Overcomer - The Journey, Judy Colella [book reader for pc txt] 📗

be cleaned, added to the humiliation that he had stood before her stark naked except for a pathetic square of cloth and the bandages covering his back, and realized he had no dignity left. She’d taken that, too. He’d leaned against the machine throughout the drying cycle, and tried not to think any more, allowing the deep soreness to pulse through him to the rhythm of the dryer motor. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

He’d dressed when the machine stopped, and then checked the mattress, but found it still damp. The air in the basement was cold and humid, so he’d have to wait a while before using it again.

The lock had turned in the door again and he’d crouched down beside the mattress, covering his head with his arms.

“What’s your problem?” Buddy had come into the basement this time.

Cian had refused to move.

“Hey, stupid! Unacceptable! Donkey-ass face!” Buddy had reached down and shaken the boy by his shoulder. “I got some food for you.”

Cian had heard a plate being set on the floor, but wouldn’t move.

“Ha! Guess Ma was right.” He’d uttered a short laugh. “You gonna do everything you’re told from now on, right?”

Cian had always done what was demanded of him, but he nodded.

“Thought so. Get up, fool, and don’t look at me.”

He’d stood despite his pain and stared obediently at the floor.

“Hop on one foot.”

He’d bit his lip, but obeyed, wincing.

Buddy had laughed. “This is great! Okay, okay… uh, get down on all fours and snort like a pig.”

Beginning to cry again, the boy had done as he was told, the pain in his back increasing.

“Yeah! Now eat your food off the plate like a pig eating his slop.”

Hungrier than he’d ever been in his life, Cian nevertheless found himself unable to eat.

“Do it, moron! Do it, or I’ll call my Ma down here with that tape recorder!”

He’d swallowed his tears, bent down over the plate and ate without recognizing what was on it, struggling to keep it down.

“Aw, come on – make more pig noises!”

Compliance with this one had almost choked him but he did it – anything was better than that cursed tape.

Buddy had crowed with delight and clapped his hands. “I love this! You know, I didn’t want to bring you your damned supper, but from now on, I’ll be bringing every meal, every day, and trust me, brain-dead boy, I’ll make your meals real interesting.” So saying, he’d gone back upstairs, laughing the whole way.

Cian had sat back on his haunches and wiped his mouth with the back of one arm, realized that he had entered a deeper level of hell, and that the only way out was to die. He’d considered the various ways of committing suicide, but none were appealing because all of them would be slow and painful. He would have to deal with it somehow – or maybe he would drink the sulfuric acid.

During the next two years of listening to the tapes – she’d had her son and daughter each make one, too, and they were every bit as awful as hers – he’d become more and more convinced that he would be doing the world a favor if he ended his life, and had nearly succeeded twice. The first time he’d tried, he had slit his wrists with a nail, but Buddy had found him bleeding on the floor and they’d patched him up. Retta had used rubbing alcohol as a disinfectant and a regular needle and thread to sew up the wounds, watching and giggling as he bit his lower lip in pain until that was bleeding, too.

They had then subjected him to an hour of the three of them screaming horrendous profanities in his ears. A few weeks later he’d tried to hang himself, but his foster mother had stopped him before he could kick away the stool on which he’d stood with the rope slung over one of the pipes in the ceiling.

After that, they’d kept his hands and feet tied, unless they had him doing chores, or Buddy needed to use him as a punching bag for boxing practice. Sometimes the woman and her daughter would sit on the stairs and watch until Buddy was done and the boy lay senseless, bruised, and bleeding on the floor. Then they’d tie him up and dump him on the mattress.

This time, however, he had been sent back to the basement alone after bringing in the laundry, and leaving him untied, his foster mother had screeched through the door that he’d never be allowed out again. He’d had no idea why.

An hour or so later, the front door had slammed, and he’d heard nothing more for four whole days.

At first he’d been so relieved they had gone out, the usual thoughts of killing himself had faded. Instead, he’d taken out his sword and tried exercising muscles that were long-neglected, but the current set of bruises left by Buddy’s fists had made it too painful. So instead, he’d closed his eyes and remembered the movements; when he was better able, he could get back to it.

At first, he’d simply imagined the different kinds of arm motions and footwork but then, unbidden, he had pictured himself using Buddy as a target. Then his foster mother. Then Retta. And it had given him a feeling of deep satisfaction for a while. Something in him felt that they were the ones who should be killing themselves, not him, but he’d silenced that voice whenever it surfaced, afraid of the implications.

Even though he’d hurt a little less the next day where his foster-brother had punched him, his ability to move was still restricted. He had tried again on the third day, but had felt weak, and put away the sword, sat down on his mattress, and wondered how long it would take to starve to death, certain now that this was why he’d been left there.

By the morning of the fourth day, he was unable to do much more than go to the bathroom, put on some clothes, and lay down again. But on this day, the agony of hunger had surpassed the soreness of his injuries.

It was a little after noontime when he heard the front door open. Naturally, he thought it was his foster-family returning, but then footsteps crossed from the hallway into the kitchen, and he knew they were different. The sounds of movement upstairs continued. He was so weak at this point, he didn’t think he could run or defend himself if anyone tried to hurt him. All he could do was curl up into the corner of the mattress, as far from the light as he could get.

Someone rattled the knob on the basement door. He heard a man’s voice, a second or two of silence, and then a startling crash as the door was kicked open. He flinched, pulled himself in tighter, and began to shake.

Don’tseemedon’tseemedon’tseeme…

Several sets of footfalls separating to look into other parts of the basement, one heading toward him... and stopping at the side of the mattress. A rustle of clothing as the person crouched down...

“Hello?” A hand reached out, tapping Cian on the side. “Are you okay?” It was a man’s voice. “I found him,” he called. “Looks like he’s alive.”

Lighter footsteps approached, stopped. A woman’s voice said, “Hey. You okay?” Cian felt her kneel on the mattress; she pulled his arms down from over his face and then she and the man got him up into a sitting position.

He turned away, afraid to let them see his features, but the woman took his chin in her hand and made him face her.

            “Sweet mother of God,” she breathed. Then stared, eyes wide, unable it seemed, to say another word.

FOURTEEN

 

Connecticut – Present Day

 

Eileen came to the door of the family room. She’d heard no one speak the entire time they’d been waiting, and she almost laughed at the gloomy looks they were giving each other and now her – with the exception of Tara’s friends, who were staring with unmistakable adoration at Cian. “Lunch is almost ready, so go wash up.” She went back into the kitchen to finish setting the table.

She could hear Donal telling Cian and Mr. Croghan to use the small bathroom off the front hall, and Katie and Celeste running upstairs. An angry, “Hey!” from Tara suggested her sister had beaten her to the bathroom.

“Another typical moment of drama,” she murmured, grinning. But a second later the grin became a frown as she surveyed the table.

Beautifully set, but something was still missing. An oval silver platter piled high with a pyramid of crustless crabmeat salad sandwiches dominated the center, while two crystal serving plates sat on either side of it, one holding a variety of cheese cubes, the other a mass of tiny strawberries. A crystal pitcher of sparkling mineral water glistened at her husbands end, a silver bucket of crushed ice at hers.

“That should be everything, so why – ah!” Her expression cleared; from the refrigerator she took a huge crystal bowl of colorful red and white cabbage salad which she tossed several times and placed between the ice bucket and the cheese and fruit platters. Nine salad bowls were taken from the closet and placed beside each plate, the napkins atop these.

A moment later, the carpet-muted thunder of feet along the upper hall spilled down the stairs. As Tara and her friends nearly slid into the kitchen on top of each other, Eileen shot them a mild glare.

“Control yourselves, please.”

“Oh, wow!” Nadine exclaimed. “We never have lunch like this at my house!”

“And we usually don’t eat lunch this way here, either, but we seem to have accumulated a number of guests.” She nodded toward Cian and Mr. Croghan as they entered the kitchen, followed by Mr. Kelly, Celeste and Katie. Once everyone was seated, Donal told them to join hands so he could say Grace.

The prayer done, lunch began and the silence – except for the sound of concentrated chewing – gave Eileen a feeling of satisfaction.

“This is wonderful!” Mr. Croghan, after taking his last mouthful and downing the contents of his glass, gave Donal and Eileen a sigh and a smile.

“Well, my wife is dedicated to her cooking, as well as to her family and home.”

“You’re a blessed man, Donal Kelly.”

He nodded at Eileen with a broad grin. “Yes, sir, I am.” He raised his glass to her, and she echoed the gesture.

Katie, who had long since finished, turned to Mr. Croghan. “So you can eat?”

“And why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, I mean, I doubt you have restaurants at the Hub of – ”

“Not now, Katie,” Eileen said, darting raised-brow glances at Tara and her friends.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

The meal ended with the complete absence of food anywhere on the table. Celeste and Katie cleared everything away and loaded the dishwasher, telling Eileen to relax. A general chorus of appreciation was offered as Tara, Nadine and Stacy cast longing gazes at Cian as they left the room to go back upstairs.

Eileen removed the tablecloth and gave it a good shake out on the back porch. When she came back inside, she suggested that the story continue in the family room, pointing out that they’d be far more comfortable there.

“Good idea – I’ll