Escape From Home
As the bus stopped and the passengers began filing out, Juan put on a big grin–a big goofy childish grin. He was totally enjoying his run-away adventure. I, on the other hand, was scared to death.
“How are we getting home from here?” I opened my new wallet and pulled out the twenty that Sandra had given me secretly. “We catch a cab…I don t want to get on another bus. My butt hurts,” I said while rubbing my backside.
“Yep, my butt hurts too,” Juan said while imitating my movements as we jumped in a cab.
In the elevator I pressed the button to the ninth floor. All of the old familiarity of this place came rushing back. It wasn t the same-but it was. I had to find a dry spot on the floor of the elevator. Urine was everywhere. Juan opted to stand in the middle of a puddle. There was also the unmistakable smell of malt liquor, the poor man s Champagne. The smell made me come close to vomiting.
I couldn t help but notice the writing and graffiti that was written all over the elevator walls. There was no street art on these walls, only gang symbols, curse words, ghetto poetry, and of course the listing of all the girls who gave it up CALL TAMIKA FOR FUN, IF ANYBODY WANT TO HAVE GOOD TIME CALL JACKIE.
I found myself making mental spelling corrections and wondering why these ghetto Plato authors didn t bother taking a few seconds to check spelling. The elevator would be repainted and the messages would go up as soon as the paint dried. There would be more misspelled words and more piss to cover them.
Juan s twisted face let me know that he felt that this place…our new home, was utterly disgusting. We both gave an exasperated sigh as we left the elevator and walked past the rat infested incinerator. Instinctively, I picked up a rock and tossed it down the hall close to the incinerator to give the rats a moment to clear a path.
Our oldest sister Regina answered the door. Her face showed that she had been crying. “Oh my God– can t believe it–we were so worried about you-thank God you re alright,” she managed to say in one breath.
“What do you mean worried?” I said in a frightened tone. “How did you know we left Chicago?”
She managed to control her sobs long enough to release a few sentences, “Your school called this morning when you didn t show up. Your father called and asked if we talked to you.”
“What time did he call?” I asked impatiently.
“Around ten.”
Regina,” I said urgently. “Where s Mom? He could be on his way here now. We got to—”
“Sebastian,” she interrupted. “He s already here. He got here around four. He just went across the street to get Momma from work.”
“Regina, we got to get out of here!” I began looking around. “If he finds us here he s going to kill me!”
“Calm down, I believe you. But where are you going to go where he can t find you?” She held my hand. “You know how he is he won t leave.”
I sat down, I was tired and I knew that I had no choice but to wait and to face him. Regina sat next to me and whispered, “I know what he did to you. Mom said that she would go to court to get you back if she had to.”
She was trying to comfort me. But I knew that he wouldn t let me go. Just as Regina finished her sentence, the front door opened. When I saw his face, any strength that I had left escaped me. I felt lifeless. Mom rushed over to me –tears already falling. She grabbed me and kissed me.
As she was hugging Juan, Daddy rushed over and grabbed me by the arm and jerked me into the air. He dragged me down the hallway. Mom started screaming something in the background. He opened the bathroom door and swung me in the bathroom as easily as if I were a rag doll. He turned and looked at my hysterical mother.
“I m just going to talk to him-that s all.” He said almost too calmly.
“No! You talk to him out here.” she demanded.
“I am going to talk to my son in private and there isn t a damn thing that you can do about it!” He said challengingly.
“If you touch him, so help me God, I will call the police and I don t give a damn what happens…do you understand me?”
Please visit my blog at: http://www.chris-in-asia.blogspot.com to read this short story and others.
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