Page 63 of Tinsel & Chrome

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Fifteen years ago...

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It’s late at night; the loud assholes are yelling and drinking. I live at the bad neighborhood, and it’s the time of night that the fuckers are out. I call them the fucking Zombies since they’re brainless drug addicts.

I walk across the street to avoid walking near the fuckers. I take long strides, digging my tennis shoes into the messed-up walkway. My muscles hurt, and I’m exhausted. I just got off work. I’ve been working under the table at Joe’s diner since I’m only fourteen, and the owner is willing to give me a job. I wash the dishes, mop the bathrooms, and basically clean the place after it closes down - yeah, I'm a janitor. However, I’m grateful because I’m earning a substantial amount of money, the same amount that the diner would pay an adult, but in cash. I want to save enough to run.

I walk down the street, keeping to myself. I walk to my foster home. It’s fucking hell living there. That’s another reason that I’m glad that I work at the diner, I get to eat. I get the food at school, and I eat at the diner. I walk up the driveway, and I stare at the garage.

The garage sliding door is open, and I can’t resist walking over to look inside. Big T never has the garage door open. He forbids any of us to go inside the garage, and this is a temptationI can’t resist. I’m naturally curious, but I try to stay within the rules and avoid crossing any lines. I don’t want Big T's anger.

I stop a few inches away from the baby blue car, a Mustang. This must be what’s so fucking important to Big T, but what the hell does the man think we will do to it.

He’s not right in the head.

I can’t stand him.

I walk slowly around the car, looking at every detail. I don’t know much about cars, especially old Mustangs, but this car appears to be a classic. The chrome and paint job shines, and the interior looks clean.

It’s surreal.

How did Big T get this car?

I stare at it, it’s beautiful.

Then all of a sudden, I hear the heavy steps on the driveway. I know that sound, it’s Big T walking, pounding into the concrete. He’s breathing deeply, and he snarls. He sounds like an animal, and he’s pissed. Those sounds are deeply ingrained in my memory; my body tenses, and my heart wants to explode as my blood rises.

“What the fuck are you doing boy,” Big T yells.

Big T grabs me by my faded grey t-shirt, yelling, and his nostrils flare. He snarls, spittle sprays all over me.

“Stop! I didn’t touch it! I was looking at it,” I yell.

My heart pounds fast in my constricted chest, and I gasp, inhaling deeply to fill my lungs.

Breathe.

I need to breathe.

I know that my face is red. I feel so damn hopeless against his brute strength.

I hate it!

I’m eager to grow taller and stronger. Especially, I can’t wait to get the fuck out of the foster care. I’ve been thinking of running away, but I know that I’m not ready.

“Boy, I told you to stay out of the garage! There’s nothing in there for you! You touched my baby Mustang,” Big T yells, shaking me around.

Big T is the meanest foster dad yet! I hate him, and he scares me.

Big T is a big man, and I can’t fight him, not yet. I’m tall, but I don’t have muscle bulk or strength. But some day I’m going to kill him.

He drags me further into the garage and grabs a rope. he wraps the rope around my wrists, binding them tight. There is no way I can get loose, and I know that he’s going to beat me. He’s done it before. I don’t know why I’m still here; there was an investigation.

I’m just another kid in the system; no one seems to care what we go through.

“You little shit, start counting,” Big T growls.

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