Tortured Beginnings

By John T. Peters

     Appearances can be misleading. In a world of instant everything, people make serious judgments relying solely on someone's appearance.

     Nickoli was mentally and noticeably physically scarred in his childhood by psychopaths that had pretended to be parents. He'd grown tired of the endless questions; who, when, and why. So he had tattoos to cover the worst facial scars and hid behind the disguise.

      Nickoli escaped but then he had to find his origins to get a birth certificate and other documentation.  There weren't any parents registered under his last name either.

     Fate presented him with some unforeseen circumstances, forcing him to rethink his attitudes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John T. Peters
• Release date: Dec 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201834456

Book preview

Discover other titles by John T. Peters

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By

John T. Peters

Tortured Beginnings

Started December 03, 2017

A novel by; John T. Peters

Email; [e-mail]

Published by John T. Peters Copyright 2021

All rights reserved

No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval systems without the express written permission of the author.

Tortured Beginnings is a fictional story.  Use of or mention of historical events, places, or names of anyone or any similarity of the storyline to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental except where specifically authorized by said individuals.

Index

FOREWORD, Page 04

Chapter 01, Page 05

Chapter 02, Page 21

Chapter 03, Page 37

Chapter 04, Page 52

Chapter 05, Page 69

Chapter 06, Page 83

Chapter 07, Page 98

Chapter 08, Page 114

Chapter 09, Page 129

Chapter 10, Page 145

Chapter 11, Page 161

Chapter 12, Page 178

Chapter 13, Page 194

Chapter 14, Page 209

Chapter 15, Page 225

Chapter 16, Page 241

Chapter 17, Page 257

Chapter 18, Page 272

Chapter 19, Page 288

Chapter 20, Page 302

Chapter 21, Page 318

Foreword

For many, if not for most, eleven years old is a time of close family, school friends, sports, and discovering new foods or fashion.  On the other end of the spectrum are youngsters that count themselves lucky if they are only neglected or possibly abandoned.  Some endure the worst of humanity in a constant hellish existence being physically, mentally, emotionally, and sexually abused, brutalized by sadistic bogus guardians.

Nickoli managed to escape his living hell.  As he matured and acquired resources, a mystery developed.  He couldn’t find any reference or documentation of his birth or of his parents.  How do you punish the depraved people that tortured him if he or his parents don’t exist?

Chapter 1

Most of the bleeding had stopped.  Still, the red stuff oozed out of the partially broken scabs that covered major gashes on his back inflicted in the previous three days. — It wasn't his priority at that moment.

The boy, Nick, fixated his attention on the movement outside his door.  In his pad-locked small wooden shed, he peered through a gap between the rough sawn boards.  He observed two people wearing strange black oversized robes that completely covered them.  They, probably his degenerate parents, wore equally peculiar red conical hats and black face masks made of thin paper as they approached his locked shack.  Both wore decorative belts around their waists that held sheathes, most likely concealing ceremonial knives or weapons of some kind.  The more prominent person ambled about fifteen paces behind the other.

Nick knew of the attire's existence.  But, the outfits had only been worn in the main house in the past.  This morning the approaching duo was dressed in ritual garments outside the principal residence, which was disturbing.  It was for the world to see if they hadn't been as secluded as they were in the forest.

The previous night had been the culmination of years of escalating dissatisfaction with the child Mrs. Alice Benson, her latest alias, had at one time so much desired.  Upon acquiring it, she'd considered the newborn infant to be a godsend, so perfect, so lovable, everything a mother could hope for, dream of, or could pray for.

Her perfect illusion only lasted a few short years.  At three years old, the child began to develop strange facial features, foul appearances in the parents' eyes, entirely unacceptable for the principles of the young white couple, especially Mr. Benson, also an alias.

They prayed, joined various churches, and eventually established a church of their own, including developing a unique religion that addressed their particular concerns and ideologies.  They strayed into the occult, holding séances with ritual sacrifices of various articles, including small animals.  Nothing had reversed the child's grotesque developments.

They firmly believed and used a quote from the Bible, after their own image. In their feeble minds and their pseudo-religion, a baby raised by loving parents would automatically grow to resemble the guardians' features.  When that didn't happen, they resorted to other means.

After consulting cultist-type, unscientific, self-proclaimed doctors producing little or no improvements, the spankings had started.  Discipline would drive out the demons — returning the child to a respectable form, much closer to his parent's delusions of perfection.

Over the next year, the couple gradually became convinced the child was an abomination, perhaps demon-possessed.  The spankings turned into beatings, then ritual whippings.  The couple also tried amateurish exorcism combined with crude satanic rites.

The previous day, Alice Benson had finally acknowledged defeat.  During that night's intense ceremony, at her husband's urging and approved by another couple, she'd admitted that their God hadn't listened to her prayers.  As a last resort, possibly her Supreme Being would notice a human sacrifice.

OBSCURED FROM EVERYONE'S vision that morning, in the dense bushes a mere twelve meters from Nick's hut, a solitary grizzled figure, dressed in old clothes and animal skins, was also concentrating his gaze on the couple approaching the shed.  The handcrafted compound bow was already arched; the cable stretched tight, with a similar steel-tipped arrow in the arrow shelf ready to fire, stealthily aimed at the robed figures.  A few similar arrows in a tree bark tube attached to his belt were ready for use.

The camouflaged figure had been there most of the night. He'd heard Nick's screams that week.  The bush hermit had known of the boy's dilemma for years; nevertheless, that night was different. He'd taken notice of the chants, the chorus from inside the house growing louder, more ominous than in the past.  It was a disturbing warning sign.

NICK GRIPPED THE HANDLE of one of the pots filled with boiling water as he stood inside the only entry door to his small hovel.  Every muscle, every sinew in his body, was tense with anticipation, his adrenalin running wild.

He heard the heavy latch give way.  The door creaked open.  The smallest person of the pair, possibly his mother, as he'd come to know her, leaned into the doorway, head first.  At that moment, Nick threw the boiling water in her face.  He then pushed her back outside with a violent thrust of his foot.  She turned, stumbled a few paces in the direction of the house, and then fell to the slightly snow-covered ground, screaming.

The larger person quickened his approach, walking slightly past his wife — then stopped.  He turned to determine what was causing her to scream, taking two steps toward her.  It was the opportunity Nick needed.  He rushed out with another pot of steaming water, throwing it into the side of his father's face before the older man could defend himself.

Within seconds, both parents were on the ground, moaning in agony, only marginally resembling the torture Nick had endured repeatedly in the past seven or more years of his young life.

The pair was furiously rubbing the limited amount of snow over their scalded faces tearing away the flimsy masks in the process.  Nick then grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet out of the lean-to, hastily returning to his parents.  With all the strength he could muster, Nick smashed the hefty frying pan over the back of his father's head.

The man fell silent, dropping onto the lightly snow-covered ground.  Then young Nick moved over to his mother, beating her over the head with the skillet.  She also was muted.  He then bashed both of them several times with the heavy pan, on their spines, on their necks and heads until he saw blood as the hats were crushed and fell off.  It was their blood for once, not his.  The blood splattered on their clothes and the white frosting on the ground.  He dropped the saucepan, walking away from the bodies which still twitched with the odd muscle spasm.

A FEW METERS FROM THE action in the bushes, the camouflaged form eased his grip on the bow allowing the cable to relax.  He then stealthily retreated, unnoticed by anyone, fading into the thick underbrush as though he'd never been there.  The surrounding wildlife hadn't interrupted their singing or activities as though the figure was a part of the environment.

If the couple was dead, it wasn't of Nick's concern.  Neither did he have the wish to remain to gloat over their demise.  If he had continued in that present situation, he felt he would've died shortly anyhow, possibly that day.  So why should he waste energy worrying about their deaths, if in fact, they were dead?

IT WAS A HORRIBLE MEMORY for Nickoli, once called Nick.  He hadn't known the couple's history he thought were his parents, and still didn't, or his history to that point.

His adoptive mother, Abigail, a smallish, attractive young lady with blonde hair, had decided that she'd wanted a child approximately twelve years before Nickoli's escape.

She, and her husband Ben, an average-sized hippy type with long brown hair, had spent close to eight years drifting around the southern parts of Ontario and Quebec in Canada then through the northern US states as petty criminals. They'd had many schemes to gain enough money to keep living an easy life with an adequate supply of drugs and other living expenses without having paid employment.

Along the way, they'd discovered religion.  The couple had decided to mix religion with debauchery to add spice and extra easy cash to their lives, bringing their activities closer to a cult.

Yet, for unknown reasons, Abigail began to have strong maternal urgings.  She had decided she needed a child to complete her as a woman and a mother with noticeable reservations on Ben's part.

He'd enjoyed the unencumbered nomadic life without responsibilities, duties, or other individuals dictating what they could or could not do. Ben's personality could be described as overly selfish, preferring to dwell mostly on his own needs. He'd always had a problem considering other peoples' physical and particularly emotional needs.

Ben had erred along the way.  Abigail blamed him for giving her a severe Sexually Transmitted Disease (STD).  However, she often indulged in unprotected sex while engaging in prostitution when they'd been short of finances or when she had the urge to be daring.  Still, Abigail blamed him for the disease, as well as the fact she'd been unable to become pregnant up to that date.

She'd been and was inconsistent in behavior, domineering in some cases, while ultra passive in other instances.  Abigail was a female version of Jekyll and Hyde, at times maliciously dominant and other times willing or desiring to be used and abused as a slave.

Whatever difficulties they'd had, they'd managed to obtain a child soon after.  Abigail doted on the infant for the first couple of years as an overprotective mother.  Her constant overbearing attention on the infant came close to suffocating for the child, constantly hovering over him while Ben largely ignored the boy.

Abigail became obsessed with breastfeeding her new baby.  She listened to rumors and paid for advice from self-proclaimed experts.  With limited success, Mrs. Benson took a variety of non-pharmaceutical drugs and went on special diets to produce milk for the baby.  For more than two years, she considered her life idyllic, which had upset Ben.

In the interim, Ben took various jobs to provide for his family.  He had a definite distaste for work.  Ben also considered remaining in one location that long to be unsustainable.  Perhaps he was concerned his criminal past would catch up with him or them, forcing him to be more discreet when buying drugs.

To offset his boredom, he had sex with an assortment of women, from prostitutes to forcing himself on ordinary ladies when he had the opportunity.  Ben had brought three more sexually transmitted diseases home to Abigail in the ensuing three years. She'd been in her passive, motherly mood and hadn't made a big fuss about it.  From appearances, her main and only concern was taking care of and protecting her child.  All she needed was a provider in her early stages of motherhood, which annoyed Ben.

It'd been Ben who'd started mentioning that their baby's features might be flawed, which Abigail passionately denied for months.  Slowly, toward the end of Nick's third year, Abigail started to recognize that her child was not as perfect as she'd predicted or wanted him to be.

So they'd started with the doctors, praying, séances, and finally, after months without success, resorting to physical punishment, which progressed to torture after another two futile years.  Yet nothing had reversed the child's developing oddities. There'd also been some references to use him as a human sacrifice to appease the deities and then obtain another child.  Abigail had remained vehemently opposed to the suggestion until that last night.

NICKOLI, AS HIS TUTOR had renamed him, mustered all his mental and emotional capacities to get back to the present.  He did his ultimate best not to revisit those memories of sixteen or so years ago, if at all possible.  However — at times, they seized his consciousness like they'd done that morning.

He was sitting in an expensive dressing room with all the trappings of wealth around him; expensive clothes adorned with sinfully costly jewelry.  The venue had surrounded Nickoli with individuals who catered to his every wish and whim.  Every comfort known to humanity was readily available to him.  Most types of debauchery, drugs, wine, and women were also accessible to him at the movement of a diamond ring encircled finger, much more than he cared to indulge in.

It was early in the day.  He was waiting for musicians and other personnel to come for the final rehearsals.  Tonight was the second to last performance on his latest tour.  All the details had been completed, inspected — again.  The concert was organized, rehearsed, and prepared, down to the last minute detail.

The unknown was always the last part, the portion after they'd done the meticulously planned main show.  If the gig went exceptionally well and the crowd was into Nickoli's performance, he could go as long as the venue allowed. He'd done shows as long as eight hours till he'd collapsed, then helped off the stage.  Nonetheless, those had been rare exceptions.  It was an ordinary situation to go one to two hours overtime.

He sat in his specially outfitted dressing room as specified by his management company, owned by him and overseen by his friend, mentor, and manager, Joshua.  Nickoli hated just sitting doing nothing.  The last two shows were always the worst.  He especially, and the whole entourage knew every note, every word, every minute movement of his body intimately.  After thirty shows, it became rather tedious for some members of his team.

Nickoli had made two resolutions; (a) He was tired of performing, resolving to avoid doing that many performances in a row again, (b) If he did another tour, he'd have to rehearse five or more unique performances instead of the customary two to three, to keep them fresh and challenging and, (c) He had to seriously consider taking a long sabbatical from performing.  He didn't enjoy the anticipation as he'd done in the past.  He had enough money, and the entertainment scene became reminiscent of a Greek tragedy with modern insanity intertwined.

His mind obstinately drifted to thinking and reminiscing.  That was a bad thing, something to be avoided at almost all costs.

WHEN HE'D ESCAPED FROM his perverted, sadistic parents the first time, he'd done so without a plan.  At nine years old, he'd been going crazy from the terror of the beatings and hearing his sister, possibly other victims pleading, screaming, and begging for mercy.

Nick's parents had operated a perverse cultist type of religion privately on their so-called farm in the woods. He'd never heard them say so, though.  In hindsight, there'd been overtones of being a satanic cult, remembering the strange costumes, chants, and fires with movements resembling a trance.  In any case, he'd been brutally whipped for minor perceived misdeeds since he'd been five years old or possibly younger.  Time lacked significance when recalling the catastrophe that'd been his existence before he was eleven.

His first escape attempt had been juvenile, lacking planning or foresight.  At the time, he was sure his older sister had died.  Although he'd seen other women come and go from the main house. He'd heard the screams numerous nights — then the cries had fallen in intensity to groans — then one night, silence.

On nights when victims screamed, his parents forced him to spend his nights in a locked storage shed behind the house.  On one memorable night, he'd seen his father and mother, through a crack between the boards of his hovel, carrying a sack of something out into the garden.

The adults had dug a hole.  As they picked up the bundle, something resembling an arm had fallen loose out of the bag.  It would've been difficult to be certain in the moonlit night.  Nick was sure it was his sister.  He couldn't think of who else it could've been. They'd then dropped the whole parcel into the shallow grave and covered it with the loose dirt.  He never saw or heard from his sister again.

When the first opportunity to escape presented itself — he was gone.  He rarely went to town with his parents for evident reasons.  Often they referred to him as ugly, disgusting, or an abomination.  In his parents' opinion at the time, to be seen with him in the community was beyond embarrassment, more like degrading, a public disgrace for them.  If they took him to town at all, they covered his face in a mask of creams.

Nevertheless, on rare occasions, they'd take him to school, Sunday school, including the occasional shopping trip, always with a face mask.  So he vaguely knew the route as well as the layout of the small community.

Creekside was a rural community meaning the few assorted houses and businesses were scattered over a two or more square mile area separated by trees or fields. There'd never been a layout of streets with sidewalks like a regular town with a mere population of perhaps one hundred residents.  Creekside had the usual amenities of a general store, post office, school, church, and such, however in miniature.  Some residents had the environment of a secluded country, living surrounded by trees while concealing many sins, as in Nick's parents' case.

He was homeschooled due to his parents' aversion to public education.  Nevertheless, occasionally he'd been allowed to attend highly supervised classes in the local school without any reason supplied.  If someone of some sanity had witnessed fresh gashes on his already scarred back, they might've, hopefully, reported his parents to the appropriate authorities.  As a result, schooling hadn't been a reason to have him venture around civilization too often unsupervised.  His education had been censured, coinciding with his parents' radical religious mentality.

On one occasion, perhaps somewhere around nine years old when he was with his parents in town, his father had stated to a social contact of his, the time-worn cliché about Spare the rod and spoil the child. It appeared the acquaintance heartily agreed with Nick's father.

After that encounter, Nick had listened intently to the conversations during his occasional visits to town. He'd been threatened with other vicious beatings if he was daring enough to speak at all in public.

He learned that his guardians were upstanding, respected citizens in the local community.  Both belonged to a local church.  His parents were active in a couple of benevolent lodges in a neighboring community he'd never seen.  They also held various positions of responsibility as directors in another area's organization.  By that time, Nick's back already carried the history of brutal lashings without any explanation or reason except that he was a hideous eyesore, according to his parents' viewpoint.  Nick wondered at the time if all elders were as viciously brutal to their offspring.

At nine years old, he'd fled into the woods, to the main road, and then to the village. He'd had the illusion that he was free to contemplate a new life.  His new existence was short-lived.  The local pseudo policeman, a self-appointed vigilante, and possibly a friend or participant in his parent's cult, recognized Nick within the hour of his arrival in the hamlet.

In a matter of hours, he was back out in the woods on his family's homestead, his back bleeding from the cruelest whipping he'd had to that point.  From that time on, instead of only being locked out when awful things occurred inside the house, they locked him in an old wooden storage shed as his permanent home, a pail for a toilet, and without other amenities. He'd survived.

After another couple of years of torturous beatings, he'd freed himself