The Lost Boy

1 – The Runaway
    Winter 1970, Daly City, California –
I’m alone. I’m hungry and I’m shivering in the dark. I sit on top of my hands at the bottom of the stairs in the garage. My head is tilted backward. My hands became numb hours ago. My neck and shoulder muscles begin to throb. But that’s nothing new – I’ve learned to turn off the pain.
    I’m Mother’s prisoner.
    I am nine years old, and I’ve been living like this for years. Every day it’s the same thing. I wake up from sleeping on an old army cot in the garage, perform the morning chores, and
if
I’m lucky, eat leftover breakfast cereal from my brothers. I run to school, steal food, return to “The House” and am forced to throw up in the toilet bowl to prove that I didn’t commit the crime of stealing any food.
    I receive beatings or play another one of her “games, ” perform afternoon chores, then sit at the bottom of the stairs until I’m summoned to complete the evening chores. Then, and only
if
I have completed all of my chores on time, and
if
I have not committed any “crimes, ” I
may
be fed a morsel of food.
    My day ends only when Mother allows me to sleep on the army cot, where my body curls up in my meek effort to retain any body heat. The only pleasure in my life is when I sleep. That’s the only time I can escape my life. I love to dream.
    Weekends are worse. No school means no food and more time at “The House.” All I can do is try to imagine myself away -somewhere, anywhere -from “The House.” For years I have been the outcast of “The Family.” As long as I can remember I have always been in trouble and have “deserved” to be punished. At first I thought I was a bad boy. Then I thought Mother was sick because she only acted differently when my brothers were not around and my father was away at work. But somehow I always knew Mother and I had a private relationship. I also realized that for some reason I have been Mother’s sole target for her unexplained rage and twisted pleasure.
    I have no home. I am a member of no one’s family. I know deep inside that I do not now, nor will I ever, deserve any love, attention or even recognition as a human being. I am a child called “It.”
    I’m all alone inside.
    Upstairs the battle begins. Since it’s after four in the afternoon, I know both of my parents are drunk. The yelling starts. First the name-calling, then the swearing. I count the seconds before the subject turns to me –
it always does. The sound of Mother’s voice makes my insides turn. “What do you mean?” she shrieks at my father, Stephen. “You think I treat
‘
The Boy
‘
bad? Do you?” Her voice then turns ice cold. I can imagine her pointing a finger at my father’s face. “You … listen
... to …
me. You … have no idea what
‘
It’s
‘
like. If you think I treat
‘
It
‘
that bad … then …
‘
It
‘
can live somewhere else.”
    I can picture my father – who, after all these years, still tries somewhat to stand up for me – swirling the liquor in his glass, making the ice from his drink rattle. “Now calm down, ” he begins. “All I’m trying to say
is …
well… no child deserves to live like that. My God, Roerva, you treat… dogs better than … than you do The Boy.”
    The argument builds to an ear-shattering climax. Mother slams her drink on the kitchen countertop. Father has crossed the line. No one
ever
tells Mother what to do. I know I will have to pay the price for her rage. I realize it’s only a matter of time before she orders me upstairs. I prepare myself. Ever so slowly I slide my hands out from under my butt, but not too far -for I know sometimes she’ll check on me. I know I am never to move a muscle without
her
permission.
    I feel so small inside. I only wish I could somehow …
    Without warning, Mother opens the door leading to the downstairs garage. “You!” she screams. “Get your ass up here! Now!”
    In a flash I bolt up the stairs. I wait a moment for her command before I timidly open the door. Without a sound I approach Mother and await one of her “games.”
    It’s the game of address, in which I have to stand exactly three feet in front of her, my hands glued to my side, my head tilted down at a 45-degree angle and my eyes locked onto her feet. Upon the first command I must look above her bust, but below her eyes. Upon the second command I must look into her eyes, but never, never may I speak, breathe or move a single muscle unless