I hadn’t understood what he meant when he said his father hit him, and in the beginning it didn’t seem too bad so I didn’t ask questions. But these past few months had been bad. Hunter didn’t talk about it and I only ever saw the aftermath. A limp, a bruise, a cut. It made it easier to overlook, since that was clearly what Hunter wanted. But I never saw the blood or the pain on his face.
Not until now.
It was Thanksgiving. My family was all smiles and laughs, myself included, despite how much I wished Hunter could be there. In the two and a half years we’d been friends, he’d started to feel like family. I wanted him around me all the time, and it felt wrong that he wasn’t here. Our house still felt a little too quiet and a little too lonely since Bobby had died. I looked around the table. It was just me and a whole bunch of grown-ups.
Uncle Steve had just finished a story about his college days that had everyone laughing and telling follow-up stories, when I happened to glance out the window to the backyard. Everyone’s joy managed to cover up my tiny gasp as I watched Hunter fall to the ground right next to our tall bushes. My head quickly whipped around, making sure no one else saw his tumble into our yard. Luckily, they were too preoccupied with football, turkey, and stories to notice a beautiful broken boy lying just outside our house. His eyes met mine and my heart broke. Completely shattered. Defeat was written all over his face as he scooted further behind the bush and sat there, patiently waiting for me to excuse myself.
As fast and casually as I could, I shoveled the rest of my food into my mouth. Some of the men had already gone to the family room to watch the football game, so when I asked to be excused it was hardly abnormal. My dad said yes with a smile and I slowly walked out of the room to wash off my dishes and place them in the dishwasher. My mom had started putting the leftovers in Tupperware containers and I gave her a small, hopefully genuine, smile before calmly exiting the room and walking to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
After I was out of sight, I didn’t waste another minute. I quickly padded down the carpeted hall and ran to my bedroom, shutting my door and racing to the window. I immediately found Hunter’s eyes. I waved him over and watched his gaze dart to the windows that held our picture-perfect family dinner. Another minute or two later, he decided he was in the clear and he dashed over as fast as his battered body would allow.
“Ohmygod, Hunter,” I whispered when he was right outside my open window.
“I’m sorry,” was his only response. He awkwardly leaned against the windowsill. The despair rolling off him made me realize I needed to be stronger than this. I needed to not be as scared as I felt.
“Don’t be. Come in.” I grabbed his arm, being careful of the injured parts, and lightly tugged. His face was unsure as he looked down at his torn clothes with blood on them.
“I don’t know, Sherry. I might get your stuff dirty.”
“Who cares?” I tugged again and he winced a little. “I’ll figure it out later. Now get in.” I used the tone my mother used on my father when she meant business. It seemed to work. He crawled through without another word, collapsing against the wall underneath as his eyes closed.
I helped him unzip his jacket and set it on the ground. My eyes grew impossibly wide when I saw a boot print on his shirt and more blood.
“Can you move a little bit farther?” My voice shook.
“Yeah,” he said. But his eyes were closed and his
mouth was twisted in a frown.
“Okay, c’mon.” I helped him up before we limped together across my room. I’d never been more grateful for having my own connected bathroom than I was right now. After I made him sit and lean back against the tub, I quickly moved to the sink. I squatted before rummaging around underneath for the first-aid kit mom had put below and shown me the basics of when she left me alone for the first time a few weeks ago.
“Thanks,” he whispered. I looked over to see Hunter’s eyes were still shut.
“Of course.” I tried to cough away the croak in my voice, but I knew it would be no use. I was fighting tears, and so close to losing the battle.
Once I had everything, I knelt back in front of him and looked from his split lip to the gash on his forehead. The lip didn’t look too bad, but the cut on his head was still bleeding—and those were just the injuries I could see.
“What hurts the most?” I asked softly.
His sad eyes opened and met mine; and even though he stayed silent, his eyes were screaming at me. Hunter picked up my hand and slowly placed it over his heart.
“Hunter.” My voice broke on the word.
“Can you make it better?”
“I… I don’t know h-how,” I stuttered.
He smiled, but it was all wrong. His lip cracked further and more blood oozed out. “Sure you do. Just be yourself.”
“H-Hunter.” I was weak. I couldn’t be strong. This was all so wrong. All I could think about was how an hour ago my dad had kissed me on the forehead as he served me turkey, while Hunter was getting hit in the head. “I c-can’t. We need to tell someone. The police or my parents… my parents will know what to do.”
He shook his head. “Sherry, when I first reported him six months ago, I was worried no one would believe me. And they didn’t.”
“I know,” I cried. “But look at you. You have proof. Anyone would believe you.”
His eyes were red and he looked ready to cry. “Yeah, they would. But now…” He winced as he shifted up. “Now I’m afraid they will believe me. What do you think would happen if they did?”
Unveiling Ghosts (Unveiling Series, Book 3) Page 5
