It was an old game. One he could do without but they never seemed to tire of. Boys, the nuns would say, could be cruel. Gabriel and his gang were particularly so. But not very inventive. Their tactics were always the same. The twins, Trevor and Nathaniel, would lie in wait and grab him, sitting on him if needed to hold him, always face down in the dirt. Gabriel would snatch off the handkerchief he wore to keep the sun from burning his bare head and use it to tie his hands behind his back, pulling the cloth so tight it often bruised his wrists.
Then they would take turns kicking him, punching him, and yelling at him. The taunts were always the same. Stupid, half-wit, worthless, trash. Jabs like his parents threw him out because he was too stupid to even talk. That a baby could learn to talk. They would goad him, trying to make him cry so they could add baby to their list of insults. But he wouldn't cry. He'd bite his lip until it bled just to keep the tears back, at least until he was alone. He had a spot, in the corner of the hay loft, where he could hide and cry without anyone seeing him.
The nuns would break up the 'fight' and send Gabriel and his friends off to be punished, but no amount of whippings was enough to ruin the pleasure of a good round of 'Stupid Ike'. One or two of the boys would answer the call to help him to the sick room, always with a look of disgust like they believed they could catch being mute just by touching him. The likely reason why they never helped him, sat next to him at meals, talked to him or even looked at him if they could help it. Even the nuns barely spoke to him, asking only if he was hurt bad, did he need to see the doctor, then patching him up and sending him to the cots to rest.
He'd lay there, wishing, half praying for a way out. Dreaming of some long lost relative to find out he was there and come fetch him. But he knew there was no one. The only person that was going to help him was himself. He came to realize that one afternoon after Gabriel's game turned harsh enough that he'd come away with a cracked rib. He made up his mind that very day that he was going to run away.
It took him three weeks of careful work to devise a way to slip out, to hoard away a meager supply of food and such. He'd said ten extra Hail Marys for swiping the knife out of the kitchen but he hoped God would understand that he needed it, just like he needed the blanket and coat he was taking with him.
It was a full moon the night he put his plan into action. He waited until he heard the old nun that always came and peered into the room to make sure they were all asleep come and go. He quickly dressed and slipped outside. He climbed up into his loft and retrieved his small bundle. Checking that no one was outside or at a window and could see his escape, he ran off into the night without a look back.