All was quite. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. All was dark. Maybe they wouldn't come back. Maybe they'd stay away and leave her alone. She didn't want to move. Moving brought pain, which brought misery and more pain. Last night her father had come home from the bar. He was fired from his job earlier that day. He blamed her. He had cornered her and called her ugly things. Mean things. He called her a dirty slut and a good for nothing whore. He called her a stupid bitch, an ugly fuck. All of it she had heard before. It didn't mean anything anymore. But then he'd hit her. Then he'd beat her. From the smacks on her behind and face, to the punches and kicks on her legs and stomach, and finally to the hard leather stinging her back and chest and arms. He never gave her face any bruises or lashings. Only slaps. Slaps that left red rashes which only lasted an hour or two before vanishing. He hadn't broken anything though. That was a good thing, one of the few. Maybe it was because she had school tomorrow. The first day of her new School her in North Carolina. She had the same binders and book bag she has had since she was in fifth grade. But they were in good shape. Even though they had been hit out of her hands every day at least once, they were still in almost factory condition. They had to be or her father would beat her terribly. She tried her best to be a good daughter. And sometimes, if her father had had a good day, being a good daughter saved her from the nightly beating. Sometimes. But it hadn't done anything last night.
She knew her father was mad from the minute he walked in. So she went into her room and curled up on her bed. She picked up a book and opened it. Then she waited. She had learned last year how to effectively lie to her father. So when he marched into her room and demanded what she was doing, she calmly told him that she was re-reading a summer book for her English class. He believed it, but it didn't change anything.
Now she was sitting in that same room. In the very far corner to escape the deadly cold, hawk eyes of her father, when he came back. Although she wished it, she knew that her father and his wife would never leave her alone. They enjoyed torturing her too much. She had learned about it two years ago in health class. Someone had written an article about domestic abuse for extra credit. He father and his wife nearly matched all the sick twisted characteristics of abusers described in said article. Sometimes she believed Satan sent the two just to torment her soul.
When it came right down to it, she was terrified of her father. He had been beating her since she was seven years old. It had started right after her mother, her real mother, died. Maybe it had started out as stress, but it developed into sick enjoyment. There were days in the summer that her father would sit on the porch, in the shade, drinking lemonade, and she would be out in the fields working all day long. She didn't argue though. She didn't dare to.
But tomorrow she would be in school. Away from the fields and the work. And her father. So she stayed curled into the farthest corner of her room and read. She was really reading her summer book this time. Her father had given her the first week of summer vacation to read the three required books and write her essays. Then he forced her to the fields.
Her, her father and his wife lived on a farm. In the summer she was forced to do all the farming and field work while her father was working a second job. The cuts and bruises pained her but the beating she would get if she didn't do the field work would be worse. Until yesterday. But her father would've had to quit yesterday anyway. In fact, he was going to. Until he was fired. Being fired angered him. So he went to the bar and then came home, relieving all of his anger on his living punching bag.
Suddenly the front door slammed open. "Katonah!" her father shouted. His voice was filled with drunken rage. He wasn't in a good mood.
Katonah removed herself from the comfort of the corner of her room and painfully walked to the kitchen. The front door opened to the kitchen so she was able to see him from the other side of the room. She grabbed her elbows as she walked to the table. "Y-yes father?" She responded before glancing down at the envelopes and papers in her father's hands
He walked to the kitchen table and slammed the papers down. He walked over to Katonah and pushed her into a chair. "What are these?" He demanded.
Through her fear Katonah reached for the pile of papers and looked through them. There were bills for the house, the cars, notices from the electric, oil, and water companies, and letters from friends, and…her school. "They are bills, notices, and letters," She informed weakly.
"Oh are they?" Her father taunted leaning over her. "Letters from whom?"
Katonah swallowed. "Friends, and Asheville high," she replied. She didn't know what was going to happen next. She knew, though, that whatever it was, it wasn't anything good.
He slammed his hand on the table. "Asheville High! And can you tell me why I'm getting a letter from them?" he demanded.
"Um. M-maybe t-to, um, make sure they have th-the registrations correct?" Katonah stammered. She guessed and hoped she was right. Or at least didn't anger him. She didn't want a beating tonight.
"Well open them and FIND OUT!" he exclaimed.
Katonah jumped. She reached for the envelope with shaky hands and ripped it open. Unfolding the letter, she scanned the copy of her registration form. It had a single question at the bottom: Is this all correct? If so please put a check mark at the top and send it back to the board of education. "They are just asking if everything on the registration form is correct," she explained. She tried to keep her voice as calm as she could, though she was still very frightened.
"Is it all correct?" her father asked annoyed.
Katonah quickly looked over the form. "Yes," She answered.
"Then send it back to them!" he ordered, he slapped a pen down onto the table along with a new envelope.
Katonah checked it folded it back up and put it into the envelope and sealing the envelope, she wrote out the address. She had known that this day would come and memorized the P.O. box of the board of education. When she was finished she handed the envelope to her father who snatched it out of her hand and slammed it onto the kitchen counter. Fiona, her father's wife, would take it out to the mailbox tomorrow morning when she left for work.
"Now I don't want to see you for the rest of the night. You hear?" Her father shouted.
Katonah winched and nodded. Her father then pulled her out of the chair and threw her on the floor towards her room. The cuts and bruises sent shockwaves of pain throughout her body when she hit the floor. She did not want her father to get angry, though. So despite the pain she lifted herself and scampered to her room.
If you were to walk into her room you would think it a guest room, compared with the rest of the house, though the room wouldn't be even slightly appealing to guests. Even so, her bed was comfortable to her and she had a desk for her homework and a light to light the room. She had blankets to keep warm. She had everything she needed. She had learned to do without wants…and friends. She had a single stuffed bear with a recording of her mother's voice. Whenever she was feeling scared or depressed she would squeeze the bear and her mother's voice would ring out the words 'I love you'. Three words that meant the world to her.
In public she was very timid, didn't speak to anyone except her teachers and other faculty, or others like the postman or police, but only if they started the conversation. She daydreamed a lot, held slightly above average grades, and was, to most people, invisible. Just the way she needed it to be.
She wore a jacket all year round, heavier in the winter of course, and lighter in the summer, and didn't even own a pair of shorts. These things cover up the abuse, and she had become such a good liar that the counselors believed her when she explained that she was just shy and insecure about her body.
What she would give to melt into the ground and run away.
And that was the life of Katonah Rostov, keeping quiet and out of sight, under the radar so to speak, just to avoid her fathers' wrath.
But that was all about to change. And for once in her life… it was going to change in a good way.
He looked up at the moon, it was so bright tonight, lighting up the ends of the swaying grass, jumping from the rippling water as he moved his feet through the cool blue liquid, and brushing its pale glow against his cheek as the breeze whistled through the tall steal skyscrapers and sang through the park.
He couldn't sleep, which was odd for him. It happened every now and then – happens to everybody – but not like this. Not constantly like this. He couldn't figure out why though.
Maybe it was because he was tired, not the sleepy kind, the worn out kind where you need a vacation or a long weekend; a break from life's status quo. Or maybe it was because he was hurt, not the physical kind, the heart kind. Maybe it was both. Yeah that was it. Tired and hurt and sleepless.
Why? That's the easy part. He was tired of being a suitcase, being the crazy one, the one who needed constant checking and supervision. The one that worried people when they were late for dinner not because they were hurt but because they might've hurt someone else. He was tired of being the psychopath, because he wasn't crazy. Maybe he got a little wild, and maybe he lost control at times, and maybe he was a bit odd and destructive every now and again, but he wasn't a child. Some respect wouldn't hurt. He was hurt. Because of the way these things made people look at him, because he couldn't speak right so no one wanted to speak to him, because his wild side made people nervous, because he wasn't good enough. He never was. Nothing about him was. No one ever said so, but then again, no one ever had to. Everyone always laughed at him or scolded him or ignored him, and no one thought that it would hurt him. Well it did. But he didn't have the voice to stop it. No one understood him anyway.
He ran his flipper across the scar on his face. No one ever knew what he was saying; what he was really saying.
Another breeze came through, rustling in the grass. Blowing in the trees.
He looked back at the pond continuing to move his feet through the dark blue. A string broke somewhere in his gut and a deep pain crawled up his stomach and into his throat. What hurt the most was realizing that he was going to die alone, no one could love someone they couldn't understand, not one could care for a maniac like him, no one would want the stress of having him around. He would never get that golden feeling of butterflies in his tummy, never feel that intimacy between lovers, never feel the smile of a loved one. No one would ever care
There was only one person who seemed to give a damn, who never really worried or stressed too much, who maybe even took a liking to his wild side. Skipper. But then again brothers always seemed to have that affection and understanding so to Rico, Skipper didn't count. Even with him there, Rico felt the entire world looking down upon him.
He wondered still, if he could be…wrong. What if…there was one person…just one…that this world crafted just for him? Highly (extremely highly) unlikely…but still…..
A man can dream can't he?