His weakness

Beautiful

Jena

Twenty years ago

“Are you alright?” I hear the boy’s voice from earlier, he is looking over the wall that separates our backyards, the same wall I kicked my ball over earlier today, the same wall that is causing my mommy and daddy to scream at each other. I know daddy will soon lift his hands and he will hit mommy again, I know mommy will cry and tell me everything is alright as she tries to cover up her bruises. I don’t understand why daddy gets so angry. Why is it so terrible that I kicked my ball over the wall? Hopefully when I am all grown up, I will be able to stop him from hitting my mommy, I will be able to get her away from him and he will never hurt her again. Hopefully.

“Jena?” The boy asks again, pulling my attention back to him. I have never thought a boy could be pretty, but this boy is definitely pretty. He has the lightest blue eyes I have ever seen. It reminds me of the ocean, not the deep dark blue of the ocean, but the part where you can still see the white sand through the clear water. His dark lashes highlight his eyes, making it impossible to not look at them. His hair is a dirty blonde, a bit long and hanging over his ears, but I guess that he will have it cut just before school starts in a week. When he smiled at me earlier, he had one dimple on the left side of his smile and I wonder if he has one on the right, a part of me wanting to see him with a smile that reaches his eyes just to see if there is another. “Are you okay? It looks like you were crying.” He says again and I realize I should probably say something, but what do I say? Should I tell him that I am okay, that he should go away? I really don’t want to do that. I don’t want to sit here all alone and listen to them fighting, but I also don’t want him to know what my dad is doing to my mother. Just then, a loud slap can be heard even from out here and when a loud whimper follows, I know my mother just got hit again and this one will leave a really bad bruise that I will have to clean up soon. My eyes widen when I look at the boy, my heart pounding in my chest. “Should I call the police?” He asks and I quickly shake my head, my nearly white hair running over my shoulders with the movement. I did that once and it didn’t turn out very well for my mother. I don’t understand why the police didn’t take my daddy away, maybe I didn’t tell them clearly enough what my daddy was doing, or maybe they just didn’t care, but either way, I refuse to let anyone call the police again, because that night my mother nearly died and the only one that was there to clean up her wounds were me. That was less than six months ago, it is also the reason we moved here.

“Come.” The boy is closer. I stopped looking at him when my mind drifted back to that night and now, he is standing right in front of me, hand stretched out. Did he jump over the wall, or did he come through the side gate? The boy pulls on my arms, and I look back at the house, looking through the large window that shows the living room. My eyes connect with my mommy’s, and she nods at me, not wanting me to see her so broken and telling me that it is alright that I leave. I sigh in relief, not even caring that I will be following a boy that I don’t know, just as long as he takes me away from here. I will clean my mommy’s wounds when he brings me back. I know my daddy won’t even know that I am gone, because every night that he hits my mother, he goes out to a bar and comes back smelling terrible or he just goes straight to bed. He never checks on me because he always feels too guilty to look me in the eyes after he has beaten my mommy.

Silently, I follow the boy to his house. He opens his front door and then leads me through the living room and past the kitchen. The house is dark, which makes sense as it is past ten in the evening and everyone is probably already in bed, fast asleep. I can’t help but wonder why this boy is still awake when everyone else in his house is already sleeping. “I knew there was something off about your father. I stayed awake because I wanted to make sure you were safe.” He says, answering my question. How was he able to tell there was something wrong with my daddy, but the police didn’t? They were adults. Shouldn’t adults know everything? “Are you ever going to talk? I know you can, I heard you talk to your mother. You don’t have to be scared, you know I will protect you.” He says and even though he is probably the same age as I am, and he probably doesn’t even know how to protect himself, I believe him. “You won’t tell anyone about what you saw tonight?” I ask him and, for a second he looks pained, like he doesn’t want to stay quiet about what he saw, but he must see that I am about to walk out of his house because he stops leading me towards the stairs and turns to me.

“I pinky promise that I won’t say a word.” He says, holding out his pinky to me. I lift mine to his to seal the deal, but he pulls away, making me frown. “But only if you promise that you will come to my room when they are fighting. I will make sure to leave the backdoor open for you every night.” He says, and I still frown at him. What is wrong with this kid? “You shouldn’t be forced to listen to them fight, shouldn’t have to see your mother getting hit by your father. I want you to come to my house when they fight so that I can keep you safe and you can have a full night of sleep.” He says and that makes sense. I hold out my pinky again and this time he twists his pinky around mine. We break our pinkies apart after a few seconds and then he leads me up a flight of stairs. When my stomach growls, I am reminded of the fact that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, my punishment for getting the neighbors' attention on us. The boy stops and before I can say anything, he is running down the stairs and into the kitchen. I wait for him on the stairs, too afraid to move as I feel that he might wake up his parents with the amount of noise he is making. I hear the fridge open and a few seconds later it closes and then he is walking up the stairs again, holding a large cake in his hands with two spoons. “Come.” Is all he says as he walks past me, leading me into his bedroom, which is luckily right by the stairs instead of on the other side of the hallway.

I silently follow him into his room, turning to look around at the unmade bed that was blue and red, no picture like I would’ve expected. For a child, his room looks very grown up. He has navy blue walls with pictures of football players on it, a desk on the left side of his room that is neatly organized. His window looks out to my front lawn. I wonder how he knew I was sitting in the backyard. “You can have the bed, I will sleep on the floor.” He says, walking to his table, suddenly looking shy. “I know it isn’t food, but it is the quickest thing to eat and I have never been able to resist cake.” He says, holding out a spoon for me to take.

“What is your name?” I finally ask him as I take the spoon moving to take a bite of the chocolate cake that is making my mouth water. I don’t wait for him to tell me his name, far too hungry to wait for him to take the first bite. I scoop up a large bite of the cake and shove it in my mouth, moaning as the flavor explodes in my mouth. “This is so good!” I say far too loud, but luckily, my mouth is stuffed, muffling the sound. The boy quickly rushes to close his door, first looking down the hallway to see if anyone has heard. When he is satisfied that everyone is still asleep, he closes the door and looks at me.

“John.” He simply says and I nearly laugh, putting a hand over my mouth to try and keep the cake in. “What is wrong? Are you choking? Did it go down the wrong pipe?” He steps closer, but I shake my head, holding my hand out as I try to swallow the cake.

“Your name is for an old man.” I tell him and he smiles, full on two dimple smile as he hunches his back and pretends to walk around with a walking stick.

“Didn’t you know, I am old?” He says and I laugh this time. John quickly grabs a pillow off his bed and shoves it in my face, and I push it against my mouth, trying to smother my laugh. When I cool down and take in a deep breath, I find John staring at me, his blue eyes filled with fascination. “Beautiful.” He says and I stop laughing as I blush. Only my mommy has ever called me beautiful, but a mother is supposed to say her daughter is beautiful. When John says it, I truly do feel beautiful.