Homeless Heart

Following Phyllis's advice, finding a place to stay wasn't too hard. There were some derelict looking hotels near the bus station that were affordable but complete dives. She had advised me the best of the worst places to stay for a few days to get my bearings and figure out my next steps, and to avoid being found by my parents.

My father still scared me; he'd told me numerous times while my blood dripped down my back that he'd ruin my life if I ever told anyone. I never doubted he could make my life a living hell; he'd already been doing it for most of my life. The deep scars on my back were a constant reminder of why I should be scared of him. In school, I had to be cautious not to let anyone see my back during PE. The housekeepers were the only people who ever saw the damage my father had done. They'd often taken care of the wounds he'd inflicted and kept my secret. The sudden sting on my back reminded me that sitting on the bus for eight hours had irritated the damage he'd done during the final beating he'd given me just a few days ago.

All I had to do to attain my freedom was to stay hidden, and then I was guaranteed a multi-million-dollar trust fund when I turned twenty-one. My grandfather had left me the money that I'd planned to go back and claim my birthright. After that, I might start my life and possibly go to University. Until then, I'd have to live in the shadows on the streets and wait.

I found myself standing in front of an old dusty building with great architectural lines, and it looked like it had been dazzling in its glory days. However, now it was plastered with posters and graffiti on the outside. The Hotel Phoenix seemed like the appropriate name. This hotel was the one that Phyllis had suggested, telling me it was a five-star dive hotel in the area. It would never be on TripAdvisor. Maybe Rat Trap Advisor if they were lucky. Walking into the lobby was like walking into a seventies cop drama. This area was a whole other world I'd never experienced; sad men and women were sitting on the sofas in the smelly and dirty lobby. The old color TV mounted to the wall showed only a faint picture of the local news.

The hotel charged by the hour usually, so I bargained with the manager for a weekly rate. I wanted to get my bearings, so staying here for a week would help me learn the neighborhood. The manager, named Benny, was what you'd expect to see in a seventies cop drama. His bad comb-over, beer belly, and a stained tank top were his work uniform. I imagined he smelled of onions and musty clothes. I was glad there was a plastic partition between him and me. I decided I would avoid him at all costs for the duration of my stay.

After negotiating with Benny, I quickly scrambled to my room past all the commotion in the lobby because I needed a shower and then to sleep. When I pushed the door open into the room, it was as I imagined it would be. The room was the size of a postage stamp but seemed clean enough despite the torn wallpaper, worn carpet, and musty smell. The bathroom was clean too, and I realized that it was important to me. My standards would have to change if I was going to survive to my twenty-first birthday. The thought of staying someplace dirty would typically put my anxiety on high alert, but I was too tired to worry about it. I imagined this place was the Four Seasons compared to the other hotels I'd checked out.

The first thing I did in the room was to lock the door and stick the desk chair under the doorknob. Now that I felt secure, I fell face-first onto the bed, as my back was on fire. Lying here, I wouldn't worry about what else had happened on this bedspread. Yes, I'd seen those shows where they showed the DNA on hotel bedspreads. Right now, I am pretty sure that many others DNA was the only thing keeping this blanket together. When I had more energy, I'd roll it back. I could feel some of the cuts on my back had broken open, and the blood stuck to my shirt from the bus ride. Wound check had become a specialty of mine over the years. I knew firsthand that trying to take it off would feel about as good as getting my balls waxed. Best to rip it off, but I needed to rest my eyes for a few minutes. I would have a short nap, then remove my shirt and take a long hot shower.

As I drifted off to sleep, I thought about my mother. I felt terrible briefly for leaving my mother alone in that lifeless mansion with that monster, but she'd never really helped in all the years of beatings. She'd turned a drunken blind eye and didn't protect me, so my allegiance to her faded quickly. How could a mother do that to her kid? I wanted to hit something while I thought about the pain on my back.

The sound of what might have been a gunshot or car backfiring had woken me from my sleep. Looking at my watch, I realized my nap had only been an hour. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I had a feeling that I'd had a terrible dream but couldn't remember it. The flat screen TV, BMW, hot meals and showers were all a memory now. I tried to keep the despair at bay. I tried to focus on my freedom; I was out of the house, even if I was living like this. Relief spread through my body at the thought of no more beatings.

Smelling myself, I slowly got up and took a short hot shower. Taking my shirt off was as painful as I had imagined it would be. The water hurt like a motherfucker, but my pain threshold was pretty high. Luckily, it was short because the hot water only lasted about three minutes.

Sitting on the bed, clean and trying to clear my mind, I got lost in the sounds of my new world. There was a stark difference from the morgue-like silence of the mansion I grew up in.

I lay on the bed face down, to let my back dry and avoid any further damage. As my heavy eyes closed, I nodded off again. Another loud noise woke me up. I rubbed my sleepy eyes open and lazily looked at my watch. It was 3:00 a.m. I pulled back the blanket and rolled on to the hard, scratchy sheets, trying not to disturb my back wounds. Tomorrow is a brand-new day, was the last thing I thought before I passed out again.

After the first day hiding in my room, I was starving, and I'd run out of snacks, so I struck out into the neighborhood to see what I could find. Surveying the new locale, I looked for under-the-table work and possibly a cheaper room to stay in for the next week. I checked everywhere, going into shops, reading the free newspapers, but every time they wanted ID, or they thought I was overqualified. Given my schooling, many of the people thought I was a transitory employee. They wanted people who could stay, and who they didn't have to pay cash. The pressure was on; after the week was up, I would have to move out of the hotel, so I needed to be smart with my savings. I did my best to keep the anxiety at bay, but it was always there at the back of my mind.