The clock strikes 8:00 p.m. Shawn bites his lip, drawing blood upon the realization - he's late. He picks up his pace, hurrying past the drive-in movie theater and making his way into the trailer park. I've got to do the dishes, he thinks to himself. Otherwise means no breakfast, and since he didn't get to have dinner last night, he has to make sure he gets something to eat, anything. As he approaches his front door he hears Chet yelling obscenities while the TV blasts in the background, Fuck. Part of him hoped to find his father sprawled out on the couch, passed out after his nightly bottle of beer, but then again, hope only ever got him so far in life. Shawn took a shuddering breath, willing himself to find the strength to pry open the door and walk in. He stood there for what seemed like hours, closely listening to his father's hollers through the thin walls of the trailer, trying to guess the best moment for him to enter. He look down at his watch, the number 8:13 glaring back at him, as if to mock his cowardliness. He was only making it worse for himself by waiting outside. He inhaled once more, and slowly begun pushing the door forward, never once breathing out. Taking his first step into the trailer, he found himself becoming increasingly interested in the carpet beneath his feet. Has that stain always been there? To his surprise, his late entrance elicited no reaction from Chet, there was no shouting, not even the simple acknowledgement of his presence appeared, rather, his father remained on the couch as the television continued to fill the deadly silence.
Shawn took this as his opportunity to rush to the pile of dishes waiting for him in the kitchen, thanking whatever kind of omnipresent being had granted him the opportunity to right this wrong. He dips his hands into the scalding rinse water, preparing himself to scrub, but it was far too late. Soon, he hears the fumbling of the couch, and from the corner of his eye he sees Chet stand with urgency and begin stomping in his direction. Before he has time to process what's heading his way SMACK! Chet hits him across the face, knocking the wind out of him as he toppled to the floor. Shawn knew better than to lay there and take the beating, he had learned the hard way that his father takes that as an act of defiance and a sign of submission, something deemed unmanly in the Hunter household, which means more hits, or worst of all, no food. Shawn could feel his cheek begin to burn, a sign that a bruise should be expected. He quickly regains his posture and avoids Chet's looks as he screams into his ear.
"You think you can just walk in here whenever you'd like?" Chet shouts, causing spit to sprinkle across Shawn's throbbing cheek, "You think you can call the shots around here like you own the place?" And when Shawn doesn't reply, SMACK! another hit, this time causing Shawn's body to launch itself forward, his nose inches away from the dirty sink water. Shawn fought to control his labored breaths and his shaking hands as tears begun threatening to spill. Not now, not now. You can cry when you're on your own. That's another valuable lesson Shawn learned from his father, crying only ever made it worse, he could wait until he reached the safety of his room for that.
"Answer me when I'm speaking to you, boy!" Chet barks, provoking a flinch from the boy that luckily the furious man failed to notice.
"No, sir." Shawn replies, in a voice barely above a whisper. He could feel his lip begin to tremble and his eyes begin to water ferociously as he focused all of his remaining attention on his feet. Please, he thinks to himself, just let me eat. Hit me again, but I have to have food. Another blow pushes his head against the tile countertop.
"Well it sure does seem so, doesn't it Shawn?" Chet howls into his ear, as he held him down against the cold tile.
"I'm sorry dad, I really am!" Shawn replies, struggling under his father's weight, and willing himself to hold it together for just a little while longer. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, he pleaded silently. "I was at the Matthews', I swear, me and Cory just lost track of time, I swear." Shawn knew he couldn't keep this performance going, he could feel the knot in his throat becoming tighter, he could hear his voice begin to crack, and if this didn't end soon he knew he'd end up bawling on the kitchen counter, and then he'd really have no food to eat the following morning.
"Well that doesn't answer my question, now does it, Shawnie?" Shawn could feel his stomach begin to turn at the use of his nickname. A name he had learned to adore when used by his best friend, and despise when it came from his own father. "What makes you think you can come in here whenever the hell you want?" Chet asks again, this time louder than the last.
"I don't dad!" Shawn pleads, reaching the point in the night where he no longer cared whether he sounded like a child begging to be let go or not. "I promise I'm telling the truth, I just lost track of time, it won't happen again."
"I should beat you black and blue." Chet whispers into his ear, in a tone more threatening than his screams, something Shawn did not believe was possible. "You hear me boy?" He says, "I should beat you black and blue."
Shawn tenses as he closes his eyes, awaiting another blow across his face, a beer bottle smashing over his head, a whipping even, anything at all. He laid across the countertop as still as he could be, awaiting his punishment, but it never came. Instead he felt Chet's strong grip of his hair begin to loosen, and he soon heard his father's footsteps retrieving themselves to his bedroom. It was over. Only then did Shawn allow the tears of mock defeat freely stream down his face, as his father stormed out of the kitchen without saying another word, seemingly satisfied with himself. After he counts his father's steps, making sure he was truly gone, Shawn lets out a sigh of relief he's been holding ever since he stepped foot inside of the trailer. He quickly stands from the laying position he's been stuck in for - god knows how long it's been.
Looking at the clock in his living room, and realizing it is now 8:42, he begins to scrub the dirty plates that bared witness to his father's fury and his endurance to it. His hands violently shook as he reached for more soap, his knees were still wobbly from being knocked to the floor, his cheek throbbed in pain, and his eyes still burned from the unshed tears, but he knew he had to finish his chores if he didn't want to partake in a round two of tonight's events tomorrow morning. It's 9:00 p.m. when the dishes are finished, and Shawn begins to drag his feet towards his bedroom. He walks past the bathroom, not even glancing in its direction. He was too exhausted to even bother showering tonight, past Chet's room and into his own, carefully closing the door behind him as if to not wake up his father. He stands in silence for a moment, replaying the past hour in his head. He could hear his father's screams still, Answer me when I'm speaking to you, boy! He touches his cheek, pain rocking his body once more as he remembers himself tumbling to the ground from the force of Chet's slap.
He felt a sudden wetness reach his fingertips, when had he begun crying? He looked towards his mirror and barely recognized the boy staring back at him. His hair was a mess, nearly matted on the side his father held onto as he pressed his face onto the cold countertop, his eyes were bloodshot from holding back the urge to cry, blood was smeared across his bottom lip from biting it in anticipation to further beating, and his cheek.. A bruise was definitely forming. It was then when Shawn's dam broke. He felt his lip begin to tremble and before he knew it, he was launching himself onto his bed, gripping onto his pillow for dear life as he tried to muffle the sobs that rocked his body. He cried for his father, a man who was supposed to protect him, love him unconditionally, comfort him during his darkest moments, and encourage him during times of uncertainty, but preferred to utilize him as his personal punching bag when his favorite football team lost a game.
He cried for himself, a boy who only ever wanted to be enough. He cried out of anger and indigence, majority of which was directed at himself, because how dare he still adore the person that caused him so much pain. No matter how much he wanted to despise his father, Shawn was not stupid, he knew that was a task impossible for him to complete, because no matter how bruised he left him, he was still his father. He cried for his best friend, Cory, because no matter how much he tried, Shawn would never be like him. He envied Cory, that is the truth, he envied his life, his parents, his brother, he envied the light that still remained in Cory's eyes. A light that has long been gone from his own glare. He cried because he did not know what else to do. He could not run, and if he did, where would he go? He could not fight back, and god forbid he told anybody about it, that would be kissing his life goodbye, and as much as it pained him to admit it, Shawn was kind of fond of his life. At the end of the day, Cory was in it. He could do nothing, and so he cried, and cried until he could not even do that anymore.
The following morning, Shawn woke to a pounding headache and a nauseating feeling that threatened to send him dashing to the bathroom at any second. He sat up, rubbing his eyes as they adjusted to the light that poured in through cracks in his blinds, looking down he realized he never changed out of yesterday's clothes.
Oh.
Memories of the previous night begin to flood his mind, causing him to groan in disgust, and wince as he brushes his fingers against his freshly bruised cheek. He look at his watch, it's 7:24, that gives him enough time to shower and eat the breakfast he earned from doing the dishes last night without risking being late to his first period class. Shawn leapt from his bed, quickly gliding across his room and onto the hallway in a rush to get ready, but still careful to not disturb his father. On his way to the bathroom he realized Chet was already up, slumped on the couch and reading the morning newspaper, a rare occurrence, given that Shawn was almost always up before him. This put him on edge, causing him to be extra weary of not fucking anything up this particular morning.
"Good morning, Shawn." He heard his father say from the couch, almost as if to test his ability to contain his temper.
"Mornin" was all Shawn had to say before entering the bathroom and locking the door behind him, which fortunately seemed enough to satisfy Chet.
Inside the bathroom Shawn undresses, inspecting every inch of his body for any new marks or bruises he might have received the night before. From head to toe he was covered in welts and bruises, all in various stages of healing. Shawn scoffed at his reflection in an almost humorous manner, he looked like a canvas, and the man sitting outside, just a couple of feet away from him, was the artist. He stepped into the shower, turning the hot water as far as it would let him, and scrubbed and scratched at his skin for what seemed like an eternity, as if to wash away what had happened the night before, as if to wash away the pain. This has to be a fucking joke, he thought to himself. And partially, he felt as if it was. His life, that is. A joke. His mom left him, his dad hated him, he lived in a trailer park for god's sake, it truly could not get more cliche than this. Not even Shakespeare could have come up with this shit. His life was a tragedy, and he found it pathetic that he was just realizing it. Eventually he found that he was satisfied with the amount of scrubbing, and stepped out, quickly getting dressed in clean clothes and avoiding his reflection in the mirror at all costs.
Now in clean clothes, Shawn breathed in, once again willing himself to find the strength necessary to open the door and face his father. It took him another breath to reach for the doorknob, two more to unlock it, three to pry the door open, and four to finally step into the living room where his father still remained glued to the sofa. With that, Shawn made his way into the kitchen, where he poured himself a bowl of milk and cereal, his long awaited prize. He felt himself freeze for a moment as he reached for his spoon, tentatively staring at his father's head, almost as if he were waiting for Chet to protest. For his father to say that he had not in fact earned his right to have breakfast and that he would now have to go to school on an empty stomach. Shawn waited a few minutes, hoping and praying that there would be no objection to breakfast, yet expecting there to be one. There wasn't, and after a couple of minutes of excruciating anticipation, he ate.
In his 15 years of life, Shawn had never eaten with such fury, and though it was nothing more than a bowl of cheerios and milk, it might have as well been a steak meal. The boy recoiled at the taste, because he was expecting the simple taste of soggy cereal and unsweetened milk. But it wasn't that at all. It was heaven. Liquid heaven. It was not just any cereal – it was his hard earned honey cheerios-sweet and crisp, with flavors that melted on his tongue. Soon enough, Shawn had devoured his meal, and begun preparing himself to leave the house, making sure to rinse his used bowl before doing so.
He quietly made his way to the living area, making sure to not lift his eyes from the carpet. Seriously, has that stain always been there? With his backpack loosely hanging off his right shoulder Shawn reached for the front door, finally ready to leave the hellhole he'd learned to call home for at the very least 8 hours, more if he was lucky enough to be invited to dinner at the Matthews, but before he had the chance to turn the knob, his father spoke.
"Shawn," he said in a nonchalant tone, never once looking up from his newspaper, "tell em you ran into a door."
Oh. He's talking about his bruised face, Shawn realized, he's talking about the bruise he inflicted upon his own son, and he's talking about it as if he were speaking of the weather.
"Yes, sir." Shawn spoke, tears once again threatening to spill if he stayed any longer. Shawn breathed, and with that, he was dashing out the trailer and towards John Adams High.
At school nobody seemed to mention the very obvious welt forming on Shawn's face, nobody, that is, with the exception of Cory Matthews. Shawn had been avoiding him all morning, for very obvious reasons. He knew Cory wouldn't hesitate to ask about the ping pong size bruise on the side of his cheek. That's the thing about Cory and Shawn, Cory had no issue asking the uncomfortable questions in their relationship, and Shawn, well, he had no issue avoiding them at all costs. Shawn stood by his locker, pretending to be preoccupied putting away some books when Cory finally approached him.
"So," he begun, "are you going to tell me what happened there?" Pointing indiscreetly at Shawn's face.
"There's nothing to tell," Shawn responded, weary to not make any eye contact with his best friend. That was all it took for Shawn to break, eye contact, and he knew that for his own sake he could not afford to break, at least not now, and not here.
"The huge bruise on your face would beg to differ," Cory argued, "what, did you get into a fight?"
Shawn bit his lip, there was no getting out of this one. He had to come up with something fast in order to make Cory drop the subject and get off his case. He fumbled through his jumbled thoughts trying to find a believable excuse as soon as possible without making it seem as if he were actively trying to lie. Then it hit him, earlier in the day: Tell em' you ran into a door, Chet's words echoed in his subconscious.
"I ran into a door, Cory," he said trying to sound as natural as humanly possible, "there's nothing to worry about."
"You ran into a door?" Cory raised his eyebrow. It was obvious he was not eating up whatever lie Shawn was trying to force down his throat. It took a lot more than that to fool Cory Matthews, especially when it came down to the people he loved.
"Yep."
"Now, you and I both know that I'm-" the bell indicating the beginning of next period rung, and before Cory had the chance of finishing his sentence, Shawn was gliding down the hallway and on his way to Turner's room, the most enthusiastic Cory had ever seen Shawn be about getting to class on time. Shawn sighed in relief, saved by the bell. At the same time, Cory sighed in defeat, he knew that if he wanted Shawn to start talking, he'd have to get him alone. There was no chance in hell Shawn Hunter would let his guard down during school hours. Hopefully after school Shawn would agree to meet him at his place, that way he'd get how exactly he got that bruise out of him.
In class Shawn remained unusually still in his seat, not once looking away from the weeks old pencil markings found on his desk, trying his best to cover up his bruise with his slightly overgrown hair. He was dumb to think this would fool his teacher. It only took a few moments of Hunter being in class for Mr. Turner to realize there was something seriously wrong with the boy. For starter's Shawn walked in on his own, without Cory anywhere in sight. Everyone knew those two were glued to each other's hips, where ever you found Shawn, there was Cory, and where ever you found Cory, there was Shawn. The fact that they walked in at separate times was concerning enough. Secondly, Shawn had not moved an inch in the past 40 minutes, and if anyone knew anything about Shawn Hunter was that he could not sit still even if his life depended on it. Many of his teachers were under the suspicion that the boy suffered from undiagnosed ADHD due to this, but ever since he sat at his desk, Shawn had seemed to be almost permanently stuck in the same exact position. No finger tapping, no leg bouncing, hell, he hadn't even moved his head to look up at the board once. And worst of all, after Turner made a joke on the kid's unresponsive state, expecting the usual snarky response, he was was instead met with silence.
"God Hunter," Turner smiled, "say something before I start thinking you've become stone."
Nothing.
If he wasn't concerned already, now he certainly was. He glanced over to Cory and shot him a "what the hell is wrong with him?" look, only to receive a shrug from Matthews.
After receiving no response from either boy, Turner quickly moved on to the assignment of the day, in an attempt to draw the attention off of Shawn and onto himself. If there was truly something going on, he didn't want to make it any worse by putting the kid on the spot in front of his classmates, who had probably already noticed his off putting behavior.
"Ahem," he started, "alright, for the rest of the time that we have left I want you to read paged 254-267 in your workbooks." Turner was definitely not the kind to assign busy work, in fact, he was a much more interactive teacher, but today he had a bigger fish to fry. He had to figure out what was wrong with Shawn before he let him walk out of his room.
Turner returned to his desk at the front of the classroom, and after what felt like hours of staring at Hunter, begging for some kind of sign as to what was wrong, Shawn finally looked up. It was for just a moment, but it was enough for Turner to notice the huge bruise forming across his face.
Fuck. Fuck. Oh fuck. Fuck
This was definitely not what Turner was expecting. A part of him wished it was just some teenage angst, some kind of rebellious attitude Hunter randomly decided to adopt. He secretly hoped that it was some kind of breakup with some girl that was causing Shawn to act like a small kicked puppy. But this was definitely not some stupid breakup he would get over in a couple of days, this wasn't your usual teenage angst, this was a bruise coming through in the form of a handprint he was looking at. Now he surely couldn't let the kid go without finding out what happened.
Though Shawn had spent the entire class period trying his best to zone out of reality, he was not completely oblivious to what was transpiring in his environment. He knew Turner had noticed something off about him, I mean, he could practically feel his eyes burning on him in the time they had remaining, he just hoped Turner would be smart enough to let the subject go. Shawn was a lot more see through than he liked to admit, you could always tell when there was something going on with him, even if you really didn't know him. The kid was like glass, a window, begging to be looked through. And he hated it. He hated how no matter how much he tried, he could never really lie his way out of situations, he could definitely try, but it was rare for his lies to work. Right now though, he was too busy trying to come up with a plan to get Turner to back off to care about whether he resembled a window or not. He was just hoping he wouldn't have to lie through his teeth a second time today. But unfortunately for Shawn, hoping only ever got him so far, and eventually he was always forced to face reality and its hard truths.
Before he knew it the bell rung, and as he struggled to get his things ready to go to his next class he heard Turner's voice echo from across the room.
"Hunter," Mr. Turner spoke in a tone of authority, "stay for a minute, I want to talk to you."
Shit.