Chapter

Broken

(I'm inclined to admit that this may be the hardest chapter for me to write. For Joe's sake. For the dignity that he lost and for what more that he was to lose on this day. Through all his years of healing this day would undoubtedly stick with him. If I could get out of writing this chapter, if only to preserve that fragile peace within Joe that he had to fight so hard to reclaim, I would. But it is for Joe's sake I forge through. If I did pass over these events I would not only rob the reader; for who could truly understand the horrors of abuse without understanding this day? I would also rob Joe, whom has gone so far in telling his story, to pass over these events as if they were no more than another day, but a grain of sand in the great hourglass of life. Finely, it would be unfair to the continuity of the story. To truly understand what happened to Joe in the weeks his family was away you must come to know this day. For it was this day (Joe would say it himself) that broke him. Truly broke him.

It were these scars, that his family would see later, though they would be much faded then. The stripes across his back as well as the friction burns around his neck and waist, owing to the intensity at which he flailed about trying to get loose, trying to get out of the situation he was in, which would leave a lasting impression.

For all that he had endured in the past weeks, how little pieces of him crumbled with each strike, each new punishment, each word made against his character or the character of his family. Though we could look back over his stay and see the small chipping away of defense. The testing of moral action. From the first time he witnessed Scotty being verbally assaulted, to the first time Joe was physically assaulted, to the first time he saw Scotty tied and beaten, or the first time Joe was locked away; each of these moments having profound effect in shaping Joe. Joe, the vigilante, who spent his youth's past-time going around and sticking up for the little guy; this very action which led him to meet Mr. Tomlinson for the first time; and coming to learn that moral action in a place such as this had dire affects; but through all this he had continued to protect that seed within himself, that humanity. Holding onto it gave him life, hope. Trust in the belief that what was happening to him wasn't really his family's fault. That his family loved him and more importantly that they hadn't really wished this upon him.

Today, he would lose all this.)

I take you back now to when Tom had met Joe in the yard of his own ranch house. After assuring Joe that his family had turned their back on him, he bound the wrists of the dejected boy. Tying his hands behind him like he was no more than a common criminal. He did so right in the yard of his very own home. Joe gliding his eyes to that front door, still hoping his family would walk out and see him; but alas there was no hope for that. If his family were really there, they had turned their backs on him. He was thrown on the back of Tom's mare, Tom climbing up behind, and led out.

Joe looked back for the last time. He wasn't sure if he'd ever set eyes on his home again and the securities that lie within. He had to let go of that life. It were no longer his own. His heart sank in heaviness.

The road to their neighbors house was a desolate one. Tom kept Joe tied like this, not caring who they might come across, who they would see that he would have to explain himself too. Joe half-hoped there'd be someone, anyone, but the road between his house and his neighbors, however long, was a lonely one. He'd ridden the whole way back like this both sharing Tom's mare.

He was saddle sore after the long ride back which only took less than an hour, but at least he didn't have to walk.

Joe's stomach twisted when they came into the yard. Fear etched in his face at what was to come. Joe didn't know what would happen to him but he knew it would be bad. The be-all, end-all of punishments; if you will. For all his portend, he would be right.

Tom came down first then pulled him down. His feet hardly finding stability. Being on the horse for this length proceeding the long hike, his leg muscles had cramped up which he was apt to discover when his feet met dirt. He remembers Tom's grip on him as his knees threatened to buckle. He wanted to believe this was a supportive grip. That Tom would show his kind and caring nature, because that would make what was to come next not really true; but alas that was not the case.

He thought he might be taken back to the cellar this time. Spend untold days alone. Without food or water. He half-hoped for this at least. For somehow, he thought it would be better than what else might come. Anything else Tom might had planned was too frightening to imagine.

Tom released his grip on Joe who was feeling a bit disorientated. As blood rushed to his head Joe pressed against Mule to keep himself upright. Hearing Tom coming back he righted.

A rope was thrown around his neck before having the chance to recover and not even knowing where it had come from. A sickening feeling washed over him as he turned to search Tom for answers. Not given the chance to form an answer on his own the rope drew in (not enough to choke him, just under his chin so he couldn't wiggle out of it) and he was pulled forward by said rope like he was no more than kine.

Wondering where this rope had come from, he half-assumed it had been the same rope he'd been hanging from the day before. That was at least until he was led into the shed and saw that the rope that he'd been hanging from was still in it's place, precariously this time, without an owner. It was different though. This was not how he had left it. He stared at it as he was pulled past.

Taken to the far corner of the shed and furthermore pushed into it, Tom standing before him blocking his egress, he stared at him a moment as if testing him to see if Joe would try to run but Joe wouldn't be foolish enough to try that now. Not with vain effort. Not when it would only cost him more pain. He turned him around to face the corner. He did something then that Joe thought was strange. He released the binds that held his wrist.

His wrist free he turned Joe back to face him. The rope still hanging about his neck. He could technically reach up to remove it now if he wanted to. He gulped past it unnervingly but stayed his hand, as he thought, it would not be in his best interest to do so and it would likely not get him very far.

"Take off your shirt." The voice was cold and flat.

What?

His heart fluttered at how vulnerable he felt now and how much more he would feel upon removing this protection.

"It's dirty. It needs to be cleaned." As if Tom had to give this justification for Joe to obey. Joe knew, just being in the position he was in, he didn't have a choice. Recalling the last time he was made to take off his shirt before the pater, he glanced about but did not set eyes on the pale. He gulped and proceeded to unbutton it and draw it down over his shoulders.

Tom didn't grab it when he handed it out.

"Shoes too." He said instead." Look at what you did to them." Joe dropped the shirt at his side then bent to undo his laces. "What a mess you've made of yourself. You had quite an adventure out there today, didn't you?" He admonished as Joe removed his boots. He placed them with his shirt before righting himself.

There was an uncomfortable stare that lasted a long moment. He took an instinctive breath in and held it bidding himself not to bolt while he could. He centered his racing mind. Whatever he does, you can get through this. He told himself. He knew better now than to run, which was instinctually what he wanted to do. He's not trying to kill you. Just make life really, really miserable and only for a while.

"Face the wall." Joe gulped and turned his back. It was a terrifying move as he didn't know what to expect. His back prickled at the vulnerability of exposure. Tom grabbed a fistful of Joe's hair and pressed his forehead into the corner.

"Stay." He commanded darkly into his ear. His whole body prickled feeling the breath at his neck. Tom took hold of Joe's wrist, which were up on the walls supporting himself and drew them again to his back. He'd gone right back to binding his wrist. Joe sighed, clamping his eyes. The hands-free moment was all too fleeting. He felt like a captive here and now and his heart thrummed.

When he was done, Tom turned him to face out.

"You want to act like a common outlaw, you'll see what comes of them." Tom drew the rope in so that it hugged his throat. Trying to understand he looked beyond Tom at the rope hanging from the rafters and terror struck him to realize with stark clarity what was about to happen.

Oh no!

Tom yanked forward and Joe resisted.

"No."

Tom was going to hang him. By his neck this time.

"No. Please don't do this."

Tom yanked again. The boy's feet stumbled forward against his will. He dropped to the floor to stop them and Tom in their movement.

"No. Please."

He knew Tom would be angrier for it. All he could do was supplicate and hope Tom would hear him.

"Please let me live. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please don't kill me."

But Tom was deaf.

"Get over here." He pulled, yanking Joe back to his feet using the rope as a leash. He fought Joe like he were no more than a wild dog and just like a wild dog Joe fought back but his feet had no choice but to obey.

Oh my God, help me.

He should have fought. He should have run. But now it was too late. He let himself be bound. He let this rope fall about his neck and now he was going to die for it. Now Tom was going to kill him.

A tearful moan escaped his lips when they were underneath the rafters, but they didn't stop there. Tom took him around the short workbench before he stopped. He was but feet away from the dangling rope. If he was planning on throwing this one over the rafters he planned on doing it here in this spot, maybe to use the workbench to give him height. He grabbed close to where the rope came together at Joe's throat and yanked down dropping the boy to his knees in front of it. To keep the boy incapacitated as he worked on setting up his contraption.

Run, shot through his mind. As soon as Tom let's go of the rope run. He committed. Do not let him do this to you. You cannot let him kill you. You have to fight for life. If you want to live, you have to fight for it. But Tom didn't let go of the rope.

He ran the length underneath the plank and pulled so that Joe was now laying chest bare over it. He positioned Joe and pulled tight before circling the other end around Joe's waist effectively keeping him bent over that board.

This didn't feel right. It no longer felt like he was being hung. He supposed he should be grateful for that but his heart still thrummed at the anticipation of what was to happen.

As he was wrapping his head around this new predicament, Tom was tying off the rope at Joe's waist, making sure he couldn't move.

He did all this and Joe had no chance of keeping it from happening. There was relief that the hanging he was sure a moment ago would happen was put off for the time, but finding himself here, this still felt very wrong. There was a sense of vulnerability as his exposed back prickled to the new air.

Joe could twist his neck against the rope to see the man standing ominously at his side examining his work. Behind the man was the rope that hung from the rafters like an exhort. He feared that rope, but he also feared this one. The one he was in. Tomlinson stepped out of his view, and he lost sight of him. He glanced back up at the rope tied now like a noose.

When did he have the time to re-tie that?

Tom was fiddling with something else now. Joe strained to see but couldn't twist his head far enough around. Whatever Tomlinson was planning Joe feared this wouldn't be the end of it. He felt him come back. Felt him standing over him again. As the warm air prickled his back, his heart which was just beginning to slow, began to pick up again. He was vulnerable. Too vulnerable.

A rapid motion, a swift of wind, and Joe felt the sting across his back like never before. He felt it before he registered the snap that broke the morning silence. The pain so intense it built up like a fire. Joe tensed and held his breath without forethought. He grunted out as another one came even before he could recover himself from the first.

"Stop!" was barely audible through clenched teeth. Choking on the words that stuck in his throat...

(Joe wants nothing more than to give the story authenticity, but unfortunately these moments can't be recalled with the same accuracy as the memories of those last five weeks, even if some fancies were given to the exact details. For years, he had kept these painful memories in the dark recesses of his mind. Now, when forced to conjure them, perhaps as a defense, he recalls these memories like an incoherent dream. His own mind's way of protecting what he's spent years to reclaim. Perhaps this is where the real authenticity lays. I will scribe them as he remembers.)

He remembers, another strike forcing him to buck up but going nowhere as the bench and rope held fast.

He remembers the strikes coming in, one upon another. Flailing trying his heart-out to avoid the felling whip. He remembers the helplessness at being trapped, having no way to escape.

The ropes burning in his neck and waist, he wouldn't feel until all was said and done.

He remembers crying out for mercy as the fire spread across his back.

Upon looking back he couldn't say with any real certainty, at which strike he began begging for mercy. Which had him cry aloud. At which strike he had lost his continence. Even that moment lacked a sound mind. When the wetness had pooled in the sand beneath his left knee, his first thought seemed perfectly reasonable at the time, as it aligned with the pain he felt; that it was blood cascading from his back. He was able to pull at reason however, which told him the speed at which this warm liquid pooled and the volume itself didn't align with that first conclusion. The realization when he figured out what it actually was, was shrouded by the pain.

He couldn't even say for certain how many strikes there actually were. He had not even thought to count. While the number was at three it would have been easy to remember, sure. Even five perhaps, but as the number continued to grow it would become impossible to say with any real certainty when it stopped. If he were to conjecture how many strikes fell upon him that day, he would say 10. 10 sounds like a good round number, but again he couldn't be sure in that.

He couldn't tell you if any or all had cut into his flesh. His back was a growing mass of fiery hot pain. Each strike only molding into the rest. The pain growing in intensity at each strike, but when all was said and done, not one strike was more distinguishable from the rest.

He being so weak by the time Tom had finished. He barely remembers the feeling of Tom walking away. Face drenched in tears but too exhausted to shed any further. He remembers the pity he felt for himself. How humbled and trapped he still felt. Loneliness and grief meeting him then. Joe was alone; that is to say without Tom. There were mixed-feelings about that, for he was glad the whip had ceased to fall but was well aware by now what torment would follow at his absence; but that is also to say without the comfort of the little one; furthermore, without his family, and he was scared and in pain.

He was stripped of bare back and stripped of spirit. Hanging his head both grateful of the reprieve as well as fearful of the hours of loneliness he expected would follow.

What he also remembers, was being bent over in the position he was in, how difficult it was to even cry proper; with his chest and lungs crushed as they were, he remembers literally choking on his grief.

(Joe was adamant in that he wants the reader to be sure that this wasn't what broke him. It wasn't the felling of the whip, as brutal as the attack was, that broke him. Nor was it the hours he was left to remain on that board. It was what would happen in the dead of night, when for the last time, he would be left all alone to face the darkness. But again, I'm getting ahead of myself. There's still hours of daylight he would first have to face.)

His remembers his back remaining fiery hot long after, but with time the extreme pain he felt dwindling, subsiding enough for him to shift his focus to how uncomfortable this board was.

Just as expected the hours did come and with the passage of time some of his pain diminished while others intensified. Some of this pain was familiar to him, some of it new. His body ached being in the position he was, unable to move from it. His bony hips as they pressed into the wood on his front side and the skin rubbed raw by the rope on his back hips, which, as his back healed, these pains worsened. His spine curved over and unable to straighten out. His ribs crushed into the board forcing breaths that couldn't quite satisfy him. His back burned a bit different now than it did earlier. Instead of the fiery burn, it felt more like an Indian burn. Similar to how his arm would feel when his brothers twisted his skin, as the skin on his back moved itself about. It was tightening and raw. One thing he could be grateful for was that it had been left alone to heal. Not a thread on his back irritating it. Except for the random fly that would try to tease him but he only knew was there by its buzzing about or when it would crawl up to his shoulders where the strap had left unscathed; nothing but Gods fingers touched his tormented skin now. The rocks under his knees, though barely felt hours earlier, became like broken spindles, each digging in and making impressions in his skin.

Through all this, he kept being drawn up to that rope. He'd stare at it. Wondered over it. Why was it shaped like that? He asked himself again and again. That was not how it was shaped yesterday. After spending twelve hours stuck to it, so much of that time staring at the knot, this he could be sure. So why was it shaped like that now? Answering his own question a picture started forming in his mind.

He imagined Tom coming in that morning and finding the shed empty. He must have done that before he left. He took his time between saddling his horse and preparing for the journey to take that rope down and re-knot it before throwing it back up.

He did that just to mess with me. He had come to realize. What kind of crazy psychotic does that?

He took his time because he knew he had time to spare. Tom had the upper hand. This whole time. He always did and he knew it. Tom never went into the woods to trail after him, or, if so, likely not far. He didn't have to. He knew exactly where Joe would be heading to. He took the road. Strolling along. Enjoying the crisp morning air. He didn't have to rush. He'd make it in plenty of time. Time to spare. Time enough to have a full conversation with his pa. Time enough to go outside and wait for him.

His pa who had turned his back on him. He grieved for his family now. At their loss. They were gone to him. Did they really wish for this to happen? Did they stop loving him? He was coming to accept that he might really be as bad as all that? He really did need work. All his sins playing out before him.

The light did eventually fade, so that it became more difficult to discern that rope. He got to focus on his other pains; like hunger which had grown to the forefront. He'd smelled the food drifting from the house and eventually fade away.

He'd gotten accustomed to missing meals in predicaments like these. He wouldn't even wish for it now. Wouldn't do that to himself. Let his mind beg for something he knew was not to come.

He lost track of the number of times he'd been fettered. Kept out of the house. Not given food and very little water. Brought down to the point of exhaustion and not given a bed to rest upon. He was weak in body and now in mind. He felt he had little left to fight with.

What was there to fight?

If he were in bed, this would be enough for him to give in to a long sleep. Escaping into the dark grief of unconsciousness. But alas he was not. He was here upon his board with no chance to rest. If he slept now it could very well be an eternal one.

He wanted to close his eyes and fall to sleep, even hours before the sun had faded away. With the lack of sleep he had gotten on the night prior coupled with his day's adventures, his body needed the rest. He didn't sleep though. Not one bit. He couldn't by the way he'd been tied. His head had no place to lay itself. He'd end up chocking himself if he let his head hang on its own accord. So he kept it up, looking out. Looking around. Inadvertently, glancing at the noose. That noose as much as he tried not to see it, to acknowledge it was there, he kept coming back to.

In the dead of night, he felt almost sick with pain and the inability to find relief. He closed and clenched his eyes wishing for a place to rest his head before choking himself back into consciousness. The shed became too dark. The shadows moved and drifted about the room. His eyes would chase mischievous imps behind crates and shelves as they scurried about the room like thieves in the night. He knew it was nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him. He knew the shed was empty, lest the demons had come to pick him up and take him home. He knew his body just wanted sleep. Needed sleep. That didn't stop him from being frightened by these images.

The moon would drag across the sky. The silver glow casting, illuminating the room like a slow crawling wave. Dark becoming more defined by the light that creeped in like yin and yang. What that light was doing to that rope now. When the night was new, the rope was dipped in darkness. Hours later the silver light drifted and fell upon it, outlining it.

A time or two he could swear he caught a glimpse of something hanging from that rope, but when he looked straight on nothing was there. Just when he started to convince himself that this too was his imaginations playing tricks on him, he thought he was seeing something else. Was it just his imagination or did that rope look taut? Like it had the weight of someone inside. He could further hear the strain of the rope creaking against the rafter's beam. But upon staring at it he'd realize it was his eyes and ears playing tricks. All of it was. This rope as well as the scurrying and moving about in the shadows.

He turned away and again tried to sleep. At times he thought that he was sleeping because he'd have these dreams. But it weren't dreams at least not in any normal sense of the word.

Dazedly, he glided his eyes back to that rope. Immediately, his breath was robbed from him. He frighted, unable to go anywhere, his body froze. There was a body hanging from that rope. It was no longer a fleeting shadow. He stared at it trying to make sense of how it got there. Wondering if Tom had put it there while he was asleep. But who was it? Where did he find this body? This boy to kill? He could see now, that it was a boy. Not Scotty, he hadn't killed Scotty. He could tell by the dark hair.

The ghostly apparition of the face that stared back was the most frightening aspect of it all. It was...he. It was he that stared back. He was awake but he was seeing himself. He was staring back at himself. His brown, frazzled, curly hair and his boyish, impish body trussed up and hanging from that rope. Face and lips paled, eyes a ghostly blue.

His shock so terrible he threw up nothing but bile onto the dirt He was weak and scared to look back but he had to in order to assure himself that it was gone. That it was never really there in the first place. But he wasn't gone. Gliding his eyes back, the form was still very much there. He was there. Dead. Hanging from that rope. Dangling from it. Everything spoke death. Everything but his eyes. They, though a ghastly foggy blue, spoke life. They locked onto his own with purposeful intent, as if he was trying to tell him something in that look. He was just staring back. Those eyes. His eyes. They were warning him. Telling him, this would happen if he didn't change his ways.

"Please get me out of here!" He cried. "Someone please get me out." His call grew in earnest. "Get me out of here!" He screamed aloud. "Get me out! Oh God get me out!"

But nobody was listening. Not his family, not God himself. Nobody heard him.

It was in this moment that his mind was fractured. His head fell forward in defeat when he realized.

He closed his eyes and is mind drifted thinking of the boy in that rope. He knew he was going to have to submit. Take his punishment however bad and when his punishment was over he would keep having to submit. Do what he needed to do to get his family to take him back. If they ever would. He knew he had to change or he would find himself in that rope. Forever hanging.

~.~

Somebody was fumbling with something over him. He'd barely registered the rope being taken from around his head then loosening from his waist. He felt two strong hands over his biceps. Not as strong as his pa's but strong still. (This was important to note because as much as he needed his pa to be the one to get him out, he knew now that would never be.) They were lifting him. His head flopped about. He had no muscle control in his neck to keep it upright. His wrist remained bound but he was lifted, cradled. The face was that of Tomlinson's. It could be of none other. The patriarch's face was stern as Joe was carried from the shed. The boy lolled his eyes away. Where he was being taken to, he could hardly care. In his mind, he was already dead. His eyes were closed when they entered the house. Up each stair he felt. The light brightened through his closed lids as they entered the familiar room. Across the floor, lowered into Scotty's bed. Turned over, his wrist released and set back to finally rest. Joe forced open his heavy lids just to watch Tom leave. He could roll his head but he couldn't lift it. Joe was tired, but for a reason he couldn't quite comprehend, he fought to keep his mind active. There was and underlying fear in there. Like sleep had somehow become wrong in Tom's presence. Taboo.

Moments later, Scotty came in with a cup. Scotty, seeming to understand Joe's struggle, slipped an arm under his shoulders to help lift him so he could take in water. Scotty alone didn't have the strength so Joe had to help some. Together they got him lifted enough so he could take the offering without making too much of a mess. When Joe had finished the cup, he fell back.

Scotty took a towel and wiped up what had spilled. Joe noticed something through his blurry gaze. There was something different about Scotty's face. He saw him when he first came in but barely registered. It was his arms that called the most attention. Joe reached over and took his friend's wrist and Scotty stopped. Joe scanned up the boy's arm, which was a myriad of colors. His face was shaded in soft blues. His left jaw and right cheek were the darkest. His eyes, as they locked, were like an ever deepening well. So much life, but so much darkness.

He let him go and fell back. Scotty lowered his head, taking the cup and rag and walked away.

Those bruises explained exactly what had happened to Scotty while Joe was away. They might have even explained why Scotty hadn't returned that night he helped him from the rope. He might really have been caught and abused for it. Joe's stomach churned.

Oh God!

He did that.

By asking for his help. For a situation he got himself into.

He was a bad boy.

He did something wrong. He screwed up and got punished and instead of taking his punishment he drug Scotty down with him.

God! What kind of friend was he?

He wasn't.

His own misbehavior caused this. If he'd never run, if he'd never involved Scotty, this never would have happened. Furthermore, if he'd never gotten himself into the position to begin with. This whole time he's been a bad boy. From the first time he decided to play at the table, to the time he got snippy with Tom in the garden, right up to this moment.

He'd made up his mind then, that it was all going to change. He would no longer be the boy he was. He would do exactly what Tom told him, no matter what it cost. He can't protect Scotty from his pa. It was time he learned that. Scotty had his own struggles to deal with. His own learning. Scotty didn't need to be drug into Joe's struggles and neither Joe to Scotty's. He was on a different path than Joe. It was time he learned to just let it be. No matter how he tried to protect Scotty, over and over again, he never could. He'd only come to realize that he'd made it worse for the boy by trying, like he made everything worse. If he had just left well enough alone from the very beginning, it would have saved them both a whole lot of trouble and heartache.

Submit to this man. Submit, or you'll find yourself hanging from that rope. Forever hanging.

His mind clung to those words. He closed his eyes and went away.