Turning to the Future
New York, 1895
Chapter 1
James paced back and forth in a nervous, almost frantic manner. Anyone who happened to glance through the window of the ratty, 2-room apartment would wonder what the boy had to be so afraid of in his own home. James snorted. Home. Yeah right. He'd be better off sleeping in the alleys, living off the garbage in the streets. He sighed heavily and sat down on the floor, running a hand through his blond hair. When had things gotten this bad? How long ago had he been living happily - well, mostly - with both of his parents? Was it only recently that his mother had sick and passed on, or was it longer ago than he remembered? James hardly noticed time anymore. He knew when it was day and when it was night, but that was the extent of it. The hours, days, months, they all blended together. James wasn't even sure what year it was. After the death of his mother he had lost what control he still held over his life. His father began drinking, a little at first, then a little more, building into alcoholism with almost frightening speed. He would go to his job at the factory during the day, and spend his evenings at various bars, blowing his meager pay on booze. Almost every night he would come home drunk out of his mind. Some nights he'd barely make it through the door before passing out. It was the other nights that James had grown to fear. His father was prone to violence after drinking, and James was more often than not the receiver of the old man's temper. It seemed to James like he always did something wrong, screwed something up, and he paid dearly for it. He shuddered, remembering what had happened the week before. He touched the patch over his left eye and felt his good eye prickle. He roughly wiped the tears away with his sleeve. He would not cry.
Suddenly the clock chimed. James snapped his head up, immediately on edge. He relaxed slightly, realizing it was nothing. He looked around the room absently catching his reflection in the cracked mirror that still hung on the wall. He looked like shit. 'Well, whose fault is that,' he thought, grimacing. This had been going on for far too long. James had dropped out of school shortly after the beatings had become evident and people had begun to ask questions. Part of the reason was that he was ashamed to admit what was going on in his house. Who wouldn't be, he asked himself constantly. He had stopped talking to his friends to avoid their questioning and the questioning looks in their eyes. He didn't want to open up to them, and he didn't want to get them involved. So he kept his mouth shut, living his days in boredom and his nights in fear.
"Why?" he cried out suddenly, barely aware of the fact that he had spoken out loud. "Why the hell am I still here? I'm 15 and I'm still stuck in this hell! I know I have to leave, and I'm not gonna put it off anymore!" He was shouting now but he didn't care. Tonight was it - he was leaving. No more planning and wishing, no more putting it off. James grabbed an old cloth bag and quickly started grabbing his few belongings, stuffing them in. Suddenly the door banged open.
James froze, dropping the bag. His father stood in the doorway. James prayed that he would pass out, that he would just fall over right then and there. Luck did not seem to be with him that night.
"Where the hell are ya, boy?" the old man bellowed, staggering into the room and slamming the door behind him. Slowly, James stood up.
"Over here," he said softly. His father turned towards him.
"What the hell is wrong with ya?" he shouted. "This place is a goddamned mess! Why the hell didn't ya clean it, 'cause I know I told ya to!"
"I did clean it," James insisted, keeping his voice low. His father angrily gestured to a table littered with beer bottles.
"What the hell do ya call this then?" He heaved one of the bottles in James's direction. It hit the wall, above him, and splintered, raining tiny shards of glass over him. Another bottle hit the wall next to him. The third caught him in the stomach. He slid down to the floor, clutching his midsection.
"Where the hell did ya go boy?" his father shouted, slurring his words. James only moaned softly. His father half-walked, half-staggered over to him and grabbed James by the collar of his shirt, pulling him back to his feet.
"Are ya fuckin' stupid?" he screamed, slamming his son into the wall. "When I talk, you answer! Got that?" James nodded, and his father slammed him into the wall again.
"Answer me!!"
"Yes sir," James answered weakly. His father let go of him with one hand and drew back his fist, punching James in the face, and then kneeing him in the stomach. James doubled over in pain, clutching his abdomen again. He rolled onto his side and his father kicked out a foot, missing James and hitting the wall. He swore out loud and glared at James.
"You're gonna pay for that!" he growled at his son, undoing his belt. He lashed out with it, catching James in the shoulder. James cried out as it made contact with his already bruised body. Again, his father lashed out, and again after that, unceasing, unmerciful, until James passed out, welcoming the quiet darkness.
New York, 1895
Chapter 1
James paced back and forth in a nervous, almost frantic manner. Anyone who happened to glance through the window of the ratty, 2-room apartment would wonder what the boy had to be so afraid of in his own home. James snorted. Home. Yeah right. He'd be better off sleeping in the alleys, living off the garbage in the streets. He sighed heavily and sat down on the floor, running a hand through his blond hair. When had things gotten this bad? How long ago had he been living happily - well, mostly - with both of his parents? Was it only recently that his mother had sick and passed on, or was it longer ago than he remembered? James hardly noticed time anymore. He knew when it was day and when it was night, but that was the extent of it. The hours, days, months, they all blended together. James wasn't even sure what year it was. After the death of his mother he had lost what control he still held over his life. His father began drinking, a little at first, then a little more, building into alcoholism with almost frightening speed. He would go to his job at the factory during the day, and spend his evenings at various bars, blowing his meager pay on booze. Almost every night he would come home drunk out of his mind. Some nights he'd barely make it through the door before passing out. It was the other nights that James had grown to fear. His father was prone to violence after drinking, and James was more often than not the receiver of the old man's temper. It seemed to James like he always did something wrong, screwed something up, and he paid dearly for it. He shuddered, remembering what had happened the week before. He touched the patch over his left eye and felt his good eye prickle. He roughly wiped the tears away with his sleeve. He would not cry.
Suddenly the clock chimed. James snapped his head up, immediately on edge. He relaxed slightly, realizing it was nothing. He looked around the room absently catching his reflection in the cracked mirror that still hung on the wall. He looked like shit. 'Well, whose fault is that,' he thought, grimacing. This had been going on for far too long. James had dropped out of school shortly after the beatings had become evident and people had begun to ask questions. Part of the reason was that he was ashamed to admit what was going on in his house. Who wouldn't be, he asked himself constantly. He had stopped talking to his friends to avoid their questioning and the questioning looks in their eyes. He didn't want to open up to them, and he didn't want to get them involved. So he kept his mouth shut, living his days in boredom and his nights in fear.
"Why?" he cried out suddenly, barely aware of the fact that he had spoken out loud. "Why the hell am I still here? I'm 15 and I'm still stuck in this hell! I know I have to leave, and I'm not gonna put it off anymore!" He was shouting now but he didn't care. Tonight was it - he was leaving. No more planning and wishing, no more putting it off. James grabbed an old cloth bag and quickly started grabbing his few belongings, stuffing them in. Suddenly the door banged open.
James froze, dropping the bag. His father stood in the doorway. James prayed that he would pass out, that he would just fall over right then and there. Luck did not seem to be with him that night.
"Where the hell are ya, boy?" the old man bellowed, staggering into the room and slamming the door behind him. Slowly, James stood up.
"Over here," he said softly. His father turned towards him.
"What the hell is wrong with ya?" he shouted. "This place is a goddamned mess! Why the hell didn't ya clean it, 'cause I know I told ya to!"
"I did clean it," James insisted, keeping his voice low. His father angrily gestured to a table littered with beer bottles.
"What the hell do ya call this then?" He heaved one of the bottles in James's direction. It hit the wall, above him, and splintered, raining tiny shards of glass over him. Another bottle hit the wall next to him. The third caught him in the stomach. He slid down to the floor, clutching his midsection.
"Where the hell did ya go boy?" his father shouted, slurring his words. James only moaned softly. His father half-walked, half-staggered over to him and grabbed James by the collar of his shirt, pulling him back to his feet.
"Are ya fuckin' stupid?" he screamed, slamming his son into the wall. "When I talk, you answer! Got that?" James nodded, and his father slammed him into the wall again.
"Answer me!!"
"Yes sir," James answered weakly. His father let go of him with one hand and drew back his fist, punching James in the face, and then kneeing him in the stomach. James doubled over in pain, clutching his abdomen again. He rolled onto his side and his father kicked out a foot, missing James and hitting the wall. He swore out loud and glared at James.
"You're gonna pay for that!" he growled at his son, undoing his belt. He lashed out with it, catching James in the shoulder. James cried out as it made contact with his already bruised body. Again, his father lashed out, and again after that, unceasing, unmerciful, until James passed out, welcoming the quiet darkness.
