That's it, he has to fucking leave and that's all there is to it. He has to get the fuck out of here before the big man kills him.
Murphy stared at what he'd done with an odd sense of pride and satisfaction mixed with a heaping dose of apprehension. He really shouldn't have dumped his father's whiskey down the drain, it was a stupid thing to do, really fucking stupid. He knew what would happen when his father came home and saw the empty bottles in the sink, he knew his father would beat him but Murphy still emptied every single bottle in the house…..every drop went down the drain.
He took a deep breath to calm his nerves as his fingers dug into the edge of the porcelain sink. Fuck, he was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should have come up with a plan before he dumped the booze, he should have thought things through and decided where to go first. He'd acted without thinking, just like always. And now it was too late, the damage was done and he was fucked.
His eyes danced over the cluster of empty bottles as sunlight from the window created prisms and rainbow effects, the beauty of the colors a sharp contrast with the darkness that lived in this house. He choked back bitter tears…..life was so unfair. Why did he have to be born into this fucked up family? His father was a sadistic, abusive asshole and his mother was a crazy woman who let it happen. It was too much for any person to take, let alone a 16 year old.
The abuse had grown in the past year, it was more violent and Murphy knew it was his fault. He was defiant and fought his father on everything; Murphy even did things on purpose just to piss him off. And as a result, he had more bruises to hide…..dark purple bruises on his face and body that were too numerous to explain with his old "I'm a clumsy kid" excuse. So he picked fights with boys from school to hide the bruises his father gave him.
Murphy could handle being called a worthless little fuck, he sort of believed it anyway. He could handle being locked in the root cellar for days, he wasn't scared of it anymore, not really. He could even handle the beatings and the belt. He was used to the pain and he knew how to hide the bruises.
But his father had started to use a knife. And the knife scared Murphy.
It started about a month ago when Murphy was locked in the root cellar for skipping school. He spent the night shivering in the dark and when his father came the next morning to punish him further, Murphy fought back. After his father beat him into submission, he pulled Murphy's pants down and slowly put deep cuts along his thighs, staining Murphy's skin red with his blood. Each cut of the knife made Murphy scream and ever since then, the knife became a regular thing.
His father ended the past couple beatings by putting the knife to Murphy's throat and making little cuts on his neck while threatening to cut Murphy's dick next. Murphy was scared he wouldn't survive another punishment, he was scared the big man might make good on his threats. Murphy was scared his father would kill him.
Fuck this and fuck him. It was settled. Murphy would pack his shit and be long gone by the time the fucker got home.
There wasn't a whole lot Murphy wanted to take with him, which was lucky considering how little his knapsack could actually hold. He wanted to remember his friends so he grabbed his yearbook and shoved it on top of the clean change of clothes already inside. Next was the only thing he truly cared about, the only thing of value to him, the only thing that made him happy. His drawings. He had dozens of sketch books but there were only two books he wouldn't leave behind, only two that were irreplaceable.
He hid them beneath a floorboard years ago to keep them safe from his father and he knew exactly where they were…..three slats from his bed and two from the wall. He lifted the floorboard and pulled the books free, smiling as his hand brushed the dust off the worn cover. He paused to thumb through the pages, some of the edges torn but the drawings just as vibrant as when they were first done…..some almost six years old and some six days old.
He gazed at the face that filled the sketchbooks, the face he remembered but didn't remember, the face of a ten year old boy he called Connor. Some pages had dozens of drawings of that face and some pages were strictly a solitary portrait. But his favorite drawings were the ones with both of them together, smiling like the brothers he pretended they were.
Shit, he was such a fucking dork. Connor wasn't real, he only existed in Murphy's mind and in his sketchbooks. He was the brother Murphy dreamed up to get him through his beatings, someone he pretended loved him because no one else did. Connor wasn't somewhere worrying about him, he wasn't thinking about him right now…..Connor was only a drawing in a sketchbook, nothing more.
Murphy sighed loudly to himself, feeling like an idiot. He was 16 and running away from home with pictures of his imaginary brother in his knapsack. What a fucking baby. If not for what his father did to him, the situation might be comical.
His father…..fuck. Murphy was losing time, he had to go. He shoved the sketchbooks into the knapsack, put on his jean jacket and grabbed what little money he had before stopping in the kitchen to take the grocery money from the cookie jar. There wasn't much in there but it would have to do. He packed some food into his bag, threw it on his shoulder and practically ran from the house.
He had to get as far away from here as he could. He couldn't involve his friends, they'd ask too many questions that Murphy didn't want to answer. He couldn't ask for help from anyone, not without risking being returned home. And he wouldn't survive if he was returned home. He had to start over in a new town where no one knew him.
Murphy studied the map at the bus station before deciding on a town two hours away. It was an easy decision, actually. He had enough money to get there and for some odd reason, it just felt right. There was something about that town that called to him, like he belonged there.
Two hours away, in the town Murphy was headed for, Connor began his Saturday with cinnamon toast. He always ate cinnamon toast when he felt good and today he felt fucking fantastic.
He dreamt of Murphy last night, one of those dreams that made him spring from his bed covered in sweat, one of those dreams that seemed like a premonition or an omen. In his dream, Connor heard his brother calling to him as he walked through a thick fog, unable to see anything. Murphy's voice got louder and louder until the fog suddenly parted and Connor saw him in the distance, just waiting. As Connor ran toward his brother, Murphy's face got clearer with each step, his eyes radiant, his smile beaming, his arms open wide for a hug. In his dream, Connor found Murphy. In his dream, Connor finally brought Murphy home.
Connor took a deep breath as he remembered that dream. That dream renewed his determination, it renewed his faith. Maybe today was the day, maybe today he'd find his brother. He had a stack of new posters of a 16 year old Murphy and he was set to go looking anywhere and everywhere for his missing twin.
Connor quickly finished his breakfast and yelled down the hall to his ma, wishing her a good day at work before pulling on his sneakers and rushing from the house. He didn't want to delay any longer, Murphy was waiting to be found.
Today felt lucky, really fucking lucky.
Murphy pulled out his sketchbook and settled into his seat on the bus, preparing for the two hour ride to freedom. He couldn't believe his luck, it was usually shit but today it finally turned the corner. He had an empty seat next to him, the lady across the aisle said he looked sweet and bought him a soda and even though he forgot to pack his pencils, he found one tucked into the bottom of the front flap of his knapsack. He flipped to a clean page and as the bus pulled away, he began to draw Connor.
Murphy almost always drew Connor smiling, that's how he remembered him. No, he didn't remember him, Connor wasn't real. It's how he pictured him. Smiling…..he pictured Connor smiling.
"Who's that?" the nice lady across the aisle asked an hour into the trip, her eyes studying the drawing. Murphy tended to lose himself whenever he had a pencil in his hand and he wondered how long she was watching him before she spoke.
He held the sketchpad up for her to get a better look and he thought about how to respond. He didn't want to sound weird by saying it was his imaginary brother, even though that's what Connor was. But no one knew him where he was going so why couldn't he pretend a bit? Why couldn't he pretend just a while longer that someone out there loved him? That one person on this earth gave a shit about what happened to him?
"It's my brother. His name is Connor."
She nodded with a smile that reached her eyes, her appreciation of his talent obvious. "It's really quite good. Connor will love it."
Murphy turned the picture to study it himself, wishing he could actually show Connor the drawing. "Thank you." He felt the warmth of a blush cover his face; he'd never shown anyone his Connor drawings before, only his mind knew what Connor looked like. He quietly resumed drawing and by the time the bus pulled into town, the new portrait was complete.
When Murphy got off the bus, he realized he didn't know what to do or where to go. He was free but freedom wasn't easy when you had no money and no place to stay. He decided to walk around town and get a feel for the place before he made any decisions. Maybe his luck would hold and a brilliant idea would hit him.
She walked down the street toward the bar where her husband was waiting with a cold beer, her mind occupied with thoughts of the shy boy from the bus. He was so sweet but obviously something had happened to him, something terrible. His face was horribly bruised, he had cuts on his neck and hands and he moved like his ribs hurt. He kept his jacket on the entire trip even though the bus was very warm and she was certain he did that to hide his other injuries, whatever they may be.
She wished she knew how to help him but she'd seen boys like him before. If she pushed, he'd run. He was probably already running, by the looks of him. And she didn't want to be the one to send him back to the hell that gave him those injuries, the hell he ran away from. He was better off living on the street.
As she reached The Anvil, she glanced over her shoulder to look for the boy. He had started out walking in her direction but now he was gone. She had hoped to talk him into letting her buy him a sandwich, or even just a bag of pretzels…..something. He looked like he didn't eat well and the mother in her wanted to feed him.
She stood outside for a few minutes just to look for him but he was nowhere to be seen. She sighed, at least he didn't notice the money she slipped into his jacket when they stood to leave. At least he'd be able to eat today.
Connor's feet were killing him but his heart hurt worse. He honestly thought he'd find Murph today. He had that dream and everything, he should have found him by now. But it was only lunchtime, the day was young and he wouldn't lose faith. Today could still be the day.
It was weird. Usually by now Connor would have seen at least two or three guys who from a distance looked like Murphy but today he hadn't seen one. Not one. And that was unusual. It was like a sign of some kind…..he wouldn't see any Murphy look-a-like today, only the real Murphy. At least that's what he hoped.
He had a list of places he still wanted to look and a stack of flyers to post on the telephone poles during his travels but first he'd stop at The Anvil for a cold soda and a visit with Uncle Sibeal. He needed to take a quick five minute break before heading back out.
Connor sat at the bar quenching his thirst and explaining his sad demeanor to his uncle. Sibeal was always encouraging and like Connor, he never doubted for one moment that Murphy would come home, one day their prayers would be answered.
"I know...I got to believe," Connor said with conviction, his belief just as strong and unshakeable as ever. It was like Murphy just felt closer somehow, like he was so fucking close but just out of reach. Connor sighed and straightened the stack of flyers bearing his brother's age progression face. "I just want him home, you know?"
His uncle patted Connor's hand before turning his attention to the lady approaching the bar with a menu in her hand, obviously wanting to order food for herself and her husband. Connor didn't even look up, he just stared at Murphy's face while he waited for the woman to place her order and leave.
But she didn't leave. Sibeal left to place her order with the cook but the woman remained at Connor's side. Connor couldn't figure out why she was just standing there, what the fuck was she doing? He finally turned his head to look at her just as her hand reached for a flyer, her eyes staring at Murphy's picture.
"What's the flyer for?" she quietly asked, as she studied Murphy's face with a strange expression, almost like she saw a ghost.
Connor took a deep breath and began the explanation he'd said at least a million times. The explanation that always brought tears to his eyes. The explanation that hurt just as much today as it did six fucking years ago.
The woman quietly listened as he told her about Murphy and how he'd been taken, how the picture was an age progression, how Connor was looking for his brother even now, six years after he disappeared. He always finished the same way with the same two questions. "Does he look familiar to you at all? Have you seen my brother Murphy?"
Connor expected the answer he'd heard each time he asked those questions. He expected a polite no, maybe an apology, probably a sympathetic look. What he got was something completely different and unexpected. What he got was a miracle.
"Yes, I've seen him. He sat across the aisle from me on the bus."