The Why and Wherefore or Lukas Pane

I threw my fist as hard as I could into the black Everlast punching bag in front of me. I lost control of my body, throwing punching with all my anger packed into each and every one. Everyone who ever abandoned me, who despised me, who looked right through me, I sent that boiling hatred to. This was my daily therapy. How I got through the day. I hated my dad. He left me alone, just so he could open a larger casino. I hated my mom, Iris. I hated the gods, I hated everyone around me. I hated my foster parents, who were oh so sad for poor little Lucky. I hate, hate, hated them. I hated the way I looked. I hated the way I talked. Especially when I caught myself saying 'Suck it up, Cupcake,' or 'Seen it, Angel Face.' My dad always talked like that. I hated him. I hated this place. I wanted to be somewhere else. Be someone else. I hated my life. I hated Lukas Pane.

I sunk to my knees and held my head in my hands. An empty feeling settled over my anger as it died, lost in the gaping hole in my heart. A tear escaped my eye and I blinked it away, also trying to clear my thoughts. I focused on the empty feeling and rose to my feet again. I will bow down to nothing, I told myself. Hard resolved collected in my head. No. I wouldn't bow down. Not to the gods, not to my dad, not to my own feelings. I would be reckless. Careless. I didn't care if I died. It wasn't like I was part of any grand plan or scheme or anything. I was a shadow. I had to laugh. Life was so funny. I didn't care if it went on or not.

I took a swig of Gatorade and put my gloves back on. My shirt clung to me with sweat. I wiped my brow and sent all my emptiness into the heavybag. Visions of my past flooded the riverbed of my mind.

I was just a small kid when my dad abandoned me. He had started drinking heavily, joining in gambling at the Pane Casino more and more every night. I was most often left in our dump of a house to fend for myself. A flashback pictured itself in my head. I was sitting on a stool crying.

"Daddy," I called. "Daddy, I'm hungry. I'm hungry, Daddy." The dented and smeared walls were my only company. I hadn't eaten in three days. Three days. That was far too long for a five year old kid to go without food. My dad hadn't been home for that long. I was alone. A few hours later he finally came back, more drunk than a sailor. He mumbled under his breath, swearing as he bumped into walls. His once bright green fedora was shoved low over his eyes, and his matching suit stained and wet. The deep blue irises that once looked at me with love and care were filled with anger and incoherency.

"Sumpter cheated me," he slurred. I gazed up at him with frightened eyes. "What are you looking at? I'm telling you, that bloody bastard cheated me, damn him! Doan' look at me like that!" My father's voice was now a loud roar. I cowered in the corner.

"I'm hungry, Daddy," I whimpered, wiping my eyes and sniffling.

"You're hungry?" my father asked, kneeling beside me. "You know what, son, I am too. I'm gonna take a bite out of Sumpter's pride and spit it in his bank account." A fierce look crossed his face. "Eat this, Sumpter you bitch!" He slammed a bottle of whiskey against the wall next to me. I cried out as it shattered and a shard cut my cheek. His other arm blocked my exit away from his ranting. The yelling turned into screaming, and I was stuck, listening and watching my father rage and beat the walls with his fists.

"Daddy, stop, please stop," I pleaded, covering the cut on my face.

This went on for over an hour before my father finally realized his son was pleading with him to stop his angry bellowing. The next day at school the principal called the Child Protective Agency, and from then on, I haven't been allowed to see my dad. Starved, beaten, abandoned, I was sent to over fifteen different foster homes in the course of ten years. My father hadn't even fought to keep me. I never received any presents, notes, pictures, anything from my dad. Until I recieved his death certificate. No funeral was arranged for Norman Pane, son of Fortuna.

I sat on the couch with one pair of many foster parents, one on each side.

"It's okay, honey," cooed Mrs. D'Arcy, putting her arms around my skinny shoulders.

Mr. D'Arcy patted my back.

"You'll be alright, son." Twelve year old me jerked away.

" 'Son?' I'm not your son," I snarled. "You don't even really care about me." Jumping away from the D'Arcy's, I knocked over an expensive vase. Breaking it was so satisfying, I realized, and ran around the house bringing everything costly and valuable to the ground. My foster parents ran after me, screaming about how what an ungrateful wretch I was.

Jab. Jab. Straight. Jab, jab, jab. Hook. Uppercut. Jab. Straight.

The scene in my mind shifted to the latest foster family my social worker sent me to last year, the Greenhowes. My foster dad's face was red with anger.

"Lukas, why did you break the TV? This is unacceptable behavior!" I shrugged.

"I wanted to hit something, Cupcake." Kirk Greenhowe's face turned five shades brighter.

"Stop calling me 'Cupcake,'" he said through clenched teeth. I shrugged again.

" 'Kay, Beetface."

"Helen!" Kirk called, to his wife, throwing down his newspaper and rolling the sleeve on his collared shirt up.

"What dear?"

"Lukas broke the TV! Again!" Helen Greenhowe entered the room will a rolling pin in her flour covered hand.

"Lucky, how could you!" she scolded. I gave her a smile that said, I don't care that I'm in trouble.

"I wanted to punch something, dear. Dear Beetface here says it's 'unacceptable behavior'. I disagree."

"That's Mister Greenhowe to you!"

"Mister Greenface, I'm so sorry."

"Lukas, you are grounded for the next month!"

"Yes Mister Beet-howe, sir. Love you too!" I cackled and ran down the hall to my room. "Just kidding!" I yelled, loud enough for them to hear. The door closed behind me, and I turned the radio on loud. The bass shook the apartment window and a clay model skittered off my desk. I yelled at the top of my lungs to the song, not caring that I was off key. A small figure emerged from the closet and turned my radio off. "Get out, Ned!" I screamed and grabbed my foster brother by the shirt and launched him out the door. The music blared again when I flipped the switch and jumped into my bed, singing my heart out to a song I barely knew. Suddenly, the overhead lights started to flicker and dim. With a loud crackle, the power shut down and brought my rebellious howling to a stop. Left alone with my thoughts, I curled into a small ball and started sobbing into my pillow, not caring about the loud knocking on my door and the Greenhowes calling my name.

Next I saw myself sitting in the Greenhowes' recliner, looking back and forth from my foster parent's worried looks as the man in the wheelchair spoke.

"Lukas, your mother was the goddess Iris. That is why you never met her. Yet still," the man said, his grey brow furrowing, "you should have been claimed by the time you were twelve."

"What are you, psycho? Is this some elaborate prank you play on orphaned kids? You disgust me," I scoffed. The man in the wheelchair sighed.

"It is not a joke, Lukas. This is serious. If you stay here much longer, you could easily be killed by monsters on the loose." I snorted.

"Fine. I'll go with you. Just to humor you."

I faced the punching bag and stared at the ground, back in the present. Sweat trickled into my eye and blinked. I raised my eyes to my inanimate opponent. I brought my fist up to give it another hit, but barely nudged the bag. Then, the familiar rage filled me, and I let it loose upon the one hundred pound heavy bag. Jab, jab, straight. Jab, hook, jab, jab, uppercut. I didn't care that tears were streaming down my face. This was how I got through the day. With a ear splitting creak, the punching bag's rope broke and one hundred pounds of sand came down. Frustrated, I gave it a kick. A scuffling noise caught my attention, and I spun around.