The Acolytes of Crane (Theodore Crane, #1)(4)

I remember that day so well. I will never forget the look on my mother’s face as he paraded me in front of her in the living room, where she had just barely restrained herself out of dread as she heard my blood-curdling screams. My dad presented my bruises to my mother—her name was Ann.

Bill said, ‘Look at what your son got himself into today.’

He was wearing the usual black slacks from work. Above was an over-bleached, worn-out T-shirt that hugged his terrifying biceps.

The look I saw that day upon my mother’s face, I had seen before, and would observe again and again in the future. It was the wide-eyed glare of cowardice. She knew something was wrong, but was too afraid to do anything about it.

‘Go to your room, Ted!’ Ann had yelled out of anger, while my dad escorted me. I knew she was trying to pry my father away from me, but because of her fear of him, could only defer to him as the Master, in command of my release.

Dad always talked about me as if I belonged to my mother, and that he wanted nothing to do with me. Unless it was a matter of meting out physical punishment, he acted as if I did not exist. He delighted in showing my bruises to Ann, triumphantly expecting her to cower before his might. After all, I had hit a girl on her ear with a pebble. Even though I felt bad, there was no denying it was a marvelous Hail Mary pass for his inhibited frustration.

The way he marched me to my room, one would have thought I wasn’t capable of walking ten feet on my own. Alone, as I rested on my belly, I bawled my eyes out. After about ten minutes of crying, I thought about what I did.

After several more minutes, I once again became restless. Muted voices—those of boys—lassoed my attention. They sounded familiar.

I heard Jason talking outside, and I rose up to look through my window. That was the day I first saw Travis Jackson.

Travis stood taller than Jason did by at least a head’s length. He had chestnut hair and a prominent nose like a gladiator’s. I was watching from my bedroom when I saw Jason shaking Travis’s hand. I could only see the tops of their heads.

Travis was new to the Red Bricks. He moved in that day. If I was there to meet him in person, I might have known his pain from the sight of him. I would come to find out later Travis was abused by his father, like me. Travis and Jason were the same age as me, and I wanted to be a part of their instantly formed clique. Badly.

‘Welcome to the corniest place on Earth, dude,’ Jason said.

‘Is there really a lot of corn here?’ Travis snickered.

‘No, this place just sucks, but there are some cute girls who live in Century Place,’ Jason said, answering Travis’s odd query. ‘Did you see anything cool on your trip up here?’

‘Well, if you consider twenty dead armadillos on the side of the road cool. We saw a motorcycle accident. There was a dead dude and I think he was gone because they wrapped him in a bag,’ Travis answered.

‘Wow,’ Jason said. Travis excited him, and I think that is when they became pals. Travis picked up on Jason’s excitement. ‘Do you want to see my new place?’ Jason nodded his head, and they both walked toward the front door of the building.

I liked Jason, because he was intriguing. I ached to become closer friends with him. He had set fire to the plains surrounding our area before they were paved over for suburbia. Jason was bad, and that was interesting.

Jason always cuffed his pants about two inches up from his shoes and wore shirts that were stretched in the neck from being so rough with other kids. He had brown hair, and his eyes were always welcoming—even if you knew he was about to pull off a prank the next second. He had the charisma I was missing. He lived in the complex just across the drab courtyard, which was nothing but a square of parched crabgrass, really.

“I once again became aware of very distant, muted voices that sounded exactly like those a few minutes ago. These voices were emanating from through my bedroom floor, which like all the other floors and walls, was paper-thin in this crummy building. In a kneeling position, I placed my ear down on the cold surface. I could hear Travis and Jason in the apartment below! This must be where Travis’s new apartment is! Stoked about my discovery, I heard Jason carry on to Travis about his old prank in setting fire to the woods in front of our apartments.”

Water.

My mind jolts back to reality, to the present day. Without saliva, my tongue feels parched against the roof of my mouth. Sitting in this cell is bad enough; I am wasting energy telling stories to a computer. Of course, now the battery is dying. The beeping indicator notifies me repeatedly that the device will soon shut down.

“Guard. I need some water and a charger for this damn computer. Guard!”

The intercom cues up with a buzz and click. The guard says, “Step back! I said, step back!”

Beyond the view box opening, he throws a splash of water at me, and I catch it with my shirt. I am no stranger to thirst, and I don’t think twice. I wring out the water that he tossed, over my lips, and into my mouth. He tells me the device will charge when it isn’t in use. It makes sense to me.

“Get back to it, prisoner!”

Without a thought, conditioned by several months of brutality in solitary confinement, I meekly say, “Yes, sir.” I will not sass him. Prison guards are notorious for lashing out, and it is usually a group effort. My side still throbs and continues to swell from the prod. Back to it, I guess. I should get back to how this all started, but it feels good to talk about my family—yes. Tears run down my cheeks. Even with the upsetting memories swirling around in my head, I know a universal truth—a child cannot “unlove” his parents.