Out of the Blackness Read Online Free PDF Page A

None of the adults cared enough to stop it. If bruises were visible, Tommy forced us to tell them they were from clumsiness or games or fights at school. Otherwise, we would face even worse next time. Three days before Sam arrived, Joey hanged himself with Tommy’s belt. It was his only way out and I knew it would be mine, too, as soon as I found the courage.
    But then Sam arrived, bigger and badder than Tommy Blevins ever hoped to be. Sam had been in the system a long time, but hadn’t made it to our group home before. He’s never said what made him drag Tommy off me that day, but most of the thrashings stopped with Sam’s arrival. Once in a while, Tommy or one of his boys would still manage to get to me. When that happened, the boys responsible were punished with Sam’s own fists.
    Sam was once moved to a different house. It was the longest two weeks of my life. During that time, Tommy unleashed a year’s worth of beatings he’d been saving since Sam showed up. Somehow Sam was able to get back to our group home. He’s never said what stunts he pulled or what whistles he blew, but I’d never been so glad to see someone in my life.
    When he got back and found me bruised and bloodied with yet another broken arm, Sam had marched right past the caregiver and dialed 911. Tommy was taken away that very afternoon. It was a strangely anticlimactic ending to three long torturous years. The caregivers were quietly replaced and life at the group home slowly improved. I didn’t see Tommy again for almost ten years.
    I finally tell Sam why I never fought back against Tommy and his gang. Sam never knew about my mother’s boyfriend, Carl, and how often he and his sons beat me. He only knew that mom had dropped me off at a firehouse one day and the hell I’d gone through at the group home. But finally, I allow myself to share everything.
    I tell him about the time I dropped and shattered a plate while drying dishes. Without even thinking about it, I repeated the word I’d heard so often around the house. I had no idea what it meant, but it was the first time my mother slapped me. I was five. Carl had seen the slap and it had opened the floodgates. That very night was my first experience with physical abuse. Of course, for as long as I could remember, the whole lot of them—mom, Carl and his two boys, Junior and Darrell—had been telling me what a worthless excuse for a boy I was. Aside from the physical pain they inflicted, I still think the worst part was being forced to look Carl in the eye as he beat me. He demanded it. If I couldn’t do it on my own, he would yank my head around until my eyes met his of their own accord. And then it would get worse. Once I tried to block a blow with my left arm. Carl had wailed on it until he broke it, swearing that if I ever raised a hand to him again, he’d break my neck. There was never a doubt in my mind that he would make good on that threat.
    So, as traumatizing as it was, it was somewhat of a relief the day my mother marched me into a firehouse and told them she never wanted to see me again. She told them in front of me—as she had told me so many times—that I was an abortion that didn’t work and she’d finally grown tired of dealing with me. It’s hard to argue with a woman who hates her child before she’s even met him; much less spent his lifetime wishing aloud that he was dead.
    I’ve never seen any of them again. The only regret I have about that is that I would like to have a picture of my father. The only good memories of my childhood are of him. It would be nice to be able to see his face.
    Sam talks and talks, wheedles and cajoles until I finally give in out of exhaustion. This week, Sam will speak to someone at the department and find a therapist who specializes in cases like mine. I’m not sure I like being described as a “case,” but Sam is convinced he can find a therapist who will help me put to bed the living nightmare that is my past. I don’t share