11
Haven
Ican imaginewhy no one understands where I'm coming from. How could anyone when they’re not living my life? Until someone has walked a mile in my shoes, no one could believe the special kind of hell I live through.
I shouldn't have to feel guilty for what Dad and Mom have done, but I do. I'm not like them—like the people they have become. I'm breaking inside. Every day I must endure their pretentious behavior, I feel like I'm on a boat with no paddles, drifting farther and farther away, waving goodbye while they're shouting for me to come back.
I'm just done. I can't do this anymore. By law, I can't be on my own yet, but legally, Dad didn't earn the money he has, so why not follow in his footsteps and break a few rules. Let them freak out when they come looking for me tomorrow and find out I'm not home. Let them try to call the cell phone they gave me and discover that it has taken up a permanent spot beneath my underwear in my top drawer. Let them feel remorse when they realize they've pushed me away by neglecting my feelings and needs one time too many. I’m no longer the child they think I still am, theirs to manipulate as they wish. I've been forced to grow up faster than I should have, keeping secrets and watching every word I say around others. They did this to me. They stole my innocence and my life in general.Screw them.
"Haven, you're actually staying here tonight?” Raine asks, standing a few feet away, ready to leave.
"I am, and I'll be okay," I assure him.
I can't see any particular look in his eyes since the darkness has set in quickly, but I hear the hesitation in his voice. I don't need him to stay. I don't need him to worry. I don't need sympathy or anything of the sort. This is something I need to do for me. I need to know I'm not a prisoner of that house, of my family.
"You're going to be cold, sleeping near the water. The mosquitos are going to swarm you, and you're going to wake up wet, and itchy as hell," he continues.
"I'll live," I tell him. I used to go camping all the time. We couldn't afford vacations or getaways back before my family turned criminal, so we went camping at Driskill Mountain. It was the most fun I had every year. We went with friends, and all we did was swim, eat, and hike. I loved it. I miss it. I miss the family I once had. Looking back, those people seem like strangers compared to the ones I live with today.
“Okay, then,” Raine makes his way across the dock and slowly up the hill into the darkness without much of a goodbye.Obviously, he doesn't get it.
Pulling in the deepest breath of fresh air I possibly can, I stare past the stars and into the scattered hints of clouds lit by the moon. With as much time as I normally have to think, I should have come up with a way to solve my insignificance issues, but any idea I've had about escaping haven't been plausible or good enough. Or maybe I just didn’t want my freedom badly enough until now. If I can't think of anything out here in the middle of nowhere, I'm probably screwed, and I’ll remain stuck and continue to be a prisoner in my home just like I have been for years.
Only a few minutes of dark thoughts come and go before I hear footsteps coming from behind me. I sit up and look toward the hill, but the way the reflection of the moon is hitting the water prevents me from seeing much. It isn't until he is five feet away, and my heart is racing faster than it should ever beat, that Raine throws a blanket over my head. "Had this in my truck. Figured you'd want to be warm, at least."
I yank the blanket off my head and look up at his cocky smirk. The blanket smells like him, and I immediately wonder if this is what he sleeps with every night he's outdoors. "Thank you," I tell him, kind of questioning his plans.
"Scoot over," he says. I do, and he sits down beside me, dropping a backpack off his shoulders. He brings the bag in between his legs and yanks on the zipper. Reaching inside, he retrieves two small aluminum-looking bags and hands one to me before pulling out a large thermos. Insight and understanding break through the stubborn cracks of my heart.This is how he lives.This isn't how I live; yet, Ishouldbe living in his shoes. We were running out of money so quickly years ago. I may have only been a kid, but I was old enough to understand the severity of the fights Mom and Dad had. Night after night, I remember hearing:If we don't find a solution soon, we will be out of money. We won't be able to pay the rent for this house. We won't be able to eat. We'll be living on the streets like bums.I had to fall asleep listening to Mom cry for hours each night. At that age, I cried when I heard her cry. It was habitual. I felt her pain, and the only way to cope was to cry too. I never understood what it truly meant to be out of money, not until this very moment. But, it's in front of me now. It's staring me point blank in the face and showing me what I came close to. I ask myself all the time: Would I steal to eat? Would I steal to support my family? I want to say no so badly. If I did steal to support my family, it would only be for the bare necessities, though. It wouldn't be to advance myself from poverty to upper-class. That's what makes me so angry about what Dad did.
I watch as Raine peels open the tin wrapper, exposing a soggy looking sandwich. "The shelter has a small soup kitchen, and they hand out meals-to-go a few nights a week," he says without an intonation of despair or sorrow.
Opening my sandwich, I take a couple of bites, tasting the cheese that must never expire and the bread that tastes like a soggy paper napkin. Bread and cheese. I assume prisoners eat better than this. Raine finishes his sandwich in less than a few bites, and I follow his lead, hoping to appear grateful for this gesture. He shoves his hand back into his backpack and pulls out two packages of wafer cookies. "Dessert?"
I take one of the packages from his hand and eat the cookies slowly, savoring the taste as it relieves the hunger that has built up throughout the day. "Thank you," I tell him.
"No problem," he says, taking a swig from his thermos.
"Can I ask you something that might be kind of personal?"
"I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Haven," he says with a small chuckle.
I reposition myself to face him. "If you mow all those lawns, how come you have no money to eat?"
He clears his throat, sounding uncomfortable. "I only mow for a few families right now. Things used to be better, but with the hurricanes we've had over the past two years, it seems like there has been a drop in the economy around here. People are mowing their own lawns now. The only folks who can still afford gardeners are the people in your neighborhood, and they all use the same company. Except for your family, obviously."
"My dad fired that company. They tore up one of Mom's flower beds."
"They move quickly and get the job done, but the quality is lacking," he agrees.
"Where did you get your equipment?" I know I'm prying, but I can't help but wonder.
"You writing a book about me or something?" he asks with a raised brow.
I lay back down and fold my arms beneath my head as he pulls the blanket over me. Rolling onto his side and perching on his elbow, he holds his head up with his hand and smiles sadly at me. "I'm just curious about your story. I'm a reader, not a writer."
"My grandfather was best friends with this guy, Ralph, who owned a fertilizing company. When Granddad died, Ralph felt bad and gave me a mower, some tools, and a beat-up truck he wasn't using anymore. He told me it would be a good job to have—it would teach me the responsibilities of handling money for when I turned eighteen."
I run my hand over Raine's, tracing my finger over the roughness of his knuckles. "Why eighteen?"
