The Legacy

By LF Gillis

Two abused teens, from different socio-economic backgrounds, form a bond that will be tested but never broken.
In the concrete jungle you are one of two things—predator or prey. Sylvia-Ann Felix grew up living this simple truth. She wasn’t about to become the prey.
Cages have no hiding places. Sylvia-Ann’s apartment felt like a cage. It was the one place she could not run or hide from her abuser.
Self-preservation answers the question, fight or flight? In Sylvia-Ann’s case it was fight. There was not getting away from her mother, so she pushed her down a flight of stairs. The courts ruled her actions self-defense and sent her to live with her paternal grandfather.
Heroes aren’t born; they are forged by life. Life needs to do more forging. On the surface, Bill Denali had everything. His best friend was the darling of the county. He lived in a beautiful house where the household staff attended to his needs. And his father, the charismatic Reverend William Denali, took out his anger and frustration on him. With a sick mother to worry about, the high school senior saw no choice but to accept the beatings and the fact that even if he told, no one would believe him.
When Sylvia-Ann saw the reverend’s son in church, she sensed something about him. She had no idea that what she sensed was familiarity. On the night of his mother’s death, Sylvia-Ann learned that she and Bill shared a secret—shame from being abused. Sylvia-Ann had stood up to her mother. She certainly had no qualms about standing up for Bill. She told her grandpa, who after confirming her story by talking to the boy and seeing the bruises and welts, made sure the reverend never hurt his son again.
Cal Felix never pretended to be anything other than what he was—a simple man who had made more than his share of mistakes. When his granddaughter, Sylvia-Ann, came to live with him, he saw it as his final chance at redemption. She needed direction. When she saw him working out by boxing, she all but begged him to teach her. After being assured by her therapist that it would do her no harm, Cal agreed with the condition that she would only fight inside the ring.
But Sylvia-Ann became more than a second chance for Cal, she allowed him to relive his glory days. He felt the jubilation from every victory and the pain of every defeat. Little did he know that this incredible, young woman would force him to face and forgive himself his past mistakes.
Will the Felix family legacy be pain and repeating past mistakes, or is it something more?

• Language: English
• Publisher: LF Gillis
• Release date: Aug 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370660896

LF Gillis

LF Gillis was raised outside the small, North Florida town of Madison. She has worked in multiple factories, worked in the hospitality industry, and even ran her own farm. Now that her children are grown, what was once a hobby has grown into a full-blown obsession. Since her inception, Sylvia-Ann "Syl" Felix has taken up much of Gillis' time. The Legacy has taken so long to write, that one friend even wonders if Gillis is writing it for herself, or does she intend to find an audience. As a chef once told me, "Never expect anyone to eat what you wouldn't eat, yourself. I apply that advice to my writing as well as my cooking. If I struggle to read a chapter, I expect my audience will too. Therefore, the chapter goes on the chopping block. I am in the pursuit of perfection. I may never achieve it, but I will never stop trying.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Atlanta, Georgia, 1989

Sylvia-Ann dropped her backpack on the floor, pressing her hand against the apartment door. It felt cold to her touch. Cold and stiff—the way the apartment’s former occupant was when they found him.

I miss you, Greg, she whispered, hoping death wouldn’t deny her this last message.

Greg was Sylvia-Ann’s first love. They met two years ago when her mother kicked her out of the Felix’s tiny apartment. The reason for her exile didn’t matter. Doreen Felix didn’t need one. Sylvia-Ann was only fifteen at the time.

Greg’s place was next door to the Felixes. After a long night of crying and being assured that things were going to get better, Greg asked Sylvia-Ann for the names of her parents. Three days later, Doreen asked her to come back home. A month later she was back at Greg’s house. These moves became so frequent, Greg gave her a key.

Bitterly cold wind whipped at her loose jeans and jacket. From her perch, Sylvia-Ann observed the parking lot below. A group of boys were chasing each other. Pow, pop, pow, one of them yelled, while forming his hands to look like a pretend gun. Another boy clutched his chest, falling to the pavement.

The familiar game was too real. Someone was killed every week in that neighborhood. The police didn’t bother to investigate most of the murders. If the corpses were lucky, the meat wagon would show up before they rotted.

Young men gathered in the shadows doing things Sylvia-Ann knew better than to witness. The church bell ringing two blocks down the street, reminded her that it was Sunday morning. Mrs. Tenelli on the third floor always made meatballs and spaghetti on Thursday night. These events and people made up part of everyday life in the Hillman Tenements.

Sylvia-Ann’s heart felt heavy. Tears streamed from her eyes as sweat matted her thick, black hair to her forehead and neck. Why did this happen?

Just days before, police and investigators rambled in and out of Greg’s apartment; while onlookers came as close as they dared, with morbid curiosity. Now everyone was gone and no trace of him remained.

The man who everyone in the apartment complex referred to as a pimp and drug dealer; made sure Sylvia-Ann did her homework, gave her a place to stay when things became unbearable at home, and fed her. Once, he even bought her a winter coat. Greg wasn’t just Sylvia-Ann’s boyfriend, he was her hero. The only thing he wanted in return was to love her and be loved by her. That wasn’t too much to ask.

At home her loving mother, Doreen, beat Sylvia-Ann with whatever she could get her hands on, cursing her existence with gin laced breath. A few times Doreen burned Sylvia-Ann with cigarettes. Once Sylvia-Ann’s mother broke the girl’s arm. Children’s Protective Services investigated the incident and put Doreen on probation. After her sentence was over, Doreen went back to abusing Sylvia-Ann, taking care not to inflict injuries serious enough to require medical attention.

Seth Felix, Sylvia-Ann’s father, took a more passive role in the family. He came home from work every evening and crawled into a bottle, oblivious to the pain and suffering his wife inflicted upon his daughter.

Sylvia-Ann wished she could go inside Greg’s apartment once more. She wanted to feel his presence.

The door flung open from the inside. I’m sorry, Mr. Morris, Sylvia-Ann said, grabbing the door facing for support to keep from stumbling into the apartment manager. I—

Shouldn’t be wasting your time crying over this piece of dirt. Morris pulled his pants over his bulging belly. If you ask me, whoever killed him did the world a favor.

Sylvia-Ann stepped back out onto the landing. I didn’t ask you.

Normally, she avoided Mr. Morris. Most all the girls in the apartment complex did. The ones who didn’t regretted the encounter.

You got a smart mouth on you, girl. Morris grabbed her wrist. I should teach you some manners. A smile crossed his thick lips, revealing yellowing teeth. Light glinted off his beady, green eyes; giving them a gunky yellowish tint. Or maybe we can go inside and you can work off some of the back rent your parents owe.

Sylvia-Ann pulled against Morris’ vice-like grip. I’ll tell.

Tell who? He sneered. The cops? That’s a joke, he said, pulling her into the apartment. Your parents gonna believe you? He shook his head. I don’t think so.

Greg was gonna charge me five-hundred dollars for breaking you in. Just inside the door, Morris unzipped his pants. With him dead, I still get the pleasure and it won’t cost me a thing.

What is he talking about? Sylvia-Ann doubled over, spewing on Morris’ shoes.

Why, you little bitch, Morris yelled, pulling her down by her hair. Clean this shit up.

The scuff marks on his work boots became more pronounced as the rancid scent of vomit gagged Sylvia-Ann. She spotted a hammer lying on the floor within reaching distance. Her fingers wrapped around the cold piece of metal. Pain jarred her wrist as she slammed the hammer against his knee.

Morris yelped as he fell, grasping his leg. I’ll make you regret doing this!

Sylvia-Ann snatched her backpack and jumped the guardrail, falling to the landing below. She had to get to the hidden angel—the guardian of abused kids.

She and her best friend, Rachel found the etching late one night while hiding from Rachel’s mother. It was in an old part of the complex where refuse was stored until garbage collection day. Two, little girls huddling behind huge bins, hoping no one would find them. But someone had already been there. Partially hidden by a rusty, stinking dumpster; the crude carving, etched into the concrete gave them hope. Barely more than wings and a robe, neither Sylvia-Ann nor Rachel knew what it was until they read the words. Blessed be the ones who find me, for I am here with them. They each kept a hand on the angel, spending the night praying for safety.

Once again, Sylvia-Ann found herself depending on the angel to save her. In the distance, Mr. Morris threatened her safety and her life. She knew those weren’t empty promises. Girls got raped in that complex all the time and no one ever did anything about it—just like the police were never going to catch Greg’s killer.

Morris was smart enough to choose girls deemed problematic or troubled. The ones from broken or abusive homes. He never made accusations toward the parents. He gained their trust by doing extra work around their homes. Once he chose a girl, he would convince her parents or guardian to let her work for him a few hours a week.

He started coming around Sylvia-Ann’s apartment a year ago. Before Morris could make his final move she was arrested for shoplifting. Her punishment was probation that included wearing an electronic monitoring device and working off her debt at the store she stole from. With so many people watching Sylvia-Ann, Morris lost interest—or so she thought.

Greg’s apartment was rented in the name of his mother. To the electronic monitoring people, it appeared that Sylvia-Ann was visiting an elderly woman named Meredith Piera.

Now that Sylvia-Ann was nearing the end of her sentence and Greg was dead, Morris was becoming braver. She had to put a stop to this. But how? All the important people in this neighborhood Morris was revered as a saint for his work with disadvantaged girls.

As Sylvia-Ann placed one hand on the angel, a small silhouette blotted out the sun. Hi, said Rachel. Are you okay?

I am now. She looked up at the girl as despair morphed into happiness. Rachel had a knack for brightening the day of everyone she encountered. Sylvia-Ann hoped life wouldn’t rob her of that gift. Happy birthday.

Rachel dropped to her knees, hugging Sylvia-Ann. You remembered!

Of course I did, Sylvia-Ann whispered, hoping Rachel would take the hint and lower her voice. Morris might still be looking for her, and the sound of a conversation going on behind a dumpster could peak his curiosity. Did your mom bake you a cake?

Tears ran down Rachel’s cheeks. She said we don’t have the money. Then she did this. Rachel rolled up her sleeve, revealing a cigarette burn.

Ouch. Sylvia-Ann cringed, knowing how much pain her little friend was in.

It’s okay. Rachel rubbed her eyes. Now we’ll both have round scars.

Sylvia-Ann rolled up her sleeve, lining up her scar with Rachel’s fresh burn. Your mom’s been taking lessons from Doreen.

They just made us sisters, that’s all.

The girls looked at their arms, then at each other, once again they glanced at their arms, then their eyes went back to each other again. At first, Sylvia-Ann smiled at the notion of having a sister. Then Rachel giggled. Before either of them knew what was happening, they were rolling on the ground, hugging each other, and laughing so hard that their ribs were hurting.

Something fell. Both girls hushed, scurrying to a crack between the dumpster and a brick wall. A cat meowed, running past them. Sylvia-Ann covered Rachel’s mouth and waited. Minutes passed. Satisfied that no one else was around, she let go of the girl. A few minutes later, the girls ventured back to then angel etching.

Dammit, Sylvia-Ann screamed, staring at her backpack, lying next to the angel.

Rachel stared at it, looking confused. What’s wrong?

I’m an idiot. Sylvia-Ann kicked the pack. That’s what.

I don’t understand. Rachel picked up the bag and brushed some dirt off it. Here, she said, giving the pack to Sylvia-Ann. Good as new.

Morris is looking for me, and man is he pissed. Sylvia-Ann held it at arm’s length. Had he spotted this stupid thing, he could have found us.

Oh. Rachel slumped to the concrete, pressing her back against the dumpster. I guess it’s none of my business why Mr. Morris is upset with you.

It’s not that. Sylvia-Ann sat down with the girl, grasping both of her hands. It’s—just that… How could she educate Rachel about survival, yet preserve some of her innocence? She certainly wasn’t about to tell Rachel that Morris tried to… Sylvia-Ann shuttered. How could she tell Rachel about what she wasn’t ready to deal with herself? You’re better off not knowing about some of the stuff that goes on around here.

Sylvia-Ann was just starting to calm herself, when Rachel asked, You mean like what was in the bags that you used to deliver to the man’s car, on your way to school?

Yeah. Sylvia-Ann started shaking. She never looked inside any of the bags that Greg used to put in her backpack. She never wanted to know what they contained. But anybody with half a brain could guess that it was drugs. What else could she do beside carry them? Greg threatened to turn his back on her whenever she denied him anything. Sylvia-Ann couldn’t afford to make an enemy of him—she and Rachel needed the protection.

The memories, both good and bad, were too painful to deal with right now. Sylvia-Ann rubbed her hands on her jeans. It was time to lighten the mood. I’m glad you made it to your party.

Rachel’s brown eyes opened wider as she stuck her thumb against her chest. My party?

Sylvia-Ann looked to her right, then her left. I don’t seen anyone else turning thirteen today. She opened her pack and produced two sodas and a bag of potato chips. Don’t tell anyone, but Mr. Greene pays me a little money on the side. That’s how I scored the chips and sodas.

Getting caught shoplifting is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Rachel hugged her. Your boss is the best.

Sylvia-Ann never understood why Mr. Greene was so nice to her. No one else was. Perhaps it was because she stole only because she was hungry. She didn’t get the creep-vibe from the grocery store owner, the way she did the apartment manager.

Mr. Greene’s kindness was the only thing that gave Sylvia-Ann hope for humanity. He took pity on a thief. There had to be other good people in the world—somewhere.

What’s with all this hugging? Sylvia-Ann gave Rachel a gentle shove. I’m not your teddy bear.

Oops. Rachel’s cheeks turned red. I forgot. You don’t like physical contact.

And you shouldn’t either. Sylvia-Ann still felt dirty from Morris’ greasy hands. The only time anyone ever touches anyone is for their benefit. Don’t let people use you like that, Rachel.

The little girl cast her gaze downward, whimpering, I won’t.

Promise me. Sylvia-Ann raised her voice, trying to drive her point home. Say, ‘I won’t ever let anyone use me, Sylvia-Ann.’ It’s important that I hear those words come out of your mouth, Rachel.

Okay. Rachel looked Sylvia-Ann in the eye. I won’t ever let anyone use me, Sylvia-Ann. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, contorting her sweet face into a scowl. And they won’t either.

That’s real good, Rachel. Sylvia-Ann flipped over her backpack. Cracked and partially squished cupcakes tumbled from it. I believe you.

I’m glad. The little girl smiled. Where’d you get the cakes?

The bread deliveryman told me to take them home. He said orange cupcakes don’t sell well in this area. She pointed toward the expiration date printed on the bottom of one of the packages. They’re outdated, but still good. We checked each one to make sure they aren’t moldy.

Who cares about mold? Rachel rubbed her hands together. I’ll eat ‘em anyway.

Rachel might have been exaggerating, but Sylvia-Ann had to be sure. Even homeless people avoid moldy bread. Most of their immune systems are already weak. Getting sick when your health is compromised can prove devastating.

Sylvia-Ann looked at the cupcakes, then focused on Rachel. When was the last time you ate?

I don’t know, the girl whimpered, staring at the pale orange pastries. It wasn’t yesterday.

But it’s only the first of the month. Had Sylvia-Ann known Rachel was hungry, she would have fed her the previous day, when the bread man gave her the cupcakes. There’s no way your mom spent all her food benefits this soon.

She and some pregnant lady went to the store yesterday. Rachel stroked one of the cupcakes. The only thing they came back with was something that looked like lumpy powdered sugar. Momma sent me to my room, then the apartment started smelling like—She closed her eyes, wincing, as if she were trying to recall something. Like, I know what, but it hurt my eyes and nose. I spent the night on the fire escape because it smelled so bad.

Rachel’s mom must have been smoking crack. Greg’s apartment used to have fumes like that when he threw a party.

The government put food benefits on EBT cards so the recipients can’t sell them. But there are ways around that.

We’ll put most of these in your pack to take home. Sylvia-Ann loaded all but two of the cakes into Rachel’s pink and purple backpack. Keep ‘em hidden. You never know when your mom will cook again.

But what about you? Rachel asked. Won’t you get hungry again too?

I’ve got bigger worries. Sylvia-Ann drank some of her soda, hoping it would settle her stomach. Mr. Morris would be seeking retribution for his knee.

And soon, you will too. Sylvia-Ann unzipped the front pocket of her backpack, where she had stored the bologna sandwich that was supposed to be her lunch. Eat this before you chow down on that cupcake. Sylvia-Ann gave Rachel half the sandwich. It’ll slow down the sugar rush.

Thanks, Rachel said, taking the food. But other than my mom’s crazy shit, what problems do I need to worry about? she asked, with a full mouth.

Sylvia-Ann thought about Morris and all the other disgusting men lurking in the shadows. You’re a teenager now. People will start treating you different.

How?

Sylvia-Ann rubbed her head. Being innocent was one thing, but Rachel never saw the evil in anything. For one thing, girls might try to fight you. Stand up to them even if it means getting your butt kicked.

Why?

Sylvia-Ann groaned. How could she grow up in Hillman Tenements and be so naïve? Losing a fight is one thing, but running away will make everyone disrespect you.

Not with you watching out for me. Rachel straightened her posture. Everyone knows you fight better than any girl around.

She grabbed Rachel by both biceps. But I may not always be here.

That’s silly, the girl said, giggling. Neither of us are ever going to leave. When we’re old enough, we’ll get a place of our own, and never have to worry about anyone hurting us again.

That’s a nice dream, Rachel. Sylvia-Ann wasn’t born in Atlanta, but she couldn’t remember living anywhere else. The idea of leaving the familiar frightened her, but sooner or later one of her enemies was going get the upper hand. She couldn’t risk Rachel getting caught in the crossfire. But I’m afraid that’s all it is—a dream.

Slowly, the little girl’s expression changed. Where would you go?

Haven’t got that part figured out yet. Sylvia-Ann looked to the angel etching for guidance. None came. But I can’t stay here much longer. I’ve made a real enemy.

The little girl’s bottom lip started to tremble. Who?

Mr. Morris.

I know he’s upset with you right now, said Rachel, but I wouldn’t call him an enemy.

He’s worse than an enemy. He’s dangerous.

What makes you say that?

Ready or not, Sylvia-Ann had to come to grips with what Morris tried to do to her earlier that day. Her friend’s life depended upon it. He tried to rape me today.

Rachel scooted away. You’re lying.

I’m not. Sylvia-Ann stared at her forearms. She could still feel Morris’ greasy hands on her. The sourness of his body made her stomach churn. I capped his knee with a hammer and ran away.

But he always brings me candy when he comes to see my mom, the girl said, while chomping chips. After she swallowed, she said, He said he’s going to give me something really special tomorrow night. It’s in his workshop. Mom says I can go in there and get it all by myself.

Oh my God, Sylvia-Ann gasped. The workshop was where Morris lured most of his victims. Once trapped, they were helpless. You can’t go into that shop, Rachel. Sylvia-Ann wrapped her fingers around