When he had come home for lunch, he'd forgotten to take his dad's shirts out of the dryer as he was told to do. Looking up from his stew, he checked the wall clock and realized he'd have to go to bed soon. There would be no time to hang the large shirts. Needing to believe his father's mood was truly genuine, Dale gobbled down the hot stew and hoped to get to his bedroom without incident.
He placed the dirty bowl and spoon in the sink and ran for the door. If I make it to the living room before he comes back from the basement, I'll be in the clear. He ran even faster than he had earlier racing home from school. The only obstacle left for him to hurdle were the stairs that loomed in front of him. Dale counted to himself as he took them two at a time.
"Two . . . four . . . six . . . eight . . . ten . . . twelve . . ."
In mid-stride he stumbled, tripping on the top step as a voice boomed from below.
"In a rush to get to bed tonight, Dale?" Stan's voice bellowed from the bottom of the stairs.
Dale faced his father. He couldn't quite make out his features as his body was backlit by the living room lamp. Dale couldn't speak; terror had ripped that ability from him. Petrified, he crouched in the darkness, awaiting his father's vengeance to manifest itself.
"I asked if you were in a rush to get to bed tonight," his father repeated.
Dale's voice quivered, "I am a bit tired."
All Dale could think of was the meat cleaver.
Where is it?
Does he still have it?
Would he really use it?
"If that's the case, son, then why don't you go ahead and get to bed. I wouldn't want a tired boy on my hands tomorrow. Neither would your teachers, I reckon," he added. From Dale's vantage point he could see a hint of a smile on his father's lips. "And don't worry about my shirts. If I have any problems with the iron I'll be sure to ask your advice."
Dale thought it was an odd comment, but with that it was over and his father disappeared from sight. There'd been no beating. No yelling. No hard feelings. Had he finally learned that whacking his opinions into his sons didn't work? Maybe he'd decided to take a gentler approach with his youngest offspring.
Dale's legs were shaky as he stood from his cramped position on the stairs, but once upright he sprinted to his room. Inside this sanctuary, he felt an uneasy calm come over him. Everything had turned out okay. A nice surprise actually.
With pleasant thoughts of his father swirling in his mind, Dale fell asleep . . . until 10:30, when he was awakened by his father's cursing downstairs. The smashing of a glass and overturning of furniture confirmed their parent-child honeymoon was about to end.
Dale pushed himself into the corner of his bed against the wall and pulled the covers to his chin. Playing his bedtime games, these very covers had stopped bad guys' bullets, laser beams, arrows, fire and rocks. Anything and everything that was thrown at him was magically stopped. Sadly, as with the slaying of the dragons and toppling of evil kings, it was all in his wild childish imagination.
This was real.
Too real.
The bedroom door exploded open, with the handle smashing violently through the back wall. Dale let out a shriek as the bright light from the hall momentarily blinded him. His father was holding an item in his hand. Something with a tail. A long skinny tail. What is that thing? Dale screamed within his feverishly pulsating skull.
"No, Daddy, not that!" he howled. "Anything but that! Noooooo!"
Dale squirmed in the bed trying to disappear from view. As his father advanced toward him, he could smell alcohol on his breath. Hear his laboured breathing. See the insane look in his eyes.
The man was possessed with rage.
As the electric iron seared his skin for the first time, Dale could feel himself drifting away; wishing this would be the last time he'd ever see this man. Hoping, praying and believing that some unseen force would help him.
"I told you if I had a problem with the iron I'd ask your opinion," Stan seethed, as he pulled the hot appliance off Dale's lily-white skin. "I couldn't tell if it was hot enough yet. What do you think? IS IT HOT ENOUGH?"
The words echoed in Dale's ears. The pain had begun to register, but he knew a cry for help would be a death sentence. He'd be gone forever, but this demented psychopath would remain behind to live. If there was ever a motive to remain quiet, this was it. Dale wasn't going down for the count. One day, oh yes, one day, he would do to his father as was now being done unto him.
The stare in Dale's eyes became fixed and glassy with each pass of the iron over his small body. His father had gone totally mad, revelling in his bizarre act of revenge and terror. "Is it hot enough yet?" he asked repeatedly, as the failures of his own wretched life transformed themselves into fourth degree burns on his child's innocent body.
After many passes, the iron's heat faded and it was then only effective as a battering ram to Dale's head, although this act didn't satisfy Stan Hawks' need to teach his son a lesson. He didn't need an iron to hit his son - he could use his own hands for that. As the iron cooled, so too did Stan's rage. Throwing the iron to the floor, he stood and walked silently to the door. Turning to the bloodied, burnt and semi-conscious body on the bed, he gave what was left of his son a few words of fatherly advice.
"Boy . . . if you ever again treat me like you did tonight, so help me, I'll teach you a lesson that you'll never forget!"
As Stan exited the room, Dale's eyes began to burn in the same way the marks covering his body did. The pain was so great that Dale had to yell out, yet when he opened his mouth no sounds came out. Terrified he had lost his ability to speak forever, he called upon any unseen forces to find the time to help a battered little boy.
"Dale," a voice gently summoned, "you have suffered enough. It's time to go."
Fifteen years later, Dale still swore the conversation he had was with an understanding angel.
With the terms either to live or die, young Dale chose life, not fully understanding the ramifications his acceptance would have on the life path he was now destined to follow.
CHAPTER FIVE
The day was beginning to cool off and Susan felt almost at peace with the world. Earlier in the week she had told Jeremy she thought motorcycles were dangerous and he shouldn't buy one. This was a mistake. When Jeremy Atkins was told he shouldn't do something, it only gave him more incentive to go ahead with it.
Passing the convenience store's deserted parking lot, she thought about her relationship with Jeremy The Great, as he called himself in private. Or was that Jeremy The Wonderful? Regardless of how often she'd heard the stupid phrase, she could never remember which one was correct. No matter the moniker, Jeremy didn't quite live up to it sometimes.
Yes, she had asked her mother if Jeremy would ever propose, but even if he did, she didn't know what her response would be. In the heat of the moment, she would say, "Yes." Who wouldn't? He was good looking, rich and athletic. The list went on and on.
The most frightening aspect of marrying Jeremy Kenneth Charles Atkins was that until her last breath she'd be treated as a second class citizen. She was convinced she couldn't attain the greatness of the one whose
