From the Ruins

“What do you think you’re looking at?” My father yelled as he stood over my mother’s dead body, a pistol in one hand and a bottle of Jack in the other. His attention shifted towards me when I cried out for my mom, knowing she was brutally hurt.

When we made eye contact, I started to run, but before I even took two steps, he caught me. He pulled my hair from behind and I fell to the floor, hitting my head on the cold tiled floor. Everything went black.

I woke up in my bed to my father closing and locking the door to my bedroom, him on the inside of the room. He looked back at me and walked over to the bed. I knew what was coming. Tears fell down my face as he climbed on top of me, caressing my hair.

“You don’t tell anyone about this, you got that?” He yelled at me as he stroked my face. “If you do, I will hurt you way worse than this. I promise you that.” I nodded, speechless, and too afraid to try to speak.

When he was finished with me, he spat, “Go get the mop. Clean up downstairs.” Before I could move, he threw a punch right at my cheek. I could feel my face pounding and a bruise beginning to form.

He let me stand and I quickly ran to the back porch and started to fill a bucket with water. As I waited for the bucket to fill, I looked around for one of my neighbors, but no one seemed to be around, or wanted to be.

My father glared at me from the window as he drank the last bit of Jack left in the bottle. I looked around one more time and saw one of my neighbors staring towards me.

“Calista!” She yelled, quietly so that my father didn’t hear her.

I glanced at my father who was debating whether or not to break open another bottle. He took a longer time to leave the window because he knew I was looking at something. He eventually did walk away from the window and that was my chance.

I bolted towards my neighbor’s house. As soon as I left the back steps of the house, my father noticed and barged out the door, waving the gun in my direction. “You get back here, you little bitch!” He yelled as he chased me.

“Come on, Calista. Run!” My neighbor yelled as she watched me run from the man who should love me the most. She held the door open for me, ready to lock it once I was inside. My heart felt like it was going to explode. I don’t think I’d ever run that fast before in my life.

I could hear my father’s pounding footsteps right behind me and I could smell the alcohol radiating from him. But I reached the door before he reached me. My neighbor slammed the door shut before he could grab onto me with his greasy, grimy hands. She locked the door and we waited for his yelling and pounding to stop.

Once he ran back to the house, my neighbor pulled me into a hug as we sat on the ground of her kitchen. “Are you okay?” I nodded as she looked at my face. “Oh sweetheart, I already called the police. They should be here soon. It’s all over now. You’re safe.” She assured me as she cradled me in her lap.

I was five years old when my father killed my mother. I was in a hospital for four months before I was moved to my first foster home. I was never in a foster home for very long, maybe a few months at the most.

When I was eight years old, I moved into the home of Mr. and Mrs. Black, who were essentially my parents. I sat in the back of my social worker’s car as she pulled into a long driveway. This house was in Pennsylvania, where I’d never been before. I was usually put in homes around the Chicago area.

The long driveway revealed a large red brick country house with white framework and mossy green shutters. The social worker stepped out of the maroon car and was greeted by a couple in their late 50′s. They smiled and shook my social worker’s hand as she explained to the couple, “She’s pretty quiet. She’s been through a lot in the past few years. You’ve read her file. She’s such a sweet little girl, but she’ll take some time to open up to you.”

“Oh that’s not a problem. I completely understand. She’ll have a wonderful life here with us.” The woman smiled as she waved at me through the window of the backseat.

My social worker turned to me and opened my door, “Why don’t you come out and say hello, Calista?” She smiled.

I nodded and grabbed my small leather suitcase that had three shirts, a pair of winter boots, and four pairs of pants inside of it. It was everything I had. I stepped out of the car and looked up at the two people who were supposed to take care of me from now on. The woman had light blonde hair and wore capris pants with a royal blue t-shirt. The man wore blue jeans and a red polo shirt that was tucked in.

“Hi, my name is Karen Black and this is my husband David.” Karen explained to me with a smile as she held out her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

I shook her hand and then David’s. “You too.” I said, timidly.

“If you need anything at all, feel free to call.” My social worker said before getting in her car and leaving me there.

“Let’s go inside and I’ll get started on dinner.” Karen suggested as she picked up my suitcase.

We walked inside and she gave me a tour of the house. The house was big and apparently they had six kids who were all grown up and moved away. The last room she showed me was my bedroom. It was a room that had pale yellow walls and white framework. The bed was vintage looking with an intricate design on the head and foot boards. The sheer white curtains danced in the breeze that came through the slightly open window and in the corner of the room was a piano.

I was fascinated by the piano. I’d never seen one before in my life. I walked over to it and stared at it. The keys were yellow tinted. The dark wood had chips and scratches in it and although the bench seemed like it might fall apart, it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“You like that, huh?” Karen smiled as she walked over to me.

“It’s pretty.” I said as I brushed my fingers over the keys, without pressing any down.

“I’ll teach you how to play. It’s such a beautiful instrument.” She said to me.

That night, after dinner, Karen taught me how to play twinkle twinkle little star and slightly how to read music. It was so easy for me. I caught right on and I barely had to ask for help. It was so fun to make such a majestic sound from such a large instrument.

I practiced every day after school. I would come home and go straight to the piano. Some nights, my homework didn’t get done, but it didn’t matter to me. I had to play the piano. I played for hours until dinner and then until nine thirty when I had to go to bed, but even then I would usually get up in the middle of the night, open the window and play the piano so softly that only the most sensitive ears could hear the sound.

At school, most of the kids were mean to me. They didn’t get new students that often so everyone already had their friends and their cliques and no one wanted me. Most days, I would spend recess in the music room with my music teacher, Mr. Taylor.

Mr. Taylor was a very nice man who always taught me something new about the piano or music in general. He taught me about dynamics, tempo, styles of music, and rhythms. Mr. Taylor also worked at the high school and used to direct the marching band, which won many competitions and awards.

He worked at the high school with Mr. Cage and Mr. Geller, who were both very nice and supportive of me and my music. They were impressed that I was in fourth grade and already better than a lot of their high school students.

One day after a girl had just pushed me down in the mud at recess, Mr. Taylor brought me inside and he played me a very beautiful piece that I’d never heard before. He later told me he wrote it himself and he wrote it for me to play at the high school concert they had every year after Christmas.

“I can’t play in front of other people.” I said to him after he told me the news.

“Yes you can. You just need to pretend they aren’t there and just do your thing. You have an amazing gift and I want people to know your name. You are going to be adored in the music community.” He explained to me.

“I don’t know.” I sighed.

“How about you try something new? How about the flute?” He asked me as he walked over to the bookshelf full of instruments. He picked up a flute and laid the case down on his desk before putting it all together. He then handed it to me and showed me where to put my fingers.

“Now you just want to blow over the hole, just like a bottle.” He explained.

I did as he said and a pretty toot came out of the metal stick in my hands. “Oh my gosh. I did it!” I smiled at him.

Mr. Taylor showed me the fingerings of a few notes before saying, “Move your fingers. I want to see what you do.” He said to me.

I did what he told me, and I created a pretty piece of music. The notes just flowed out of me and landed perfectly in the air.

“Oh my god, Calista, you are a prodigy.” He cheered as he grabbed a piece of music from his desk and held it up to me. “Just take it slow. Feel the music.”

I shrugged and started to play the music. After the first page, he looked at me and wouldn’t stop smiling. “Did I do it?”

“Yes, near perfectly. I don’t know how you did that. Are you sure you’ve never played flute before?” He asked me.

“No, I’m sure.” I said to him.

“Do you want to join marching band in the fall? We need all the people we can get and you are amazing. I don’t ask just any fifth grader to join.” He smiled.

“Marching band? I’m ten.” I reminded him.

“I know.” He chuckled. “That’s why I want you.”

“Okay.” I nodded.

Marching band was an entirely different ball game than sitting at a piano reading music. Everyone was way taller than me and everyone else seemed to know what they were doing when it came to actually moving their feet. But I got it soon enough and I was just as good as any other high schooler.

The years went by and I was finally a freshman. I had my own friends and I was selected as section leader of the flutes. Upperclassmen didn’t like me at the start of the season, but they seemed to warm up to me whenever they realized that I wasn’t mean and I just wanted to play music.

A lot of my time was about music. Mr. Taylor would take me to conventions and competitions where I would win money and scholarships. I spent a lot of time with Mr. Taylor, but he was more like a friend to me. He was the one I’d known the longest.

Also my freshman year, Jamie Morgan joined the band staff. He was twenty-six when I met him for the first time and something just clicked between us. We were inseparable.

Jamie helped out mostly with the saxophones, but he was also a very talented flute player as well, and I started taking private lessons from him, to continue to grow as a musician. Jamie was very encouraging and always knew how to make me feel better if I was upset. I grew a lot as a musician after meeting Jamie. Turns out, he really would really help me grow in other ways too.