His Light in the Dark

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015, L.A. Fiore

  All rights reserved

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author and/or publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-1519422897

  ISBN-10: 151942289X

  Cover design by Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae, www.murphyrae.net

  Typeset graphics by Melissa Stevens, The Illustrated Author, http://www.theillustratedauthor.net

  To all the real and flawed and perfect

  Prince Charmings

  To my Prince Charming, love you.

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part Two

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Three

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  I was hungry. My tummy hurt. I sat on the top step holding my belly, but I feared going downstairs because Daddy got mad if I came downstairs when he had a friend over. I tried really hard to not think about the pain in my belly, but I ate when I woke up and now it was almost bedtime. Maybe he wouldn’t see me if I was really quiet and walked on my tiptoes.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I heard a funny noise and when I peeked into the living room, I didn’t see Daddy, but there was a lady and she didn’t have on any clothes. She was the one making the funny sound. I got scared, was she sick? And then her eyes opened and she looked right at me. She put her hands up and turned from me.

  “Carl, you have a son?”

  Daddy’s head popped up. He was mad, so mad that he wasn’t nice, moving so fast the lady almost fell off the sofa. He didn’t have anything on, like how I looked when I got into the tub. When he walked to me, I couldn't stop my body from shaking because he looked really, really mad.

  He yanked my arm so hard it hurt more than my tummy. “What are you doing downstairs?”

  “My tummy hurts. I’m hungry.”

  “Hungry?”

  He dragged me into the kitchen, but I didn’t see what he grabbed before he pulled me back up the stairs. He pushed me into my room, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep if I didn’t fill my belly.

  “But Daddy, I’m hungry.”

  He tossed something on my bed. It was crackers. I loved crackers. Before I could say thank you, Daddy moved closer and hit me, his big hand against my cheek hurt so bad I cried out as I flew backwards into my bed.

  “Don’t fucking ever come downstairs again when I have someone over.”

  The door slammed closed. Pee wet the front of my jammies and dripped down my leg but I was afraid to make a sound and bring my daddy back upstairs, so I curled up into a ball—my face hurting so bad—and cried for so long I fell asleep without ever filling my belly.

  I learned a lot after that night. I learned how to be invisible, even in a crowd of people, I could go completely unnoticed; I learned the way to handle conflict at school was with my fists; I learned that I wasn’t so very different from my dad because every time he hit me, he stoked the flame in my gut that had started that first night—the need to hit him back. But mostly I learned that no one gave a shit; not my teachers, or the parents of the kids at school, the grocery clerk or even the doctors and nurses who had tended to more than one broken bone of mine. In this great big world, there wasn’t one person who gave a shit if I lived or died.

  We had to move. The old man pitched a fit when the landlord handed him the eviction notice. Even at twelve, I knew you had to pay the rent or you’d get tossed out. Apparently my father didn’t think the rules applied to him. We came from Camden, and landed in South Philly—an older neighborhood in Packer Park—so we didn’t go far. Not sure how the man swung this, the place was sweet; even though we were attached to our neighbors, the houses were spaced nicely, the steps up to the front doors added privacy and we even had actual grass and a few trees. Not far from us were a big community park and the sports complexes. As nice as it was, our place wouldn’t stay that way for long because my father didn’t know the meaning of the word clean.

  Wasn’t sure how he afforded the move since the man didn’t work, was out on disability, and constantly bitched about not having money. Of course, there was always money for beer and whiskey. He was inside talking to some woman, probably the landlord. He ordered me to stay outside and so as I sat on the front steps of the row house, I took in the neighborhood. Gardens, brightly-colored, were worked into the small plots of grass that graced the front of most of the homes. Stoops were decorated with flower pots or chairs, people waved in greeting to their neighbors. It wouldn’t be long before the whispers started about the noise coming from this place, neighbors being careful to avoid eye contact or the looks of pity directed my way. I guess I kind of understood why people didn’t want to get involved, risk having my dad’s wrath turned on them, and still it made me angry every time a neighbor turned a blind eye.

  The sounds of a little kid’s laughter pulled my attention to the next-door neighbors just as a little girl, dressed as a princess with a crown and everything, came running down her front steps. Just behind her, was her dad; the man was huge with tats down his arms, but it was the expression on his face that caused a pang of envy. He was grinning as he chased his daughter; a man who actually liked being a father and more, he didn’t have a problem with showing it. Just watching them, I couldn’t help my own grin because it was so natural, the affection between them. He grabbed her and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of flour; her squeal of laughter carrying down the street. It hit like a freight train, nearly bringing tears to my eyes.

  Longing.

  No point in torturing myself watching something I’d never have, so I stood and started down the street but the sight of the guy and his kid haunted me anyway.

  My father didn’t believe in cooking, he preferred his sustenance in liquid form, so I had become a connoisseur of canned soup. I preferred Chunky but being one of the more expensive soups, I usually had condensed. Opening the can, I held it over the pot and waited for the glob to slip slowly from its tin storage before adding the water. Turning to toss the can in the trash, my hand knocked over the glass on the counter. It shattered into pieces and as my heart moved up into my throat, I stood immobile straining to hear if the old man heard the crash. After a few minutes, the fear ebbed; he was probably too far-gone to hear much of anything. Quickly cleaning
up the mess, I finished heating my soup.

  He had been gone most of the day, returning home about an hour ago. He didn’t come into the house, and I didn’t seek him out, but my guess was he had a friend with him and they were hanging outside for a bit. That was usually how it went. He had either spent the day introducing himself to the clerks at the area liquor stores or he’d stopped at a bar to chat up the locals. For someone as mean as him, he made friends and easily. Really knew how to lay it on thick when he wanted to; he liked the idea of being thought of as his favorite TV character—the neighborhood Norm. Clearly an alcoholic but a friendly one, at least in public. My guess, the friend either worked at one of the liquor stores or he’d picked her up at the bar.

  Thinking about him was making me lose my appetite, so I focused instead on my new school; some of the kids were actually kind of friendly and the teachers seemed nice. Sixth graders rotated their science class and my class was starting on pulleys. That sounded really cool, there’d be labs that we’d work on with other kids and as much fun as that sounded, I worried. You were supposed to go to each other’s houses to work, but I couldn’t ask anyone to my house because I never knew what I’d be coming home to. Had made that mistake in first grade, brought a friend home only to have him calling his mom almost as soon as he arrived because my dad had been in a rage. The kid had stopped hanging with me at school and I had stopped trying to make friends. It always ended the same.

  The sound of the front screen opening had my stomach squeezing into a knot. I quickly cleaned up the pot and took my food to the old table that sat in the corner. He stumbled into the kitchen and would have face planted if not for the woman hanging on him.

  “Get upstairs.”

  He didn’t have to ask me twice, grabbing my dinner, I practically ran up the stairs. He’d be busy all night, which meant I could eat my dinner, maybe read a bit, and likely sleep through the night. For me, that was a good night.

  As soon as I reached my house after school, I wanted to keep walking passed it. Dad stood outside on the stoop waiting for me. Didn’t know what I had done, seemed like he went crazy for no reason at all lately.

  “You think we’re made of money?”

  I couldn’t answer because I didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “It’s not enough that you do nothing at all around here but now you’re breaking shit. Like I’m fucking made of money.” The glass. He must have seen it in the trash. I should have taken the bag out to the cans. It was a glass, hardly worth beating me for, but to Carl Campbell it was all the excuse he needed. Normally he didn’t touch me until we were in the house, but not today. Something must have happened to him that he didn’t like and naturally, as was his way, he blamed me. Yanking me by the hair, I yelped, just before he threw me into the steps, my cry cut short when the wind was knocked out of me. Working to catch my breath, I didn’t cover my face for the backhanded knuckle slap that landed under my eye or the hard smack across the face.

  Scurrying backwards up the steps to the door, I caught a movement just behind my dad. In the next minute, the man next door appeared in a towering rage. He lifted my dad clear off the pavement and hurled him into the steps.

  “How’s it feel?” The neighbor snarled.

  “Get off my property.”

  “You hit your kid, I’ll hit you.”

  My jaw dropped, so did my dad’s.

  “I’ll call the police.” My dad was scared, his voice cracked but then looking at my rescuer, I’d be scared too.

  “Call them. I’d like for them to see how you treat your son.”

  “Why the fuck are you getting involved?”

  “I see a grown ass man beating the shit out of his kid, damn straight I’m going to get involved.”

  “You should mind your own fucking business.”

  The neighbor moved right up into my dad’s face, fury lining his words. “Your business just became my business.” The man pulled out his phone and called 9-1-1. My dad went ghostly white.

  While we waited for the cops, the man never left my side. The bruises hadn’t started showing. There was just the cut under my eye, but Dad would make an excuse for that turning it into his word against the neighbor’s. There was little the cops could do and had Dad played it cool, I’d be back in the house where he could do what he wanted. But he was drunk, fully in temper, and for that moment his hatred moved from me to the neighbor. So much so that he attacked the man, even with Philly’s finest looking on. The cops smelled alcohol on his breath and clearly being drunk, they detained him; a night in jail to cool off. With Dad gone, social services was called.

  “Will you come with me? We can clean up your cut.”

  I didn’t answer, so the neighbor took that as a yes; his hand on my shoulder was gentle and though I’d get hell later, tonight I felt the safest I’d ever felt in my life.

  My very first memory was of him. I was watching Cinderella; I loved princesses. Daddy had been watching but the neighbor was being loud again. He just moved in, but Daddy didn’t let me go near his house because he said the man was not a nice man. With the amount of yelling that came from his house, he didn’t sound nice at all. Daddy had missed the entire ball scene, so when I heard footsteps down the hall, I called to him, “Hurry, Daddy. You’re going to miss the carriage turning back into a pumpkin.”

  Turning from my spot on the sofa, my next words were forgotten because Daddy wasn’t alone. A boy was with him and he had a cut under his eye that was bleeding. He looked kind of like how Cinderella looked after her mean stepsisters tore up her pretty gown—defeated. He was our neighbor, I’d seen him from my window a few times. He was always leaving his house, never seemed to stay there very long and with all the yelling, I didn’t blame him. Had his daddy caused the cut? My heart beat harder with fear because why would a daddy do that?

  My daddy led the boy to the sofa and forced him to sit, I could tell because the boy didn’t want to sit. He looked like he wanted to run away, far and fast. Daddy disappeared for a minute, returning with the first-aid kit—the same one I had helped him stock with princess Band-Aids. I wanted to ask what happened, but the boy didn’t look like he was there even though he was sitting right next to me. And Daddy, he was mad, really mad. I had never seen him that angry, but his hands were shaking with it.

  The doorbell sounded and Daddy looked over at me. “Mia, this is Cole. I need to get the door. Can you wipe down his cut like I showed you?”

  A job, I loved when Daddy gave me a job. “Yep, I’ll even share my Band-Aids with Cole.”

  Daddy grinned, which was funny because he was still really mad. “I’m sure Cole will love that.”

  “Cole.”

  The boy’s eyes moved from the wall to Daddy’s face. “You’ll stay here tonight. I’ll work it out.”

  The boy nodded before Daddy left the room. I moved closer and added the liquid from the brown bottle on the cotton ball just like Daddy had taught me. The boy’s eyes moved to me; they were so clear and blue, but they looked older than him somehow.

  “My name’s Mia.”

  His eyes never left mine when I wiped the cut under his eye.

  “What happened to you?”

  “My dad.”

  My hand shook as fear made my head tingle. “Why?”

  “I broke a glass.”

  “A water glass?”

  “Yeah.”

  I didn’t understand why anyone would hit over a glass, but I kept quiet.

  I finished with the cut, but I didn’t know what to do about the black and blue marks that were starting to show on his face. “I’m sorry your daddy hit you.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  My heart squeezed because he was used to being hit. That didn’t seem right but was that normal? Would my daddy hit me too? He knew what I was thinking when he said, “Your dad is going to try to make it stop.”

  I smiled really big because if Daddy were going to try something he’d do it. He always said, there is no try
, you do or you don’t. “He’ll make it stop.”

  “I hope so.”

  We sat for a while like we were at church, really quiet. My heart felt funny, like it was too heavy, because how could a daddy hurt his child? I knew monsters existed, my daddy told me so, I just never thought a daddy could be a monster. I wished there was something I could do for Cole, something that took that lost look away from his pretty eyes.

  My necklace. Reaching around my neck, I unhooked it.

  “Daddy gave me this because I’m afraid of the dark and not because of monsters under my bed, but of getting lost in the dark. He said St. Anthony was a light in that dark, that he’d never let me get lost. There are monsters in your dark, maybe this will help keep those monsters away.”

  His hands were resting on his lap but were squeezed hard into fists. I waited for him to open one and when he didn’t, I thought he didn’t want my necklace. And then his hand opened.

  He didn’t answer, but I did notice that his hand had closed around my necklace as if he really wanted to hold on to what was there.

  Sitting on my front stoop, I watched Daddy pacing the front curb. He was talking to someone, a woman in a brown suit. Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight that it had to hurt. She also looked like Aunt Dee did sometimes, like when she couldn’t find her car keys even though she’d looked everywhere she’d normally keep them.

  Daddy was mad, his hands were fisting as he paced. The woman said one last thing before climbing into an old beat-up, maroon-colored car that was blocking our small street. A puff of smoke came out the back; Daddy knocked on her passenger-side window, she rolled it down, he said something and she smiled and then drove off. Daddy stayed where he was for a few minutes, his hands on his hips, his head down like he was studying his shoes. They were black boots, not pretty sparkly pink shoes like I had on my feet. I was glad I was a girl. Wiggling my feet, the sparkles flashed like diamonds when the sun hit them. Daddy turned, my eyes lifted to him and he smiled.

  He sat down next to me on the stoop, his foot tapping into mine. “Nice shoes.”