textfiles/magazines/SOB/sob-0002.txt

Author : Painkiller                                           Date : 01/08/93
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            Soveriegns Of Bell Issue #2 - The Unthought-Of Truth
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    The blood-covered pus of a reopened cut led me to believe that the wound I
had received from my father a month ago would never heal.  I remember the broken
beer bottle jabbed into my chest.  I never went to the hospital or to the
doctor.  I never got any stitches; just a box of band-aids.  I covered up the
deep gash with nearly a whole box of the plain, generic band-aids my father
reluctantly bought for me.  This morning, I was sitting on the steep stairs that
led to the dark, dusty basement.  My quiet, little bedroom was down there in
this desolate place that I call `Home.'  Then, all-of-the-sudden, my little
eight year-old brother pushed me.  I tumbled down in the dark and fell on a
sharp shred of my brother's plastic phone that he had thrown down and broke
earlier that week.  I pulled off my shirt and looked.  The shred of the toy
phone had given me a second gash.  I looked at my brother and yelled some words
I had learned from my dad.  I had no idea what they meant, but I knew they meant
something bad.  He took off running up the stairs, screaming.  By now, the floor
space that I was sitting on was covered with fresh blood.  I looked again at my
newest wound and pulled the shred of plastic out.  I washed the wound with some
water and some old soap I was lucky to find.  Then I went back downstairs to
wash the blood covered floor.
    The next night my drunken dad came home.  My brother and I were sitting in a
corner of our front room.  My dad fell back on the dirty, old, and moldy couch
with his beer and remote.  Broken fragments of glass from a fight a month ago
between my dad and I remained on the thin carpet, reflecting light from the
television.  I stood up and took my underprivileged little brother to the
bathroom to get him ready for bed.  After five or so minutes of attempting to
force my brother to brush his teeth, I went back to the smoke-filled room where
my father still sat.
    "Come here, dork," my father belched.  I slowly walked over to the couch.
My dad looked up at me.  It actually felt good to see him looking up at me.  My
enjoyment was cut short by a sharp jab to my stomach.  "Go get my beer," he
belched again.  I went to our small now murky green refrigerator and looked in.
Our refrigerator was usually filled with only beer, but the stock had gone low.
"There isn't any more, Dad," I replied.  He jumped up, threw me against the
wall, and smacked me a few times in the jaw.  I started moaning, but he just
kept hitting harder.  I could feel blood running down my chin and onto my
surprisingly clean white shirt.  It was now running down my leg and onto my left
shoe.  He picked me up by my neck and threw me against the TV, which was still
on.  I fell over along with it.  I could hear the glass shatter and jut into my
hand.  I felt a short electric shock and could smell smoke from a short-circuit.
I attempted to get up, but I was too weak from all the blood I had lost in the
last month.  He picked me up, yelled something at me, and threw me on the dingy
couch.  I knocked over his beer can, spilling what was left in the container.
He pulled his black leather belt from his belt-loops and started to beat me with
it.  I knew he was furious with me, but I didn't really care right then.  I had
other things to worry about.
    The next morning I could barely even bend my legs.  Black and purple bruises
were all over my back, with some still bleeding cuts.  When I staggered up the
large, dark stairs I could tell my dad was smoking.  He just stared blankly at
me and my limping.  He threw a twenty-dollar bill on our wooden table and just
said, "Go out and buy me some beer."  I hesitated for a second and then reached
for the bill.  He slammed his fist down on mine.  His greasy hands stung my now
reopened cut.  I didn't dare yelp; that would only make it worse.
    I walked down the cracked concrete sidewalk, attempting to decipher the
heavily graffitied walls.  I finally reached the small liquor store with all the
fluorescent signs at the end of the block.  I walked in and was overwhelmed with
the rare afternoon crowd.  I walked past the many posters and signs to the back
where the "Bud Light" was stored.  I attempted to pick up a case, but I was
still very weak.  I tried again, succeeding this time.  I carried it as I limped
to the front counter of the store.
    "You can't buy that; you're underage," said the long-haired man with tatooed
covered arms and several rings in his ears and nose.  I can usually get away
without showing any ID, although I'm still five years too young to purchase
alcohol.  "You'll have to go get your father," he replied after I didn't say
anything.  He reached over the small wooden counter and patted me on my bruised
back.  I tried to protest as he lifted up the back of my shirt, but he easily
overpowered me.  "My gosh, what happened?" he asked.  I would have told him that
I fell down the stairs, but I already told him that excuse several times before
when he noticed.  I simply replied that I took a terrible spill while attempting
a nollie 180 degree heelflip tailslide shove-it while skateboarding.  I started
walking out the door as I heard the man call out to me, saying, "Don't forget to
bring your father back with you!"
    When I got home I found my father just lying on the couch. (I was surprised
the TV wasn't on, but then I remembered what had happened last night)  "They
wouldn't let me buy it," I said.  My father jumped up and said angrily, "Fine."
I was expecting him to punch me, but surprisingly he didn't.  He then picked up
his belt.  I was scared stiff now.  It turned out he was simply putting it on.
He grabbed his smoky coat and as he walked out the door, he said, "Come on, lets
go."
    I could tell my dad was impatient and was craving beer now; he walked down
the sidewalk much faster than usual.  As we turned the corner I saw a police
officer across the street.  When we walked into the store, the cashier greeted
me by saying, "I see you brought your father this time."  I took the small trip
to the back wall and this time easily picked up the case of beer.  I brought it
to the front and plopped it onto the counter.  As my dad pulled out his money,
the police officer that I saw earlier walked in the glass door.  My dad paid
with the old twenty-dollar bill I had in my possession earlier that morning.  As
we were leaving, the officer walked up to my dad and asked, "Is this your son?"
My dad nodded in response and kept walking, with me trailing right behind him.
The officer asked my dad to accompany him down to the station.  My father looked
at me and glared.  Nothing was said to me by anyone; not my father, the cashier,
or even the police officer that silently took my dad away.  The cashier just
simply handed me the twenty-dollar bill back and picked up the case of beer to
take it back to the far wall.
    As I walked home, I was surprisingly unhappy; not for the same reasons I'm
usually unhappy, though.  It was kind of sad for me to see my own father being
taken away by the man in uniform.  I took the long way home so I could think of
what to say to my little brother; I know he would be sad that dad was taken
away.  I turned the corner and saw the hamburger shop that went up last week.
They still had a great `Grand-Opening Special' so I used some of the twenty
dollars that I had to buy some food for both my brother and myself.  As I walked
in the unlocked door of our home, I called out to my brother.  He didn't answer.
I called again, "Sammy!  Where are you?!"  Still to answer for him.  I looked
around and saw a note on the broken television set.  It was in Sammy's
handwriting.  It read:

   Dear Dad and Sean,
       I know that I am not wanted around here.  Daddy is always
       yelling at me and I'm always hurting Sean somehow.  While
       both of you were out, I ran away to look for Mommy.  I have
       taken all my clothes and also enough food for a couple of
       meals.  Don't come looking for me and don't worry about me.
       I will find Mommy in a few days and live with her!
                                                Sam

    I knew Sammy wouldn't come back, even if he wouldn't find mom.  Then I
remembered Sam probably wouldn't remember at all what Mom looked like; Sam
wouldn't remember from when he was two years-old.  Sam had only seen a picture
of Mom, which was taken six years ago, before she ran away.  Even I couldn't
remember that much of my mother when I was eleven.  All I really remember is
that she ran away because dad would always come home and beat her or yell at her
and always beat Sammy and I.  There was only one thing left to do.  I decided
right then that the next morning, after I got a good night's sleep, I would go
searching for both my brother and my mother.
    I didn't get much sleep that night.  I just mostly lied back in my `dungeon'
and thought about finding Sammy and mom.  In the morning I ate the remaining
cheeseburger that was meant for Sam.  Luckily I found some extra cash lying
around that dad probably forgot about.  It amounted to over $50!  All that cash
should last me for at least a month if I don't eat greedily.  If I ran out, I
could always resort to the one trade my dad taught me: Pick-Pocketing.  I picked
up my most valuable possessions and threw them in my back-pack.  I jumped on my
new skateboard that I stole from a skateshop two months ago.  As I rolled out
the front door I didn't look back; I didn't want to.  I didn't even shut the
door.

    I remembered that my grandparent's house was in a small town nearby.  I
needed to check there first.  This trip was fairly simple because of my skills.
I remembered several years ago in an issue of Thrasher Magazine they had an
article entitled "Hitchhiking In Six Easy Steps."  Although all I remembered
from it was to be friendly, start conversations with the driver, and never walk
with your back facing oncoming cars, they all helped me in some sort of way.  On
my way down the long highway, I received many rides from nice people.  I was so
thankful.  Some people even gave me food and offered to help find my mother; I
always turned down help searching for my mom, but I always took the food they
offered me.  I finally arrived near the town that my grandparents live in.  I
took the rest of the way on my board.
    As I walked up the small, cracked, white steps I remembered all the good
times I had with my grandparents.  I hoped so much that mom would be in the
small, broken down house that I was at now.  I knocked on the door; no answer.
I knocked again, this time louder.  Still no answer.  I decided to check if the
door was unlocked.  It squeaked as I opened it.  I called out for my mother.  No
answer.  I walked throughout the whole house, but saw nobody; only signs that
somebody still lived there.  I would wait outside for when my grandparents would
come home.
    As I waited outside, several people walked by, but no one came up the small,
desolate steps leading to the house.  It was almost dark when someone I
recognized walked by.  They were the next-door neighbors.  I jumped off the old,
warped, wooden porch and yelled out to them.  They didn't recognize me.  When I
asked about the people living in the old white house, the old woman replied that
they moved to another nearby city.  I had to go searching for them.
    I set out again, hitchhiking, the next morning.  This time I wouldn't have
to travel that far, so I mostly skateboarded instead of trying to get rides.
After about three days of traveling, I finally saw a sign that indicated I was
within the city limits.  I went to a gas station to look at a map of the town.
I found where I was supposed to go, so I set out right away.  I way very anxious
now.  Would I really find my grandparents and my mother?  I reached the street
the address was on.  I turned down it and by now I started jogging.  I couldn't
wait!  Just a few more houses!  Then I saw the truth.  It was a vacant lot with
only a concrete foundation.  Only a few pipes remained, sticking out of the
charcoal-blackened concrete.  This couldn't be the correct address; it just
couldn't.  I looked around some more, but no luck finding the address.  I
finally resorted to asking one of the neighboring homes about the vacant lot
with the burned foundation.  I could not face the truth.  I was told that and
elderly couple and their thirty-five year-old daughter use to live there.  Last
December an electrical fire started inside the house.  It burned to the ground,
killing all three of the occupants.  I knew this had to be the story of my
mother and grandparents.
    Now I live in a foster home.  They treat my very nicely and are putting me
through school.  I have given up looking for my little brother, Sammy.  I know
the truth that my mom died in a house fire.  I wouldn't go back to my father,
even if I could; he's still in jail.  My life has been turned around from the
worst to now the best.

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|                       Soveriegns Of Bell Issue #2                         |
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