Christopher's Journey: Sometimes it takes being lost to find yourself



  The Storms of Time

  Book One

  Christopher's Journey

  Sometimes it takes being lost to find yourself

  B. Chantel

  Concerning Life Publishing

  Spring Lake, Michigan

  www.Concerninglife.org

  Copyright 2013 Concerning Life Publishing

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written consent from the publisher

  Cover image "Mazy Road" courtesy of Evgeni Dinev / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

  Chapter 1

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law.”

  The red and blue lights illuminated the night sky and reflected from every angle off of the tall, surrounding city buildings.

  “What’s your name, son?” An older officer grunted.

  “Chris Scholt.” he whispered in defeat.

  Chris laid across the car’s hood which radiated warmth onto his already heated face. His hands cuffed behind his back and his legs spread as the officer patted him down, checking his pockets and shoes. He turned his head to see the pile of possessions the cops had found on him, laying on the hood up toward the windshield. His pack of cigarettes, a crumpled up baggie, a lighter, a wad of cash, a pile of jewelry that he’d just attempted to steal and his .22 caliber handgun with the empty clip out.

  The officer called one of his colleagues over to watch Chris as he returned to his car.

  “Looks like strike three for you, Chris.” Exclaimed the officer after running Chris’ information through the cruiser’s computer. “You’re going away for awhile.”

  As the colleague gathered Chris’ possessions into a red bag marked ‘Evidence,’ the other officer lifted Chris and guided him to the back seat of the cruiser. He tucked his head down as Chris sat into the seat, slamming the door in his face.

  He knew this was it for him, he’d been caught too many times. He was too careless, too clumsy. He wasn’t cut out for this way of life but it was all he knew. It was the only way he knew how to survive. He wanted to be angry for being caught, he wanted to throw a fit, he wanted to lash out at these officers, he wanted to yell and scream and maybe even try to run. But sitting there in the backseat, surrounded by caged windows, he felt almost relieved, almost at peace. He just wanted this to be over.

  “Here we go.” The officer stated as he climbed into the drivers seat and started off. “I suppose you know the routine of this by now.”

  Chris did know the routine all too well. Though only his third arrest, he had been testing his limits with the law since the age of eleven, five years after his father left to buy his nightly fifth of booze and never returned.

  Chris' father never quite got over the death of his mother, Chris' grandmother. It was a mere six months after her death when Chris' dad finally walked out leaving his shattered world behind.

  Chris loved his grandmother. She was the only stable person he seemed to have in his life. She took him often and showed him a small taste of what a truly happy environment could be like. She was the ideal grandmother who spoiled him with love, attention... and cookies. They baked together when she had him over every weekend. Every weekend until she fell ill two years before she died.

  “Always remember me like this.” she stated one day, early in her diagnosis. “Just remember, Chris, that when I leave this world, I will be in a better place. I will be standing with our creator and I will never be hungry, thirsty or in pain. I want you to feel happy for me going home, not feel sad that I’ve left this world behind. I will always be with you and I will always watch over you.”

  Chris was surprised how much of her he could remember. Even the parts he didn't want to remember, like looking over the box and seeing his grandmother wearing much more make up than she ever had, sleeping while clutching a bouquet of daisies, her favorite flower.

  It wasn't grandma, it was a heavily made up shell.

  "What happened to her?" Six year old Chris asked.

  "She went to Heaven, son." was all he ever heard to his endless list of questions.

  Chris knew about Heaven, he knew about God and his angels. His miracles and His plan for each and every one of us. His grandma taught him that. She read him the Bible passages and taught him a way of life that was contradicted by his parents every time he returned home.

  Chris loved and tried to please his parents, but late at night when he heard his mom and dad argue, he dreamed of living a different life. A life with his grandma.

  That dream shattered the day she died. His new dream of trying to pull happiness into his family shattered the day his dad left.

  Although Chris’ mom was never mother of the year, something broke in her the night her husband abandoned her.

  She locked herself in her room and began drinking heavily, leaving six year old Chris to fend for himself.

  Still grasping for her love and attention, he strove to behave and not ask much of his mother. He got himself up every morning, dressed himself, poured his own cereal and walked the 15 blocks to school. Knowing money was scarce, he grew accustomed to skipping lunch.

  Chris was never the ideal student. He seemed to try hard but could never seem to grasp the work. He was easily distracted, mostly from the other children picking on him about his greasy hair and ragged clothes, the fact he never had a lunch and that he didn't seem to talk much.

  He was an outsider, he knew that but it hurt him inside to be reminded continuously throughout the day. It left him feeling empty and hollow that he couldn't make even one friend. The teachers didn't even seem to like him.

  After school he trudged himself home, struggled through his homework then made sure their tiny, one bedroom apartment was tidy.

  On his mom’s minimum wage salary from the night shift party store job she managed to keep, that tiny hole in the run down building in the high crime neighborhood was all they could afford. It consisted of only three rooms.

  The largest room was at the end of a short hallway upon entering the apartment. On the right wall was a kitchenette that consisted of a two burner stove, a tiny sink and a tall but narrow refrigerator. There were a mere four cabinets under the counter and two up top. With only the two of them, they had limited dishes and even more limited food. The cupboard space was rarely a problem.

  Straight ahead was the only living space. One square room just large enough for their ragged couch, a small side table and a dinner tray that struggled to support their 13” black and white television.

  Directly to the left of the short entrance hallway was just enough room to have a small square dining room table with drop leaves on either side that always had to be down in order for it to fit, shoved up against the wall.

  Just off of the dining area, on the left wall was a small nook, maybe meant for that dining table but happened to fit the head of Chris’ bed and a tiny night table.

  On that same wall, squeezing past the couch was the doorway to his mother’s bedroom. Just about half the size of the main room, it was just large enough for her twin bed and a tall, thin dresser.

  On the same wall as the kitchen, to complete the miniature theme of their apartment was a tiny bathroom. It was no l
arger than a closet. There was just enough room to step in, with the toilet directly ahead, a stand up shower to the right and a basin sink to the left.

  It didn’t take long for Chris to pick up , then he faithfully made dinner so it would be ready for his mother who was just stumbling out of bed.

  He knew by now that she would be upset with him if he didn't make breakfast for her. Since she got up during Chris' dinnertime, he would have breakfast with her, his second breakfast, his second and last meal of the day.

  "It's too early for me to eat heavy, dinner food, Christopher!" she'd sneer at him while lighting another cigarette. She always ended her insulting comments with his name but said it in a long, drawn out, sarcastic tone.

  Breakfast seemed to work out since his mother only gave $10 per week for him to pick up groceries. All he kept in the house was cereal, milk, eggs and powder pancake mix.

  Chris plated their food and walked to the tiny dining table and carefully placed her breakfast in front of her.

  "Pancakes again?" she yelled and whined. "I'm so sick of the same stuff over and over, Christopher." She looked him up and down. "I guess I shouldn't expect too much more out of you. You're not good for much more than under cooked pancakes day after day after DAY!" she yelled the last word while pushing the plate across the table.

  Chris fought the tears from escaping his eyes. "I cleaned up and finished my homework." He said cautiously but trying to sound confidant.

  "Well, woop-dee-doo for you, Christopher! What do you want? A metal? That's stuff you're supposed to do anyway." She grabbed her plate and scarfed down the small pancake portion. She got up without cleaning up after herself and grabbed her coat.

  “I’m going out before work so you’re on your own.”

  She gave Chris a disappointed look with narrowed eyes and stormed out the door.

  Chris stood for a moment still staring at the door. What had happened to his mother? She was all he had left in his cruel existence and she had turned her back on him as well. What was wrong with him? Why did no one love him?

  Within the five years after Chris’ dad had left, it was apparent that he would never return. Chris’ mom deteriorated more and more, drinking excessively and resorted to lashing her anger out physically toward Chris. Instead of the glares and disappointed looks, she’d slap his face and knock him onto the floor. He was a burden to her and she wanted nothing to do with him. She had more important things to tend to and deal with. She had even stopped giving Chris grocery money as she ate out with friends or at work.

  At the tender, impressionable age of eleven, Chris learned that the path of life was now dependant on theft. It was either steal or die.

  * * * * *

  Chris looked down the isle. Left, then right. He couldn’t see over the convenience store shelves since he was only eleven years old. He had to depend on the large, round mirrors in the corner to see where the clerk was and what he was doing.

  He was watching Chris.

  ‘This may not be such a good idea.’ Chris thought, but his grumbling stomach screamed something different.

  He began pacing down the isle very slowly, still glancing up to see what the clerk was doing. He was now sitting behind the counter reading a magazine. How could Chris walk out of here without buying anything and not look suspicious? He needed a distraction.

  At the very moment of his thought, Chris heard the door chime ring. A girl, close to the clerks age walked in. She strolled up to the counter, leaned far across it and began talking and giggling with the clerk.

  This was Chris’ chance. He quickly filled his bag with cans of Ravioli and handfuls of individually wrapped toaster pastries.

  He crept toward the door and bolted out once he reached it.

  “HEY!” he heard the clerk scream.

  Chris ran as fast as his legs could manage, making every turn he could, cutting through alleys. He stopped in one to catch his breath. He waited and listened. All he could hear was his heart thumping from his chest and his rapid breath that he could barely grasp.

  Nothing. Was he not being chased? How could he have outrun someone twice his size?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a voice behind him.

  “Well, who do we have here?” Chris’ stomach jumped into his throat as he turned around and saw a group of older teenage boys. They all looked alike with their matching leather jackets with conjoined C’s on the back. The biggest boy stepped forward.

  “What’s your hurry? Someone after you?” he said with a smirk and sounding only slightly interested.

  Chris stayed glued to the wall. He was afraid to lie to them for what they might do, he was afraid to tell them the truth since he’d just broken the law, he was afraid to move, he was afraid to stay still.

  The biggest boy took another step toward him.

  “You running from the cops?” he asked in a proud voice.

  “Kind of, but no.” Chris squeaked out. “I’m running from a store clerk.”

  “For what? Stealing?” The boy said giving him a little chuckle. “Ha, you don’t seem the type.”

  “Whatever!” Chris said with a little more attitude. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.’ Chris thought. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

  The boy took another step toward him, towering over Chris, looked down on him and raised up his hand.

  Chris clenched his eyes shut.

  When the hand reached Chris’ head, it merely tousled his hair. “I like this kid!” the boy laughed. “You’re alright. How did you make out?”

  “How did I... what?”

  “Make out. What did you take, how much did you take? Is it money?” The boys sounded excited as he reached for Chris’ bag.

  “NO!” Chris screamed. “I don’t care what you do to me, but you are NOT getting what is in this bag!” his eyes lit up like fire as he clenched the bag in his arms against his chest. “I have never stolen before, I have not eaten in two days... Please, just leave me alone!”

  “Relax kid, I’m not going to steal your bag. I was just curious, is all. You’ve got spunk, though. I like that. What’s your name?”

  “C-Chris.” he stammered out.

  “Hey Chris, my name is Joe, Joe-Z as my buddies call me. We have our own club. It’s the coolest one in town. You should join in and hang out with us. What do you say?”

  “Ummm, I don’t know. I have school, and.. uh..”

  “Oh, that’s ok. We, um, have school, too. Yeah. We can hang out afterwards. Hey, as a reward for becoming a new member of our club, we’ll even treat you to a burger. What do you think?”

  Joe-Z seemed friendly enough. “Ok.” Chris nodded.

  “We’ll meet right here then, tomorrow after school. See you then.” Joe-Z tapped Chris in the shoulder but just about knocked him down.

  Chris stood in the alley watching the group walk out. What just happened? Had he made some friends? Sure they’re older but friendship doesn’t have an age difference. Someone had liked him and wanted to be his friend. Maybe things were finally turning around.

  When Chris approached the door to his apartment, he knew he was in trouble when he smelled cigarette smoke. 'Mom is up.' he shuddered. 'She's going to kill me that I'm not home, cleaning or making her breakfast.'

  Chris took a deep breath and entered the smoky room.

  "Where have you been?!!" his mother hissed.

  "I... uh... was with some friends." Chris stated making it sound more like a question than an answer.

  "Friends? Ha... who would be friends with you? Christopher!" She looked him up and down with a disgusted look on her face. She stood up from the couch and towered over him.

  All Chris wanted at that moment was for his mother to wrap her arms around him and hold him tight. 'It's alright, Chris, I'm glad you have some friends now. I just want you to be happy.' he forced himself to hear her say. He wanted
the warmth of his mom around him with soothing words and comfort. He wanted to hear her tell him how good he'd been all these years and how much she appreciated him taking care of her. Waiting... waiting for her to say thank you, waiting for her to quit drinking, waiting for her to love him as he still loved her.

  Instead, before he realized what happened, he was face down on the floor. His head throbbed where she had thumped him.

  "I'm hungry, Christopher! I work hard for the two of us and you don't give me the respect to make me something to eat."

  "But... we don't have any food." Chris whimpered.

  "Excuses, excuses! You're just full of them. Useless! FINE! I'm going out, then!" she said, kicking his side as she brushed past him, as he lay, doubled on the floor.

  Chris remained on the floor until he heard the door close and her descending the stairs of the building. He slowly rose rubbing both his head and his side.

  Normally, he'd be lost in a sea of tears, whimpering on the floor like a baby. 'I'm not a baby anymore! I'm eleven years old.' He thought, instead, with rage building up in his veins.

  He didn't know if it was his new group of friends or if it was the fact that he knew he'd gotten away with theft and now had a big bag of food or if it was the final blow to the head, but Chris felt a surge of independence, of freedom, of the thought that he can make it on his own.

  "I don't need her!!" he screamed which echoed through the room.

  "I DON'T need her!!"