Tarnished Wings

By Norman Harrison

When Brad Conners enters Navy flight training he never expects to meet a young woman who will turn his world upside down. Like Brad, Lilli Foster has never known love.
During flight training, Brads grades suffer. When it appears certain he will wash out of flight program, Lilli gives him a silver crucifix. When he tries to refuse to accept the gift, she insists he keep it, telling him it will bring him good luck. She claims the crucifix has no special meaning to her, a lie as it is her most precious possession. It is the only link to her father, a man she has never seen in her life.
Lilli dreads the day that Brad will leave Pensacola for advanced flight training in Texas. She fears that will be the day he walks out of her life for good.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481783224

Norman Harrison

Born in Wichita Falls, Texas, Harrison taught high school biology and chemistry for two years before joining the Navy to "see the world." During his 26 years as a US Navy aviator, he flew to forty-three countries, lived in six and for many years flew missions to and from aircraft carriers at sea. Harrison earned a Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Texas, Arlington, a Master of Arts degree from Michigan State University, and a Master of Science from Embry Riddle Aeronautical University. He currently is an associate professor of aeronautics for Embry Riddle Aeronautical University. Tarnished Wings is based on actual events that occurred during his naval career and his experience as a Navy flight instructor and a flight leader in which he supervised 35 Navy flight instructors and an average student load of sixty to seventy flight students. Harrison began work on Tarnished Wings while living in Fontana Vecchia, a 350-year-old villa in Taormina, Sicily, formerly the home to two internationally famous writers, D.H. Lawrence and Truman Capote. He continues to live in Taormina, Sicily.

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© 2013 by Norman Harrison. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/26/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8534-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-8322-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Visit the author’s website: www.normanharrisonbooks.com

Into the Storm by John D. Shaw • print available at www.libertystudios.us

Character image by Kelsey Lampman

Contents

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Prologue Wichita Falls − August 1950

Chapter 1 Electra, Texas—November 1967

Chapter 2 Gulf Breeze, Florida—February 1964

Chapter 3 Pensacola—November 1967

Chapter 4 NAS Pensacola, November 1967

Chapter 5 NAS Pensacola—AOCS

Chapter 6 NAS Pensacola—AOCS

Chapter 7 NAS Pensacola—December 1967

Chapter 8 Pensacola Junior College

Chapter 9 Trader Jon’s, Pensacola

Chapter 10 NAS Pensacola

Chapter 11 Pensacola Beach—January 1968

Chapter 12 Pensacola Beach

Chapter 13 AOCS—NAS Pensacola

Chapter 14 NAS Pensacola, AOCS

Chapter 15 NAS Saufley, Pensacola, Florida—March 1968

Chapter 16 Pensacola Beach

Chapter 17 NAS Saufley

Chapter 18 Pensacola Beach

Chapter 19 NAS Saufley Field

Chapter 20 Pensacola Beach

Chapter 21 NAS Saufley

Chapter 22 Pensacola Beach

Chapter 23 Saufley Field

Chapter 24 NAS Saufley Field

Chapter 25 Saufley Field

Chapter 26 Saufley Field

Chapter 27 NAS Pensacola O-Club

Chapter 28 Pensacola Beach

Chapter 29 NAS Whiting Field

Chapter 30 NAS Whiting, Base Chapel

Chapter 31 NAS Whiting Field

Chapter 32 NAS Saufley—September 1968

Chapter 33 NAS Pensacola

Chapter 34 NAS Kingsville, Texas

Chapter 35 NAS Kingsville—March 1969

Chapter 36 USS Constellation—August 1969

Chapter 37 USS Kitty Hawk (CVA-63)—Yankee Station off Vietnam

Chapter 38 USS Kitty Hawk (CVA-63)—September 1969

Chapter 39 USS Kitty Hawk (CVA-63)—February 1970

Chapter 40 USS Kitty Hawk (CVA-63)—May 1970

Chapter 41 NAS Cubi Point, Philippines—May 1970

Chapter 42 Sicily—August 1990

Chapter 43 Fontana Vecchia

Chapter 44

Chapter 45 Venice—February 1992

Chapter 46 Sicily—May 1992

Chapter 47 Sicily—November 1992

Chapter 48 Los Angeles, California—December 1992

Chapter 49 Los Angeles—December, 1992

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55 Electra, Texas—July 1992

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59 Wichita Falls, Texas—July 1992

Chapter 60 Wichita Falls, Texas—July 1992

Chapter 61 Pensacola, Florida—July 1992

Epilogue Electra, Texas—August 12, 1998

For my mother Cleo who died when I was seven.

Without her, this novel would never have been written.

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank Hillel Black who did a complete edit of the manuscript. His faithful support and guidance during the final stages of this book were instrumental in making this book a reality.

And how could I leave out Susan Malek who has faithfully believed in this novel over the years. She did the final edit on the manuscript.

There are so many friends who helped along the way, during the years it took to complete this novel. The list is too long to name all the people who have read and who gave me feedback for this novel. If I tried, I could not list them all as they are spread over the many years I have lived in Taormina.

I must add the staff who have come and gone at the Café del Corso where, back in the nineteen-fifties, Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams used to unwind whenever they were not writing. It was in this café that this novel matured and found its way.

Foreword

Most events and accidents described in this novel are based on actual events that occurred during the author’s Navy career as a student and flight instructor.

AOCS and the Navy flight training programs depicted in this book were as difficult as is described. In the Vietnam era, there were no females in the flight program and contrary to popular belief, the Navy had all the applicants it needed because of the military draft. Many pilots who graduated from flight training were placed in a holding pattern for six months to a year waiting for fleet seats.

CNATRA, the Chief of Naval Air Training, charged his Marine drill instructors and flight instructors to cull out the weak students who did not belong in naval aviation. They had a difficult job to do and they did it well.

The end result: Navy and Marine pilots who wear the wings of gold are among the world’s finest aviators.

Prologue

Wichita Falls − August 1950

Cleo Walker’s mind raced. She shuddered and broke out in a cold sweat. For the second time in less than a minute, she glanced at the clock. There wasn’t much time remaining.

Like a terrible omen, an enormous summer thunderstorm raged over the mental hospital. Angry clouds grew more virulent as swirling masses turned the sky an eerie yellowish-green, ominous colors Cleo had seen before tornados formed. She watched three menacing white fingers dip from the clouds, then lift and disappear. A jagged bolt of lightning shot across the sky, immediately followed by a blast of thunder that seemed to rip the sky apart. With each thunderous clap, she cringed, tightly clutching her pillow.

If Sally didn’t show, what would she do? Only hours remained. Was this her final day? Claps of thunder came in rapid-fire bursts. Wind gusts threatened to shatter the window. An icy shiver raced up her spine. Would she have to face this horror all alone? Trembling in fear, she clutched her leather-bound book.

When Sally entered the hospital room, Cleo’s expression brightened, relieved her friend hadn’t forgotten her. My God, Sally, where were you?

Sorry, hun, I had to work overtime, but the good news is that I have permission to go in late tomorrow, so I’ll be able to stay with you all night.

Oh, Sally, you don’t know how much this means to me. I couldn’t do this without you.

Hey, what are friends for? Sally tried to keep her voice light and cheerful though she was on the verge of tears. Her gaze was drawn to Cleo’s large round eyes. It was obvious she was under a mountain of stress and had been crying.

Cleo forced a smile. I’m scared, Sally. I’ve got a bad feeling about tomorrow. Blotting her tears with a tissue, Cleo fixed her eyes on Sally. While we have this time alone, I’ve got something important to say to you.

What’s on your mind, hun?

I need you to do something for me? There’s nobody else I can trust to do this.

Anything, sweetie, just ask.

Cleo handed her the leather-bound book. The fine bones of Cleo’s hand, and her long dainty fingers gave her an ethereal appearance. Since Sally had seen her last she had lost so much weight. Take this and keep it in a safe place. It’s a diary. Keep it for my son. Never mention this to anyone. Sally, this is very important: Please don’t give him the book until he comes to you. He must be old enough to understand what I say in the diary. She held up the book so Sally could see the tiny sealed envelope glued to the back cover of the diary. The envelope contains the key to unlock the diary. Please make sure that only my son opens this book. The message inside is exclusively meant for him.

Sally placed her hand on Cleo’s shoulder and smiled. I promise, but how do you know he’ll come for it?

There’ll come a day when he’ll want to know more about his mother, and at that time he’ll find you.

But Cleo, why don’t you wait and give it to him yourself?

Oh Sally, you know—

Sally could not look at Cleo because she knew she was right. Even if she survived the lobotomy, she would live out the rest of her life as a vegetable. Sally started to speak, but the words came hard. But… She gripped the book tightly and pressed it against her breast. She struggled to keep from sobbing. Finally, she said, Okay, dear, I’ll keep it for him.

Cleo sighed. Good… Good, she said as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Sally, in case I don’t see you after the operation, I want you to know that you’re my dearest friend.

Sally bit her lip. A lump in her throat prevented her from speaking. Cleo’s words voiced what they both feared. Sally’s lower lip quivered and tears flooded her eyes.

She gently squeezed Cleo’s hand. Her hand was as cold as ice. Cleo’s life had been such a tragedy. Only twenty-seven, yet she had spent a fifth of her life in a state mental hospital and now this operation. She hadn’t seen her son since he was an infant.

Cleo, forgive me for saying this. Robert’s a bastard. Sally placed her hand over her mouth, embarrassed by her own words. She’d never uttered that word before. Her face flushed as anger swelled up in her again. Bad enough he took your baby away, but he signed the papers to put you in this place, and then ran off with that dreadful woman. Sally paused and blotted the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. Your ex is a selfish bastard, she repeated.

They talked as the daylight faded to twilight. Cleo covered a lifetime in a few hours. When all the essential words were spoken, her facial muscles relaxed, and she appeared to slip into a restful sleep. Sally tried to smile, but tears rolled down her cheeks as she looked at her friend.

How could Cleo sleep so soundly with all the thunder and the wind pounding against the window? She turned off the lamp by Cleo’s bed, leaving the room faintly illuminated by a nightlight.

A clap of thunder startled her, shaking her from her muse. Surprised Cleo was still asleep, Sally stared at her face. I promise, dear, Sally whispered softly, giving Cleo a gentle kiss on the cheek. She covered Cleo’s shoulders with the sheet. Don’t you worry. I’ll save that diary until hell freezes over.

Slipping the diary into her purse, Sally sat in a chair next to Cleo’s bed. When Sally awoke, she was surprised the terrible storm had abated. Now, only the wind howled in the moonless night. She glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised she’d nodded off for more than two hours. Cleo was still sleeping soundly. Sally quietly slid into the adjacent bed. In a few hours, they would come to take Cleo away. She wondered if she would ever see her again.

As Sally lay on her side, she studied Cleo’s face. Her youthful beauty belied her condition. She looked out of place, certainly not like a mental patient facing such a life-threatening operation.

Finally, fatigue overcame her sadness and Sally fell into a restless sleep. Early the next morning, she awoke with a start as two ambulance attendants slammed a gurney into the wooden door.

Bewildered, Cleo stared at the two men. She seemed to be in a daze, not fully aware of what was happening. As realization set in, her expression grew fearful.

Sally held Cleo’s hand as the two men hastily transferred her to the gurney and rolled it out of the room. One of the men callously swung open the rear doors of the ambulance. Cleo raised herself on her elbows and forced a smile at Sally just before the attendant closed the doors.

The ambulance, bathed in brilliant morning sun, slowly pulled away, its tires crunching the graveled surface. The air was still and fresh. Scattered tree limbs and leaves on the lawn were the only reminders of the horrible storm that had passed in the night. As the ambulance made its final turn, an icy chill shot up Sally’s spine. In that horrible moment, Sally knew she would never see Cleo again.

#

Two green-clad orderlies pushed Cleo’s gurney into the operation prep room at Wichita General. A skinny female orderly whose fingers reeked of nicotine gripped Cleo’s scalp, briskly shoving electric clippers through her long black hair. Without asking permission or even so much as offering an apology, the woman went about her business, taking the last thing Cleo could call her own. The dull instrument tugged and yanked at the roots. Whimpering, Cleo looked at her precious hair falling into the wastebasket and wept. She felt abused, a victim of an uncaring medical system.

Silently she prayed for a miracle, but deep inside her heart she knew there would be none. She shivered in the frigid air.

The woman applied shaving cream to her scalp, carelessly allowing soapy water trickle down her forehead, stinging her eyes. She briskly shaved Cleo’s scalp, nicking her several times. When Cleo complained, the orderly snapped, Sorry. Her voice lacked compassion.

The room was as frigid as a meat locker. She moaned as the orderly stripped, bathed, and dressed her in a hospital gown with only small ties of cloth to hold the waist together. A man in a green surgical gown came into the room, his face covered with a white mask. Without a word spoken, he methodically went about his business using a cotton swab soaked with an icy chemical to draw lines on her bare scalp, then left the room. Cleo shivered, clenching her jaw tight to keep her teeth from clattering.

Cleo’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for something on which to focus. Dizziness overwhelmed her. The orderly who had shaved her scalp strapped her to the gurney.

With her head completely shaven and only a thin hospital wrap to cover her, she felt stripped of all dignity. Everything was so final, so brutal.

Her teeth began to chatter. She visibly shook unable to control her fear. The clock across the room caught her attention. Each tick grew louder. What if she never awoke following the operation?

How can it be so cold in August?

A man wearing green surgical garb poked his head through two swinging doors and nodded. Two orderlies wheeled her gurney into an adjoining room even colder than the pre-op room, where they lifted her onto a freezing operating table. Silhouetted by the brilliant light above him, the anesthetist looked like an alien creature.

Dear God!

The man had smiling eyes over a white hospital mask. He gazed down at her and spoke in calm, Texas drawl, Relax, ma’am. Everything will be just fine. Despite the optimism in his voice, she knew nothing would be fine again.

Cleo’s heart hammered inside her chest. Panic struck, she felt like screaming. Her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Though her chest heaved desperately, she couldn’t get enough air to breathe.

The anesthetist returned. Cleo frantically looked up at the man. I’m thirsty.

Ignoring her words, the anesthetist looked down at her, placed an icy rubber mask over her mouth and nose, touched her bare shoulder with an icy gloved hand and in a soothing voice said, Now, ma’am, count backward from a hundred.

In her final seconds, she made one last, desperate attempt to regain control. Silently, she pleaded to God for her prayer to be answered. Her final perception was that of a metallic taste in her mouth. Her eyelids grew heavy. No longer did she care. One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven—

Cleo reached ninety-six as her world turned black.

Chapter 1

Electra, Texas—November 1967

A chill wind bit into Brad Conners’ face. His Harley Davidson cut a dusty ribbon as it roared down the dirt road toward Electra, Texas. He had an important stop to make as he crossed the state. This would be his first trip to the old, barren cemetery. It had taken him seventeen years to come this far, and who knows how many years it might be before he would return?

Thoughts of his mother had haunted him for as long as he could remember. Her death certificate stated she’d died within hours of a lobotomy. He’d been a year-old infant when they had committed her to the mental hospital, so he could scarcely remember her. She had died when he was six. His only memory of his mother was a collage of muddled images from an infant’s mind, fragments embellished with an adult’s imperfect recall and a child’s imagination.

After getting directions at Electra City Hall, he rode out to the old cemetery. The graveyard lay on both sides of the road with four entrances on each side. Not knowing which of the eight entrances to take, he entered the first gate to his right and parked his motorcycle in front of a long row of plots. He dismounted the Harley and looked down the length of the cemetery at the hundreds of tombstones. The cemetery was unkempt with stones leaning in all directions, a sight that reminded him of tired old soldiers, longing to finally lie down and sleep for the rest of eternity.

Prepared to spend the rest of the day looking for his mother’s grave, he glanced at the row of stones in front of him. His eyes locked on a four-by-eight-inch grave marker. There it was, his mother’s name. His jaw dropped. My God, he mumbled. For a long while, he stood transfixed wondering how he’d come to stop in front of his mother’s grave. There had to be two thousand tombstones in that cemetery, yet the first and only name he’d noticed was that of his mother, and her name wasn’t even on a tombstone, just a rusty grave marker.

As he stared at her name, a feeling of shame swept over him. Why would any family bury one of their own without a tombstone? What had she done that had been so bad in life to deserve such disrespect in death? A penniless bum would have gotten as much. He looked around the lonely cemetery. The rock-hard Texas clay provided only enough sustenance to support burrs, weeds and a single scrawny mesquite tree. As he studied the desolate place, a Bob White called out from the mesquite as if to question his right to be there.

As he stood in front of her grave still wondering why his mother’s was the only grave without a tombstone, a wave of sadness crept over him. Bending down, he placed a ceramic pot of daisies beside her marker. He slowly ran his fingers across the embossed letters of her name, wondering what she’d been like.

Drawing a deep breath, he began to talk to his mother as if she could hear him, For years I resented you for not being there for me. My father—after what he did—well, you don’t call such an insensitive man dad. He placed me in a boarding home with Mrs. Pitt. I know it was terribly unfair of me, but for years, I blamed you for that and felt you’d let me down. Guess I was pretty selfish, huh? Now, that I’m grown I know it wasn’t your fault, but back then… well, a little kid doesn’t understand those things; all he knows is loneliness.

Feeling a chill, he zipped his black leather biker jacket. A brisk wind kicked up a dust devil. He turned his back to the wind and raised his forearm to shield his eyes. After the wind died, he looked down at the grave and softly spoke out loud, "I never celebrated a Christmas or even a birthday. There was nobody who cared. All Mrs. Pitt cared about was the alcohol content of her next bottle. Christmas was just an excuse for her to be depressed so she could step up her boozing. And my father? Forget it. He was too busy with his new family to bother with me. Oh, ever so often, he’d come by and drop off a cheap gift; then he’d take off and be gone for months at a time. Either he forgot or never recalled my birthday. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Your life was a heck of a lot worse than mine. Anyway, how can a kid miss what he’s never known? You wanna know what I really missed? Not the holidays. Who needs ’em? They’re just an excuse for businesses to make profits. No, what I missed was a family—to have somebody around who cared.

My father didn’t even let the dirt settle on your grave before he remarried. Boy, I want to tell you, that new wife of his changed my whole life. She had three kids of her own and resented me—well, that’s not exactly true—she hated me, as if I had inherited your illness and might contaminate her precious kids. It was because of her that I ended up with Mrs. Pitt. Hate to admit it but that cantankerous old woman, with her boozing and unpredictable foul temperament was the closest thing to family I ever had."

He squatted on his haunches in front of the grave and ran his fingers over the grave marker. It’s hard for me to believe you died so young, just four years older than I am now.

Brad looked away, his mind traversing the years. He grinned. Just to give you an idea what my life was like living with Mrs. Pitt, imagine eating a toasted cheese sandwich without the cheese, one of her specialties. That woman really did that, not once but several times. Used to think she did it on purpose, but then she was so blitzed, she didn’t know what she was doing half the time. Got to tell you, that old woman kept me on my toes. Another specialty of hers was sour milk. He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. It took years for me to get over that.

Brad paused a moment to stare at a distant dust devil as it grew larger and then split into two smaller whirlwinds. They spun away from each other, and zigzagged back and forth, as if engaged in some exotic mating ritual, then dissipated as quickly as they had formed. He returned his gaze to his mother’s name, remembering distant memories. His lips curled into a smile.

After I entered junior high, I stopped eating at Mrs. Pitt’s house. Lunch was the highlight of the school day for me. Boy, did I look forward to those lunches… always tried to be first in line. Mrs. Fields, God bless that woman—she was the cafeteria manager—good old Mrs. Fields must have known because she always gave me extra helpings. I still remember her big smile. Think I loved that woman more than most kids loved their real moms. Finally, when I turned eighteen, I left Mrs. Pitt’s house for good. Thanks to a football scholarship, I went off to college and never looked back. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll remember that day as the happiest day of my life.

Maybe it was the eerie silence around him, or maybe it was because he had never been in a cemetery, but for some reason he got the creepy feeling that someone or something was watching. He looked around the cemetery to see if he was alone. All he saw was a lonely groundhog standing erect on its hind legs with its front paws drawn close to its furry chest curiously studying him. Since the animal didn’t seem to object, Brad continued speaking.

When I was twelve, my father moved his adopted family up north. St. Louis, I think. Never saw him again. Don’t even know if he’s still alive. Actually, the experience was good for me—my old man, by not caring—turned me into a survivor.

Long purple shadows cast by the tombstones stretched out in front of him. A gust of wind whipped sand into his face. He held up a forearm to protect his eyes. It wouldn’t be long before daylight would yield to twilight.

The cemetery felt as barren as it was cold. He felt a wave of sadness for his mother and wondered if she felt alone and abandoned. What must it feel like to be put away like this? Totally forgotten as if she’d never been born.

He knew he would soon have to head for Pensacola. Many miles lay in front of him. It would be an all-night ride to make the Sunday deadline. He picked up a stone and casually hurled it at a nearby tombstone. The rock clattered against the marble slab and fell to the ground. Mom, I joined the Navy. Beats the heck out of me why. Just woke up one morning and decided to enlist. I had a choice. It either was that or be drafted by the Army. I’m gonna fly jets… if I can cut it in AOCS. If I wash out of flight training, the recruiter told me they’ll send me to Vietnam as a river boat captain. Either way, I’m off to Nam. Not too smart, huh? Heck, before long I may end up here beside you.

He chuckled at his morbid humor, looked around the cemetery one more time, and shook his head. All those tombstones and only one visitor. There was a strange peacefulness about the old cemetery.

He looked at the grave marker. His eyes moistened. Funny but I feel attached to you. Never got to know you. You died too soon. I needed you. What gave those quacks the right to experiment with your brain like that just because you were depressed? Today, they use pills to treat your illness. Oh, I know it wasn’t your fault, but I sure would’ve liked to have known you. I don’t even know what you looked like. Nobody ever cared enough about you to take a photo. Even the town where you were born, Conroy, doesn’t exist anymore. I can’t even locate a birth certificate for you. If it weren’t for this grave and your death certificate… and me, there wouldn’t be any evidence you ever existed.

He sat silently next to the grave and stared at the heavens. Early stars twinkled beyond the wispy clouds overhead. A bright sliver of a yellow moon rested on the horizon.

I feel ridiculous talking to a grave. He hesitated a moment, half expecting her to answer. You probably can’t even hear me. A gentle breeze caressed his cheek. Most likely, you don’t give a hoot about me or anything I have to say. Anyway, Mom, for what it’s worth, I want you to know I think of you often, and if there’s such a thing as love… well, I guess that’s what I feel for you.

In the distance, he heard a coyote’s mournful howl. He paused to listen to the animal’s cry then mounted his Harley and started its engine. It awakened with a low rumble. After giving his mother’s grave marker a final glance, he sped off in the direction of Pensacola, Florida where he knew the greatest challenge of his life awaited him.

Chapter 2

Gulf Breeze, Florida—February 1964

Inside a dilapidated four-room frame house in Gulf Breeze, Lilli Foster, a slender young woman of sixteen, lay shivering in a fetal position on her bedroll, wearing only a clean pair of faded jeans and an olive-green T-shirt.

There was no closet in her bedroom. At six-by-eight feet, the room was scarcely larger than a closet. The few clothes she owned were clean, neatly pressed, and folded on a beach towel in a corner of the bedroom. Among her Spartan furnishings was the only light in the room, a swag lamp she’d purchased at a garage sale for five bucks, and her bed, an old sleeping bag she found at Goodwill for a few dollars more.

Life had been a struggle for as long as she could remember. Because her life had been so challenging, she grew up cold and bitter. She’d been born with the Sturge-Weber Syndrome, a port-wine pigmentation defect that covered the right side of her face and upper part of her chest. Doomed to go through life as a freak, she referred to her birth defect as Satan’s Curse.

The first lesson she’d learned in elementary school was a lesson in cruelty when a bully nicknamed her Creature. Much to her chagrin the nickname stuck, a permanent reminder she was different, a freak of nature. Soon, other students began to call her by the nickname. In the beginning, she tried to ignore the kids’ malicious teasing and pretended their remarks didn’t bother her, but they did. They cut deeply, leaving emotional scars that would never heal.

Because of her battered self-esteem, as she grew older, she became defensive, reacting aggressively to comments and giggles made behind her back. She soon learned to avoid packs of kids that seemed to thrive on her emotional outbursts. After those early years, she became a loner, seeking solace in her school work. As a result, and because she was innately bright, she excelled in all subjects, particularly math and science.

By the time she was in high school, her vocabulary was embellished with a plethora of four-letter words which she unhesitatingly used when the need arose.

Since her teachers were the only ones who didn’t treat her as an anathema, she strived to please them. Though she dreaded the constant heckling from the school punks, she enjoyed her classes. As she advanced in school she learned the punks tended to be relegated to remedial learning classes while she continued to be placed in honors classes. School was an escape from her house and fat Clyde, her mother’s lover.

Lilli’s secret objective was to become the valedictorian for Gulf Breeze High School. Maybe then she could earn a college scholarship, her ticket to escape the hell at home.

Her mother had always been too busy with her male friends to pay her any mind. And that was before Clyde. After he moved into the house, her mother only had time for booze and drugs. Clyde was a biker and when he wasn’t riding, he was either dealing drugs or getting high on them.

A loud crash in the other room shook Lilli from her reverie. She recognized the sound came from the coffee table as it collapsed under the combined weight of her mother and Clyde. Lilli remained deathly quiet so as not to attract attention. So far, she’d not been physically forced to submit to Clyde’s lust, but this time she sensed was different. He and her mother had been stoned for days, and lately he had begun to paw at her in an aggressive manner, first on the arms, then the shoulders. Soon, she feared his hunger would grow.

Lilli clutched the crucifix she’d removed from her mother’s jewelry box. Because it held