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Ronan

AGE 14

S aturday’s have become my favorite day of the week. It’s been just over twelve months since I started my probation, and I’ve spent every weekend at the local ballpark cleaning.

I get to spend time with my probation officer, Maria Sandoval, and the other kids around my age. I haven’t shared why I got into trouble, and honestly, I’m not sure I will. Almost everyone else has, though—including this girl, Amanda. She’s really cute, and I think she might be into me. Whenever we have to break into pairs, I swear we both look at each other at the exact same moment, confirming we are thinking the same thing.

I’m really looking forward to these next eleven months, and after that, maybe I can keep volunteering if my mom agrees. I know she’s busy, but if she could drop me off in the morning and pick me up in the evening, I’d have a good excuse to be ‘too busy’ on weekends for my uncle. I’m sure my dad won’t mind—he’s already eager for me to turn eighteen and be out of the house.

I also wonder if Maria will let me text her. If I say that I’m still keeping in contact with my probation officer, that could continue to be a deterrent. I just need to survive until I get through high school. Then I can move in with my brother, hopefully, go to college, and move on from this.

I don’t need to talk about it, just heal and take care of myself.

“See you later, Mom!” I call out as I make my way to the bottom of the stairs, and rush toward the door. Maria pulled in a few minutes ago, I saw her through my bedroom window, and I’m ready to get the weekend started.

“Wait, sweetheart!”

I swing the door open, greeting my probation officer with a big, braces-filled smile, and hers is just as wide. It’s honestly nice to have someone who’s genuinely excited to see me, with no ulterior motive beyond just being there with me.

“Well, good morning, Ronan. Happy as ever I see.”

“It’s Saturday, my favorite day.”

“Mind if I come in?” Her question surprises me. She’s been inside before, but we usually head straight to the ballpark. It’s about a half-hour drive, and with baseball in season, we like to get there early to beat the crowd. Shouldn’t we get going?

I just nod and turn to see that my mom is drying her hands. A huge smile on her face as well.

As we make our way into the living room, as always with the absence of my father, Maria looks at my mom. My mom looks at Maria. Then they look at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Sweetheart, Maria has some incredible news!”

I glance down at her hands. Just last week, she mentioned she thought her fiancé was about to propose. I don’t know much about that, but my curiosity piqued when I saw a photo of her with a guy in a firefighter uniform, so I had asked if it was her husband.

There isn’t a ring. At least, not on her finger.

There is a ringing going off in my ear after she says, “The judge has signed off on your probation early!”

I think I’m in shock, because every inch of me suddenly feels numb.

“You have been doing so incredibly well, that I submitted the early discharge paperwork—”

“W-Why would you do that?” I ask so quietly I barely hear myself, grateful my mom at least catches it so I don’t have to repeat myself. My throat aches, and I think I might be having an anxiety attack.

“It’s because you’ve done so well, Ronan. This is a great thing!”

The air around me feels too thick, like I’m suffocating with every intake of air.

“Do you hate me?” My question is sincere, because I can’t imagine why she would want to get rid of me so soon. I still have so much time left. No, no—how could this be happening?

“Ronan? Hey, hey. It’s alright!” I think she screams for my mom, but a buzz fills my ears and soon, I’m staring at feet. Maria’s hands are on me, lifting me off the floor and a cool liquid flows into my mouth.

I don’t swallow.

I don’t even want to breathe.

Why would she do this? How could she let me go? I still had so much time to figure out my safety.

I swore I had so much more time.

“Don’t let him come back.” I’m not sure if I say it aloud or just in my head, but all I hear in response are soft “shh” and “it’s going to be okay.”

It’s not going to be okay. I’m not okay. Please, not again.

It’s been three weeks since my probation ended, and every weekend, I close myself off in my room. The door locks, and I block it with my chair. I don’t eat, and I don’t see my parents.

That is until my dad had enough and removed the lock on my door. He told me if my door was blocked, he would leave me with only a mattress in the room, and if I used that, I’d get a sleeping bag.

He no longer uses threats, just promises.

I can see the way he treats me is wearing on my mom, but she’s afraid. He has been away longer and longer, and she’s trying to save their relationship—I think. I’m not sure, honestly. If she would leave him, maybe we could move out together. It could just be the two of us.

Maybe if I told her about my uncle, she would choose me—and make dad, too.

All I know is I’m terrified every Friday when school ends. That when I get home, my uncle will be here just waiting for me.

I haven’t seen him since I started probation, but I know it’s only a matter of time. My dad has mentioned ‘his brother’ coming around, but it hasn’t happened yet. I’m grateful, but the dread of it still haunts me.

My inner thoughts aren’t loud enough tonight, because I can hear my parents fighting, and it’s about me. I hate that it is me that causes this.

“He needs fucking help, Joanna! He’s sick!”

“He is not!” I hear something crash, and I press harder against the door, fighting not to go down to protect the only person that has ever been on my side. “You’ve never loved him like you do Eamon!”

“I loved that boy—”

“Loved?!”

I squeeze my eyes shut and collapse into a seated position, running my fingers through my hair as I grit my teeth.

“Ronan needs help. He is already showing signs of regressing! Maybe it was a mistake to get him off probation early.”

Another crash makes me jump, this time the sharp sound of glass shattering.

“If you spent time with him, maybe you could find out what is hurting our son! ”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. This isn’t my fault.”

I pull at my hair, feeling it tear from my scalp. The sting is a strange comfort, a sensation I've missed. My mental suffering is unbearable. I can't just punch my brain, tear it apart, and make it stop.

“Fuck you, Dalton. You are a piece of shit!”

Smack.

I’m far too familiar with flesh-on-flesh contact, and I’m on my feet faster than I can think. I charge down the hall, hitting the stairs just as the front door slams closed.

I hate that it’s my dad that’s standing there.

“M-Mom?”

He doesn’t look at me, instead just turns and begins stalking off toward the kitchen.

“Mom?” I hit the first floor and head to the front door. When I open it, I see her pulling out of the driveway. I’m about to run after her, but a firm grip takes my upper arm, yanking me back inside.

“Give it a fucking rest, she needs a break from you and this house.” He slams the door shut right in my face, before letting me go.

I drop my gaze to the tile below me, searching for the pieces of me that are slowly falling apart. She can’t leave me, not like Eamon.

“I have plans this weekend,” Dad grumbles.

My knees slam into the floor, but I don’t focus on the sharp crack or the cold door pressing against my forehead as I lean forward.

Please come back.

“I can’t trust you not to do something stupid, so I’m going to have your uncle come watch you.”

“No…” I whisper.

His loud groan echoes for several seconds, forcefully getting out all his frustration with me. As though I’m the bane of his existence. “He has missed you—”

“No!” I scream and bang my head against the door. “Dad, he touched me!” The words spill from my mouth so fast, the consequences don’t even register. This family is already broken—why am I still trying to protect them? What about me?!

“He hurt me. Me… your son, he—”

His grip on my shirt tears me back, but it’s his fist against my cheek that completely knocks me to the ground. Pain shoots through my face, and I swear my vision blurs in the eye closest to the impact. I raise my hand to touch it, but instantly pull it away, unable to stand the discomfort.

“You shut your fucking lying mouth. What is wrong with you?!”

I don’t know if I’m shaking, or if we are having an earthquake.

He comes to stand over me before taking my shirt and making me square my shoulders to him. “You could get him in a lot of fucking trouble with that lie.”

“I-I’m not lying!”

His hand raises back in a fist, and instinctually, I cower back.

“Please believe me, I swear!” Tears begin to spill from my eyes, “Dad, I-I never said anything because—”

He hits me again, this time into my hand which barely cushions the blow to my nose.

“I won’t have you saying these lies about your uncle. MY brother! He loves you and would never hurt you. You’re doing this for sympathy—for fucking attention. Did you tell your mother this? Is that why she babies you like she does?”

I don’t know if it’s snot or blood falling from my nose, but I don’t wipe it away to find out. Instead, I just move to my side and curl into a ball.

“You need help, Ronan. You haven’t seen your uncle in over a year. Then all of a sudden you want to say he’s touched you? That’s disgusting behavior.”

My knees touch my chest, and I just shut my eyes.

Please believe me…

“You’ll apologize to him yourself for this bullshit. I’m going to make an appointment with the psychologist. Maybe they can get you on some sort of meds.”

I’m sorry… Mom… Mom, please come back…

“If I hear you say that shit about your uncle again, a few hits will be the least of your problems.”

I should’ve never said anything…

I’m stuck…

Eamon. Mom. Help me.

AGE 17

I’m not entirely sure how I’ve survived these past three years, but now that I’m looking at the photos of a bloody, nearly dead, high school kid, maybe I shouldn’t be. I think I died that day my mom walked out and never came back.

“Sweetheart, I’ll get custody, but I can’t be with your father and he’s not letting me take you right now. He says… he says that I’m not good for you.”

My mom lost any and all custody of me. It was all because of what I said that day. My dad was afraid I’d tell her, and she would have believed me and gone to the police. He was adamant that I was lying, and I wish I had been.

After that weekend, my uncle moved in with us. His abuse only got worse, and the men he invited over enjoyed what he called was his to have. Me.

“You made me wait over a year. I’ve missed you and need to make up for lost time.”

My dad was seeing someone that wasn’t my mom, and invited her over sometimes, but actively sought to be out of the house. Away from me, I was convinced of it.

I was prescribed antipsychotic medication after being diagnosed with schizophrenia and severe depression with psychotic tendencies. My dad told the doctors I was making up lies, and I was a danger to him and everyone around me.

The day I started taking them, my fight ended.

He had full control, and so did my uncle.

That was, until three days ago when Mario Allen Thomas told me in the middle of Geometry that I was a ‘gay bitch that enjoyed getting fucked in the ass ’. I broke his nose, then took a pen straight into his eye. Watching it pop and blood immediately pour from it is still so vivid, it’s as though it’s happening all over again.

Just like cum, I’ve become desensitized to blood. I crave that, however, over the former. I’d cut open a million people to guarantee I’d never taste, smell, or see any liquid from my uncle and his friends ever again.

This violence makes me feel free.

I’ve not been able to breathe for as long as I can remember, and for the first time, even if I’m surrounded by police officers as I stare at the judge in this courtroom, I’m not suffocating.

I wish the boy had died, I hear I could’ve gotten the death penalty. That’s what my lawyer whispered to someone when she thought I wasn’t listening.

I hope to never see my family again, unless it’s in Hell. They will pray that’s the case, because I will put them six feet under if I ever see them again. I’ll bury them myself, just like they did to my innocence.

“Ronan,” my lawyer says beside me. “You have to speak.”

I turn my head slightly to look up at her. She, like everyone else, sees me as a lost cause. A boy that was given everything, and didn’t take advantage of my privilege .

“To say what?” I ask.

“I was saying it was a negative reaction to your medication—”

“No.” I cut her off. “Lying will make me heavier. It wasn’t the medicine… It was him… It was all him.”

The look she gives me reminds me just how unbelievable my story sounds and how much of a lost cause I am.

No one cares.

No one wants to hear the truth.

No one wants to believe me.

“Ronan Byrne.” The judge then calls for my attention. “I was hoping to never see you again.”

They only want to dismiss me.

They only want to judge me.

They only want to hurt me.

They got what they wanted.

I hope they’re happy, because I never will be. For the first time in my short life, I’ve accepted that. This is my fate: to suffer, to be given glimpses of a chance, only to be reminded that not everyone is meant to have it.

A chance…