Page 2 of Fall
1
Antonio
Fourteen Years Ago
Families belong together.
It’s the last phrase my mother said to us on her deathbed sixteen months ago, and the only words that have ever stuck hard and fast in my brain. It’s also the reason I’m running. It’s the onetruth that won’t let me stop putting one foot in front of the other. The only code I live by. The most important rule I live by. One that won’t let me stop fighting to make it to my brothers’ sides.
The blood on my busted knuckles has dried, but my hands won't stop throbbing. I don't care about the pain. The sharp sting will be replaced by a dull throb, and then the soreness will ease,and all that'll be left is some bruising and a scar or two where the skin broke. That will pass eventually. But if the state of New Jersey was incompetent enough to place someone tough and hardened like me with such a fucked-up foster father, then my seven-year-old twin kid brothers, Joshua and Joseph don't stand a chance.
The fucker had the gall to try to lay a hand on me. And he figuredI’d just stand there and let him? He thought I’d take it and come back the next day for seconds? Bullshit. Not gonna happen. I don’t take crap from no one. It wasn’t even three days since Child Protective Services dropped me off here, and the idiot thought he had some claim to me. But I’ve seen his kind before. I’ve seen the shit they do, and how fast their abusive ways escalate when they believethey can get away with it. I’ve witnessed the worst side of people and fallen victim to a few incidents back when I first got dragged into the foster care system. And I’m stronger for it. Men like this are far too common. I only needed to look at the other kids living with him to know he’d try to break me the same way he broke them.
But I’m no fucking victim.
I’m a survivor.
As I run along the side of the cold, deserted rural road with only the hazy winter moon peeking through the clouds to light my way, I picture the bastard's mean, grizzled face and bloodshot eyes when he looked up at me from his spot on a worn-out patterned fabric recliner. He had the nerve to bark at me through his alcohol-induced stupor, ordering me to get him another six-pack of beer fromthe fridge and clean up the piss he left on the bathroom floor because the asshole can't aim right. Maybe he mistook me for one of his other foster kids. One of the weak ones who thought they could survive living under this degenerate's roof because the alternative, living on the street, was more than they could handle. But for me? I'd sleep under a fucking bridge or curl up in a cardboard box beforeI let anyone take advantage of me or any other kid around me.
This fucker wasn't too happy when I told him to get his own damn beer, but he was spitting mad when I told one of the other foster kids he shouldn't go for the six-pack because the old guy already had too much to drink. And when he pushed his lazy ass out of the armchair and seethed at me, I didn't wait for his raised hand tomake contact with my face as he moved to slap me. I'm on the offensive. That's how I've had to become to survive. So I hit first. My fists were ready with one hell of a one-two punch. Each hit landed on one side of his jaw, sending him reeling right back into his nasty old armchair that reeked of alcohol and piss.
I was dressed for the elements and ready to go. My bag was packed too. Ididn't bother settling in because I knew this shit was coming. So by the time he realized what hit him, I was out the door. The only thing is I didn't expect him to grab a rifle and aim it in my general direction as I leaped off his front porch. That was a first. He caught me by surprise, and the only reason I'm still breathing is because the idiot was too drunk to aim right. Apparently, he hadn'tclued in on the part about operating a firearm while sober. I can still feel the bullet whizz by one side of my head, and I can hear the echo of the gunshot blast, immediately followed by the rush of air as it was displaced by the fast-moving high caliber bullet. Boy did that ever wake me up. I know now never to turn my back on a man with a loaded weapon.
But what he did also made me madas fuck. My blood started to boil, and my vision went red, my pulse pounding so hard I could hear it. Turning around, I used the shrubs beside the walkway for cover in case he tried to let off another round from his shotgun. I jumped the wooden railing on one side of the porch in one vault, not sure what exactly I was going to do, but I knew it had to be something. He was so fucking drunk, he didn'tsee me coming, and when I shoved his sorry ass, I didn't realize my own strength. The man lost his balance and tumbled to one side. His rifle went off as he fell, and he was so intent on hanging onto it that he didn't brace his fall or even try to protect his head during the fall. Not that I fucking cared, but when the side of his head hit the wrought iron edge of the broken down porch swingin the corner, it didn't sound right. He wasn't moving at all, not even a little bit. Then, all that blood started oozing from the wound onto the floor. More blood than I'd ever seen before. Way too much blood.
I was sure I’d end up in trouble for what I did.
Until I looked around from my spot above the old man’s motionless body and saw the pair of eyes staring back at me throughthe open window nearest to the front door.
"I saw everything," the timid boy's voice whispered. I'd seen him the first day that Child Protective Services dropped me here. Only one kid in this foster home had pale green eyes, sandy blonde hair, and a small frame, one that made me think he didn't like food or wasn't being fed enough in this place. He kept to himself before now, so I didn'tknow anything about him, other than the fact that our piece of shit foster dad seemed to particularly enjoy beating up this kid.
"No, you didn't," I warned him. "You didn't see nothing. Got it?"
“I saw it all,” he shot back a little more forcefully.
“What do you think you saw?”
“It depends…” he offered.
My eyes narrowed at him. “You’re gonna try to shake me down…for this prick?”
“No! That’s not what I mean.”
“How old are you anyway?” From his size, my guess was he had to be around my brothers’ age.
“Thirteen.”
“You’re a little small for Thirteen.”
“I’m big enough. And I don’t want anything like money.”
“What do you want, then?” I pushed.
His little head disappears from the window, and when he emerged atthe front door, I see him holding a small, tan leather suitcase. “To leave too… I want to go wherever you’re going.”
“I don’t have a place to go. I’m just not staying here.”
"That doesn't matter," he persists.
