Copyright © 2014 by Jack Parker

Cover and internal design © 2014 by Jack Parker

Hope to Escape

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No part of this book may be used or reproduced, in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locations is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

 

PROLOGUE

He wasn't allowed to go out, and he knew it; but he had reached that undeniable age when curiosity took precedence, and his mind craved experience. He had never been outside. Only glances – short, stolen glimpses really – from the window in Mother's bedroom let him know that the world out there spread far and wide; and looked much larger and brighter than the dark, dirty little existence he had been restricted to.

He wasn't actually permitted in Mother's bedroom, which had the only window with more than just a view of weathered brick walls; and he had paid for those rare peeks for many days afterward with bruises and swollen ears. Not that he had ever really noted such pains with any particular fright. Bruises, burns, bumps. Those were common enough to him.

He did know a little about the outside through television. Mother called it his babysitter. There were only three channels, but he learned a lot from hours of Sesame Street, infomercials and el Espanol telenovela. He figured out early on, though, not to speak to Mother in the language from el Espanol telenovela. It sounded like nonsense to her, she said, and she beat him for it. Mother's beatings gave him a clear grasp of right and wrong; and he understood only too well that he must have been doing wrong quite often.

One of these familiar beatings came after he had a chance peak at a sunset. He didn't really know what was making that sky – previously bright blue like Mother's favorite dress or deep black like her hair – this time turn shades of fantastic hues that he could not describe, because he had never seen them elsewhere. Well, elsewhere that was, until he discovered Mother's makeup drawer. Some of the colors that she put on her face reflected the colors that had been spread across the sky.

An innate sense of precaution kept him from prowling through the drawer until Mother went out for a long period of time. When she left, he selected the colors that best described the sunset he witnessed, and he used the makeup to recreate the view on paper towels from the kitchen.

Satisfied at capturing that wonderful aspect so that he could view it anytime he wanted, he imagined up more scenes, by smearing with his hands, spreading with blush brushes, producing details with eyeliner pencils. He kept those images in his shoebox, where he could get them out and stare at the bigger world for as long as he desired.

One day, Mother passed out in the bathroom. The fumes from the bathtub were too much for her this time. She hit her head, and she lay there for hours. He didn't really care. He didn't like her anyway, so he let her sleep in the bathroom, in an uncomfortable heap. With every passing hour, his courage grew, and the tiny little desire he had to venture outside became more of an idea. Then it developed into a plan; and finally, it turned into a resolution.

Of course, the door where mother had always gone in and out proved locked. It had always been locked on any occasions he had ever dared to try the doorknob. He felt determined now, though, so the lock might hinder him, but it couldn't stop him. He would find a way. The window in mother's bedroom should be a good place to start looking.

He peered out of it. Finally, he could see out without the fright of the consequences. The light glared in, blinding him momentarily. He'd never seen anything so bright, not even those snowy landscapes on the television made his eyes hurt and squint like this. After a while, his eyes adjusted and he saw a ramp of stairs beneath the window. It appeared quite a ways down, but it could be reached with a little effort. He just needed to get out of the window to get to it.

The pane didn't give when he pushed against it. It didn't go up, or down, or open like a door. So, finally, he got angry at it. He grabbed for something nearby with which to release his anger, and his fingers fell around one of Mother's shoes, the ones that the some of guys that came around called her "ball buster stilettos". He aimed the pointy edge at the window and hit it with all his might.

It cracked ever so slightly. After a moment of surprise, he quickly realized that he could break through the glass. Hitting it again and again with the stiletto made it crack a little more, but it made slow progress.

An inspiration welled up from somewhere in his brain. He ran to the closet by the stove in the kitchen to find something bigger, and quickly emerged with a long handled pot. His determination had escalated into a vital need now, so, without any pause or reflection of the consequences, he flung the pot at the window. This final blow happened to be just what he needed to shatter the glass.

Careful of the pointy glass fragments, because he did indeed know that bleeding wasn't good, he climbed onto the windowsill. Though he realized that the safest way would be to lower himself as close to the stairs as he could from the sill, the glass made that difficult, and he had waited long enough. So, after only a little hesitation, he jumped.

Like a cat, he landed on his feet, but the unevenness of the stairs threw off his balance, and he tumbled down a few of the steps until he caught himself. Glass stuck to his clothing, and punctured his palms. He squeezed his hands shut, and grimaced at his pain, but gathered himself up.

He made it outside. Astounded and amazed at what he took in, he turned in circles at the bottom of the stairs, too mesmerized to consider his next move. He was outside.

* * *

As he walked along the street, his curiosity drew him towards the faces of passersby. Their returning glances betrayed fleeting expressions of curious dismay and avoidance as they quickly averted their eyes from him. The looks were familiar. He saw them in the faces of the men that visited Mother. They noticed him, and then they turned away, preferring not to acknowledge him.

He didn't exactly care, and didn't want to be noticed. He associated being noticed with being beaten. It seemed better to be inconspicuous, safer and far less painful.

He walked all morning and could feel the warmth rising steadily in the air around him, like a tingly, almost burning feeling on his skin. Eventually, an aching in his feet broke through his awed wandering. He had worn the same shoes for the past two years, and they were tight now, very constricting. Each step shot stinging electric currents up his legs and made his toes numb.