Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

EVEREST

“You deserve better than this, my sweet baby. You deserve the world. I can give that to you. Listen to the instructions, and I will come for you.”

My eyes pop open and I look around, all traces of sleep leaving me. Where did that come from? I know it’s my mystery voice, but what is it talking about? What instructions am I supposed to listen to? And I deserve better than what?

Was it the voice that woke me up? It’s still dark out, so it can’t be the early morning sun rays beaming into my window.

I get my answer as water drips onto my belly, the cold droplets sending a shiver up my spine. My roof is leaking again, rainwater dripping on my bed and soaking into my skin. Did it start raining in the night? Thunder cracks overhead so loudly that I jolt in my bed, rain now coming down on the roof hard and fast. Of course. I eye the bag I have taped over the crack in my ceiling, seeing it had come loose.

Sighing, I get up and rifle around in my nightstand drawer, looking for the tape to fix it. I wish I had duct tape to keep the bag more secure, but all I have is cheap scotch tape from the local Dollar Barn. After I locate it, I stand on my bed and tape the bag back over the crack.

I sit heavily back on my bed, then jump up when a loose bedspring pokes me in my left ass cheek. I’ve had this bed since I was twelve, and it’s practically falling apart.

Sitting down more gingerly, I put my head in my hands, wondering when I’ll have something better. Be somewhere better. Since I only have two thousand dollars saved up over the course of two years, it seems like I’ll be staying with my dad until I die. Or he has that heart attack I keep wishing on him, or he keels over from liver failure. It would be serious cosmic injustice if I die before he does.

I check the time on my phone: 6:15 am. The wind outside shakes the trailer, and a sudden fear hits that the storm will knock it over completely.

“I will take you away from here. As soon as you ask for me, I will be there.”

It’s a near thing that I don’t blurt out, ask how ? I want away from this place, this life. If a voice in my head can take me away, shouldn’t I ask?

Yeah, that’s likely to happen.

Groaning, I lie back down and try to get comfortable on my shitty mattress. I really am going crazy if I’m looking for someone that doesn’t exist to save me. I need to save myself. Waiting around for a savior will only keep me here forever. I just need to make a little more money and I can get away, far enough away that dad can’t get to me, not in his permanent drunken state.

It’s too early to get out of bed to make breakfast, but I’m wide awake and the bag above my bed looks like it won’t hold for long. I’m not too keen on getting drenched.

Even if I wanted to, the high winds outside rattling the trailer is making it hard to drop back off to sleep. Unable to ignore the angry gales, painful bedsprings, and cold drops of water dripping on my belly any longer, I move over to the pallet I made in the corner of my room out of several tattered blankets and sheets. It’s not much, but it’s warm and dry. Better than sleeping on rusted metal that can break skin and give me tetanus.

After getting comfortable on the floor, I reach under the pile of clean clothes I have in a crate beside my pallet and grab the battered notebook I keep hidden there, a mechanical pencil stored in the spirals. With the pencil poised over the paper, I think for a moment, then start sketching.

Since I was a kid, I wanted to draw. I saw the comic strips in the paper when I was five and knew that’s what I wanted to do when I grew up.

When I first started, I’d draw a strip or two with the same theme and characters, but then I’d get bored and move on to another character. But soon, my drawings turned from comic strips that were all over the place into full blown graphic novels that had one central hero with a fleshed out back story.

Who knows? Maybe they could lead to an opportunity in my future. I’m not quite sure what, but something. This could be my escape.

If only I were brave enough to let anyone see what I draw. I’ve never let a soul lay eyes on my sketches, for fear they’ll hate them and take away the only comfort I have in this world.

I was afraid the first few weeks after I finished my first full graphic novel that it would be discovered, but when my dad didn’t find it, I relaxed a little. Not enough to let anyone see, but enough that I wasn’t afraid he’d found my secret and kept drawing.

Since that first full book, I’ve drawn and written two others, working on my fourth now. One day, I dream to publish my own graphic novel or work with someone in illustrations. I have no training, but I have enough raw talent to at least get my foot in the door.

At least I think I do.

“You are so talented. I love seeing your work. How about we make it come to life? Would you like that?”

My hand slips and I drag my pencil, ripping through the paper. “Thanks a lot,” I mutter to the voice, hoping it senses how pissed I am.

I adjust the rip in the page back to its original position as best I can and keep drawing. The scene for this particular frame is what I should have done when my father attacked me yesterday—if I had the skill and strength.

This is his book after all.

Over the years, I’ve taken to making graphic novels that shows me being a braver man than I am, exacting revenge in the most brutal of ways. Each person that has wronged me has a book dedicated to them. I’ve saved my father for last. I’m not sure why.

When I draw my father, I exaggerate his features, making him look as grotesque as I possibly can, depicting how I really see him. He has boils all over his arms, some exploding as he stands in my doorway. His feet have pustules growing from them, wild hairs cropping from the top of a few. His face is an amalgamation of all kinds of creatures—spiders, snakes, a rodent and even a clown. All things I find disturbing, disgusting even. His body is bloated, as if overly inflated by a balloon pump. His clothes are always dirty and tattered, much like they are in real life.

As my father stands there threatening him, my character—who I call Nightshade—lashes out, punching my dad’s face just as he punched mine, making him collapse to the floor in a heap. As Nightshade stands over the twisted form of my evil father, he vows to end him if he raises his hands to him again.

Just as he would in real life, my illustrated father stands and charges towards Nightshade, but Nightshade is fast. He steps out of the way, and when my illustrated father runs into the wall, Nightshade thrusts his hand into his back, grabs his heart, and rips it from his body.

Nightshade stands over my father, a foot on his back, heart held high in triumph. Then he looks down at him, saying, “You should have heeded my warning. I make good on my promises.” For good measure, he stomps on his head—skull, blood and brain matter exploding everywhere.

I end the scene there, satisfied with what I accomplished. By the time I tuck my book away, it’s close to nine. I don’t have to work today, thankfully. On my days off, I go to the library and look up apartments for rent, job listings, and prices for buses out of town. I know I’m not going anywhere yet, but it’s nice to dream. I also read while I’m there, loving the quiet without the threat of a fist flying at my face.

After tucking my book away, I do a quick check of my money stash that’s packed safely away in my vent. I thumb through the cash, counting out two thousand three hundred and twelve dollars. It’s not enough to start a completely new life, but it’s better than nothing. I’ll add more to it with the tips I make in the next few days since all of my paycheck goes to the bills. I usually have nothing left as soon as my check is cashed.

Securing the money with a rubber band, I put it back in my secret spot.

I grab some clean clothes and take a quick shower. Once I’m clean and dressed, I pack up my backpack for my library trip. Then I head to the kitchen, cooking eggs and bacon for my dad when he wakes up at noon or later. If I don’t have food for him, I’ll have an ass whooping to look forward to, and I want my face to heal before Dad gives me another shiner.

The library is empty this early in the morning, but I don’t mind. I’m a permanent fixture here. The librarian raises a hand to me in a wave and I return it. We don’t say more than a handful of words to each other, but she’s kind to me and allows me to stay all day without bothering me or asking me if I need help with anything. It’s been a few years since I started using the library as my refuge. She’s been here longer than I’ve been alive and has given me space to be without asking me questions or looking down on me.

“Got some new graphic novels in. You might want to grab one before the kids rush in after school,” she says with a small smile.

I nod my thanks and do just that. I spend my morning reading the latest graphic novel in a series I’ve been enjoying. I’m glad this library has them—it’s the only way I can read them. I could never afford to buy as many as I read. I suspect the librarian started to request them after I asked so many times.

Bless that woman.

Just as I’m finishing up the last chapter of the second graphic novel I pulled off the shelf, my phone pings loudly in the silent building. I hustle to take it out of my pocket to turn it on vibrate so I don’t disturb anyone.

When I’ve turned the ringer off, I check to see who messaged me. It’s Danae, and I can’t stop smiling. It’s nice to have a friend.

Danae: Hey, Ev. What are you up to? Fancy grabbing a late lunch with me?

My eyebrows knit together. A late lunch. It can’t be that late. I look at the time and almost jump. It’s just after three. I’ve been sitting here with graphic novels for five hours. Not a bad way to spend the day, but I usually get more accomplished than this. I haven’t checked to see if anyone is hiring, priced apartments, or checked bus ticket prices.

Oh well, there’s always tomorrow.

Shifting back to the text, my fingers fly across my keyboard as I message her back.

Me: I’d love that. When and where?

Danae: There’s a small sandwich shop on Fifth Ave that I love. Can you meet me there in twenty?

Me: I’ll be there.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and shoulder my bag. I return the novels to their proper place, looking sorrowfully at the one I didn’t get to. The older librarian appears as if from thin air and says, “Why don’t you take that one?”

Shaking my head, I try to hand it to her. “I don’t have a library card.”

It’s stupid. As much time as I spend here, I never got one. But I figured if I didn’t have a card, I wouldn’t be tempted to check books out, and my dad wouldn’t trash them or rip them to shreds if he found them.

She waves me off, pushing past my outstretched hand with the book in it. “It’s okay. That’s actually a spare copy that was sent with the set we ordered. See?” I look over to where she’s pointing. There are two of every book already on the shelf. The one I have in my hand is the odd man out. Could it be? Could I have a book of my own?

“Oh,” I say, swallowing past an unexpected lump in my throat. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, dear. I’ll see you in a few days.” She moseys away and I smile at her back.

“I like her. I like that she is good to you. ”

Me too.

Danae is already at the restaurant when I arrive, two sandwiches on the table in front of her. “Hey,” she says jovially. “I hope you don’t mind I ordered for you. I took a wild guess at what you might like. If you hate it, I can order you another.”

“It’s fine.” I sit down and look at the sandwich. Regardless of what she ordered, I’m willing to eat it. I’ve never been picky about food.

When I lift the bread and see the condiments added, I raise an eyebrow. “How did you know I liked mustard and ranch on my sandwiches?”

She winks at me, biting into her sandwich. “Lucky guess,” she says around a full mouth. She swallows and places the sandwich back on the plate, lacing her hands together on the table. “So, how is everything?”

I shrug, taking a bite of my sandwich. It’s the first thing I’ve eaten all day and I’m grateful Danae paid. I get my check in a few days, but as of now, I only have enough money for the cheapest meal while I meander around town tomorrow. If I didn’t think my father would try to ruin my days off by beating me up for nothing, I’d hide out in my room and eat lunch there. But the past has shown me my father will attack me for any reason he deems offensive, including but not limited to being quiet in my room.

“It’s fine,” I tell her after I swallow and sip the lemonade she ordered for me. “Everything is good.”

Giving me a soft look, she covers my hand with hers. “If you need help, anything at all, just ask. Help is where you least expect it.”

An unbidden bitter laugh bursts from my throat. Her words remind me that the voice in my head has been offering me help for years. Now Danae is telling me help is in unexpected places. Maybe it’s a sign that I need to ask someone for assistance.

“Whenever you are ready, listen to the instructions and I’ll be there.”

I still have no idea what ‘listen to the instructions’ means, so I ignore it.

“Um, yeah,” I sputter, “I might need some help.” Danae nods, looking earnest as she grabs my hands. Maybe she’s my lifeline? I can’t say for sure, but I’m grabbing on with both hands. “I’m not sure how you would go about helping me. Or why you would want to. You hardly know me.”

“That means nothing,” she says seriously. “I’m always willing to help someone that needs it. Now, what do you need help with ?”

I swallow roughly, not believing I’m going to spill the beans to a practical stranger. Ducking my head so she doesn’t see the pitiful look on my face, I say, “It’s my dad. It’s Mitch. It’s… pretty much everyone. The people I went to school with, people I work with. I’m treated like trash everywhere I go.” I quickly wipe a lone tear that slides down my cheek without permission. “I just want someone that’s there for me. Someone that can help me feel less alone.”

“Oh sweetie,” Danae mutters. “I know just how you feel.”

I look up at her sharply. “You do?”

She nods. “Oh yeah. Big time. Before I met my boyfriend, I didn’t have anyone. Sure, I had casual acquaintances, but no real friends. Wanna know what I did?” Her eyes sparkle and as if in a daze, I nod robotically. “I asked the universe to send me my partner. The one that was meant for me.” I give her a look, and she laughs, patting my hand. “It sounds weird, I know, but it was quite simple. I had just gotten the shit kicked out of me by my ex-fiancé. I was in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror, wondering how I got myself in the situation I was in. My face was swollen and my nose was bleeding. I tried to make it stop, but it kept coming faster than I could wipe it. That’s when I broke down. I slid to the floor and cried, angry and sad that I had no escape.” Danae stops talking and pulls her lips in, as if he’s fighting back tears.

She’s only silent for another few seconds before she continues. “I had been praying, you know? Not like to God, but to anyone that could hear me. I was in a bad situation with my ex, but I wanted to find that one special man that the universe had to have for me. I knew he would be the one to save me. So through my tears, I repeated three times a chant I read about in this self-help book I was browsing through.”

For some reason, I lean forward, entranced by her story and what I think could be a way to get out of my current situation. “What did it say?” I ask before I give it much thought.

“It was a simple chant. ‘By the powers that be, send me the mate you made for me.”

“That’s it?”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s like my body went rigid, and my bloodied hand traced this intricate pattern on the floor. It’s all a haze, like wool over my eyes. Like my hand had a mind of its own.”

That’s not what I expected. At all. Is it some sort of blood magic? What the fuck am I thinking? There’s no such thing as blood magic. There’s no such thing as summoning the man that was meant for her. She just got lucky.

Trying to keep the disappointment from my voice, I ask, “And what did your perfect man do? Bust the door down?”

Her laughter is high and sweet. “Hardly.” She lets my hands go and bite into her sandwich again. “I met him in the hospital after I stabbed my ex.” I gawk at her, and she laughs again. “God, you’re too easy.” I smile shakily, though I’m not sure if she’s joking or not. “I did meet him in the hospital, but he was the emergency room doctor that helped me with my broken nose after I was able to sneak away from my ex. He gave me the card to a homeless shelter for domestic abuse survivors, and I went. He came to check on me the next day and we’ve been inseparable. He moved here when he got offered a new position, and it made it easier for me to start a new life without looking over my shoulder for my ex.”

I nod, riveted by her tale, even though it sounds a little fantastical. Not sure how it can help me in this piece of shit town. We have no homeless shelters, and if I go to the cops or the small clinic in town with my injuries, I know they’d just give me ice packs and send me home to my abuser. “I’m glad you got out of that situation,” I tell her earnestly. “I need to gather the courage to do the same. But not in this town. The people here are vile. If I could, I would have left by now, but I’m trapped.”

“Follow those instructions, and you should have what you need. It worked for me and I have the shittiest luck in the world.”

Alarm bells ring in my head when she says follow those instructions . Was that what she was giving me? Is that what the voice in my head meant by instructions? Are they instructions through Danae? But how?

For the first time since I can remember, the voice in my head doesn’t answer my inquiry. I’m not sure if I should take that as a yes or a no.

“Enough of that heavy shit,” Danae almost shouts, taking my hand again. “What do you have planned for tomorrow? Wanna hang at my place?”

“Will your boyfriend be home?”

“Possibly. He works twelve hours shifts, so if he’s home, he’ll be asleep.”

“Would I be imposing?”

She waves me away. “Hardly. He likes that I made a new friend in a town where I know only him. What do you say?”

“Yeah. Yes,” I amend. “I’ll hang out with you tomorrow.”

My heart is light as I walk home. The last time I was invited to someone’s home was when I was six, and it was a birthday party Joey Michaels invited the entire class to. Thinking about him puts a sour taste in my mouth, as Joey tormented me every day from when I was seven until we graduated high school and he went off to college.

I push the unwanted memories away so they don’t mar the great time I just had with Danae. After she asked me to hang out with her at her home, we talked about mundane things, and I got to know her. She’s from Florida, she’s my age—twenty-five—and she went to college to be a dental assistant. I ate up every morsel of information she told me, excited beyond belief I had someone to tell me about themselves.

I’m still smiling when I walk inside the trailer, but it slides off my face when I’m not greeted with the sight of my father on his recliner, beer in hand as he watches trash TV. In fact, the trailer is eerily silent. I frown at the strange turn of events but don’t think too hard about it. Maybe he’s in his room asleep. He rarely sleeps in his room, taking to napping and falling into a deep slumber on his favorite recliner. I let out a long breath, glad I can come inside without him pestering me about one thing or another.

I make my way to my bedroom, hoping to get more drawing done, this time of Joey. His book is finished, but I could add a few more frames, really give him a terrible end. The memory of how he treated me in school has my hand itching to give him a more creative death besides the original I drew.

When I push my bedroom door open, my stomach plummets to my feet. My room is ransacked and the vent is pulled up. My father sits on my bed, the can I keep my cash in beside him and my unfinished graphic novel with drawings of him in his weathered, swollen hands.

He looks at me with rage in his eyes, and I shrink back, pressing my body against the door. I should run—he’d never be able to catch me—but I’m frozen in shock and terror. “Is this supposed to be me, you little fuck?” He holds the book up and shakes it, showing me the drawing I made just this morning. “You want to rip my heart out?” He throws the book at me, and the spiraled edge catches me in the face. I hold my cheek and press myself harder against the door, hoping that hit will be enough and he’ll just leave.

“And you want to stomp my face in after you finish me off? After all I’ve done for you, you think about killing me?”

“Dad, no,” I mutter, holding my free hand up. “It’s just art. I don’t?—”

“And then you hide money from me! I’ve kept a roof over your head and food in your belly. How dare?—”

“How dare I what?” I finally explode. All the years he’s pretended he’s taken care of me and not the other way around bombard me, my temper rising. “How dare I try to leave this fucking place? How dare I want to get away from you? How dare I save my money to leave this fucking hellhole?”

“Fucking ungrateful bastard!” My dad roars and leaps off the bed. I turn to run away, but he has me by my hair before I can run more than a few steps and hits me so hard in my face, I see stars. “This will teach you not to talk to me like that!” He beats me worse than he ever has. I wish I had kept my mouth shut.

He knocks his elbow into my lips, and I feel them immediately swell. Gripping me by my shirt, he tosses me into my closet, breaking the flimsy door and causing all kinds of clothes and old boxes to come tumbling down on me.

Even then, he’s not done.

When I try to crawl out of the closet, to get away from the mess stifling me, he yanks me up by the front of my shirt and tosses me on my bed, bedsprings digging heavily into my back. Before I can catch my breath, he puts a knee against my throat. I struggle, trying to push him off, but he’s too big. I weigh only about one hundred and fifty pounds, where he’s probably closer to two hundred.

He’s going to kill me. He’s crushing my windpipe and I can’t get more than a thimbleful of air in. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision and everything starts to go hazy. My arms pinwheel around with less strength as his weight sinks into my throat, not able to gain purchase since my brain is being deprived of oxygen.

When I feel like I’m going to die—my heart making a valiant effort to keep me alive by beating frantically—my father lets off some of the pressure from my throat but doesn’t move his knee. I greedily drag in a lungful of air, trying to keep the coughing at bay so I can breathe.

“Now you listen here,” he growls, spittle flying on my forehead. “I don’t want to hear anything else about you wanting to leave. You remain here, understand? You are my son, and I’ll tell you when the fuck to leave!” He leans down and puts his face as close to mine as the knee at my throat will allow. “From now on, you empty your fucking pockets when you get home. You’re not going to hide any more money from me, got that? All those tips you get at that shitty diner belong in my wallet.”

I nod as I bite back a sob, and he moves his knee. But he’s still not done.

He pulls me off the bed—a bed spring tearing at my clothing and ripping my pants—and throws me to the floor. Before I can cover myself, he kicks me in the face. I wail, holding my busted nose and finally let the sobs break free. It’s no use holding them in. I’m hurting too badly to try to keep up the pretense.

Howling as loudly as I do does no good. Even if we had neighbors that gave a fuck, they wouldn’t come help me. No one comes to the rescue of this town’s queer kid. They don’t want to end up a pariah like me.

As if from far away, I watch my father lift his foot—having more balance than he should in his inebriated state—and bring it down once, twice, three times on my side. I cry out loud enough to alert the neighbors each time, feeling and hearing a sickening crack in my side after the third stomp. Pain radiates over my entire body and I’m frozen with pain.

My dad mutters something about money and good-for-nothing kids and snatches my can of life-saving funds from the bed. Then the sound of ripping paper fills the air, and the tatters of my graphic novel drop on me, drifting down over my prone body like freshly fallen snow.

When he staggers out, I turn on my side as much as I can without excruciating pain and grab the torn shreds, pulling them close to me. I can’t repair them, but I can cherish what I had.

With a shaky hand, I touch my nose tenderly and almost cry out again. I’m not sure if it’s broken, but it hurts like a bitch. Pulling my fingers away, I see blood and cry anew.

I’ll never escape. I’ll always be trapped. I’ll always be a victim of his abuse because I’m not strong enough to fight back.

I need help.

Sobbing with my torn drawings clutched to my chest, my ribs throbbing and a broken heart, I send a message out into the universe, hoping that somebody, anybody hears me. “By the powers that be,” I whimper, my tears and snot mingling with the blood dripping from my face, a cascade of mess displaying my hurt and pain, “send me the mate you made for me.” I repeat the line two more times, hoping it can at the very least give me strength, even if it doesn’t work for me as it did Danae.

Suddenly, as if on their own accord, my bloodied fingers trail over to the floor, drawing a pattern I couldn’t ever hope to replicate. I try to keep track of what it is, but like Danae says, it’s like wool is over not just my eyes but my mind as well. My brain fuzzes out and I’m panting, even though I’m merely lying on the floor. My head feels full, like it’s being stuffed with something . If I’m not careful, it’ll explode.

Pressure builds higher and higher in the back of my skull, and I clamp my teeth together to keep from screaming out in pain. Just when I think I can’t take it and the pressures intensity might kill me, the sound of glass breaking magnified by a thousand reverberates through my head. I raise my bloodied hands to my ears, trying to block out the noise. It’s no use, since it’s in my head—there’s no getting away from it.

It goes on for a few seconds then abruptly stops. I’m left panting and shivering, my head now feeling incredibly light, though the rest of my body feels heavy as a mountain.

When my ears stop ringing, words from my mystery voice drift through my mind, and I’m not sure if they are ominous or promising:

“Do not worry, baby. I am coming.”