#lingering truths

[slicktrxck]

Fact: Casey always inevitably becomes attracted to the people he works for. Which is incredibly dangerous for him.

[slicktrxck]

       1. noun

          plural noun: scars

          a mark left on the skin or within body tissue where a wound, burn, or sore has not healed completely and fibrous connective tissue has developed. synonyms: mark, blemish, disfigurement, discoloration, defacement

     2. verb

        mark with a scar or scars.

        "he is likely to be scarred for life after injuries to his face, arms, and legs" synonyms: disfigure, mark, blemish, discolor

[slicktrxck]

dear boss

Linda,

If I could choose a way out of this, I probably wouldn't. So stop looking at me like I'm a wounded animal, ready to run. I'm not.

I want to be here.

I have a job to do.

I have a goal.

Just trust me.

xx

Trick

[slicktrxck]

dear mom

Mam,

I know it's been a good long while since I've visited. I would, I just can't bring myself to go back to that town. You're lucky you didn't live to see what became of Detroit. Or what became of us. Of me. 

Dad's fine, as far as I know. But I promise you, I've been saving up. I'm going to take care of it. I know this isn't how you would have wanted it to go but I have to. I couldn't protect you then. I have to do this.

I was looking through our albums again and you look so sad in pictures. I hate that. I hate seeing you sad. I hate that all my memories of you are sad. I wish I could change that. I wish I could go back in time and just get to the phone sooner. I wish that I could go back and swallow my fear and tell the truth.

If I had just told the truth, maybe things would have been different.

Maybe you'd still be alive.

Nina's the one you'd be proud of. She's a pediatrician now. Has her own private practice in St. Louis.

Alexei is with dad, still. I don't know if that's because he's afraid or because dad's pulled the wool over his eyes, but I swear I'll save him, mam. I swear it. I'm almost there. Three grand to go and I'm there. 

I love you, mam.

Rest easy.

Stepan

[slicktrxck]

about; o1 - mother

She's there to cover his eyes as ears as his father shouts again. The long stream of curses in Russian leave him shaking, his eyes welled up with tears. She's always been there to comfort him. She's just as broken, just as fearful, but she's brave enough to step between her children and the billowing hurricane that is her husband. 

She's there to kiss his bruised cheeks and whisper in his ears that his father loves them. He's just tired. Work is hard on him. He's doing his best to take care of them. All the excuses she presses into his ear as she strokes his hair aren't enough.

He can see how fragile she feels when she thinks her children aren't looking. He can see how tired she is of holding the family up, keeping them together. 

He watches her take the brunt of his father's anger, night after night. Just once, he wants to be the one to protect her. Only eleven years old and already he feels the need to grow up, be strong, and cover her ears for a change. He hates watching her struggle, and her smiles break his heart. 

It's late, the summer air is whispering through his open window, and the thud of his father's fist against the wall upstairs shakes the structure of the house. His feeble fingers clench his blankets and he wants to step in. He can hear them shouting, hear them fighting. He's heard them fight like this every night this week. It's getting worse, and he feels helpless to stop it, but he has to try.

"Niet! Ne prikasaysya ko mne!" His mother cries out, begging her husband not to touch her again, not to hurt her anymore, and so little Stepan gets out of bed. He can't stay curled up in his bed while she's crying out like that. He steps into the living room and crosses onto the tiled kitchen floor, steeling himself. The stone is freezing under his bare feet, even in the middle of summer.

He wants to shout for them to stop as he sees them tumble down the stairs together, a heap of hands and legs and gnashing teeth. Stepan can't move, his feet stuck, his chest seizing in fear. He's seen them fight, but not like this. Never like this. His father's hands are tearing at her hair and clothes while her fists beat against his chest. She's clawing for an escape. 

She tries to get up but is thrown to the ground and his father rips the framing from the door front door at the foot of the staircase; the cheap wood splinters as he throws it at her and she scrambles toward the phone where it sits in its cradle. 

"Stepan! Voz'mite telefon! Vyzovite politsiyu!"

She's shouting for his help, she's asking him to call the police and as she grabs for the phone, Stepan screams. He doesn't know what else to do or how to warn her that he's coming-- he's right there. His father is there, and he grabs her forcefully her by the hair as she throws the phone across the floor to her son. 

The sickening smack as she's driven head first into the ground fills him with fear and he tries to reach for the phone but he can't. He just stares at her where she lays. She's so still. He's never seen his mother so still. There's blood pooling on the floor and his father is touching her neck. It's so quiet now that Stepan's afraid to breathe. And then, in an instant, his father is at his throat, strong hands grabbing him around his thin arms and lifting him just enough that his toes barely touch the ground. 

"Ona upala," his father growls into his face, shaking him when Stepan only wails. 

"Skazhi eto!! Ona upala!!"

"Ona upala! Ona upala! She fell! Mam fell," Stepan wheezes and whimpers. He cries out as his father drops him to the ground, his knees hitting the cold stone tiles. He does as commanded. He says it. Over and over. Anything to curb his father's anger while he grabs the phone from the ground and dials the police. He hands it to his son and with shaking hands he takes it. 

"Hello, 9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

Stepan watches as his father picks his mother up and carries her to the stairs, all the way to the top. 

"My mam fell down," he sobs, "she fell down and she won't wake up."

There's a thud and then another and then another, and all over again, he sees her fall down the stairs again. This time, his father isn't with her. 

"Ona upala... my mam... she's hurt."

She's hurt.

[slicktrxck]

That young boy without a name anywhere I'd know his face. In this city the kid's my favorite. I've seen him. I see him every day. Seen him run outside looking for a place to hide from his father, the kid half naked and said to myself "O, what's the matter here?" I'm tired of the excuses everybody uses, he's their kid I stay out of it, but who gave you the right to do this? We live on Morgan Street; just ten feet between and his mother, I never see her, but her screams and cussing, I hear them every day. Threats like: "If you don't mind I will beat on your behind," "Slap you, slap you silly." made me say, "O, what's the matter here?" I'm tired of the excuses everybody uses, he's your kid, do as you see fit, but get this through that I don't approve of what you did to you own flesh and blood. "If you don't sit on this chair straight I'll take this belt from around my waist and don't think that I won't use it!" Answer me and take your time, what could be the awful crime he could do at such young an age? If I'm the only witness to your madness offer me some words to balance out what I see and what I hear. Oh these cold and lowly things that you do I suppose you do because he belongs to you and instead of love and the feel of warmth you've given him these cuts and sores don't heal with time or with age. And I want to say "What's the Matter here?" But I don't dare say.

[slicktrxck]