Chapter Two

November 3rd, 1999.

Two years came and went, passing by like nothing. Paul grew and learned like any other boy did. He had his fair share of black eyes and mud-fights, like any other boy did. Paul was an average ten-year-old boy. His life seemed normal. On the outside.

On the inside, life was awful. Paul spat and kicked and screamed when he got the chance to let out some of his anger. He threw tantrums that often resulted in early bedtimes without dinner. He hated life on the reservation. Life in a house enclosed in the middle of nowhere. Paul was amazed at the fact that there wasn't any reports of anybody drowning. How could everybody around him be so content to the dull, grey-skyed life of the reservation? He couldn't stand it here.

Each night, after his father had shut the door behind him and ordered him to bed, Paul ranted. He ranted about the constant rain and how annoying it was. He ranted about the forest and how it was all green when it's supposed to be brown. He ranted about the empty space of people and how we were supposed to have neighbors to play with and talk to. He ranted about the boring nothingness of each passing day. He ranted about my father ignoring me and never speaking to me. And most of all, Paul ranted about how I wanted my mother.

But she wasn't ever going to see him again.

Paul sighed when that thought hit him. He had ranted even more than usual tonight. It was stormy and grey. Rain whooshed down in heavy waves. The trees thrashed and thunder roared, but he ignored it. Paul crossed his hands over my gangly form and glared at nothing.

After a few moments, Paul's father must have mustered up the energy to drag himself off the couch. He listened to his father staggering down the hall, spitting out a long stream of curses. Paul remained frozen in place, knowing what was to come.

The door exploded open. Paul's father was all but blowing steam out his nostrils as he found Paul's form lying relaxed on the bed when he was supposed to be asleep. He grabbed the door in his hands and flung it aside as he moved across the room to me.

"Paul, what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

Paul didn't move his gaze. His hands curled into fists, my knuckles cracking with the strain of it. "I was thinking."

"Thinking?" Paul's father spluttered. "What would you have to think about?"

Paul stared evenly into my father's eyes. His back muscles locked in place, tensing up. Paul tightened his fists, his throat growing dry although he somehow managed to choke out the words anyways. "This is shit, Dad. All of it. This place, this life, and this . . . family."

His father grabbed his shirt in his shaking hand. He yanked Paul up from my bed, holding him close enough to smell the sour scent of his breath. He breathed heavily as he shook Paul once. "What did you just say?"

Paul swallowed hard, wincing as his saliva splattered on face. Paul stared up at my father, not saying anything while his mind grew slow, heavy with fear. Paul knew better than to repeat myself, so he only nodded.

"Do you want your mouth scrubbed out, boy? I'll scrub it clean of that filthy language!" he threatened, his voice deep and raised.

Paul's teeth ground together. The strain of it wiggled his loose baby tooth, threatening to push it free. His heart thundered in his chest, but he remained silent while he struggled not to speak his mind.

"That's it! I've had enough of this nonsense, after I'll I've done for you! You should be grateful that I at least that I keep this roof over your sorry head." Paul's father snarled, bringing his hand back to strike.

Paul swallowed hard again, but he didn't flinch. He stared evenly into his father's dark eyes. "Go ahead. Do it."

For a long moment, it seemed that he would. Paul's father's face was sweaty and blotched with anger, his dark eyes filled with hatred. But very, very slowly, he lowered the boy's body back down. His breathing didn't go even.

"You'll pay, Paul. You'll pay for all of this. You're doing this to me."

With that, he staggered back out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him with all of his might.

Paul's body thudded back to the bed. He let out a huge breath, feeling his chest lower when he did. No matter what his father said, it wouldn't get to him. Bringing him to live here and taking him away from my mother was the worst punishment he could ever give Paul.