The Leap

Running. Going as fast as I can as the world blurs past. I try going faster, but the factory in my brain will not produce the right thoughts and connect with my dirty, bare feet. Lungs feel like a balloon ready to pop, but I keep pushing. The jagged road digs deep in my feet, leaving a trail of crimson behind. I pray a car will drive by and take me away from this Hell I’ve called life for so long. The dying corn fields laugh as I slow down, wind pushing against me. The sun beats down bright on my back, burning through my insides. My mind races back to a few hours ago, when I decided this was a good idea.

I sat in the basement, my room, if you could call it that. I’ve been kept there since Mom died. No…since Mom was killed. A cold concrete prison with a dirty mattress, an old blue blanket, and a bucket to piss in. The crusted windows from all kinds of dirt and mud outside are barred. The only hope of escape was out the door at the top of the stairs. I was leaning against the wall, sitting on my mattress, staring at the blood on the floor only visible to me. The memories of what happened when I was nine are still fresh; digging deeper into my mind every day. All the torment I’ve had to bear since then. I could smell food in the kitchen. They would feed me soon. Today was as good as any other for an escape. I walked up the creaky wooden steps and waited for Lillian to open the door. Samuel was practicing the piano in the living room. Little footsteps tapped on the hard wood floor as my sister approached. The door opened. I didn’t hesitate. I shoved Lillian hard to the ground, and ran for my life. To freedom.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see two pairs of feet catching up. The next house is not for miles, but maybe I can keep ahead long enough for someone to see. Time slows down around me as the trees stay far away and the wind dwindles. Looking down, I stare at my feet and realize it is me that is slowing, not the world. I mentally yell for them to go faster. They are in the corners of my eyes. My life depends on going faster, but now I’m face first in the dirt. Little hands hold me down, excited and yelling. Years of living underground have made me weak. Although I’m older than both of them, they easily over power me.

“We got Thomas, Daddy!” They yell for the man I used to call father, Peter. He’s coming to retrieve me. Punish me.

My blood pumps as he approaches. The thumping of my veins overpowers all thought. Pupils dilate and the sweat comes, creating beads all over my skin. Fear erupts. They will not let me leave and live my life without fear. As my face presses harder into the earth, the gritty taste consumes me, making my mouth feel like cracked desert sand. Tears well up as the dust creeps deeper into my eyes. Still trying to escape, the little hands squeeze tighter, finger nails like claws cutting into my filthy skin. The spawns of my father laugh like this is all a game. Maybe to them it is, too far gone to realize what is happening. They were too young to remember what Peter did; he’s had all this time to mold their minds how he wants. The dirty worn brown work boots come closer and when they are almost on top of me, I stop struggling. Things get worse when I try to fight back. I should have never tried to run.

Rage emerges on Peter’s face. The red bubbles behind his skin. He thinks someday I’ll obey him, forget what he did. He wipes the sweat off his brow, pushing his long curly brown hair behind him. He spits in the dirt, thankfully not on me, and looks around to make sure no one can see the scene happening on the road in the middle of the day. No one was around though, they never were. Strong hands haul me up and half drag me back to the farm house they call home. The white paint is chipping, and the faded red shutters are falling off their hinges. Peter drags me up the creaky, uneven steps and inside. Lillian and Samuel follow close behind with looks of eagerness on their faces. Curiosity of what Peter plans for me creeps in as he drags me through the living room, over scuffed floors, past the basement door where I’m kept, and through the yellowing kitchen. Years of dirt and grime have taken its toll on the small secluded farm house. Peter opens the squeaky screen door and pushes me outside. The screen snaps shut and Lillian and Samuel are left to watch from inside.

“Stand against the wall.” Peter glares, the same look he gets every time he is about to hurt someone. He marches past me, heavy boots causing imprints in the dirt.

I know better than to disobey, so I stand on my bloody feet and wait. Peter pulls the green hose out of the cheap muddy swimming pool. I remember when I learned to swim in that pool, before the sides turned green and the good began to wash away. He points the hose at me. For a moment we stare into each other’s eyes. His brown ones almost look red in the sunlight.

“Turn it on.”

Glancing down, I stare at the rusting valve with water dripping out of it. I should have known he would want me to do it. He always finds ways to make me responsible for his actions. With a shaky hand I turn on the hose, I do it all the way, because if I don’t, I’ll pay for it later. He turns the multi-nozzle setting to full blast, answering my question as to why he bought the nozzle a few months ago, and pulls the trigger. The blast of the freezing water pushes me back. Numbing at first, the icy water pricks at my skin. Turning my face away, the water begins to sting like frozen daggers. The trembling begins in every limb. I wish the wall would move away from me. Peter steps closer, trying to get a noise out of me. Giggling begins inside the house, almost incoherent compared to the sound of water crashing into my skin and the side of the house. More paint is chipping off and falling to the earth.

“We need to clean the dirt off ya!” He smiles a toothy grin. A sinister grin. One that could chill a person to the bone. I grew used to it, but I despise that look and wish I could rip it off his sorry face.

The water keeps coming and after what feels like an eternity, he stops. Dizzy from the change, I fall down and sit in the mud. At least this was better than getting held down in the bath tub.

He said he needed to cleanse me of my sins all those years ago. Peter wasn’t exactly a religious man, but I knew what he meant. He wanted to make me change, cleanse me of what I knew, and make me see like Lillian and Samuel saw. He wanted me to forget what he did to my mother; pretend like none of it ever happened, and believe that she really left us. But I could never do that. My mother was the best thing that ever happened to me, and that bastard took her away.

He would hold me down in the bathtub until it felt like my lungs were going to explode and the water would rush in like a broken dam. A few times I felt close to death and I welcomed it, at least then I would see my mother again. I did not want to die though, not like her. One time I blacked out after being held down in the tub; the world started to leave me and I sank into nothingness. I thought I was dead, but then I woke up to Lillian and Samuel resuscitating me at Peter’s command. I felt my chest being slammed and air force its way into my lungs. I coughed up water over the grimy white tiles and saw the accomplished smiles of my siblings. I gasped for breath and saw a worried look in Peter’s eyes, but that didn’t last long. Soon enough he threw me back into the basement, but he has not tried to “cleanse me” since that day. Sometimes it feels like deep down, he actually still cares.

Shivering, I stare at the ground for a long time. Peter seems satisfied for now, so he nods to Lillian and Samuel to get me and put me back in the basement. We walk through the house and Lillian shoves me hard through the door, I almost fall, but catch myself on the wall. The clawed-up door slams hard behind me and I hear them lock it. So much for my big escape.

I walk down the wooden stairs, strip off my clothes and throw them in the clunky dryer. The one task they force me to take special care in is the laundry. The others rarely come down here; they throw their clothes down the stairs and I have to wash, dry, fold them, and put them in nice neat stacks by the door. If I mess anything up, I pay for it. I only own the one pair of clothes; a red short sleeve shirt and worn blue jeans. While my clothes dry, I wrap myself in my blue blanket, the only thing I have from life before. The only thing I have at all really. It is not as comforting as I wish it would be. It does not replace my mom, or take away the memories of life since that night. The shelf across the room is full of cleaning supplies; I pass a lot of my time spent here by cleaning the half basement from top to bottom. I’ve scrubbed the spot where Mom died so many times, but the blood never seems to fade.

As the clothes tumble, I rethink what exactly I’m doing here. A familiar thought crosses my mind, one that I refuse to give into. The thought of ending it all. It would be easy. There are cleaning supplies, electric wires, the washer and dryer, the stairs. I’ve thought about every single way possible to do it, but I can’t. Once I began to drink the bleach after the scrubbing where mom died failed again. Almost as soon as I swallowed, I made myself throw up. I refuse to let Peter win. I’m really not even sure that is letting him win, but it’s giving up, and that is something I never want to do. I don’t want to die here, not in a pathetic lump a few feet from where she died. I want to be free, be able to do what I want without worrying about Peter. That’s why I tried running today, I had to try. I don’t want to die, and as horrible as my life is, I’m afraid of death. I’ve been surviving for this long and I refuse to stop now.

The dryer stops and I get my clothes. My cold body welcomes the warmth. The washer and dryer are my savior. Water when they won’t give me any, and warmth for the cold nights. The basement becomes almost unbearable during winter. Snow covers the windows not letting any light peak through. I’ve gotten used to it, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve thought I was going to freeze to death, or go crazy, on a few occasions. Curling up on the stained mattress, I watch the light shine through the window and begin to fall asleep. After all these years, I thought I’d get used to the pipes dripping, but they still keep me up. As my eyes drift, I stare at the four wooden beams holding up the house. Some days the room feels so small, I think it’s going to collapse in on me.

When I wake up the world is black around me. Any evidence of sunlight has been replaced with shadows. I find my way to the stairs with blind eyes and go up the steps. Fumbling for the light switch, I find it and flip it up, the three hanging light bulbs fill the room with yellow light. I yawn. My stomach begins to growl. They never fed me today, not that I’m surprised. Walking back down the stairs, I turn on the washer to get some water to drink. Cupping my hands, I welcome the elixir. I walk back to the wall and lean against it. As normal as it was to be left down here without food or communication, something did not feel right. A little twinge was developing in the bottom of my stomach. Peter was furious, but all he did was spray me with a hose? I have gone through much worse for a lot less. He beats me for the littlest things; I thought he would cripple me for trying to run. No, something’s off tonight.

On more than one occasion I did not fold the clothes correctly. I thought I folded them all like I always had, but after Lillian and Samuel collected them, Peter came barreling down the creaky stairs. At the time, I had been lying on my mattress, but as soon as the old door opened, I shot up. Before I could get further from Peter, he had me by the throat up against the cold concrete wall.

“What does it take for ya to fold the damn clothes right?”

He threw me to the solid ground and kicked me in the stomach until I lost count. In between kicks I tried getting words out.

“I’m…sorry! I-I’ll do it…right…next…time!”

Peter gave me one more good kick to the ribs, then pulled my head up by my brown shaggy hair. “You’d better learn how to do things right around here boy.”

He released me not so gently and stomped back upstairs. The door slammed behind him, but I could still hear that giggling. The giggling that haunts me in my sleep. I crawled over to my mattress and stayed there for days; until the clothes were thrown down the stairs again. I made sure all the clothes were perfect the next time. Since that incident, I had incorrectly folded the clothes six times. I think Lillian and Samuel may be the contributors to these many mistakes.

I snap back into reality; just a daydream. Often, I think about what life would be like if I were free. It’s been almost seven years since mom was killed and every day the memories of freedom seem to slip further and further from my mind. I’m really not sure what life would be like. I’ve spent almost half my life in this basement. My daydreams turn into real dreams and soon I am waking up again. I can feel the warmth of the sun peeking through the window and onto my face.