Writer's Island #25 - Unleashed

This is my interpretation of today's prompt, unleashed.  Unleashed always makes me think of something dangerous, as in horrific weather—or anger.  For more stories, visit Writer's Island.

The rumble of the L train woke ten year old Mitch Lassiter from a restless sleep.  He rolled over and closed his eyes against the bright colors of the flashing neon sign, but the message was seared to his brain.  Kit Cat’s Lounge—Nude Girls—Kit Cat’s Lounge—Nude Girls, repeated over and over until he wanted to scream out in frustration.

The boy pulled the pillow over his head, trying desperately to block out the muffled sounds of his mother’s tears.  Nothing worked, the walls were too thin.  He couldn’t bear to lie there listening to her anguish, so he threw back the ragged blanket, too flimsy for a cold Chicago night, and dropped to the floor.  If only he could block out the light, maybe sleep would come with darkness.  Mitch dragged a rickety chair over to the window, climbed up and reached for the shade.  Even on tip toes, he couldn’t quite reach the tattered blind.

The only heat was from the fireplace in the next room, not enough to counteract the wind blowing in through the cracks around the window frame.  Mitch pulled the thin blanket off the bed, then sat down on the chair, and propped his knees under his chin.  He draped the blanket over his back and wrapped it around his bare legs. 

Mitch watched the street below.  Even at this late hour, the sidewalk was crowded with drunken men and scantily clad women blatantly hawking their wares.  His mind was wise beyond his ten year old body, he had seen too much of the unpleasant side of life. 

A glance at the clock on the wall confirmed his fear, midnight had come and gone, and the man he called father was still at the corner bar. 

If only his mother had kept her word.  A few hours earlier, she had been packing a suitcase, tears falling from bruised, swollen eyes.  She promised Mitch they would catch the express train to Springfield, a place he’d never been.  It was where his maternal grandmother lived, a grandmother he had never met because his mother was too ashamed to admit she’d made a mistake.  Ellen Burton married Jerry Lassiter against the wishes of her parents.  Now, pride wouldn’t let her acknowledge defeat.  Instead of asking her father for help, Ellen existed in a world of uncertainty and fear.

Jerry Lassiter named his only son Mitchell Burton Lassiter, after Ellen’s father.  Not because of any great affection he felt for the man, but because he wanted a share of the family fortune.  Jerry thought by giving the old man a namesake, Mitchell would forgive his only daughter for marrying against his wishes and reinstate her in his will.  The plan failed.  Now Jerry refused to call his son by his given name.  He called him ‘worthless’ or ‘stupid’, that is, when he bothered to address him at all.

Before his father burned every reminder of Ellen’s past life, Mitch had seen his grandparents’ wedding portrait.  Now, as he shivered from the cold, Mitch squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember that picture.  His grandfather stood tall and erect, his smile undermining the forbidding stance.  The smile covered a kindly face, crinkling the corners of his emerald green eyes.  The man in that picture would have been the kind of grandpa to take his grandson fishing or teach him to ride a bike. 

It was too bad Mitch would never have the opportunity to know his grandfather.  Mitchell Burton had died of a heart attack last year.  Ellen had cried for days, but she didn’t attend her father’s funeral.  Once again, Jerry had used his wife’s meager wages to feed his alcoholic cravings.  They didn’t have enough money for food.  Coming up with money for a train ticket would have been impossible.

Mitch inspected the mental picture he carried of his grandmother, Ruby Burton.  She was short.  She wore her long raven hair in a braid, wrapped around her head to form a crown.  A lace mantilla fell loosely over her shoulders.  The silky fabric of the wedding dress, shimmered in the photographer’s light.  Long puffy sleeves were graced with pearl closures on the cuff.  The high neckline was accented by a wide bow tied around her throat.  A ruby and diamond pin held the bow in place.  The white dress accentuated the dark skin of her Cherokee ancestry.  Her lips didn’t smile, but a glint in her dark brown eyes reflected the joy and happiness of the day.  Mitch longed to know her, to feel the comfort he knew he would find in the circle of her loving arms.  If only his mother could gather the strength she needed to leave this life of violence.

This afternoon, Jerry woke up earlier than expected from a drunken stupor to find his wife packing.  Mitch listened outside their bedroom door while his father cried, without tears, and begged her not to leave.  He filled her head with more of his flowery words and empty promises.  At first, Mitch was optimistic.  That is, until he heard his mother’s sobs, followed by her tearful acceptance.  Dejected, he went back inside his room and closed the door against that momentary glimpse of hope.

Now, as he waited in the dark, he saw a familiar figure emerge from The Oasis, a sleazy bar down the street.  The man tripped and almost fell on the sidewalk, but he caught himself and continued drunkenly weaving his way home.  Mitch held his breath, dreading the sound of his father’s arrival.

The worn treads of the stairs creaked with each fumbled step, as Jerry made his way to their third floor apartment in the rat infested building they called home.  About half way between the first and second floors, Jerry stubbed his toe and cursed loudly.

Old lady Peters whipped open her door, stood there with arms akimbo, waiting for him to reach the second floor landing.  Her greasy hair was tangled from sleep and the nightgown she wore was colored with gray filth from too few washings.  Putrid breath whistled through missing teeth as she spoke, “Don’t ya know people are try’n to sleep?”

“Shut up you crazy bitch!”  Jerry growled as he started up the last set of steps.

“And don’t think ‘bout beatin’ that woman o’ yours.”  She reached behind her and picked up the iron skillet from the stove.  Tapping it against her hand, she muttered, “I’ll pound you into the ground with this skillet.  It’d leave a dent in that useless head you carry ‘round.”

Jerry stared her down, “Go to hell old woman.”

Mitch heard the key scrape against metal and slide into the lock, and then listened to the screech of the hinges as the door opened.  The only light was from the glowing coals in the fireplace.

“El-len, hon-ey.  Jerry called in a sing song voice, “I’m home.  Where are you sweetness?”  He staggered over to the bedroom door and pushed it open.

Ellen lay curled up on the far side of the bed, her body trembling with fear.  Her hands were raised, poised to ward off the blows she knew would come. 

Jerry turned on the light and walked slowly toward the bed.  In a deadly voice spit through clenched teeth, he scolded, “I thought you were going to wait up for me.  We were supposed to eat dinner together, remember?”  Jerry tilted his head up to sniff the air, “I don’t smell anything cooking, where’s dinner?”  His voice spoke with affection, where no affection existed, only anger.

“I…I…you took the money.  I couldn’t go t…to the store…”  She stammered.

“You’re a lying bitch!  I know you’ve got money stashed somewhere.”  He put his knee on the bed, reached through her arms, and grabbed a handful of hair.  “Where do you keep the money you spend on that little bastard of yours?”

“Please stop…please…there’s no money.”  Her voice pleaded.

One tug brought her to the edge of the bed, but he wasn’t finished with her yet, instead he jerked her hair one more time, then let go.  Her hands were tangled in the blanket when she tumbled off the bed.  Unable to catch herself, her head hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by the loud snap of breaking bones.  Mitch held his ears to stop the replay of that sound…the sound of her head hitting the floor, the crack of her neck and the final exhale that marked her death.  He peeked inside the room.  His mother lay still, unmoving, not even a breath disturbed her quiet. 

“Get up bitch,” Jerry demanded.

His father took an unsteady step backward, lifted his foot, and kicked her in the face.  Mitch watched as his mother’s head flew up, bounced, and then lay limply on the cold wood.  Jerry drew his foot back to kick her again, but Mitch crossed the room and leaped onto his back.  He wrapped his arms around his father’s neck and pulled him backward.

Fearing the worst, but praying he was wrong, he yelled, “Stop it, you’re killing her!”

“You little shit, get off me.”  Mitch’s arms were choking him.  Jerry coughed and gasped for breath as he stumbled backward into the living room.  He yanked Mitch’s arms away and swung him around, throwing his only son down onto the threadbare rug in front of the fireplace.  The force of the fall caused Mitch to roll over and over, until he came to a stop inside the fireplace.  He screamed from the excruciating pain, as his face melted into the red hot coals.  He struggled to get up, but his father held him in place.

Mitch heard a shout from the hallway, “Police, open up!”  The door splintered, crashed open, and then, mercifully, the pain faded into unconsciousness.

* * *

Six months had passed since his mother’s death.  Mitch was in intensive care the day of her funeral, he didn’t even get to say goodbye.  He wanted to cry, to mourn the loss of his mother, but tears evaded him. 

When Mitch was finally released from the hospital, he found himself in the Cook County foster care system.  He had already lived with three different families.  Everyone averted their eyes from the ugliness of his face left rippled by fire and their patience quickly turned to frustration at his refusal to speak. 

Mitch thought a fourth foster family was on the horizon the day his social worker, Ms. McWhirter, came to get him.  He smiled for the first time since that dreadful night, when she told him they had found his grandmother.

Now, seated on a hard wooden bench outside family court, he waited for the Judge to decide his fate.  Would he stay in foster care, or leave this courthouse with the grandmother he’d never met?

When he heard footsteps approaching the door, Mitch squeezed his eyes shut and folded his hands to hide crossed fingers.  The door swung open, and he heard the clump of matronly shoes approaching.  Someone stopped beside him, then sat down on the bench.  A warm hand settled gently over his and a comforting arm slipped across his shoulders.  He knew without opening his eyes that he would see the Grandmother he had yearned to know.

Nothing could have prepared him for the rush of love he felt when she spoke.

“Hello Mitchell.”

The sweet strains of her aged voice drew him to her.  He peeked threw squinted lids and then opened his eyes wide to drink in the beauty of this woman’s kindly, wrinkled face.  Happiness radiated from those same dark brown, almost black eyes he had memorized long ago.  His mouth moved, beads of sweat glistened from his brow.  His throat constricted with the effort to force words through dormant vocal chords.  He spoke one word, “Grandmother?”

Tears coursed over the wrinkled skin of her face and gathered in the corners of her smile.  Their tears intermingled.  Tears of joy, and tears for the time lost between a grandmother and grandson, time that could never be recaptured.  The tears were also shed for the woman’s daughter and the child’s mother neither would hold again.  The old woman cradled the child as she would have a baby, rocking back and forth, crying until there were no more tears left to shed.  She rummaged in her over-sized purse and came out with a packet of tissues.  She handed one to the boy, and then wiped her eyes and dried her face.  With his small hand in hers, she stood up.

“Let’s go home.”