GRADE TWELVE STORY SELECTION

Aaron
 
C. B.
 
Heart Lake Secondary School

NOTE: Contains mature subject matter and some language.


My mother packs her suitcase and struggles down the stairs with it. Clutched in her left hand, a bottle of booze - cheap stuff, we could never afford better. She swaggers from side to side, threatening a tumble with every step. It takes little alcohol to affect her, though this time she is merely tipsy - still in a fair state of mind. Upon safely reaching the bottom, she lets the suitcase go with a deep thud, exhaling heavily.

I had just walked out of the "living room," a barren box with a few moth-eaten couches - mismatched of course - a cobbled fireplace, and paisley-printed paper peeled from the walls. Nonetheless, I ponder the pleasant memories that took place in this room - memories from a long time ago, having occurred before my father was busted for trafficking.

The cops dragged him grunting and growling from the house as I stood behind my cowering mother, six years old and eyes wide with tears. He was coerced into custody, never to see the light - to see me - again. He had called me his little angel - a cliched nickname I came to realize was full of love. Although he and my mother fought often, he was never anything but kind to me. My prayers did nothing in the end; he died in jail.

My hand against the doorframe now, I give my mother an inquiring look. Her state of being leaves no jarring impact on me - her drinking habits are all too common. Avoiding my eyes, she attempts an explanation, slurring something to the effect of not being able to take it anymore. I begin to splutter over the indecency of it all as she grasps the front door handle, her car key ring looped over her forefinger. She turns back to finally glance at me. I stare up at her age-worn face, her stringy hair, and her frequently worn, low-cut top. Shaking her head, she steps out the door, closing it steadily behind her. I am twelve.

Dazed, I feel so alone, so inept. Mom might not have made the most ideal parent, but she had supported me, both emotionally and physically somehow. We had made do together. The day she closed the door, a bottle of Tylenol stared at me from the kitchen table.

Chase hollers now. "Open up the goddamn door, I know you're in there!"  By this time, I'm throwing on an old, fluorescent blue jacket in the kitchen. I can't stand it, but had been reluctantly thankful after Mom had picked it up from Goodwill. Being provided for by the charity organization never reddened my face. We were poor, I wasn't going to deny it, but so was the rest of the neighborhood. That eased the tension a bit, placed us all on the same battered page.

The kitchen itself is no more exciting than the living room, except for the few decorations lining the walls. I made these in my primary years. There is a finger painting or two, but my favourite is the one I drew of my family and me in crayon. I stand in the middle of my parents, our stick arms outstretched and linked. I, the divide, the barrier. Their love never met. The most they could summon between them was tolerance, and that was for my benefit. It saddened me, but if we could not be whole in real life, we appeared to be in that picture.

Throwing the bag over my shoulder now, I hear the front door burst open just as I slide out the back one.

***

I spent the next three years in a state of poverty far more severe than I had ever previously known.

Faced by challenges on the street, I took up residency in an underground subway station beneath the centre of the city; that is, until I was kicked out and forced to retire in an alleyway cubby.

I continued on in school, though pride kept me from confessing my situation. I attended classes during the day and scoured the garbage of the streets in the evening. I bathed myself in the sinks of public restrooms when their use lagged. I looked up into the mirror, studied the deep bags beneath my green eyes and frowned as I took in the sight of the pale, stretched skin over my now bony face and body. I was aging far more quickly than I should. Despite my dissatisfaction with myself, I played my role nicely, keeping a somewhat decent appearance for my teachers.

The days were long. My life wasn't worth a dime - though it revolved entirely around getting money. This was difficult to come by. Most ignored me, sometimes going so far as to shove me aside. The odd few were kind and gave to me.

***

I am fifteen now and quite ill. It is midday, but the air is cold, the wind even worse. I huddle beneath a blanket with my back against a brick wall. I haven't been to school in several days, instead passing the time by studying the people walking by. Some smile faintly and then look away in embarrassment, while others choose to stare.

Suddenly, I am overcome by a shadow. A man stands above me. He has brown eyes and a stubbly face, and is sporting what looks like a leopard-print overcoat. I know exactly what he is.

"What's your name?" he asks.

I contemplate for a few seconds and then reply, "Lana."

"You're pretty y'know. The boys would like you." I look away from him then. "hey pay well. Real well."

Grinning in what he obviously hopes is a reassuring way, he bends down and tucks his left arm under my right. Supporting my weight, he lifts me up to my feet before we begin to walk. What am I doing? I could easily pull away, shout at him to let me go, but here I am letting him steer me along. His last comment had hit me hard. He had known that I would come quietly.

Rounding a corner, we come to a three-storey apartment building lacking any noteworthy landscape. Heading up the front walkway, I notice the outer glass door hanging off its hinges. I am wary as the man ushers me in, but enter nonetheless. The first thing to hit me is the smell, an awful mixture of urine and cheap cologne.

We are standing at the end of a long hallway host to gashes along the wall. Lying upon the dirty floor about halfway along is a man who has inadvertently passed out. On either side of us are pale green, wooden doors that are lucky if they have brass numbers intact. While heading towards the stairwell on the opposite side, we pass the snoring body on the ground. Luis gives it a swift kick. "Shit man," he exclaims in disgust. I breathe out heavily.

On the second floor, we approach room number twelve. Once out-side, Luis raps on the door. I hear the scratching of the lock just before it is flung open by a scantily clad blonde girl.

We step over the threshold into a cluttered, smelly apartment. I immediately notice two other women inside, both dressed in the same fashion as the first, though one with additional platforms. We all sit down together in the living room and they introduce themselves as Clarissa, Candy and Elise. Silence. My face burns slightly as I feel all their eyes upon me.

For lack of anything better to say, I sputter, "I-I still have school y'know." No problem, I am told.

My assignments will take place in the late hours. Their words seem to wash over me into oblivion.

They can tell I'm nervous, that I'm there for no reason other than the money.

"Don't cha worry hon. Y'get more comfortable with experience. We'll let 'em know you're a new gal," Elise grins. "They'd like that anyways."

***

11:30 p.m. sees me as a wreck: My stomach is twisted, my hands are trembling, and my lips are glued tight. The comforter I lie beneath has an outdated floral design. The lingerie I am wearing embarrasses me slightly. I feel degraded, like I'm some sort of object or play toy. I'm not ready for this. But he's in the bathroom.

"Don't you move," he'd instructed. Closing my eyes, I breathe out heavily again. Luis assured me that he is a well-paying customer. But, I can't do this. Flashes of my parents keep appearing in my head. I can't do this. I throw the cover back as the bathroom door squeaks open. I see his shadow first, illuminated within the strip of light now painted across the floor. I freeze in fear, then snatch my bag from off the ground and bolt towards the door.

"Where do you think you're going?!" the man growls. I shriek as he lunges towards me and catches me around the middle. It's no use. There is no one to hear me scream, and no one to care if they did. He has me over his shoulder now. I kick my legs frantically while beating my small fists on his back. I am thrown onto the bed, sobbing.

"Please. Please don't ... I don't want this ..."

***

Beneath the showerhead, I run my fingers through my hair. The hot water trickles down my body, and as it does so, I hope it will wash his lingering touch off of me. I cup my hands over my face and am flooded with emotion. I feel disgustingly violated. I feel worthless. All I want to do is blank the memory of this night out of my mind forever; pretend that nothing ever happened. But something did.

***

I wrap the fluffy towel around me and step out onto the floor mat. The floorboards creak as the man walks around on the opposite side of the bathroom door. Afraid, I pray that he will just leave.

Keeping an eye on the doorknob, I tighten the hold I have on my towel and grab the old-fashioned razor from atop the counter. It goes behind my back. I have no idea what I intend to do if he walks through that door, but he's not going to hurt me again. I'm ready.

A 90-degree turn of the handle signifies his entry. The door swings to its full extent as he stands there, one hand placed flat against the doorframe. I take a few steps back now as his eyes travel up and down my body.

"Up for another go?" he offers, grinning. He advances on me, aiming to kiss my neck. Feeling a surge of hatred, I push him away. Momentarily closing my eyes, I take a random swipe with the razor through the entanglement of our arms. Suddenly, a guttural sound echoes throughout the room. I scream in horror as the man drops to the floor like lead, first to his knees and then forwards. Blood is everywhere. It flows from the gash across his neck like the adrenaline to my brain, seeping into the cracks of the floor tiles. What have I done?!

Crying again - screaming and crying - I stare into his lifeless eyes. I have to get away. I yank on the clothes I'd been storing in my bag. The promised money lies upon the side table next to the front door - taken now, we're both gone.

***

I'm bent over and panting as the rain splashes down around me. Anguished, I'm late to notice the neon lights of the 24-hour diner across the street, blurred through the wind and rain. Reasoning that I ought to just calm down and think, I make my way over.

Destined for the booth in the far corner, I take a seat. The place is cozy, its pale pink colour a heartwarming sort. I ponder my current situation as my head hits my hands. I've taken a life. What am I going to do?! There'll be people looking for me. Am I better off turning my-self in? It was self-defense, after all. I was raped and was only looking to protect myself in the aftermath. But I had originally arrived to have sex in the first place, to perform an act of prostitution. Will they believe me? I was desperate for money and I lived on the streets and I made the wrong choice, that's all.

These thoughts tumbled over one another in my head. Oh god. What will happen to me? As if being raped by that gruesome man was not enough, I had gone and accidentally killed him for it too. The thought of all that blood makes me sick. I run to the bathroom.

***

Two months later, I find myself sitting in the police station, reminded of my father. I am in custody, having just confessed - to everything. The shame I felt had eaten away at me, strengthening with each day that passed in silence. Taking a seat in one of their enclosed rooms, I told the police about my living conditions over the past three years, about the rape, and finally, about the murder that I committed. They questioned me thoroughly, though in a light manner that enabled me to pick up on their sympathy. Everything checked out, including the testimonies made on behalf of Luis and the girls. The police informed me that I might have a chance at an acquittal in court for reasons of self-defense and duress.  But, until I could get a date, I would be sent to Grand Valley Institution for Women in Kitchener.

And so it was that I was fed dinner, given a temporary cell to sleep in for the night, and shipped off the next morning. I could only hope for the best now.

***

Clothed in my new prison garb, I hesitantly step into my cell. This would be my home. I supposed that it would be more comfortable than the streets. At least I had a bunk and a toilet at my disposal. Other than that, it came up far short of cheerful. The guard slid the metal door shut, turned the key in its lock, and then left.

All in all, prison-life was not so bad. The meals were decent and I managed, for the first time in many years, to make some friends. The women, unlike my classmates, did not care that I wore the same outfit everyday. We all were destined to such fate. Luckily, I was still allowed to keep up with my studies. The thought of actually graduating high school - I'll admit, not in the same light as others - made me very happy.

After about one month, I acknowledged the peculiar changes my body was facing. Quite some time ago, before I entered prison, I had noticed that I was no longer getting my period. This frightened me greatly. What if ...? No, I'd thought. It was probably because I was both stressed and malnourished. But throughout my stay I had been gaining weight - and too quickly to be brought on by the meals.

One day, I faced my worst fear and paid a visit to the nurse. The nurse, understanding, provided me with a pregnancy test. She then accompanied me to the bathroom. Please, I thought, please don't let me be pregnant. Not with my rapist's baby. Not in prison. I knew that I would never be able to provide the child with the love and stability it deserved.

My mouth gaped. It was pink. The tears that welled within my eyes streamed along my face. I slumped down the pale blue wall of the bathroom stall, cowering in the corner, my knees up to my chin.

***

Six months later, while still in the custody of the Institution for Women, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. For the first few moments after he was placed in my arms, I did not feel as though I could look at him. His face carried the same features as the man who had once ravaged me. I would see his father, the man I had both hated and felt everlasting remorse for killing, if I looked at him. Eventually, I could not help it. I wanted to see the boy that I passed my own genes onto, my parents' genes.

I gazed up at his tiny body and across his clutched hands before finally resting on his face. He was beautiful. I immediately felt a love that, though described by every new mother, I never thought I could feel.

"Aaron," I whispered, as I looked into his blue eyes. I suddenly tore my own away, heartbroken. I must not get attached. I planned to give him up in hope of securing him a better life. Summoning all of my courage, I instructed the nearest nurse to take him from me.

Three days later, I went back to prison. There, I received the only sort of news that could improve my spirits. I had been assigned an approaching court date.

***

"Lana Casely, you have admitted to your guilt, but by reason of the strenuously severe living conditions that so long faced you, and the commitment of the act of murder as a form of selfdefense, you will henceforth serve only two remaining years in the Institution for Women," the judge declared. I was in a state of ecstasy. Cheering, I threw my arms around my lawyer.

"Thank you so much," I gasped. Two years would enable me to finish my studies. Upon release, I could get a job and I could get my life back. One day, I thought, one day I could get Aaron back too.