Sam.”
“Yeah, kid. Sorry.”
“No worries, Sam. Sorry.”
“Not a problem, kid. I don’t have many answers.”
“How long have I been here?”
“No clue.”
“How long you think I will be here?”
“Got some place to go?”
“Nah. Don’t think so.”
“No fucking clue kid. Hey!”
I stop as the bell on the door rings above my ear.
“Watch the ravens, kid. Don’t trust a one. Don’t be fooled by that fucking Australian raven. There’s nothing but evil there.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
I wander into the night. NIGHT.
Chapter 13
Running. Running. Running. I am fourteen years old and I am running. I run all the time. I run in the morning and I run at night. I ask my dad to pick me up ten miles from home because my knees are buckling and my Kmart running shoes cannot keep up. They are falling apart. And the other kids on the track team laugh at my shoes. But I pull out ahead of them and run. I run. Months before I was smoking weed, and hash. I stole alcohol. I slammed cold medicine, Comtrex and Nyquil in doses that should have killed me. I tried so hard to slit my wrists. It’s harder than you think. The flesh, the nerves, the skin is much harder to cut through past the nerves than most know. I tried hanging and the rope had failed leaving me with a tear across my neck. Thank God it was the middle of winter and I could wear a coat.
And there I was months later running. Running. Running. I ran and I ran. And the drugs melted away. They sweated out of me. The hallucinations and horrible thoughts melted into sweat and ran down my legs until my sweats were heavy with despair and pain. And my dad. With his premature bald head, and his pain, and his sadness, and his look. The look that said the world had won. It had beat him down. It had won. It had humiliated him and kicked the life from his eyes. My dad understood. He understood the running. He understood having to come and get me when my body failed.
When I ran to failure. When I collapsed and the cheap canvass and rubber from my shit shoes failed. My dad understood. And he drove over and picked me up. And maybe then, in those times, I saw a glint of pride in me, but he was looking through the fog of despair. I think I saw that approval when he helped me into his blue 1970 Nova. Maybe. He couldn’t figure me out or what I was doing. I kept telling him I was running cross country for the track team.
He liked that but wasn’t sure. I only know he was there when I failed. He picked me up. Helped me into the car and gave me water. This approval was not shared by my mother, who by this time was far removed from the beloved pastor and Navajo missionary she once was. Now she was a self-proclaimed activist for women’s rights, a mean lesbian, living with a mean woman, and me, and my sister. I think I was twelve when she called me in and told me she was a lesbian. I forget all she said but I remember thinking, if I don’t have to go to sleep without dinner, maybe this won’t be all bad. It was. All bad. In and out of those relationships and the worst, “Barbara.” She was a horrible person and she wanted me gone. By this time my sisters had fled to parts no better, abusive husbands and boyfriends. Younger sister to an older sisters’ where she would be sexually abused by the husband. So I was left alone at fourteen with two very angry and abusive lesbians who, began to see, that men where the root of all that was evil, and I was the perpetuation of that evil in youth form. The mom that I remembered. The mom that loved me and took my hand as a youngster was long gone. I hadn’t ever trusted the hand truly. She was loving but she was always harsh. It was the hand that combed my hair and brushed my cheek. The hand that lashed a belt across me, and later punched my face with the ferocity, Beat me with belts. Silver belt buckles, hot-wheel tracks, cords, and fists.
There was nothing that couldn’t be used that wasn’t within reach. Once the beating
“Yeah, kid. Sorry.”
“No worries, Sam. Sorry.”
“Not a problem, kid. I don’t have many answers.”
“How long have I been here?”
“No clue.”
“How long you think I will be here?”
“Got some place to go?”
“Nah. Don’t think so.”
“No fucking clue kid. Hey!”
I stop as the bell on the door rings above my ear.
“Watch the ravens, kid. Don’t trust a one. Don’t be fooled by that fucking Australian raven. There’s nothing but evil there.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
I wander into the night. NIGHT.
Chapter 13
Running. Running. Running. I am fourteen years old and I am running. I run all the time. I run in the morning and I run at night. I ask my dad to pick me up ten miles from home because my knees are buckling and my Kmart running shoes cannot keep up. They are falling apart. And the other kids on the track team laugh at my shoes. But I pull out ahead of them and run. I run. Months before I was smoking weed, and hash. I stole alcohol. I slammed cold medicine, Comtrex and Nyquil in doses that should have killed me. I tried so hard to slit my wrists. It’s harder than you think. The flesh, the nerves, the skin is much harder to cut through past the nerves than most know. I tried hanging and the rope had failed leaving me with a tear across my neck. Thank God it was the middle of winter and I could wear a coat.
And there I was months later running. Running. Running. I ran and I ran. And the drugs melted away. They sweated out of me. The hallucinations and horrible thoughts melted into sweat and ran down my legs until my sweats were heavy with despair and pain. And my dad. With his premature bald head, and his pain, and his sadness, and his look. The look that said the world had won. It had beat him down. It had won. It had humiliated him and kicked the life from his eyes. My dad understood. He understood the running. He understood having to come and get me when my body failed.
When I ran to failure. When I collapsed and the cheap canvass and rubber from my shit shoes failed. My dad understood. And he drove over and picked me up. And maybe then, in those times, I saw a glint of pride in me, but he was looking through the fog of despair. I think I saw that approval when he helped me into his blue 1970 Nova. Maybe. He couldn’t figure me out or what I was doing. I kept telling him I was running cross country for the track team.
He liked that but wasn’t sure. I only know he was there when I failed. He picked me up. Helped me into the car and gave me water. This approval was not shared by my mother, who by this time was far removed from the beloved pastor and Navajo missionary she once was. Now she was a self-proclaimed activist for women’s rights, a mean lesbian, living with a mean woman, and me, and my sister. I think I was twelve when she called me in and told me she was a lesbian. I forget all she said but I remember thinking, if I don’t have to go to sleep without dinner, maybe this won’t be all bad. It was. All bad. In and out of those relationships and the worst, “Barbara.” She was a horrible person and she wanted me gone. By this time my sisters had fled to parts no better, abusive husbands and boyfriends. Younger sister to an older sisters’ where she would be sexually abused by the husband. So I was left alone at fourteen with two very angry and abusive lesbians who, began to see, that men where the root of all that was evil, and I was the perpetuation of that evil in youth form. The mom that I remembered. The mom that loved me and took my hand as a youngster was long gone. I hadn’t ever trusted the hand truly. She was loving but she was always harsh. It was the hand that combed my hair and brushed my cheek. The hand that lashed a belt across me, and later punched my face with the ferocity, Beat me with belts. Silver belt buckles, hot-wheel tracks, cords, and fists.
There was nothing that couldn’t be used that wasn’t within reach. Once the beating
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