Anyways, critiques, comments, suggestions, and the like are always welcome. Thanks for reading.
Tomorrow Does Not Exist - Part I
By: Joseph Dean
©2008.12.12
No one should ever let anyone tell him that his life is not as awful as he believes. For one might think poorly of his own existence, others would be too selfish to think that someone else might have a worse life than theirs. That is to what it all comes down – selfishness. People tend to think of themselves as selfless, but no amount of charity can overcome their own greed. Because people are not generous to be noble, they only put up the charade to get the attention they always crave. Humans feed off of greed. They cannot help it; it is in their genetic code.
But right now, I do not care about how the general population cannot be kind just for the sake of being kind. I only care about getting my brother to safety – away from them. Our lives have been one catastrophe after another since our mother passed away. It happened about five years ago. The time during which she was alive seems like a forgotten paradise compared to our living conditions today.
Her death was hardest on my brother Jacob. He was only seven at the time; he had no idea what was going on. One moment he was playing Pictionary with his mother, and the next he was watching her be lowered into the cold ground, never to draw out words again. Although I was only eleven, I had to watch out for him.
Our father started drinking and soon became an alcoholic as predicted. With each inebriated swallow of the foul substance, Connell Richards added maltreatment to his daily routine – not that it was a bad thing. He was never much of a father to begin with, and I prayed constantly for the days that he never bothered us. Those days when he even acknowledged our existences were horrible. Jacob would have to go to school with bruises, black eyes, and sometimes lacerations across his arms. I did whatever I could to protect him, only to receive the same rewards myself.
Living in a small town in Arkansas, where everyone knew everyone else, fleeing the household was not an option. We would only be able to reach the end of the street before someone had called Connell. He would always be waiting around the corner.
And even though we both hated her, Jacob and I were glad that Sharon showed up in his life. Meeting at a bar, of course, the two hit it off quickly and married a few weeks after. We both knew that they did not love each other in a holy sense; they were just in it for the sex. Marriage was just a smokescreen. When a man's wife is brutally murdered, it does not look good to be messing around aimlessly with some cheap blonde only a couple of months afterward.
That woman, though, was a devil. Sharon Shine was her name. Even the alliteration gave off the wrong vibe. Jacob suggested that she was a villain from a comic book. I had to agree.
Women are generally more terrified when they hear of abuse cases, but this one encouraged it. She hated us as much as we despised her. She would do anything to get us away just so she could be all over Connell as much as possible. It was sickening.
Years have passed since then, but I will never forget Jacob's twelfth birthday last year. I was sixteen and started doing odd jobs for the people on our street: cleaning out gutters, doing yard work, fixing their appliances when necessary. I had enough money to get him a cake and a cheap gift. He sat in the kitchen, alone, while I searched the cabinets for candles. I knew we had a few somewhere. "A few" was correct. I placed the three candles into the small cake and lit them.
I encouraged Jacob to make a wish. Even though we both realised that blindly hoping for things never worked, I wanted him to have some hope left in his body. I remember him closing his eyes so tightly, as if crushing his eyes with his eyelids would make the wish come true faster. He took in a deep breath and blew out the candles. The vanilla smoke rose as Jacob opened his eyes. He smiled and reached for the plastic butter knife to slice the cake.
"Eat as much of it as you want," I told him. He deserved it. I had wished that Connell understood the purpose of grocery shopping, but Jacob did not seem to mind that he had no ice cream to go with the cake. He was just glad to have what he did.
I handed him the small, unwrapped box that contained his present. His brown eyes widened as surprise took over his expression. I only smiled; laughter was too alien a concept for us both. I had given him a cheap pocketknife and made him promise to keep it on him at all times.
It was the first day in so many years that we both had a genuine feel of happiness. It was only natural that it was ruined completely a few seconds later. When we heard the truck doors slam, Jacob and I jumped in our seats. Luckily, the kitchen was near the back of the house. I thought we had enough time. We quickly tossed the remainder of the cake into the trash, platform-side-up, and added the small mess of paper plates, plastic utensils, and napkins with it.
The front door opened, and they walked into the house. We stood in the center of the kitchen, frozen, waiting for them to enter, but they never did. I heard Sharon squeal and sighed. They could not even wait to get to the bedroom. Jacob slowly moved toward the table to get his pocketknife, but the hardwood floor never failed and produced a loud creaking noise.
Sharon's yelps abruptly ended, and Connell came stomping into the kitchen. He saw Jacob standing by the table holding his gift.
"What the hell are you doing with that?" he demanded. He reached over and grasped it from him, leaving scratch marks on Jacob's palm from his sharp finger nails.
"Leave it alone," I said, trying to make it sound like a warning, but my voice wavered anyway. Connell laughed and threw it into his pocket. "It's his," I added, this time more stern.
He patted his pocket. "Mine now," he replied, laughing as if he had told some hilarious joke. Sharon joined him in amusement. He noticed the burnt candles on the table. Jacob must have overlooked them. "Candles? What are you celebrating?" he mocked. He knew damn well what day it was.
My eyes narrowed. I was not going to give him the opportunity to ridicule Jacob's birthday. Connell just walked over to me, gathered a fistful of my shirt, and pulled me up so that I had to stand on the tips of my toes. Our gazes met, and I imagined a hole in his forehead, burning through to his skull and puncturing his brain. With ease he tossed me back toward the kitchen table, which I met forcefully. His stare switched to Jacob, and I quickly jumped in front of him. I held my arms out in front of my brother, shielding him from Connell's reach. I shook my head and thought, Don't even.
Connell scoffed and walked off with Sharon attached to his arm. I heard their bedroom door slam – doors never shut softly there – and turned to my brother.
I sighed. "Are you okay, Jake?" I asked. He just nodded; all of the cheer had vanished completely from his face. His eyes showed a lost soul. The corners of his mouth turned down slightly. Why did that always happen? Every time I gave some purpose of life to him, it was violently taken away.
I should have just contacted social services the first time it happened. I know I should have, but I didn't. I was too scared at the time, afraid of what he would have done. I knew how those foster homes worked. Jacob and I would have been split up more than likely, and I was not going to abandon him. It was definitely time for a change, though. I could not stand having to put Jacob through the same daily cycle. Or maybe weekly cycle would be more correct.
To keep him safe, I planned to do whatever it took. Connell was not able to hear anything outside of his room at the moment (but we could hear everything inside, and it was enough to make us sick). I ushered Jacob into the room we shared and quietly ordered him to pick only a few of his belongings, clothes most importantly. I took out the suitcase hidden in our closet that I had obtained for exactly this purpose. I had Jacob put in his things first and then added only a couple of my own clothes.
Jacob zipped it shut as I fumbled around with the lighter in my pocket. I wanted to add arson to fleeing, to burn the house and all of its possessions, including the two snakes writhing around in human flesh. I recall a strange feeling of accomplishment while I imagined the flames biting away at their skin… charring their bones… boiling their blood.
"Grayson," Jacob whispered, snapping me out of my thoughts. I had to thank him; my thoughts were a horrid place to be. "We can't forget this," he said, holding out a picture frame. It was Mom, taken about a year before she died. She was sitting on a park bench, Jacob and I on each side of her. I nodded. Jacob unzipped the suitcase just enough to slide it in and then closed it.
"We'll go tonight," I told him, "while they are asleep." Jacob looked confused. "If we go now, someone will spot us. We won't be able to make it."
"Oh," he responded. Jacob was never one to talk much. I was not sure if it was because he was naturally shy, afraid of what his words might cause, or if it hurt too much because of the damage his vocal cords have taken over the past few years.
If she were alive, Mom would die just knowing what her former husband was capable of. I remember when she was still around, he was actually nice. The alcohol must have poisoned his brain more than any of us realised.
They finally fell asleep late that night, once again neglecting to offer any amount of food to us. Jacob sat quietly eating a sandwich I had snuck into the kitchen and made. The bread was stiff; cheese tasted like plastic; bologna was too spoiled to even consider using. He did not mind. Jacob just ate, knowing it was all that was available. I wish I could be more like him. It seems odd to be envious of a younger sibling, I know, but I always wanted more, complained about what we did not and could not have. Jacob never did. Maybe it was because I remember a time where we did have the things we wanted. He did not. He even told me one day that he could not remember anything from when Mom was alive. His memories had been beaten out of him.
"You need to stop doing that," Jacob told me that night. When I asked what he was meaning, he simply replied, "Basing everything on the fact that our father is not like others. I get it; he's abusive. Not a lot of other families are like ours. You don't have to keep mentioning it." I was taken aback by Jacob's sudden display of maturity.
"Whoa," I mumbled. "I'm sorry."
I could tell his smile was forced. "It's okay. You're just angry. I understand." Jacob had some wise words hidden behind those eyes for a twelve-year-old. Then again, drastic life changes tend to advance maturity in some people.
"Stay here," I told him. "I'm going to make sure it's safe." Jacob sat on the small twin bed, the only one in the room, that he slept on. Sure, the floor was excruciatingly painful to lie on, but I was not about to put my little brother there.
I quietly opened our door and stepped out into the hallway. After maneuvering the house at night for a few years, I had learned where to step to prevent the awakening noises from the floorboards. I glanced into the living room to see the television throwing random flashes of blue light when there was a scene change. The lights were off, and Connell and Sharon were dead to the world. As I continued into the kitchen to be sure the back door was unlocked, a few papers on the table caught my attention. They were receipts. One was a thank you note.
I held them up to the window so the moonlight would act as my lamp. Connell had made a "generous donation," the paper said, to a children's library in our town.
"What?" I mouthed the word. Thousands of dollars, the receipt reported. My jaw dropped. He had money – and loads of it. He had money, and we were still living in poverty. Why donate it to a library? I thought. The letter expressing gratitude explained it clearly.
"Dear Mr. Richards," it read. "We at the Children's South Library would like to extend our thanks for your generous contribution. As promised, a plaque will be displayed allowing our patrons to know exactly who was behind the new addition of books and materials."
I laid the papers back onto the table and shook my head. Another smokescreen, I assumed. Who would believe that a man who donated thousands of dollars to a children's library would harm his own kids? It was not charity. It was only for his benefit. I groaned quietly. I no longer cared. Let him keep his filthy money, I thought. We were to make our escape that night and start our own lives separate from his. No longer would he use us as his method to vent anger.
I went to tell Jacob that it was time to go, but I noticed a glimmer coming from the trash can. No, I thought. He could not have been that stupid. But sure enough, there it was. Jacob's pocketknife lay closed atop a pile of shredded papers and garbage. I pulled it out and dusted it off with my shirt.
The next day was going to be better. I just knew it. "Tomorrow," I told Jacob as we stood together by the back door, suitcase in hand, "is going to be better."
"Tomorrow?" he asked. "That soon?" I could pick up on his sarcasm.
"Not literally," I answered. "Tomorrow as in the future, a brighter, better future."
"Oh," Jacob replied. He shook his head. "In that case, tomorrow does not exist."
His words stung. Jacob Richards, the face of constant optimism, suddenly overcome with cynicism. I slowly opened the door and let him exit first. I took in a deep breath and followed, shutting the door slowly. Tomorrow had to exist. It was all we had to look forward to. Tomorrow did exist, and I was determined to prove it to him.
haha i find that quiet amusing.
I will review it later, but im going to the movies tonight, so i gotta go get ready heheh
