Chapter 30
Dark Secret
Part 1
It had been nearly an hour before Mr. and Mrs. Rothwell open the door as I laid there on the bed, staring at the bare white ceiling. It was either that or watch Jeff pace. I was arguing with him in my mind. Which was nothing new to us because of our strange connection, as I stated before; I didn't need to see him to know he was there with me, I didn't need to see his lips move or hear his voice aloud. It seemed almost natural to have two people in the same mind,
Yes, I know how crazy that sounds and how unbelievable it can be for people to believe what they can not see, taste or feel. It was just what it was; a curse for him or gift from God or curse for both of us; as I try once more to put the guilt of his death behind me. I have my doubts that I will ever forgive myself for his death. I don't care if people think I am crazy, stating that I had an imaginary friend syndrome or split personality. Some doctors would diagnose it as The Three Faces of Eve and Sibyl later objected by Sigmund Freud. The truth be told; I needed him, and he was there for me when no one else was.
We were arguing about me running away and finding a way to contact Reggie in Arizona and have him fly me across the Canada border. Each plan I came up with had risks, but right now I'd fight my way through a hoard of hungry zombies just to be in Ma and Pa's arms. Each time I came up with a solution Jeff shot holes in it. Saying it was best to find out what was truly is going on in this home. Everything seemed to be laced with dark secrets. It was those secrets I had to wish we had left alone and taken the risks. I wasn't worried about how to survive on the streets; I have mastered it long ago since I was almost seven. And I knew I could do it again. If there was a person or persons I could bet on when the chips were down; it was me and Jeff.
Mr. and Mrs. The Rothwells quietly closed the door so they wouldn't be disturbed. They could easily see I had been crying as I wiped my nose and tears with the sleeve of my shirt. I knew if I was with the Steeds and the Downing or even perhaps the Frys. They would have put me in their arms and comforted me. But they weren't, and they didn't so much as offer any kind of affection. Instead, I felt cold and abandon. If it wasn't for Jeff being in the room keeping warm caring thoughts trying to lift the agony I was feeling. I don't know what I would have done. I don't want to think about what I would have done. Suicide might have been my first choice. I considered grabbing a kitchen knife and opening a vein, just to feel anything, as I sensed my life force being drained from me. I wanted to laugh, thinking how my crimson blood would stain these carpets; to state my existences clearly in my blood.
They took every precaution to prevent me from escaping. I watched as Mr. Rothwell checked and securely locked the window using a key, the metallic click echoing through the room. Looking at it, I noticed the thick, impenetrable safety glass, its translucency giving off an eerie reflection.
The room itself was devoid of any objects, the bare walls surrounding me. They had made it soundproof, assuring me that even if I screamed to my heart's desire, no one would hear me. The silence was suffocating, the absence of any sound amplifying my isolation.
I knew they were only doing this to ensure my safety, but it felt like a prison. They never left me alone, except for the time being in this room, until they made "other arrangements." The thought of those arrangements sent a shiver down my spine, instinctively making me want to run away.
I had gathered some information about Mr. Rothwell, learning that he worked long hours as a state prison guard for hardened criminals. It made me wonder if he applied those skills at home, dealing with difficult and disobedient children like me. Just the thought of it gave me goosebumps.
Physically, he was intimidating, towering over me like a muscle builder. His light brown hair and bluish-green eyes lacked the warmth that my Pa's had. Instead, they were cold and unfeeling, giving me a sense of unease whenever he was around. His wife was a stay-at-home mom working as a secretary, filling out bills for clients; so she could be home raising her children and running the day-to-day household. From the beginning, they made it clear that they would not tolerate any bad behavior. They expected obedience here, and at school, church, and more so if we were in public. I wasn't sure what to make of her; I kept getting mixed signals as if she couldn't decide what side of the fence she was on, but I knew without a doubt that Mr. Rothwell scared the hell right out of me; more so than his wife.
The church was number one of all things that had to be obeyed or there would be severe consequences. They had arranged a meeting with their Bishop the following Sunday, and if I had any sin that I hadn't confessed to, now would be a good time to do so. I ask you what kind of sin would I have to confess to? After all, I was 14 and lived a clean and responsible life. Most people considered me a good and bright kid.
The things that brought me down and made me question my biggest sins at heart were. Killing Jeff, being a master of running away? It has been over two and a half years since I actually went to church. What was I going to say? The last time I was inside a church was when I was being held as a prisoner by my father, so he could get away with beating me to death.
Somehow, I couldn't wrap my head around it that nobody believes me; I am not a liar or known felon or a drug addict. So really, what is it I have done wrong that I need to repent for and be forgiven? Heck, I didn't even have girl trouble considering I had never kissed a girl except for Ma and my two sisters Julie and Anna, but I hardly think that counts, I felt confused and alone as I tried to rattle my brain of what sins I had committed against God.
My silence suggested that I needed to repent as Mr. Rothwell grabbed me by my hair and held my head back as he looked into my eyes. Calling me a filthy liar, I was a blight on society and a murderer. Then threw me down on the floor onto my knees, yelling for me to submit in prayer every single deed he found repulsive before him and God; Stating he has read all my crimes against God, and I shall repent of every sinful deed. Spitting in my face as if I was scum; stating my true obedience begins now. I knew that any chance of a rescue wasn't in my near future. I couldn't believe that there are people worse than my parents, as I spent the next three and a half years in total terror. Throughout those three years, the unpredictable nature of things became the norm. Despite occasionally feeling afraid, I couldn't deny that I had fallen deeply in love with them during that period. While it was possible to love, hate, and fear them all at once, that was not the prevailing sentiment at that time.
Jeff was indeed sorry for shooting down my ideas, as I spent most of my time locked in this room. They only allowed me a fifteen-minute bathroom break every four hours, and they told me I had better pray to God if I don't use this time wisely or face the consequences. Twice I couldn't hold it during the night as I waited to use the bathroom, ending up peeing my pants.
It was even worse when I experienced diarrhea from all the health food I had to eat. Rothwell stating angrily that my insides were filthy, and she was cleaning the filth from the inside out. While she scrubbed my skin raw, bathing me like a small child with a coarse brush made for horses or a hard tile floor. I had no dignity in the home as she had me strip in front of her. I never felt so humiliated as she compared me to a dirty, filthy boy. Watching me cry as I try to cover up; which earned a slap across the face. Ma never treated me like this when I needed help because of my injuries. She was caring and understanding, not cruel. She would never ridicule me or tried to embarrass me. Even Mrs. Steed and her husband never treated me this unkindly.
Unless someone asked me a question at the dinner table, I seldom saw anyone or could say anything. I was to remain silent unless I was told I could speak; another rule I had learned the hard way. Taking to task quickly while he ushered me to my room for punishment. While Mr. Rothwell bent me over the bed stripped me to the waist as he whipped me with his belt until I had learned my lesson. Then lead back to the dinner table. Nobody said anything as the tears run down my cheeks.
"Stop crying!" The sound of Mr. Rothwell's voice echoed throughout the room, startling me and rendering me unable to utter a word. As Mr. Rothwell's hand came towards me, I could hear the anger in his voice as he threatened, "I'll give you something to cry about, just you wait." As he filled his plate with food, he chuckled and jokingly called me a big baby. And in the same gruff voice gave the blessing as he quickly grabbed my hand as I watched as they all took hands around the table as he said the prayer, squeezing tightly making me feel that my hand was being crushed in a vice before he let go ending the prayer. If I had a prayer in me, I would ask that God would strike him down. Right here and right now; but as usual, God was silent.
It was there at the table. On my first night, I discovered another lie when they introduced me to the other foster boy. Remembering what Mrs. Rothwell said about them, stating they were staying at a friend's house over the weekend. Apparently, there were two I had learned, but they sent him away a few weeks ago to a boy's home according to Mr. Rothwell, which was another lie. Hoping my social worker hadn't noticed it. I was wondering what really happened to the boy. Each person had assigned seats at the table for the meal. Mine was always against the far wall and right next to Mr. Rothwell where he could deal punishments as he felt I had earned.
I noticed the boy sitting across from me, Arthur Millet, sixteen years old, two years older than me. His uncombed brown hair hung straight around his face as he briefly glanced at me with his piercing blue eyes. The moment I laid eyes on him, a sense of unease washed over me. I immediately suspected he might have a mental disability, although I couldn't be entirely certain, but his wild eyes showed clearly that something wasn't right with him.
The clothing he wore was so worn and loose that it could easily be mistaken for rags. He used a small rope as a belt and his jeans had holes in the knees and pockets. Although they almost swallowed him, one could still consider them clean. There were no buttons, no sleeves, and no shirt underneath; Scars marked his chest and arms, evidence of a past filled with danger and resilience.
The oppressive heat inside the house had me wishing I had dressed more comfortably. As I observed the other boys at the table, I couldn't help but notice how they kept wiping the sweat off their faces, suggesting that they were also experiencing the same discomfort. Arthur's red skin from the coarse brush caught my attention, suggesting that someone had also bathed him like me. I had serious doubts that Mrs. Rothwell and her husband mistreated him, but their strictness was unmistakable.
Arthur was skinny with a long stride when he walked; he wore size twelve shoes when he was allowed to wear them. Like me, they didn't allow us to have any shoes in the house or outside to prevent us from running away. It didn't bother me, considering I hated shoes in the first place, but I wasn't about to tell them that, not that it mattered noticing everyone else was barefoot except Mr. Rothwell. Apparently, the same rules applied to shoes in this house as in the others I had visited, with the exception of my parents' home. According to my parents, we boys would be considered sinful for doing so. Standing in the corner of the room, Jeff silently acknowledged that it was for the best that I didn't mention it. He was also another secret I had left out, not that they would have believed me like most people.
I quickly learned what to divulge and what not to mention. Mr. Rothwell asked point-blank if I still saw my "Dead Friend?" Laughing as if it was the biggest joke he had ever heard. I said. "It had been years since I had seen him," taking a risk that my file didn't elaborate on it or provide details. No, going barefoot wouldn't stop me from running away, and I chose to hold that card until the opportunity arose.
Arthur didn't dare look up nor at the other people around the table. No one spoke to him as they would soon not speak to me; as soon as having the new toy or plaything wore off. I soon learned quickly that in their eyes we were nothing but scum or worse and would be for some time. Unlike their other children, we were denied the same rights and privileges. We were bred for hard labor, our identity stripped away, becoming nothing more than "mule boys." During that time, we were known by that specific name given to us by the Rothwells.
It was my new name "Mule Boy" as they would say as it if the words tasted bad in their mouth. Despite it was the name they had given us. Mr. Rothwell refused to call me EJ instead he would either call me Eric, which sounds more like Earick. Stating it's my given birth name. Regardless of how fondly I felt about my parents. I dishonor them, which is a sin. Stating it is breaking one of the Ten Commandments of God. "Honor your father and your mother." I was then told I was to call him Dad and his wife Mom or Mother. In honor of them being my new parents according to the laws of the State.
I wanted to spit on their very name but thought better of it. I wasn't permitted to serve myself food from the table like everyone else except Arthur. If I even tried it, I earned another slap while he yelled at me to keep my filthy, sinful hands to myself; then calmly filled my plate and Arthur's plate after everyone had filled theirs. Giving each of us a tiny portion compared to the rest of the family; even though there was plenty to go around and still have leftovers.
Our portion was so small that it left my stomach growling almost empty; to say I had lost weight was certainly true. After a month, my clothes hung on me as Arthur's did. I was so scrawny I looked like a seventy-year-old man with nothing but skin and bones. The lunch ladies at school always gave me double portions from time to time. Providing I could keep the food down.
I stayed locked in my room for the rest of the night until it was time for evening family prayer, as everyone prepared for bed. Dad, as he would like me to refer to me call him against my better judgment in what a true father truly was, never made the mark in my book alongside my father until he truly deserved it. Instead, the word Dad had a real bitter taste, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. Yet he was the one that demands everyone's undivided attention as he says the prayer, squeezing my already sore hand from his display at the dinner table. Again, I prayed in my heart that God would strike him down. But nothing happened as I peeked under my eyelids.
My new mother or Mom, I still hadn't quite decided where she fit in. Sometimes I would glimpse kindness and like a snap of the fingers, it would turn to cruelty as if she fought a battle from within. They say the devil tries to turn a person's soul from good to evil when they are at their weakest moment. I had little doubt that being forced to pray, morning noon and night regardless of if you bare your very soul; counted as a real prayer that God would want to hear.
I call it going through the motions achieving nothing in the sight of God. Jeff said to me as he observed what was really going on in this home hidden so well in secret. That in truth they are not fooling anyone and especially God. In time I will have my justice as Jeff is my witness will hide no longer the atrocities that I had suffered. There will come a time when the world will know the true evil that I have faced and the ones that caused it will face hell itself in this world and the next.
I surely hope it had something to do with my writing as the world reads my life story, either online or from a book on the shelves. Many will think it is fabrication because they refuse to believe people are not capable of this type of cruelty and can get away with it. Others will feel and see the truth because they will believe and have seen the true hearts of men.
The next days seemed better as the routine became a habit. Every morning, I would rise at four o'clock sharp, where Mrs. Rothwell would roughly bath me and embarrass me in any manner she chose. Commenting on how small and dainty my penis was. I made the mistake of telling her I was more than capable of bathing myself and stop treating me like a child. She brutally beat me with the brush, calling me nothing but filthy, sinful boy that doesn't know from one end of the soap to the other; nearly drowning me when she held my head under the water. Every time she brought me up for air, I coughed water out of my lungs.
After that, they would accompany me back to my room, the towel clinging to my waist. I took small comfort because it was better than going naked, and because most of the family consisted mainly of boys, and they didn't care about it. I knew my parent's home would view it as a sin. Mr. Rothwell took control of the situation, exuding an air of unquestionable authority. His wife, standing by his side, was a formidable presence in her own right. On my knees, they demanded that I pray for forgiveness, going through a detailed account of every alleged transgression.
I joined the rest of the boys in the living room for breakfast, all of us casually clad in our boxers. We formed a circle, our hands joining, and began our family prayer. This place has erased my parents' modesty and what society deems as immoral behavior, but their cruelty lingers, unmistakable in the haunting eyes of their children. The fact that all the boys, me included, were only wearing our boxers instead of sweating through the night was a small blessing that we all appreciated. Little did I know it was normal or routine, so I played along, slowly grasping the rules with each passing day.
One of their boys would read a chapter of scripture, and Jody would lead us in a church hymn while Kerry played the piano. Soon after, everyone excused themselves and either work on their own projects or prepare for summer work. It was the first time I had seen Arthur since morning prayers as he sat on the floor in the kitchen dressed in tattered shorts and wearing a vest made of sackcloth and leather with no buttons or sleeves.
The scene unfolded before me as Shawn angrily tossed a plastic bucket and a coarse brush, causing soapy water to splatter onto Arthur's bare feet. In that fleeting moment, our gazes intertwined, and I caught the faint sound of his slurred speech, foretelling the forthcoming unveiling of yet another hidden secret. Shawn gestured towards the kitchen floor, proudly declaring it a "Mule Boy scrub," a testament to the hard work put into its spotless condition. The scenes before me transported me back in time to the era of slavery, and my eyes struggled to comprehend them.
Without a doubt, I knew I would join him sooner than later as they took me to my room again and locked me in once more. I made the mistake of setting them aside on the dresser when my so-called Dad entered the room. Apparently, I was supposed to be reading them on my own. He grabbed me by my hair, making me sit on the floor while he towered over me. Asking me with a low, hateful growl if I knew how to read, or was I too stupid like Arthur?
I responded with a "yes sir, I know how to read," earning another slap across the face for not saying it in a polite manner to his liking. He then grabbed the first book, showing the page he wanted me to read. He ordered me to read it out loud, which resulted in me reading for a full hour.
I emphasized to him my commitment to spending an hour each day reading aloud until he became convinced of my reading skills. He too slurred the name mule boy as he brought in a sackcloth and leather, the same material as the other boy Arthur was wearing. However, this one hadn't been sized or sewn together with thick, coarse thread that looked like more than strings of leather shavings. Apparently, he intended for me to make my vest. Stating that I was correct, giving reasons to provide me humility for all my sinful ways.
Mr. Rothwell briefly shown me the lines to be sown, taking a measuring tape and roughly and cruelly measured me. Draping the crude vest over my bare shoulders, he had then taken his cutting knife and cut the length he felt that would fit. Handing me a needle made of hardening bone with an enormous eye drilled through it. I had only seen one of these in books among Indian tribes when making clothes. It was the hardest sewing I had ever done in my entire life.
The bone needle had to be pushed hard, making my fingers bleed and my blood made it slippery to pull the thread through. Several times I had to wipe the blood on my pants, earning a slap if any of my blood ended up on the carpet. He would degrade me for being slow and worthless as I stumbled through missing the dotted line or not making the stitch straight. Yelling at me as he kicked me if I could do anything right or was, I going to be taught like a little worthless child? To perform such a straightforward task, connecting the dots with needle and thread.
He called me such foul names. They displayed such vile cruelty that it would have horrified Aunty M, and the sound of it would have been unbearable to her. The moment my father Jim and Mr. Rothwell met, I could already envision their instant bond forming, thanks to their equal measures of cruelty, meanness, and foul language.