Mistaken for Rain

By Zaden Robison

Leo is a young boy growing up in a small and rural Virginia town. He is an only child who is physically and emotionally abused by both of his parents. His family is poor, and Leo has a hopeless future. He takes solace and comfort in a cat named Stripes and develops an unlikely friendship with a stranger along the way. Both friends lean on each other for a trivial bit of happiness in their dejected worlds.

Just when things start to look better for Leo, tragedy strikes, and he becomes consumed with heartbreak and anger. He confides in his new friend and fights to fend off the horrors of the world.

You will find yourself agonizing and rooting for Leo to overcome the brutality and terrors that his parents have placed him in as a child. There are moments that will bring you to tears from the intense pain you feel for this young boy. Other moments will be joyous as you celebrate his triumphs as he overcomes many challenges and the cruelty of his experiences. The book is a page-turner on a roller coaster of emotions. Leo is the epitome of what a willful and persevering victim can accomplish to become a victor.

The author wishes to leave his readers realizing the importance of perseverance, retribution, forgiveness, and what it means to be human. Without forgiveness, victims will always remain victims.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514470978

Book preview

Chapter One

The sun is peaking over the horizon of a small town in Virginia. The birds are waking up to sing a chorus of their sweet morning melody. The world initiates its clockwork routine, but today there is something different amid this quiet town. The feeling of finality emanates from an ordinary suburban home in an ordinary suburban neighborhood. A man opens the door to his home as a young boy tosses the local newspaper sleepily into his yard as he rides by, as he always does on his fading red bicycle. The man walks over the freshly dewed grass to his mailbox in his royal-blue bathrobe, holding his steaming cup of coffee. Black.

He had forgotten to retrieve his mail the day before making the mailbox quite a challenge while holding a cup of coffee. Shuffling through the array of bills and letters, one in particular caught his eye. Virginia State Penitentiary, the corner read. Anxiety surged through his body as he meticulously broke the seal on the letter that he had been expecting to come for years.

* * *

Here I am, a familiar scene that always instills blithe within my peers but dread inside of me. School has been released for summer break; my classmates are rejoicing as they run from the crumbling red-and-yellow wooden schoolhouse back to their homes. Back to their loving families. I’ve always hated this day, the day that I knew I will have to wait another three months to go back to school, constantly reminded by the fact that I would have to be imprisoned at home all day with no one to talk to but Stripes. If it weren’t for Stripes, I think I’d go insane.

The lonely walk down the old dirt road to my house with no one for company but the oak trees that so perfectly line the path is no more comforting today. It’s really a beautiful day, the birds are singing, and occasionally you can see a family of deer hidden in the shaded forest of massive oak trees. A family of deer. Sadly, this beautiful day is darkened by the matter at hand: going home.

Up ahead of me, I recognize the figure of my single-story house. White siding has turned brown from rot, the leaking red shingled roof with patches randomly dotting its sad surface, and the dead lawn gazes forebodingly back at me. As I get closer, I see the same old familiar busted-out windows, now replaced by blankets duct-taped to the gaping holes. This is where I’ve always lived. I’ve known nothing else. In fact, this house and the schoolhouse are the only two places I remember ever being. I’m never allowed to go into town; I’ve only heard stories of the single street lined with shops and diners. I imagine it must be amazing. My parents only go into town to work and, occasionally, bring home groceries; my mother says children aren’t allowed in town and that’s why I can’t go.

I open the screen door to my ramshackle house. It’s unlocked, of course; the padlock rusted and fell off years ago. My father has been too lazy to buy a new one. Although we have no need for a lock. Who would want to rob the poorest family in town? I throw my blue schoolbag behind the door, which makes a bigger rip in the side than there already was. I don’t know how the thing has survived all these years. My dad is passed out on our brown plaid couch, as usual. The sight of him on the vomit-stained couch is rather unnerving, but I’m used to it.

People can see terrible things in life. They think they would never be able to see it again, but after seeing the same image over and over, it becomes rather routine. Desensitization to events that would otherwise emotionally break someone is key to survival in this home.

I tread over the brown carpet and go directly into the backyard, swinging open the squeaky screen door that no longer has a screen. I can’t quite remember how it tore: probably one of the many drunken rages my father is frequently possessed by. I also don’t know where my mother currently is, but I’m sure she’ll find some sort of work for me to do when she notices I’m home from school.

I look around the backyard. Only two sides of the original three sides of the picket fencing remains. Weeds have overgrown the backyard, but I don’t mind much. We never have company, and I’m not allowed to have friends over, not that I have many. I talk to some of the kids when I’m in school, but we are more easily considered acquaintances rather than friends.

I search for Stripes until I see him creep out from a hollow under the oak tree in my backyard. Atop the oak tree’s strong branches lies a ruined tree house. It was there when we moved here, and I’ve asked my dad several times in the past to repair it. One time he said he would, but whenever I remind him about his promise, he becomes very angry, so I’ve stopped asking altogether.

Stripes, my gray tabby, wobbles sleepily toward me as I kneel down in the overgrown grass. Stripes appeared in my backyard one day as a stray. I fed him to gain his trust and nursed him back to a healthy state. His fur is soft now rather than coarse, as it once was, and he’s gained a healthy amount of weight.

As Stripes reaches me, I stroke his back. Stripes arches his back and begins to purr. Stripes is my only true friend. He seems to understand me, and I understand him. Whenever it’s been a long day or I’ve slipped into one of my morose moods, he always seems to know and comfort me. I sit here awhile and pet him, my eyes fixated on his closed eyes, and his mouth twists into what resembles a smile.

Have you eaten today? I ask him.

Stripes looks up to me and meows. Stripes’s meow is so soft and weak. It’s always been that way. I chuckle a little and walk over to the hollow to see if there are any remnants of a meal he’s had today. Sure enough, there is what seems to be a rat, half eaten, in the hollow.

Stripes follows me back to his little dwelling. I pet him once more before I hear her.

Leo! Where are you? The hateful tone of my mother rings out from her bedroom.

She must have just woken up from one of her many daily naps.

I’m out here, Mother, I answer.

The window that leads to my parents’ bedroom explodes open. My mother pokes her ugly head out of the window to sneer at me. I once found a bunch of family photos in our attic. The photos were hidden at the bottom of a box in a dusty corner, as if my parents were ashamed of their past. She’s never been attractive from what I’ve seen in the photos. She’s always seemed to have clung to her hateful sneer for the entirety of her life. Her matted brown hair, loveless brown eyes, and even her somewhat yellowed teeth are still present in her past.

That’s how I learned her name; on the back of the photographs with my mother in them, there is always Darla written on the back in sloppy handwriting. I was always curious to what her name was since my father only ever calls her woman. Her parents never really wanted her, and I suppose she’s returning the favor to me. I try to act afraid of her ugly looks, but I can guess that she knows I’m really not.

Get away from that mangy cat, Leo! My god, how many times have I told you that?

I rush Stripes back into his hollow, but not before he hisses in the direction of Darla. I smile a little bit, carefully hiding it from Darla’s view. He seems to know that he needs to stay in there right now. Darla doesn’t acknowledge the hiss and returns to screaming at me.

Make your father a sandwich. He’s starving! Why do I have to tell you every single day? Now go make one before he wakes up and you get the belt!

She seems to be intentionally yelling as loud as she can, hoping to wake my father so he will take his anger out on me. Without saying anything, Darla smiles with her yellowed and somewhat missing teeth at me and sweetly, but sarcastically, whispers, Go.

I tell Stripes I’ll be back, and walk back into the house and into our haggard kitchen. Home, I think to myself, what a terrible place I call home. I pull the bread from out of the pantry that no longer has a door, and the lukewarm ham and cheese from our refrigerator that hasn’t worked correctly since I don’t know when. I plaster the ham on the fermenting bread and add the cheese. I wrap it in a paper towel and carefully, being sure not to step into the pothole in the center of the cracking tile floor in the kitchen, take it to my dad, Andrew.

He’s still out cold, so I lay the sandwich next to him. As I’m laying it down, he startles awake and grips my arm. I let out a little yelp in surprise.

What is this? Andrew asks.

I shakily respond, Your sandwich, sir.

He quickly unwraps it and takes a bite, all the while holding me there in his grip like a hostage. In fact, it’s starting to hurt. I think about wriggling free, but before I can, I have a mouthful of chewed mush spat into my face.

There’s hardly any ham on this! Andrew yells and shoves me to the floor along with the sandwich.

I yelp only to make him satisfied with hurting me, or I know he’ll really hurt me.

Now get away from me. Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep? When I wake up, you had better make me a real sandwich, not this half-assed piece of bread you’re trying to feed me.

I begin to walk back into the kitchen, a mouthful of food still all over me.

Do you understand me? he yells at me from the couch.

Yes, sir, I say through my tightly clenched teeth.

I pick up the sandwich and take it to the kitchen and lay it down on the counter. Back in the living room, I hear Andrew lie back down on the couch and fall into his drunken sleep. I wash the mouthful of food off my face and go to my room.

My room is one of the few that still has a door, so I close it behind me as I enter. In one of the many holes that Andrew has punched out in my room, I have hidden a journal with a pen. I take them both out, sit down in the bare wooden chair by my window, and begin to write about the events of my day.

It always helps me to take my mind off my parents. I write about what happened throughout school in great detail, how Mrs. Thomas scolded one boy for eating paste, and how she asked me what was wrong when the big yellow bell rang in the tower of the school, therefore ending the school year. I told her I would miss school, and she laughed and patted my back. It was true I would indeed miss school, but she didn’t even know the half of it.

Don’t worry, Leo, she said, I’ll be here when you come back.

I gave her a solemn look of sadness and left. Mrs. Thomas doesn’t understand, and I could never tell her. I’ve never told anyone about my parents; I somehow know I’m not supposed to. I’m ashamed of what others may think. They may make fun of me for having parents like mine. I purposely do not write about my morning or once I get home—that will defeat the purpose of my writing. I gently place my journal and pen back into their hiding spot. Now I’m hit with the same problem I face every day, boredom.

I’m not supposed to leave the house; my parents think I will run away forever. I’m not sure why they even care; they hate me. I’ve thought about the idea before, but I always throw it aside. Where would I go after I escaped? I’d probably be out on the streets, fending for myself. I’m too young to survive, and besides, I’d have to leave Stripes.

I peer out my near-shattered window. It’s hard to make anything out clearly for all the cracks in it, but I think I see a cardinal up in a tree. I watch it intently for a while until it flies away. I wish I could fly. I’d fly so far away from here. I’d take Stripes with me too. I hope I’ll be able to fly someday; hopefully, Stripes isn’t afraid of heights. Judging from the amount of light outside, I’ll say the time is about four. Judging the time from daylight is a talent I’ve developed. I originally learned how to do this in case I ever ran away into the forest behind my house.

Darla works at a grocery store about ten miles away. She’s worked there for a very long time, the only other job I remember her having was one at a salon. I think the salon went out of business. My father goes to work around four in the morning and gets home late in the night. I don’t know what time his work actually ends, because he always goes to the bar before coming home.

I remember my promise to Stripes, and now that Darla is gone, it’s the perfect time to go back and see him. I leave my room, quietly shutting the door behind me. I make sure Andrew is asleep before I go outside. This time, to prevent the squeak, I just step through the door instead of opening it.

As I walk into the yard, Stripes comes to meet me.

I’m back, buddy, I tell him.

He purrs and rubs against me. For a while, I lie here with him, looking up at the beautiful, wide open sky, visualizing pictures from the puffy white clouds.

What do you think that one looks like? I ask Stripes.

He’s curled up about a foot from me. He looks funny with his feet and front paws beneath him.

You look like a bunny rabbit! I chuckle at him.

Stripes’s only response is a look at me as he cocks his head sideways. I smile and look back at the cloud in wonder.

I think it looks like a boat in the ocean, I tell him.

I have never seen a boat, or the ocean for that matter. I sometimes dream about the ocean; I envision it full of boats of all sizes. I’ve even heard stories about boats that people live on for a long time. They travel the world and see things that some people will never see in their lifetime. Maybe one day someone will take me on a boat like that.

A breeze rushes past me. The pine trees behind the fence are gently swaying together, as if they were dancing. Some of them are so close to one another they make a knocking sound when they touch.

The sun feels nice on my skin, and I can tell that Stripes is enjoying sun bathing as well. My white T-shirt is hard to look at directly while the sun is shining on it. Feeling the warmth of the sun all around me, I pull Stripes closer to me and lie there.

Time passes, and then suddenly, I feel the urge to run. I get up, careful not to disturb Stripes, and run. I run past my yard and down the street. I feel like I can run forever. I run and run and run. The world around me begins to change. Suddenly, there’s something strange about the ground. It feels different than dirt; it’s sand. I look up, and ahead of me, I see a wooden dock and, next to it, a boat! I run to the dock and look up at the huge white boat. It must be ten times taller than my house! Three smokestacks protrude from the top deck; they’re belching smoke high into the sky. A door in front of me, in the side of the big white hull of the boat, opens. A man in a blue uniform invites me inside. I’m filled with so much joy I begin to step into the boat, but it moves. I slip between the gap of the boat and the dock and fall. The man looks down at me as I fall, his face indifferent. I’m filled with terror. Why won’t he help me? I can’t swim. The world slows down. I feel my back hit the cold of the ocean beneath me, and then I wake up.

I’m breathing hard, sweating. Oh no, it’s dark. I’m not supposed to be outside after dark. What seems to have awoken me was the creaking of the screen door. I sleepily look up at the door. The blurriness of my vision can barely make out the silhouette of a person. It’s too big to be my mother. I’m in trouble. My heart begins to race. I think about running, but I know my father will catch me.

All I can think about now is Stripes. I turn to Stripes still sleeping next to me as I hear Andrew walking toward me from the house. I scoop Stripes up and push him into his hollow. He seems startled, because he tries to get out for a moment before he sees my father. Before I can turn around, Andrew is upon me. He yanks me into the air by my collar. I can’t breathe. What do you think you’re doing? He spits. I brace for what I know is coming. A solid hit in my side knocks the breath out of me. I can’t speak as I attempt to breathe. Andrew screams again, Answer me!

I’m sorry… I fell asleep, I manage.

He throws me to the ground and stomps over to Stripes’s hollow. The night is menacing; my ears are ringing. He begins to wildly kick into Stripe’s hollow. Get out of there, you mangy rat! he screams at Stripes. The hollow is big enough for him to know that Stripes is out of his reach.

He finally gives up trying to injure Stripes and turns on me again. He grips the back of my shirt collar and begins to drag me up to the house. Slam. He throws me toward the door. The concrete steps almost knock me out as my head makes contact. He then pulls me up by my collar again and drags me inside. I begin to beg him to let me go. He slaps me square in the mouth. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

I see the blurry image of my living room and hallway pass as I’m dragged to my room. Carpet burn stings my legs as I’m dragged down the filthy brown carpeted hallway. I’m thrown into my room against one of the wooden legs of my bed, and the impact is so painful it nauseates me.

It’s dark, and I can’t see anything, but I hear my door slam and the lock turn, through my ringing ears. The nausea gets the best of me, and I throw up. Too dizzy to walk, I crawl away from the vomit and pass out on the hard wooden floor, alone in the dark.

Chapter Two

I wake up to a shaft of light beaming down on my face. It’s coming from my window, distorted by the cracks. It seems to be about seven in the morning. My dad will be at work, and Darla is probably sleeping. I wonder if I’m still locked within my room, like a prisoner. Truly, I am a prisoner, and this house is my prison.

I attempt to get up, but as soon as I put pressure on my right ankle, I come falling back to the ground. The pain is intense; I’ve twisted it. I make sure I haven’t broken it by rubbing my hand gently over the bony area that hurts the most, and then slide over to the wall. I pull myself up on the porous Sheetrock and prop myself up against it.

I test my ankle again by putting weight on it a little at a time. It hurts, but it’s bearable. I slowly wean myself from the wall’s aid. I limp to the door and try to turn the brass handle. It’s unlocked.

I shamble out into the hallway and to my parents’ bedroom door. I carefully peek into the darkened room. Darla is gone to work. I clean up the vomit in my room with some paper towels from the kitchen, and then I fix myself a bowl of dry Cheerios, since our milk is soured, and take it into the backyard. I manage to walk to Stripes’s hollow and sit next to it.

Wake up, Stripes, I call to him.

I hear some shuffling, and Stripes crawls out. He’s holding his right paw up in front of him as if it’s injured. I press on it a little, and he yanks it away. Andrew must have gotten a good kick on him before Stripes could get out of his way.

Thoughts of enacting revenge on Andrew run through my head, but I dismiss them all. Andrew will probably kill me if I ever try to do anything against him. I look down sadly at a limping Stripes. I’ll have to feed him for today and probably tomorrow until his paw gets a little better. We’re alike, I tell him. He hates us both. Stripes lies down in my lap, and I begin to feed him Cheerios.

Why do you stay here? Why do you even care anything about me? I ask the cat.

I’m tearing up. In honesty, I really do wonder the question, but I will never want Stripes to realize that it is foolish to stay with me, that it only brings him pain. Maybe that is a little selfish to think, but I need Stripes; sadly, he doesn’t need me.

I wipe the tears out of my eyes. We stay like this for a while until he’s had enough Cheerios. I begin to throw pebbles at one side of my fence. I try to make them through the holes that polka-dot the fence. After a while, Stripes begins to meow constantly at me. What do you want? I ask him. He just stares up at me, meowing. Oh, are you thirsty?

Stripes spins around in a little circle before meowing at me again, confirming the fact that he wants something to drink. I get up and go back to the house. My ankle already seems better, and I guess I hadn’t twisted it after all. I get a small glass bowl and fill it with tap water. When I walk outside, Stripes sees me and begins to limp toward me.

No, Stripes, I’m coming, I say and speed up my pace so he doesn’t hurt his paw more than it already is.

I set the bowl down next to the tree, and he begins to drink. I sit down next to him and run my fingers through his soft fur. I’ll never know why my parents refer to him as mangy; they’ve probably never even touched him aside from the swatting and kicking at him. They only hate him because he brings me happiness—because Stripes is the only thing keeping me from becoming their slave.

I raise my head and look past the fallen picket fence, at the outside world. What is it truly like out there? I wonder. My thoughts congeal around the memory of my dream last night. Running. Running all the way to the ocean.

I take Stripes’s water bowl, to which he gives an aggravated meow, and place it in his hollow along with the rest of the Cheerios.

I’ll be back, I tell him.

Stripes lets out another little meow and follows his water bowl into his hollow.

I take one last glance at my house before deciding to go. I don’t intend on running away; I just want to know what’s out there. I’ll have to come back before three, and it seems to be about eight. That gives me a