Page 12 of Run
I slink back into my blanket, but then decide hiding will only make it worse. “Y— Yes?” I reply.
“Where’s your backpack?” He points toward the hook next to the door, where I usually hang it. I swallow hard and try to come up with an answer as Papa swivels his head and locks eyes with me. “Well?”
“Um …” I sit up in bed, still clutching the blanket, as if it will protect me. “The girls at school started picking on me. And one of them pulled it off of me, and I pulled it back, but it ripped. Then she dumped it out and I tried to put all my stuff back in, but she grabbed it again and I fell. I got really mad and I hit her, but then the gym teacher broke us up. I was scared I was going to get in trouble, so I ran away.”
Finally meeting his eyes, I see him squinting at me. “Let me get this straight,” he says. “Some kids were picking on you at school, and you hit one of them?” I nod. “I can’t hear you.” Papa cups his ear to get his point across.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And, after you hit her, you just … ran away?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t stick around to make sure you won the fight?”
I swallow and meekly reply, “No.”
Papa wets his lips then—faster than I can react to—jumps up from the couch and stalks toward my bed, grabs my hair and pulls me to the floor. I shriek as he drags me toward the living room.
“What the hell?” I hear Lena as she comes down the hallway.
“What have I told you about bullies?” Papa grits through his teeth, stopping in front of the coffee table and dropping my head. “I said …” he yells, “What have I told you about fighting with bullies?”
Papa crouches down so he’s in my face, and I know I need to answer him. “You told me to finish it. If they start picking on me, you told me to finish the fight.”
“That’s right.” With eyes still locked on me, he starts unbuckling his belt. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt Papa’s belt, but I remember the bite of it across my skin and start to panic.
“Axel, what are you doing?” Lena asks from behind me.
Slowly pulling the belt out, I hear it slide out of each pant loop as he sets it free and dangles it in front of him. “I’m teaching our girl a lesson.” He pulls the thick, black leather through his fist. “How is she ever going to learn to stand up to bullies if she keeps letting them run her off?”
Rolling onto my back and pushing up on my hands and feet, I start to crab-walk backward but bump into the couch.
“Don’t!” Lena yells.
But Papa doesn’t pay her any attention, instead swinging his arm back and lashing out. The first slap of the belt across my skin always hurts the most, sending a burning trail up my skin that grows hotter as the seconds tick past. The next few strikes fuel the fire.
“Axel, stop it!” Lena throws herself at Papa, who turns on her. Lena’s never gotten the belt before, so she’s not prepared for the sting as it makes contact and how the feeling only intensifies after the exposure. It only takes one strike, and she is curled up and sobbing on the floor.
Huh, that’s funny … I thought Papa hated weaklings.
Bringing his attention back to me, I lose count of how many strikes Axel lands, because at some point I crawl into thedarkness I have become accustomed to and wait for the storm to pass.
***
Looking through one blurry eye—the one that’s not swollen shut—I teeter on top of a cinderblock as I push the window to Ethan’s bedroom open just enough for me to climb through. The muscles in my limbs quiver as I fall onto the floor with a wince.
I feel bad being here without Ethan, like I’m invading his space. But hedidtell me I could come to his window whenever I needed a place to go.
And right now, I need a place to go.
His room is small and dark due to the wood paneling circling it. He has a blue and green checkered bedspread that looks fluffy and warm. It’s all twisted and piled up, as if he just kicked it off his legs this morning and didn’t bother fixing it. Along the wall adjacent to his bed, there’s a tall dresser with one drawer half open and a T-shirt dangling from it. On top, there’s a little trophy in the shape of a guy holding a baseball bat. On that same wall is a poster of a baseball player with the name Joe DiMaggio on it.
Suddenly I am bone tired. My body hurts, my heart hurts, my brain hurts. Is it possible for even my soul to hurt? Sitting down on the side of the bed, I wonder if it would be wrong to lay down.
Exhaustion takes over and I lay back, again wincing, and fluff the tangled mess around me. It smells stinky—like sweaty gym socks—but I don’t care. My head sinks into the pillow and envelopes me, and I close my eyes and embrace the safety I feel here.
ETHAN
