cont

He would search me every time after we returned still drunk if not drunker than when we had first arrived. If he found nothing then the belt came off then I was a lot sorer going to bed. If he did find something, it wasn’t enough and I was beaten anyway. My mother knew about the beatings, she happened to be one of the victims, but she did not know about how I was forced to be a thief most of the time. After years of wondering where her husband and son went every Tuesday and Thursday night, my mother decided to do a little detective work. Not much was needed as being inconspicuous was not one of my father’s strong suits. This, for some reason or other and not the beatings, was all my mother’s heart could take. Maybe she was mad that she didn’t get any cut, but whatever the case may be this was it, we were gone. The reason she took me with her still escapes me to this day. My original suspicion is that this was a great way to weasel herself into whoever we were forcing ourselves upon. I mean who could turn away a poor child with a distressed mother right?
I remember being shaken violently as I was sleeping with my mother standing over my bed scaring the piss out of me. I could smell the familiar scent of alcohol that I smelt on my father’s breath on my mother’s breath as well. She obviously needed some liquid courage to up and leave her husband with her only son as her only companion. She had my suitcase already packed which shocked me because this was the first time she had done anything for me. I even think it was the first time she had folded my clothes for me. We went into the Cadillac and off we went into the night. We ended up at my aunt Becca’s house and stayed there for what seemed like lifetimes. I hated it there. All my friends were back home and this place was an old person’s home. With all the useless ceramic figurines everywhere and the pillows that stack up on the couch so much that you can only sit on half of the couch. Everything smelled horrible of that old people smell. We would remain there well until my 18th birthday. I could tell my aunt Becca did not want us there as we were obviously mooching off of her, even I could tell at my young age. My family never was all that close with her and I feel that the only thing that was keeping us there was the fact that people would look down upon her for throwing her own blood out on the street. I think the fact that I decided to run one day spared her the awkwardness of kicking her own family out of her house. My mother never came looking for me, and I don’t think that I cared much at the time. I still don’t think I care today. Memories of my parents don’t cross my mind all that often. If I ever ran into my parents I don’t know how Id react. I don’t think that I would have to worry about that because I don’t think that they would even be able to recognize me anyway.