Officer Scott

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

My parents had blown through the roof once they found out who truly inherited Irene's money. I was sent to the attic for three days. It was a good thing there was a bathroom up there, so I could drink tap water, or they'd be charged with murder. I thought I was going to starve to death.

I survived it, though.

I mean, it wasn't the first time I had been locked up there, it was just the longest period of time.

One time, when I was eight, I wanted to keep some fireflies I had caught in the summer as pets. I knew they'd say no, so I did it secretly. I caught two in my hands and carried them up to my bedroom. I guess when my mother came in that night to see where I had gone, I was startled and I let them go.

If there's something you should know about Lola Redwood, it's that she doesn't like bugs. Or animals. Or children. But specifically bugs.

So, when one of the fireflies landed on her bare arm, she screamed so loud that my father thought she was being murdered. Needless to say that instead of blaming my mother for overreacting, I was dealt with and then I was thrown up in the attic for twelve hours.

And one time, I think I was fifteen, I got a C in precalculus on one quarter. My father got so angry, he drove my head through the dry wall. When I woke up, I was in the attic. That time was at least twenty hours up there.

See, the thing about my parents was that they both had no reservations about physical punishments, they just went about it in different ways.

Bart Redwood had a temper.

He just flipped out.

My mother, on the other hand, was not nearly as violent or strong, but she was more vindictive and evil. Her punishments were planned.

I cursed? Soap in the mouth.

I cried? She'd 'give me something to really cry about' and rub hot-sauce covered fingers over my eyes so that that the tears burned.

I didn't do my chores? I'd get a freezing cold shower for a couple hours, usually until I was shivering and blue, and I almost always ended up sick afterwards.

Malicious bitch.

It made no sense to me, though. Both my parents grew up in stable homes, so they really had no cycle of abuse to blame it on. They were just horrible parents. Horrible people.

It was after the funeral that I broke down over Irene's death. I couldn't have my parents see, so I ran down the block and sat on the curb. That's when the cop found me. A young man, thirty or so. He asked me what was wrong.

I was reluctant to tell him, but he coaxed it out of me. Immediately, he wanted to take me in to press charges and get me to a safer house, but I was more realistic. I knew it'd never work.

I never reported the abuse.

My parents didn't have a criminal record.

No one ever actually saw the abuse, except for a slap across the face or yelling in public here or there, but neither of those were worthy of jail time or losing custody of a child. And I knew that if I reported the abuse and I wasn't removed from the situation, it'd only be worse for me. The punishments would result in more time in the attic and more things in the privacy of our home- which were always worse than in public.

After I explained all that, the cop- Officer Gary, I think- agreed with me. But I told him about my inheritance, and he urged that as soon as I get the money, on my eighteenth birthday, I run away. I leave.