PhD Candidate Faustus

21: hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast

Mephistopheles

Father Thomas blinks but otherwise does not react. Coach nods, I suspect he knew or guessed my identity after their detective work.
"When I was two hours old, my mother left me in the hospital. My father was already in prison. And the drugs he'd gotten her addicted to had too fierce a hold. My grandmother came and picked me up from the hospital, took me home. Raised me," I say, fiddling with her necklace. "She had sole, legal custody of me. She was a retired cop, of all things. Husband died years ago, she'd raised my mother by herself too. But my mom got mixed up with my dad. Anyway. My grandmother and I were it. She taught me everything, how to read. How to ride a bike. How to cook. She was always careful with me. Taught me how to use the oven, and stove safely, it was old, gas. The whole house was old. We'd always be doing repairs, I knew how to do most things around it, as she got older you know.
"She had cancer, breast cancer. As it got worse, I would do more and more around the house to help. I was eight then. I didn't care. I loved her. She got sicker, and sicker. But we got by. I was responsible, I knew how to mow the lawn without hurting myself, was always careful to turn off the stove or watch the oven, get the mail, fetch the trash bins, we were fine, I could do whatever she couldn't. Anway. Then, then one day my mom came back.
"By then, my grandmother was too sick to protest. My mom and dad moved in, said they were going to take care of her. They wanted her retirement, the life insurance money, the house to crash and do drugs in. All that good stuff. They didn't care about me. Their kid.
"She couldn't do a lot, not as sick as she was. She wanted kind of, she wanted me to meet them, know who they were. Well. I did," I gesture the mark on my face, "This was from when they threw me out of a car. My face hit rebar. I had refused to steal some of her drugs, cancer stuff, for them to sell. So my father threw me out of the car. That wasn't the worst thing he'd done. Or the first time he'd done that. But it was the first thing on my face, that showed. It wasn't the last, my mother was no better. This time, it was bleeding so bad they did have to take me to the hospital. My grandmother was furious when she found out. Nineteen stitches. Really good time. I had cried because I wanted her there.
"A few months after that, she died. She'd paid already for a burial plot and everything. I wouldn't leave her graveside, and my mother just left me there. I cried and cried, asking god to send her back. He didn't," I twist my hands.
"When I finally went back to the house they were partying, because they were going to get the life insurance money. They were happy. They and their dealer, and two of his friends, getting high and drunk, for hours, and hours. I hid outside. I hated it. I hated them, and I hated what they'd done to my face. That was the worst of it, but nowhere near all. They were rough with me. Cruel. They didn't care if I went to school or not, in fact they were too busy to drive me.
"And I sat there, hiding in the old oak tree at the end of the yard, getting angrier and angrier. And I wanted to run away. I tried to run away a couple of times, in fact, over the next year. Every time cops caught me and returned me. And every time my mom would promise to do better. To throw him out. To get clean.
"It never happened. The last straw was Christmas. I didn't care, I'd never celebrated. But my dad said he would get me a new bike for Christmas. That way I could bike to school, and quit missing. I wanted that, bad, because my grandmother wanted me to go to school. Of course it never happened. There was only drugs. and them being drunk or high. And my mother laughed when I asked her. I said I was supposed to get a bike. And that it wasn't fair. And she laughed and said life wasn't fair. That I was spoiled and my grandmother had spoiled me. And that I was lucky she was dead and they were there to teach me how to be a real person.
"I was sick to death of it. All of it. The drugs, the late nights, the strangers coming through the house, waiting for footsteps in the hallway to my room, just to come and fuck with me because someone was in a bad mood. Just to mess me up because there wasn't enough money for the next high.
"That isn't an excuse, I know. But I was angry. I was so, so angry. I thought that if they were dead, then there was no one for the cops to return me to when I ran away this time. And I was going to run away, for good. I hated them so much," I look down at my hands, then back up at my teachers, "So, the day after Christmas, I sneaked downstairs, after they'd passed out. Drunk, strung out, whatever. They were out cold. I sneaked back down stairs. And I turned on the gas for the stove. And I left.
"I didn't know for sure it'd worked. I could never bring myself to check. But it did. They died that very night, carbon monoxide poisoning. For a while apparently the cops thought it was an accident. Then they finally figured they wanted me for questioning."
"I see," Father Thomas says, "What became of you then? You were what, ten years old?"
"I was on the streets, maybe a week, before a pimp picked me up," I say, looking at my shaking hands, "Can I have a cigarette?"
Coach wordlessly tosses me his pack with a lighter in it.
I stop to light the cigarette and take a long drag before going on, "I and about ten other children, were sex trafficked. We were used in videos as well. I was at least, about twenty videos in total, that I know of. Potentially more. Couple of the others and me, the rest just got sent out. I didn't cry a lot, so they liked me. Got taken to parties a lot, big fancy houses. We got to get dressed up, eat at least. People I saw in newspapers and magazines, all that, suddenly there in flesh, wanting to have sex with me. They promised us money, we never saw it.
"I thought about running, but we were marked, tagged. And we didn't want to leave each other. And sometimes it was good. One minute we'd be at some party, being given drinks and food, next locked up in a room. There were men to watch us, stop us from bolting. Plus they had us all believing we were criminals too, that if we went to the police we'd get busted.
"After a couple of years, the pimp that trafficked us got caught, after one of the politicians he supplied us to talked to the cops. He'd been caught, because one of the girls, she'd gotten hold of his cellphone and posted pictures he'd taken of her. It only took a minute, but she, she did it. We were in trouble for it, but then the feds were coming, and they managed to seize us before the pimp could move us again. We were taken to a crisis center.
"The crisis center kept us even more locked up. They didn't know the half of what we'd been through. One minute we were in a corner sobbing, sleeping on top of each other like kittens. Next someone had figured out how to turn on music and we were all of us dancing away laughing and smiling. They sent us to a psych ward for a week. Guess in retrospect we were fucked in the head, but at the time we didn't know it. They sent us back to the crisis center after that, they were still trying to ID us; figure out who we were, if family was missing us, that type of thing. But I was afraid they would find out what I'd done. I was terrified they would identify me and put me in prison. They told us all we weren't going to prison. That that wasn't true we weren't criminals. But I knew what I'd done. So I ran."
"You were using another name then?" Father Thomas asks.
I nod, "I was, yeah, the crisis center couldn't figure out who I was. I left before they did. I was back on the street after that, but I was savvy enough to avoid pimps. I sold myself, sometimes I did webcam stuff, but then that got stolen. Occasionally I'd find a room to crash in for a while. Mostly I was homeless. I worked for myself as an escort, hooker, sex worker, whatever you want to call it, in a number of cities. It was good and bad. I at least was picking my own clients. I've been sexually assaulted, damn near raped, more than once. But most of the Johns were good. Lonely, wanted a good time, someone to share the night with. I didn't mind that part. And it felt better to know it was my idea, in the end.
"Sometimes I would crash somewhere in exchange for sex, usually I'd work and try to pay off roommates or the like. Usually when they found out what I was doing, any halfway decent place kicked me out. So I wound up just soliciting in clubs and the like, sleeping in gyms and on the street. I had a system, and my two bags. It wasn't a life, but I was nearly making enough to afford an apartment.
"A chance meeting this summer left me with enough money to get to Rose and Swan. I thought if I could con my way in, maybe I could learn enough to take a GED, or something, and get a real job when I turn eighteen, wait tables or something to make enough to get an apartment," I say, looking up at them, "I haven't been to school since whatever, I was ten, so I thought I could catch up enough to take those tests, that and food and roof over my head. I'm sorry I brought trouble here. And I'm sorry you tried to help me."
"I'm not," Father Thomas says.
"I'm a murderer."
"You were a frightened child in a very unsafe situation being abused, in the throws of grief. And you were immediately put in a worse situation. I'm sorry nobody was there to care for you, as you deserved. I am so, so sorry that this world let you down, and nobody was there to protect you," Father Thomas says.
"I knew what I was doing," I say.
"You were in a horrendous, terribly abusive, situation, you didn't know how to get out of it, and you were trying to free yourself. You never should have been put in that situation. I do not think you're a danger, nor have I ever or I wouldn't have let you stay in this school. You're a child who needs to be cared for, exactly like all of them."
"Not exactly," I mutter, fiddling with the cigarette.
"Have you been to see a doctor ever, since you were on the street?" Father Thomas asks.
"I go for STD screenings, at clinics, yeah," I say, nodding, "I'm on PrEP, or was —I'm running low, it didn't matter though cause obviously I'm not doing that here. I um—after I got away from the pimp now that I'm in charge it's at least been safe sex. I got fully checked out at the Crisis center and they treated us for shit I don't know, I probably had a couple of STDs then. But now I'm clean."
"Good," Father Thomas nods.
"I appreciate the concern. But I need to go. I'm not interested in spending the rest of my life in prison," I say, "And I don't want my friends here caught up in what I have going on."
"I'd prefer if you didn't leave," Father Thomas says, "I know that very few have given you reason to trust them, let alone helped you. But I'd really like to try. I don't want you back out on the streets. I want you to have a chance and you wouldn't be here if you didn't want that chance too."
"I don't have a chance—the minute that cop comes knocking then I am done. You overlooking enrollment documents will not hold up to an actual police inquiry," I sigh.
"If you would give us some time, I have former students whose lawyers are more than versed in, shall we say, grey areas of the law."
"I can't pay lawyers."
"I have former students from less than ideal backgrounds, whose lawyers might be able to help you after they hear your case. They would not charge you a fee, they're on loan to me from a former student who will sympathize with however much of your case you allow me to share. When you first came to us I contacted a few of these lawyers so that if police came looking we'd be ready. I was not aware of the extent of your history, however," Father Thomas shrugs, "Your teachers are willing to sign off on scholarship paperwork, and if we can make a case that you're thriving in a stable environment then we may be able to avoid any jail time. You'd have to attend trial, of course, and it would be a long process likely with a probation officer involved,  and some mandatory counseling and possibly community service, but you are a victim here, not a perpetrator. If we can prove that then hopefully we could keep you here, in school."
"Hope," I say, quietly.
"What else do you have?" Coach asks.
"Nothing. However I'm not interested in risking jail time. I'd be tried as an adult for the murders, and for the more recent shit. Sex work is illegal I know that," I say, rubbing my face, "I can't take the chance of going to prison. I appreciate the offer. But I've dodged the system long enough to know how it works. They're never going to let someone like me be really free."
"Can't you try? You have no where else to go," Father Thomas says.
I shake my head, "I can't. I've run for years, I can keep running."
The men exchange glances.
"I appreciate your help. But," I stand up, tossing Coach back the pack of cigarettes, "It's the end of the line. I had a good run. I did like being here."
"Then at least talk with my lawyers first," Father Thomas says, "See what they have to say what sort of deal they could get you."
"I'm sorry," I shake my head, "I appreciate what you did today—I really do. But. I'm going to say goodbye to my friends and get out of here."
Father Thomas nods, "If you change your mind, or just need a place to stay for a while, these doors are always open to you."
"Thank you, Father. But I won't change my mind," I say. Nothing in heaven or hell could convince me to stay when the police are descending. I value my freedom too much.