Part 02 Billy The Hidden Truth

I will never forget the day that my mother left. I was ten years old the day I came home and found her gone. I still have the note that she left my father, telling him that she would be back in a few days to get me. That never happened. When my father came home and found her note, he took it out on the first person he saw . . . me. He nearly beat me to death. He said my mother left because of me. I was grateful that it was summer time and that I did not have to cut school to hide my injuries.

In those days, the slightest thing would set him off on a drunken rampage. I dealt with it the best way I knew how. I kept my mouth shut and braved it out until it was over. Yes, suicide had crossed my mind more than a few times, but I did not want to give my father the satisfaction.

However, lucky for me, I was good at hiding what I was really feeling.

I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating dinner, when my father came home that evening, with the smell of cheap whiskey on his breath. He only glanced at me, as I did him, and he got into the refrigerator and got himself a cold beer. He twisted off the cap and leaned back against the counter, glaring at me. I felt my heart speed up as my body tensed up, waiting.

"What are you doing, Billy?"

"What does it look like?" I muttered.

"What?"

"I'm eating."

"Did your chores?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, Sir."

"Did you feel the wood box?"

"Not yet."

"Get to it."

"Yes, Sir."

"Now, Boy!" he shouted when I did not move fast enough.

I filled the wood box. Then I snuck out and went for a drive. My car was a 1983 Ford Mustang that I saved up for and bought for myself. I was very proud of that car. I drove to the Springfield Bridge and stopped on the side of the road. I walked to the edge of the bridge and looked down into the muddy waters of the Potomac River.

Was this God's plan for me? I wondered. What did I do to deserve this punishment?

I heard a car approaching and turned to see Lance in his father's Jeep. He stopped beside my car and climbed out. He walked up at stood beside me.

"Hey, Man," I said to him. "What are you going?"

He shook his head. "I just wanted to drive. Why are you down here so late?"

I shook my head. "Just thinking."

"What about?" When I didn't reply, he looked at me. "Billy, is everything okay?"

I looked at him. "Yeah. Why?"

"You just seem different, that's all."

"I'm okay. It's just my father," I told him. "He has been drinking more than usual lately. It just worries me."

"Well, if you ever need to talk, you know I will listen."

"I know. Thanks, Lance."

"Sure."

"Do you ever wish that you could fly?" I asked him.

He looked at me with an odd expression on his face. "Um . . . I don't know. Sometimes. Do you?"

"Every day," I replied and looked at him. "Sometimes I would like to fly away from this place and never look back."

"Really? I thought you loved it here."

"I do, but . . . " my voice trailed away. "Never mind."

"Oh. Well, I'm beat," he said, patting me lightly on my back. I had almost forgotten the bruises on my back and I sucked in my breath, sharply. Lance stared at me, clearly concerned. "Are you all right?"

I took a deep breath and nodded.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

I just nodded and he got into the Jeep. He turned around on the bridge and headed back up the mountain toward home.

My father was waiting for me when I walked in the door.

"Where in the hell have you been?" he asked me, hatefully.

"I was talking to Lance," I told him.

"When you should have been at home, doing your chores?"

"I've already done them."

He backhanded me. I spun around, but I was able to keep my balance. "Don't talk back to me!" he shouted. "You are just like your mother! Mouthy!" He was still cursing me when he began to hit me.

"Dad! Stop!" I shouted, pleading with him, but he punched my face again.

I am not sure where I got the strength from, but I reared back and punched him in the face, knocking him backward. He did not fall. I guess a wiser man would have run for it, but wide eyed, I stared into his eyes. He stood still, frozen for a few seconds and then he punched me again, so hard that I blacked out.

It was morning when I woke up. I was still lying on the living room floor. The house was quiet, which usually meant that my father was not home. Normally, my father was very careful about not leaving visible bruises. But this time, he did not. Evidence of last night's beating was all over my face. It was my decision to stay home from school that day, because there was no way of hiding this from my friends. My cheeks burned, cut and bruised from my father's high school ring that he always wore. My left eye was black and blue.

Around lunch time I went up to my room and laid down. I fell asleep after a few minutes. I was not asleep very long. I got out of bed and made my way downstairs, moving cautiously. I went into the kitchen and got something to eat. Afterward, I went into the living room, planning to watch some television. I turned on the television and then stretched out on the couch to relax my aching muscles. I laid there for a couple of hours and then got up to go to the bathroom. When I came walked back into the living room that was when my eyes settled on my father's liquor cabinet. It was normally locked, but he unlocked it.

I had never had an alcoholic drink in my life, mostly because I saw what it did to my father, but the temptation as unbearable. I walked up to the cabinet and opened the glass door. I scanned the different kinds of whiskey and then I settled on the half empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. I picked it up, looked at it for a moment and then I twisted off the cap. I took a small drink. It burned my throat, but warmed my insides. It was like nothing I had ever felt before. I took a larger drink the second time. I took the bottle back to the couch with me.

Before I knew it, the bottle was empty and I realized that I was not feeling any pain and that realization just made me want more. When I stood up, the alcohol hit rock bottom and I stumbled back to the whiskey cabinet. I put the empty bottle back in its place and picked up the full bottle beside it. I went back to the couch and sat down. When the bottle was gone, my vision became blurred and I passed out.

When my eyes opened again, I did not know where I was. I looked around the room and tried to sit up. A second later, my friends walked into the room. I fell back to the pillow.

"It's about time," Ronnie said.

"What do you mean?" I asked him. "Where am I?"

"The hospital," Lance told me.

"The hospital?" I was still confused. "What happened?"

"The doctor said it was alcohol poisoning," he told me.

I couldn't remember anything. Then my eyes widened and I looked at them. "You didn't call my father, did you?"

"Of course, we did," Dalton told me. "He'd want to know."

I groaned. "Oh, no," I said in a low voice.

"What happened to your face?" Dalton asked me.

"Nothing."

Lance sat on the chair that was beside the bed. He studied me for a long moment.

I looked at him. "What?"

"Billy," he said. "Why would you drink?"

I looked at him as if he had just asked the dumbest question. Then I said, "Because it doesn't hurt."

He glanced at the others and then back at me. "What doesn't?"

I didn't answer.

"Billy, what doesn't hurt?" he asked me, again.

I looked at him and then looked away. "Never mind. Just forget it."

"How did you get the bruises, Billy?" Devon asked me, in his serious voice.

"I, um, I got into a fight with my dad," I lied. "It's nothing."

"Did Uncle Ray hit you?" Dalton asked me, surprised.

"Yeah, but it's okay," I assured them. "It's nothing compared to what I'll get when he gets me home."

"What?" Lance and Dalton chorused.

I had said too much. I bit my bottom lip to keep from saying anymore.

"I never thought I would see you drunk, Billy," Dalton told me. "You swore you'd never drink, because of your father. I don't believe this."

"Yeah? Well, shit happens, Cuz."

"I can see that."

My father walked into the room a few minutes later. I felt fear immediately and I felt my heart speed up. I felt my body tense up and I guess I was expecting the worst. Lance was looking at me with an odd expression.

"Billy," my father said to me. His voice was unnaturally calm. "What were you thinking?"

I just shook my head. "I don't know, Dad."

He looked at my friends. "Thank you, Boys," he told them. "For bringing him to the hospital."

"Anytime," Dalton said.

"He would have done the same for any of us," Lance said.

I met his eyes for a moment. His eyes told me that he knew my secret, but he didn't say anything.

The next day, my doctor released me from the hospital. My father was there to pick me up. Neither one of us spoke a word until we got home. When we walked into the front door, I went straight upstairs to my bedroom to change my clothes. When I came back down, I went into the kitchen to find some food. But my father was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a beer. He looked up at me when I walked into the kitchen and I stopped walking. He stood up and I took a step backward out of reflex.

"Did you think that I wasn't going to find out?" he asked and started toward me. "Did you?"

I didn't say anything. I just stared at him. Suddenly, he took me by my hair and bounced my head off the kitchen table. He let go of me and I fell on the floor. He went into the living room and returned a moment later. He grabbed a handful of my hair again and pulled me to my feet. My head was spinning and my eyes were out of focus.

"What the hell is this?" he asked, holding up an empty whiskey bottle.

I looked at it for a moment, trying to focus my vision, and then said, "It looks like an empty bottle to me."

He let go of my hair and backhanded me in one swift motion. I spun around and fell face down on the floor. I laid there for a moment. When I tried to get to my feet, his steel toe boot met my ribs and I fell back to the floor. I was clutching my ribs and groaning painfully. A few seconds later, I saw his boot coming at my face and then everything went black.

When I came to, the house was dark. I remained still, listening for any movement. When I didn't hear anything, I rolled over and slowly got to my feet. The pain in my head was almost unbearable, but I made my way to the bathroom off the kitchen and turned on the light. I didn't recognize my own face. My head was bleeding and my cheeks were swollen. I took small, short breaths because it hurt to breathe.

The doorbell rang and I looked at my watch. Six o'clock. That would be my friends, probably coming to check on me. I swore under my breath and went to answer the door. Lance's eyes widened when he saw me and I heard a chorus of gasps from the others.

"What the hell happened to you?" Dalton asked as they followed me into the kitchen.

"This is what happens when you get drunk at my house," I told him. "Come on in."

They exchanged glances, hesitating.

"It's okay," I assured them. "He always disappears after a beating."

They followed me into the kitchen.

"What did you mean by 'after a beating'?" Lance asked me. "You mean that this has happened before?"

I didn't answer him.

"What's going on, Billy?" he asked me.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"Nothing is going on," I told him. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" he asked me. "That looks like one hell of a punishment for making one stupid mistake."

I looked at him and repeated myself more firmly, "I'm fine."

"I'm sorry, but we don't believe you, Billy," Devon said. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing is going on," I said, again, feeling myself getting angry.

"Billy," Dalton said. "You've never lied to us before. Please don't start now."

I looked at him and shook my head. "Dalton, I can't. He'll kill me."

"Who?" Ronnie asked.

"Uncle Ray?" Dalton followed. I nodded. "He told you that?"

I looked away for a moment and then back at him. "Yes, and he's got a temper that warns me not to disobey him."

"Billy, you know you can trust us," Devon told me.

"I know, Devon, but if he even suspected that I told anyone, he'd . . . " my voice faded away.

"Billy, you told me that Ray has been drinking more than usual. Does that have anything to do with it?"

I looked into his eyes. "That has something to do with it."

"What do you mean?"

I inhaled deeply. "My father has been drinking for a very long time. Dalton knows that."

Dalton just nodded. "I know."

"Yeah, well, he gets drunk and comes home. He'll get mad about something I did or didn't do and he takes it out on me."

"He hits you?" Ronnie spoke up.

"He blames me because Mom left. He said she hated me. He said I was the ugliest child she'd ever laid eyes on."

"I'm sorry, Billy."

I turned and opened the refrigerator. It was my intention to grab a soda, but I reached for a beer instead. When I twisted off the cap and took a drink, everyone looked at me. Shocked, was my guess.

"Didn't you learn anything the first time?" Lance asked me.

I ignored him. "Come on," I told them. "Let's get out of here before he gets home."

We piled into Lance's jeep and he drove to his house. When I got out of the jeep, I must have twisted the wrong way, because a sharp pain shot through my ribs where my father had kicked me. I held my side and yelped, sounding like a wounded dog. I swore under my breath.

"Billy, are you all right?" Dalton asked me.

"Yeah," I groaned, leaning back against the Jeep. "I think my ribs are broken."

After we walked inside, Lance turned on the big light in his kitchen and he turned to me.

"Let me see it," he said and I lifted up my shirt.

"Jesus, Billy," Devon muttered, looking as if he were hurting as much as I was.

I chuckled. "This is what happens at my house when you forget to take out the trash. Ouch!" I cried when Lance touched my ribs.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I think they are broken. We need to get you to the hospital."

"No," I said, quickly. "They ask too many questions. I'll be fine. I just need to take it easy for a few days."

I moved to the sofa and sat down with ease.

Devon sat in one of the two chairs. "How do you do it, Billy? How can you be so calm about all this?"

I looked at him. "What? How do I live day after day knowing that he could kill me at any given time?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

I shrugged. "I'm not sure. I guess that I'm just used to it and I don't have the strength to fight back any more.

"How long has this been going on, Billy?" Dalton asked me.

I looked at him. "Since Mom left."

His eyes widened. "Six years? You're just now telling us?"

I grinned. "I guess I'm good at hiding the truth."

"Why don't you tell somebody what has been going on?" Lance asked me. "Get help before he does kill you."

"Lance, you know I can't. I'll be all right."

"When?" he demanded, getting angry. "When he kills you?"

"If that's what it takes," I said, with a chuckle.

"Be serious, Billy."

"I am," I said. "My father kills me with his eyes every time he looks at me. Death seems very inviting when I think about the alternative. I have gotten to the point where I don't care either way." I swallowed and took a deep breath. "Sometimes, I'll pray to God to let him kill me and when he doesn't, I'm so disappointed that I would consider doing it myself," I told them. "But I wouldn't give my father the satisfaction."

"Don't you dare think that way?" Lance said, quickly.

"Why?" I asked him. "Just a few nights ago, I sat on the bathroom floor with my father's pistol in my hand," I confessed. They exchanged a worried glance. "For three hours, I tried pulling that trigger. When I finally got the balls to do it, the gun wouldn't fire, and the damn thing was loaded!"

"Guys, please," Ronnie pleaded. "Let's not fight. We have got enough to deal with."

There was a long silence.

"I'm sorry, Billy," Lance told me. "I'm just worried, is all."

"I know," I told him. "I would probably be worried if you weren't."

Two days later was Lance's birthday. He wanted more than anything to be a writer. Not for the money, but to get his name out there. I bought him four things that I thought a writer could use: the latest edition of The Writer's Handbook, a pack of pens, a pack of pencils, and two composition books. I was terrible at wrapping gifts, so I put the stuff in a gift back and headed down the road to Lance's house.

I could relax a little bit more, now that my secret was out.

"Wow! Thanks, Billy!" Lance told me when he opened the gift that I had given him. He flipped through the book. "This is awesome."

"You're not going to hug me, are you?" I asked him, jokingly.

He looked at me and laughed. "I wouldn't dream of it."

We ate dinner at Lance's house and then had cake and ice cream and then we sat and relaxed for a little while, allowing our food to settle. Almost an hour went by when Lance's parents pushed us all out onto the front porch. Sitting in the front yard was a shiny black Chevrolet pickup truck. Lance's face lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Yes!" he cried, taking the keys from his father's hand. "Yes!" he cried, again and then ran out into the yard, followed by Ronnie and Devon.

"Wow," I said, aloud. "I haven't seen him that happy since . . . " my voice trailed away.

"Since Miranda," Larry, Lance's father, finished for me.

I looked at him. "Yeah."

"He would never have survived if it had not been for you guys."

Dalton and I exchanged glances.

"So, Billy, how's Ray doing these days?" Larry suddenly asked me.

Dalton looked at me and I looked at Larry. "Um . . . " I did not know what to say. "I don't really know. I don't see him much any more."

"Oh."

I was glad he left it at that, because I did not want to talk about my father.

My father was not home when I got home that night and I was grateful. I decided to watch some television before going to bed.

I didn't hear my father pull into the driveway and did not even notice him until he came through the front door. When he saw me, he rushed forward in a mad rage and grabbed me. He pulled me off the couch and slammed me up against the living room wall, knocking my mother's portrait off the wall. I heard it break. I stared into his wild looking eyes and suddenly, I was terrified! I had never seen that look in his eyes before. He began to punch me repeatedly until I was crumpled on the floor, my arms over my face, trying to shield myself from his fists.

"Dad!" I shouted, but he didn't hear me. "Dad! Stop!"

Then, he stopped and left the room. I sat there for what seemed like forever, listening for him to return. When he didn't, slowly and as quietly as possible, I got to my feet and began to make my way toward the door.

"Where the hell you going?" my father suddenly shouted, coming in from the kitchen. He grabbed my shoulder and spun me around to face him.

That was when I noticed the small pistol in his right hand. My eyes widened with panic when he raised it to my face. I spun back around and started to run for the door. I heard a loud pop and I fell face forward onto the carpet. I remained still when he stood over me. A second later, he turned and walked out the front door. I heard him start the truck, but I did not move until I heard him pull out of the driveway. I pulled myself into a sitting position and leaned back against the living room wall. I saw the blood before I felt any pain. Seconds passed and then minutes. There was a growing puddle of blood beneath me. I was bleeding to death.

I was beginning to feel tired and weak, but I knew I had to get help or I was going to bleed to death. So, with a great struggle, I somehow managed to get to my feet. I opened the front door and, taking baby steps, walked out onto the porch. When I took the first step, I lost my balance and fell backward, landing with a hard thud on the top step. I felt so tired. I decided to rest and, closing my eyes, rested my head against the porch railing.