When Hope is Lost: Will your spirit break free or be destroyed?

By Neha Khandkar

Suffering from trauma, both physical and emotional, Ari and Rider are struggling to get over their past.

Leading seemingly separate lifestyles, they have no idea how much their stories will intersect. And when their paths cross, they embark on a journey to find hope and restore it in their hearts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SoulLit
• Release date: Apr 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998772714

Book preview

CHAPTER 1: Ari

Pain is coursing through my body……The world is spinning and the grass is way too close to me……Pain…So much pain…

Huttumpf. A mouthful of sticky dew and grass stems tickle my tongue. I lick the corners of my mouth. From what I taste, blood is frothing at my lips. I spit some out and groan, pushing back my curly black hair. I am kneeling over, sweat glistening on my small forehead. This is the same position I am always in after Father brings the whip down on me. The whip has dug especially deep today. Of course, that just makes me, Ari, stronger and tougher. I trace the scars and cuts that line my body like ugly parasites with my long finger. There’s a scratch running up my spine that’s starting to bruise, and a burning slash across my shoulders that’s trailing down on my side. My bare back is stinging in the heat, but it’s bearable. This is what I do. Every day. Actually, Father does it to me. Every day. Whip, crack, whip, crack. I know it’s for my own good. Father doesn’t believe in raising me to be a soft, comfy kid. I don’t either. Father’s told me all about them. Disrespecting, unhealthy kiddies sitting in plush leather and eating sugar donuts all afternoon. No, I’m not them. I’m Ari, the not-comfy, not soft boy. I wipe my wet hands on my shorts. A trickle of red runs down my forehead. My hurt knee is all twisted. Father says I was made to be tough. He said that the only way to be tough was to get hurt. Bring the whip down on yourself every day. Except Father likes doing it himself. Beads of sweat collect on my chin and fizzle onto my throat, coiling right around my Adam’s apple. I glimpse my surroundings. Then I see her. The girl. The rider. The girl that comes around riding a fancy bicycle every day. I watch her in secret from inside the house. I live on a field that’s a couple of miles away from those softie people. The rider can’t be one of them. Not if she’s so carefree, hair swinging wild behind her. Not if she on a bike every day, riding for miles and miles to come. So I watch her when Father isn’t looking. Except this time she’s watching me. Even from this distance, I can see that her mouth is frozen in an ‘O’. Her big green eyes are wide, and I’m guessing, for the first time, she witnessed me being beaten by Father.

Oh no. Will she tell everyone? I watch her leap onto the bike and pedal away, horrified. The last thing I need is for plump soft people swarming my place. I scramble to my feet and rub my eyes. I hear Father bustling around inside. The whip is lying on the ground weakly. Laying there, stringy, silver, helpless. It awakens an unfamiliar darkness in me. You know what? Maybe another round. I think my anger is blinding me. But I pick up the whip gingerly and grit my teeth. No pain, no gain. I curl my fingers around the handle tightly. It is forged of jagged rocks and splinters. Swish, crack! I flick my wrist. The whip lashes out fiercely, catching my thigh. It leaves a dark red stain showing through my shorts. I shudder and gasp. The uncontrollable tremor running through my body is rising to a hot level. I purse my lips and close my eyes once again. Slash, crack! It hits my foot. Snap, crack! It pierces my chest directly, blood gushing out. I hit myself a couple more times, then throw the whip. It lands a few feet away. Blood flows out of all my wounds. I drop back to my knees. My head falls, drooping, resting against the dirt. I can taste my salty sweat. Hope for the best.

Father owns a lot of land. Boy, these fields grow. Today I’m just sitting on the outskirts, breathing in cool air, getting ready for my daily exercise. I run 3 or 4 miles to the places where the softies live, then sprint right back. No catching breathers, no taking rests. I used to jog until Father made me do it full speed. I kick a few loose stones and break out into a steady pace, feet flying. I slowly gain speed. By the time I reach my destination, I’m out of breath. Then I swivel around on my heels and continue. My arms are pumping, but my lungs feel like they will burst. Pushing myself, I let my legs carry me and do the job. I hadn’t anticipated yesterday’s double injuries. They are opening again now, and pain courses through my sore limbs. Finally, just a hundred feet from my house, I collapse. My body is tormenting me. Inch by inch, I pick up my head and crawl up the sidewalk, dragging myself heavily. The heat warmed pebbles are pricking my fingers. I don’t understand. This has never happened before. Thank god Father is out of town today. He would’ve peeled my skin off for slacking. I finally finish and lift myself up tiredly. My bare back is leaning against the cornstalks. That’s when I hear a familiar swishing sound. Butternuggets! I hadn’t anticipated the riding girl. I doubted she would be back. But here she is, up close. I see the wheels screech to a skidding halt. The riding girl sweeps her hair out of her green eyes. She’s got little dots running up her nose, and light brown hair. She holds the bike and looks at me. I stare at her, touching my hurt knees. Blood is drying up on my legs. I must be a pretty ugly sight. I hope she didn’t see me crawling like a wimp. I pat my black hair into place and lower my eyes.

I saw you. She points her chin at me. Her eyebrows are raised, mouth flat, and arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if demanding an explanation. I don’t answer her. Just twist a lock of my curly hair. She squats down to my level, slowly.

Not just right now. Yesterday too. She adds. Shoot, shoot, shoot, SHOOT.

Go away. I grunt. Father always says that to me. Oh, and shut up. The girl doesn’t waver. But her face contorts into a Father face. The one he uses to beat me and then the one he uses to punish me. I don’t like it. No matter how much Father tries to tell me that the whipping is for my own good, I don’t like it at all.

Don’t look at me. I growl, glancing at the girl swiftly. For a second, she freezes, then sits down across from me, one hand protectively on her golden bike. The Father expression goes away. It changes into a twisted one. Not a mean twisted one. Just a……confused twisted one. Her eyes grow big and they are filled with something other than annoyance and anger. I know annoyance and anger. I see it every day in my Father’s eyes. But her eyes look a little bit……sad. I don’t know sad very well. I’ve experienced it though. One time, Father beat Ma so hard she died. That’s what he told me happened. He always beat her. Tried to toughen her up. Again, those are all his words. I guess it’s only a man’s thing. I don’t know why I felt sad. Father said he was disappointed that she hadn’t learned to toughen up in time. He also said that he did her a favor because not-tough people don’t survive in society. I know there’s something wrong in that explanation, but it’s what I have been taught, so I accept it. Anyway, that’s the same sadness I see in the girl’s eyes.

What’s your name? she asks, startling me. Is it considered rude to ask for someone else’s name? For all I know, she could use it against me.

Ari. I admit, bowing my head down. Father told me that women were weak. He never said anything about girls. I guess softie girls are weak. I wonder if this girl’s a softie.

Well, hi. I’m Rider. She sticks out her hand expectantly. What is she doing? Is she going to beat me like Father? Is that why she’s thrusting her hand out?

Get away from me. You lay one finger on me and we’ll see who wins. I snap with a hiss and a snarl. I know if she tries to hit me, I can beat her. Usually girls don’t get beaten by their parents. Especially softies. I wonder why some people don’t beat their children. It’s not fun, but Father said it makes you strong and powerful and the best that you can be. Who doesn’t want that? Rider’s eyes squint at me suspiciously. It’s the same expression she had when she saw Father beating the daylights out of me. I think it’s shock. Her hand drops to her side. She takes a breath.

I’m losing my patience with your comments, Ari. All I’m asking you to do is shake my hand. For crying out loud. You better get a grip. Rider’s voice is calm and controlled. I force myself to exhale deeply.

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