Chapter 3
Down Hill from Here
I learned things can always get worse after that. But things can always get better when you have someone who cares about your well-being. I was proud of my accomplishments as small as they were. Dad had gotten me interested in woodworking and building models from fancy rustic cars to model airplanes. Not the snap together kind; but the kind that had lots of detail and pieces, having to paint and glue each individual piece. And the puzzles that would take me months to put together. Things were looking better and better.
Because of my hard work, I won several trophies in the Box Car Derby races in my region: first, second, and third. I also placed second place for my speech titled To Be an American. My Grandmother and foster parents were quite proud. Of course, my parents could careless; they didn't bother showing up and refused the invitation.
It was easier to make friends at school since I didn't have to leave abruptly so often, even in church and scouting. Before I knew it, the church ordained me a deacon, and I graduated from primary school. It was an incredibly happy moment when my Dad, not my father, confirmed me to become a Deacon. (Look it up at http://www.LDS.org to find out what that means.) Mom was so proud and threw a party in my honor. Even my Grandmother attended the party. This time, we didn't bother inviting my parents, knowing they would refuse the invitation.
I had learned to play the piano, which earned my music badge, while my Mom prepared a special solo concert with my friends and Grandmother in attendance. We served refreshments afterward, including my favorite, double chocolate chip cookies. They had set aside an extra plate just for me.
It was the only time I ever saw Jeff growl, as if I had done something wrong. Like I said, he was in out so much; it seemed like I was the only child. There were a few days where he barely said two words to me. He never treated me with cruelty. He always made sure to visit me whenever I did something wrong or was grounded, even when I was chained to the bed in my room. Because of my habit of running away when things were bad. I had only run away five times, and it was mostly when I had just started to live there. We would talk for hours as he tried to make me feel better, and we became close, remarkably close.
For the first time, I could recall that my birthday held significance and people celebrated it just like everyone else's. Instead of being given extra chores and dishes for a month and cursed for being born, as my actual parents put it. I received actual gifts. There was even a party with balloons, streamers, and a cake with my name on it. That was an unfamiliar experience for me. My grandparents were the only ones that had ever given me presents until now.
Mom gave me a hamster, and I named her Buttercup; she had this problem of escaping her cage like me in a way. The funny thing was we always found her as my Mom kissed her on the head and placed her back into her cage. My dad presented me with a kitten. For some reason, Buttercup didn't like him.
Things were good. The State confirmed that things at home were improving and reinstated home visits. Scouting was an important thing in my life at the time. I was always trying to make them proud. I had earned twenty-one merit badges and my Arrow of Light. Despite my efforts, I couldn't reach Eagle, as I needed twelve more. The wind shifted; trouble was coming.
I will never forget that day. Dad and Mom went out of town on a business trip leaving Jeff to watch over me while they were gone. They have learned to trust me and take care of myself and get up and go to school on my own. If I did my chores, and my homework was done. When my parents were away, they prohibited me from letting my friends in the house, but I could still play with them when they came over.
When Jeff went to work, I was to check in with the neighbors next door and they would randomly check on me, making sure I was all right. Dad trusted me, but I still had to promise I wouldn't run away while they were gone. They informed me that if anything occurred, he would be aware, and he would administer severe discipline. I knew he meant it and if I were good, we would do something special the next weekend. Just me and him and Jeff. If he could get work off, if not it would be just us two.
I always looked forward to those special weekends as we went camping and fishing. Even though I hated fish, I was learning not to fear them as they wiggled on the line. We always caught more than our share. I hated gutting them the most and the thought of killing them always gave me nightmares, but Dad had a saying. Dad always said, 'God created the world and put fish in it for us to eat, just like the meat on our table.'
It still seemed to bother me, but I loved meat as much as the next kid. Mom was an excellent cook and so was Dad; compared to my parents who could not hold a candle to them. Swimming was also great as we raced back and forth in the pond. Very few times would I beat Jeff or my Dad as we raced. And I was learning not to be embarrassed to take my shirt off to swim or when I was out in public riding my bike or working in the yard on scorching summer days; since the bruises on my chest and back had healed considerably, and I was becoming tan from working and playing in the sun.
In some ways, I had come a long way from the Eskimo suit I used to wear, but I still had a tough time with my boyish modesty. That Mom and Dad would make me take off my shirt and run around in only a pair of shorts, on nice and extremely hot days. I was getting better at it the longer I did it but had a hard problem reverting back when it came back from home visits. As time went on, the battle wasn't nearly as bad once I realized why my parents did it, which was to cover up the bruises they would give me. Mom and Dad always knew when I covered up again that I was hiding them, and once more would fight me to let them see. It took a long time to trust them, but when I learned they loved me and didn't find my body a freak of nature. My parents were losing a foothold when it came to putting me back into my Eskimo suit and be a normal happy boy. That only angered them more, if that was even possible.
Yes, sir, I had planned to be as good as gold, to earn that special time with him. I was true to my word after they left and did all my chores and made sure my homework was done. I went the entire day and into the next with no signs of Jeff and was getting worried. He didn't even bother to say goodbye as they had left the driveway.
I remember the crisp autumn wind rustling through the trees, creating a symphony of whispers as I joyfully frolicked in the colorful pile of leaves, I had meticulously raked. The sound of the front door slamming shut reached my ears, but I dismissed it, assuming it was just the neighbors checking up on me. Oblivious to any potential danger, I immersed myself in the playful chaos of the leaves.
Minutes passed, and the absence of my neighbors or my brother, Jeff, filled me with an uneasy sensation. Something felt amiss, and an eerie premonition compelled me to venture back inside the house. As I cautiously stepped through the threshold, a haunting silence enveloped me, save for a faint sound emanating from Jeff's room down the hallway. Relief washed over me, as I despised the solitude of an empty house, which often stirred a sense of unease within me. Those strange noises, whispers in the dark, made me believe that unseen eyes were fixated on me. Yet, whenever I turned around, there was no one to be found.
With trepidation, I made my way towards Jeff's room. The door creaked open, and in that split second, a deafening blast shattered the air. My heart froze as I witnessed Jeff's lifeless body crumple to the floor. Time seemed to stand still as I gazed into his cold, vacant eyes and noticed the gun lying beside him, staining the floor with a pool of crimson. Paralyzed by shock, I couldn't move, my eyes transfixed by the horrifying scene before me.
Suddenly, my neighbor burst into the room, his face etched with concern, and swiftly carried me away from the traumatic sight. I stood there, stunned and trembling, as fear consumed me, seeking solace in the comforting embrace of my neighbor's arms, while we awaited the arrival of the authorities. The weight of the moment rendered me speechless; I couldn't find my voice to scream or cry, only the memory of the overwhelming shock etched deep within me.
That night, I sought refuge in my neighbor's home, as my parents hastily made their way back. I remember their faces contorted with anger, as if blaming me for the horrific events that unfolded. Perhaps, in their eyes, it was my fault. They barred me from ever setting foot in that house again, not even granting me the chance to apologize. I felt abandoned, bewildered, left to wonder what I had done wrong as they rejected me with disdain. Their eyes held nothing but resentment and disappointment, and for the first time, I pleaded for their forgiveness, tears streaming down my face. But their harsh words echoed in my ears, questioning why I hadn't stopped him, how I had betrayed their trust. Soon after, my caseworker arrived, taking me away from the only family I believed loved me. I sobbed relentlessly, convinced that nobody wanted me, that I was nothing more than discarded refuse, unworthy of love.
Knowing going home was not a possibility, just the mere thought of me going home back to my parents' house and living there. Jeff's death was just one more thing my parents would hang over my head, and it did for a very long time. The words echoed in my mind. 'You murdered him. It was all your fault. You are nothing; you are trash. Why would somebody love you? You will always be a disappointment.' It put such fear in me having those words flung at me over and over. I would rather die than go home where my father could beat me repeatedly and my mother wasn't any better.
I clearly remember the cold nights when I was younger being placed into a cage that my father built on the porch just so they didn't have to look at me. With barely a blanket and my small clothes to keep me warm as I shivered in the cold. They used a large tarp to cover the cage and poked me with a sharp stick to keep me quiet, muffling my cries, sometimes to keep me quiet. They would stuff a rancid dishrag in my mouth and cover it with duct tape.
Sometimes they would leave me in some abandoned field to fend for myself or until some stranger took pity on me. Thinking I was homeless because of my worn-out rags as they hung loosely around me; barefoot and dirty from head to toe. Or leave me in a store as I played with the toys or forget me altogether in the hands of the daycare personnel. No, to say I was a wanted child would not come close. I was a nobody, a disappointment to everyone, and now a murderer. How could anyone love me after that?