Short Stories - Chapter 19: Chapter 19

Sad eyes met Scared eyes, and together they made a Happy Place.
+++
Danny's parents never hurt him when he was a baby.
They were always distant. Maybe they never wanted a child; maybe they changed their minds after they had one. Whatever the case, they created a mere caricature of a family: one which was hollow, warm to the eyes but cold to the touch. Since before Danny had the ability to remember, they regarded him at an arm's length, taking responsibility for their mistake, but nothing more.
Their distance had a lasting effect. Danny formed no secure attachment with his mother or father -- hardly any attachment all, besides his reliance on them for whatever food and shelter they were willing to give him. He never knew comfort; or at least, he wouldn't learn it for several years. And so nurture took its toll, and whatever bold characteristics might have shown in Danny's actions -- his mother's outspokenness, perhaps, or his father's adventurousness and ambition -- were subdued beneath a coat of quiet. From the day he learned to talk, it was clear that he wouldn't do so very much.
When Danny got older -- when he would no longer cry for help, but would help himself as much as a child could -- distance was replaced by coldness. Suddenly, he was not just a responsibility, but a nuisance. His parents never vocalized this; not once did they say a cruel word to him, maybe because they couldn't be bothered to speak to him more than necessary. But they made their feelings clear in their actions, ignoring their growing son whenever they could get away with it and responding to him only when they had to. If they couldn't get rid of him, it seemed, they would try their hardest to act as if they had.
The only time they treated Danny like they cared for him was when they were outside of the home, in the eyes of others. Then, suddenly, they were family.
One night, when he was six years old, he tiptoed into the living room after having a nightmare, tears trailing down his cheeks, clutching his little blanket to his chest. "Mama?" he whimpered when he saw the blue light from the TV against the wall. He didn't hear a response, and though he rarely did, he ventured further.
He shouldn't have expected anything, of course. His mother had never given him anything to expect. But he was six and he was scared, and he needed a hug.
He crept further, until he could see her long, deep-brown hair -- people always said he looked the most like her -- poking above the couch. She raised the remote with one thin-fingered hand, shifting from channel to channel.
"Mama?"
She paused. His hope lifted.
Then she pressed the channel button again, eyes forever on the screen. Danny went back to bed and cried more.
That night was the first time Danny's father ever hit him.
Sebastián Alvarez stumbled into the tiny house around two in the morning. Danny was still awake; he rocked back and forth with his knees hugged to his chest and his blanket around his shoulders, afraid to fall asleep again.
His head snapped up at the sound of glass breaking outside.
His curiosity seemed better than the dark, lonely room. So he made the mistake of going outside.
He walked into the living room to the smell of alcohol and the sight of his father gripping his mother by her shirt, dragging her from the coach with his fist raised and ready.
Sebastián heard Danny's footsteps. Before Danny had timed to freeze, those dark eyes, red in the corners, were fixed on him. Soon, so was that raised fist.
Danny's father never hit his mother again after that night. Fortunately for her, he had a new target.
Danny got used to covering up bruises and cuts, muttering yes when his teachers asked if he was alright. His father took up a stable pattern, hurting Danny without remorse, doing it more often when he realized it was easier than it had ever been with his wife, and that there would be no consequence. He didn't have to get drunk to feel an itch in his fists, and he acted on it every time  — whenever Danny did something wrong, Seabastián imposed on him without hesitation.
Danny was too small to run away or to fight back. Locks were picked, hiding places were found, until he gave up resisting.
It might have been easier if his mother had taken his side -- realized, maybe, that they were both victims, held him when he was hurting. But she had long since lost her appreciation for life and her capacity for love. She was numb to the world, foreign to compassion, a shell of a woman. Maybe she was too busy feeling sorry for herself -- stuck in a loveless marriage, working merit-less jobs, with a family she had never wanted in a house that hardly held them -- to spare any pity for her son.
Or maybe cruelty was just easier than pity.
She turned a blind eye to her husband's abuses. She committed her own. Any word or action or word out of line was met with the sharp palm of her hand -- her left hand, where all of her rings were. Danny got used to the sting in his cheek.
When Danny was smaller, all he'd wanted was for his parents to acknowledge him. Now, he got more attention than ever before, and now, all he wanted was for them to forget him again.
He got used to it as well as he could. After a few months, he stopped crying. And he didn't cry again. Not a single time. Not for anything.
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When Danny was seven years old, he couldn't take it anymore. He was sick with fear -- it was an illness that never went away, not at home or at school or anywhere else. He feared everyone, because he had never learned to trust anyone.
So he grabbed his school backpack when his parents weren't home, shoving into it some food and water and his favorite books and his blanket. He slipped his shoes into his worn, too-small sneakers and left through the back door. He didn't know where he was going -- just that it had to be away, and that he didn't want to come back, ever.
He took off into the forest. He ran away.
But he wasn't in the forest for long. It wasn't a very large patch of woods, and after just a couple hours or getting lost, backtracking, and getting lost again, he stumbled out, squinting in the bright sunlight, into a world he had never seen before.
The house he was looking at could hold six of his house. Maybe eight. It was all white walls and white picket fencing, two stories high, and when Danny looked to the sides, he saw other houses just like it -- massive, tidy, imposing but welcoming.
He approached it cautiously and peered through the fence at the wide backyard. Maybe this was where he was meant to be -- in a huge home, with . . . with a pool, and a big garden, and a tire swing, and . . .
And a boy.
Danny nearly fainted when a pair of dark brown eyes appeared through the gap in the fence. He scrambled back, tripping over a grass-root and falling onto the ground with his legs sprawled awkwardly in front of him. Wide-eyed, he stumbled to his feet and was about to take off running when the boy called out, "Wait!"
Danny froze where he stood, too used to obeying.
"Who are you?" the boy asked, stepping back so that Danny could see him better. He had to be just barely older than Danny, but he was much taller and healthier. Black-haired, with golden-tanned skin and a curious smile, he looked like the poster-child for perfection; the ideal son, probably into sports, the kind of boy who would have a lot of friends at his birthday party.
But his eyes were different. His eyes were sadder, sadder than any nine year old superboy should have been.
"Okay . . ." he said when Danny didn't answer. "Well I'm Santiago. Why're you at my house? Are you lost?"
After only a beat of silence, he added, "Oh! Do you wanna come in? My mama says I'm always supposed to be hosticable."
Danny looked puzzled. When he finally spoke, it was to say, "What?"
"You know . . ." Santiago said, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "Nice to guests. And stuff. So I think I should invite you in -- oh wait," he blinked, as if he was thinking really hard. "Oh, but you're a stranger. Pretty sure I'm not supposed to invite strangers in. Uh, is it okay if I take back my invitation? I'm real sorry . . ."
Danny surprised himself and Santiago when he laughed. It was small, but he hadn't done it in so long, it felt scratchy in his chest.
"What's so funny?" Santiago said warily.
"It's -- it's hospitable, not . . . whatever you said," Danny said; his words were accompanied by an uncharacteristic giggle -- already, the sound felt less like an itch and more like bubbles, floating from his stomach to his chest to his throat and out his mouth.
Santiago laughed too, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, and his eyes lit up, so that Danny wondered if he had imagined the sadness in them.
"So why're you here?" Santiago asked. "Are you lost?"
Danny's smile fell. "I . . . yes. I am lost."
Santiago snorted. "Well that's what happens when you run around the woods," he teased. "Where are your parents?"
"Home," Danny lied.
"Want me to ask my papa to call them for --"
"No!" Danny said quickly. "No . . . no, that's okay. Thanks."
Santiago tilted his head to the side. "You're kinda weird," he said bluntly. Danny's neck turned red.
"Sorry," he muttered, but Santiago shook his head.
"No, it's cool," the latter assured. "A lot of kids talk to much. You barely talk at all. I think that's cool. And you're funny."
Danny's blush traveled up to his ears and cheeks. "I'm . . . funny?"
The only compliments he'd ever received came from teachers telling him how smart he was. Nobody had ever called him funny. He didn't think he was funny.
"Yeah," Santiago said reassuringly. "You know, you still haven't told me your name, even though I told you mine. That can't be fair."
"Daniel Alvarez," Danny said, then fell silent again.
"Well, Daniel Alvarez," Santiago grinned widely, and Danny noticed one of his canines was missing. "What's that bruise on your arm from?"
Danny followed Santiago's eyes, quickly yanking his sleeve down when he saw a wide purple mark just below his elbow.
"I get bruises from football—soccer—all the time," Santiago rambled. With a mischievous smirk, he said, "And sometimes I give 'em, too. My papa tells me I gotta be aggressive, and I'm pretty good at it, you know. The refs never even catch me. Did you get that playing soccer?"
Danny blinked at him, bewildered but relieved that Santiago had been so wrong. "Er, yeah."
"What position do you play?" Santiago enthused. Danny stared at him blankly. "I play midfield."
"Yeah, me too," Danny said. "I play middlefield too."
"You mean midfield?"
"Yeah. Uh-huh."
Santiago laughed. "I guess we're both not too good with words, huh?"
Danny afforded him a little smile. The distant sound of a door opening caught his attention.
"Santiago, ¿con quién hablas?" Called out a man's deep voice, carrying all the way across the backyard. Danny's eyes widened with surprise and fear, missed by Santiago as he turned toward his father. Danny started to turn away, poised to run, but his bag fell open and the food he had packed scattered on the ground, just in time for Santiago to turn back around.
"¡Un chico!" Santiago yelled to his dad, all the while staring quizzically at Danny as he frantically shoved items back into his bag, causing more to fall out in his haste. "Se llama Daniel Alvarez."
Santiago's dad seemed to cross the backyard in two seconds; before Danny could make his leave, the man was at the fence, looking over it at the quivering boy who shrank back under his gaze, dropping his bag and his copy of The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe in defeat.
"Hey there, Daniel," Santiago's dad said kindly, offering a warm smile to ease Danny's obvious fear. It didn't work -- Danny had an instant distrust for the man. But then, he had never met an adult that he didn't instantly distrust.
"My name is Pedro García," Santiago's father said, gentle-voiced and unimposing. "You look like you haven't eaten in days. Why don't you come inside? My wife has just finished lunch."
Danny wanted to say no. But he was afraid to -- saying no to his father had given him the bruise on his arm. What if this man was just the same?
Danny looked at Santiago through the fence. The boy stared up at his dad with the utmost admiration, as if no better man walked the planet.
"Okay," Danny said finally, reluctantly.
The inside of the house was the exact opposite of Danny's. Roomy, neat but homely, and filled with items that made it look as if a family actually lived there. The couches all matched, the fridge was covered in drawings and magnets, the furniture bore rustic decorations, and the walls were covered in family photographs featuring Mr. García, Santiago, and a woman -- Santiago's mother.
Alejandra García was just as welcoming as her husband. She stuffed Danny with so much food, he wouldn't be able to escape the perfect home if he tried. As the four of them sat around the table, she told stories about her son, bragging subtly about Santiago's many achievements -- his MVP award for his soccer team, his stellar grades, his teachers' comments about how wonderful he was.
Danny didn't mind. He wasn't listening much. He focused on his food, eating quickly so he could leave, hardly saying a word. He was aware of Santiago's curious gaze, but no one else seemed to notice his odd behavior.
He tried to thank the Garcías for the food and leave. They wouldn't have it.
They couldn't just send him out on his own, they said. Where were his parents, they asked. With each attempt to slip away, they reigned him back in, refusing to leave him to fend for himself.
They asked him for his address. He lied and said he didn't know it by heart. They asked if he remembered how he got there. He said he didn't. They asked for his parents' phone numbers. He didn't know.
"Your last name is Alvarez, right?" Mr. García asked. Danny said "no" just as Sntiago said "yes," easily drowning the soft-spoken boy out.
Danny's stomach sank as Mr. García walked to the phonebook one the wall and he realized it was over.
He was silent on the drive home in the Garcías' expensive car. Santiago tried to talk to him, but he scarcely answered. His hands trembled in anticipation for what would happen later, when his parents got home.
He would be there. And they would be livid with him.
After that night, Danny never tried to run away again.
+++
Santiago didn't realize what he had done for months.
It was a chilly November day when it hit him. Santiago was in the living room, cuddled up next to his mother on the couch. She was watching some news channel, which had always bored Santiago, but for once, the story on the screen interested him.
A young girl, reported missing, just hardly older than Santiago, had been found hiding near a river after running away from home a week before. She was promptly returned to her parents, but the man who'd found her insisted she had odd tendencies — she was jumpy, and adults made her nervous, and she never seemed to tell the truth, and she wouldn't admit why she had run away, and she didn't want the help that was offered to her. Upon further investigation, authorities discovered that she had been beaten by her parents for years. The girl was taken from her parents and adopted by the man who found her.
The story was jarringly familiar. It didn't take Santiago long to realize why, and he was stricken with guilt. He remembered the strange boy at the fence . . . Daniel, who had seemed so easily frightened. He'd had that bruise on his arm because his parents had hit him. He hadn't wanted to go home because he'd been running away, planning to live on the food in his backpack.
Santiago hadn't thought about that day since it happened. Out of sight, out of mind.
Now, he would never forget it.
He tried to tell his parents his mistake, but they didn't believe him. Even if Santiago was right, it was "too late" to do anything about it now. Out of sight, out of mind.
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Two years later
Santiago snatched one of Ross's chicken nuggets, shoving it victoriously into his mouth before the other boy even had time to react.
Ross gasped. "You didn't," he said dangerously.
"I did," Santiago smirked, unaplogetic and smug. His smile dropped when Ross grabbed his fruit snacks — the envy of their lunch table. Santiago reached for them, but Ross jumped up, holding them just out of reach so that Santiago would have to stand, too.
"Come and get 'em, Santi," Ross said smugly, dangling the fruit snacks right in frint of Santiago's face. Santiago eyed him warily, waiting for the inevitable deception. Then he lunged, ready to full-on tackle Ross if he had to -- but Ross dodged away, slipping past Santigo's grasp, and took off across the cafeteria.
Santiago was hot in pursuit. He ran with fast feet, and had nearly caught up when an administrator yelled at them, "No running in the cafeteria!"
Both boys slowed instantly to a fervent speed-walk, moving as quickly as possible without "running." Ross, abnormally tall for a fifth grader, had the advantage of his long legs and stole ahead. He showed off, turning around to walk backward and slowly, tortuously tearing open the bag of gummies, plopping one into his mouth despite Santiago's loud protest.
They race-walked right through the cafeteria doors, and as soon as they were on the grass outside, they took off running again. Santiago easily made up for the gap between them, and was a fingernail away from getting his snack back when he stopped, staring in shock past Ross, who kept running obliviously.
Sat alone under one of the tall browning trees, eating a sandwich with one hand and reading a book with the other, was a boy that Santiago recognized instantly. Three years of guilt had burned the face into his memory.
Before he knew what he was doing, he had started toward the lonely boy -- Daniel, the kid with the bruise -- fruit snacks long forgotten. He had no plan in mind but to make things right. Or at least to apologize.
But when he was close -- when Daniel glanced up, his expression flitting from surprise to apprehension to recognition back to surprise -- Santiago's mind went blank and he spent the first few moments stammering. He had forgotten those eyes; big and brown and afraid, more afraid than Santiago had ever seen on anyone else. Afraid constantly, even when there was nothing to fear.
"You don't really play soccer, do you?" was the first thing Santiago could think to blurt.
Daniel looked bewildered and flustered as he stared up at Santiago. "I -- no, I . . ."
Santiago sat down, uninvited, next to Daniel. "Do you remember me?" he asked. Daniel nodded, so Santiago quietly said, "I'm really sorry."
Daniel lowered his book hesitantly. "Why are you sorry?"
"Because it's my fault you had to go back to your parents that day," said Santiago. "I didn't understand until later, and my mama and papa didn't believe me when I told them."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Santiago didn't respond after that. Sinking under the weight of the silence, Daniel raised his book again. Santiago stayed where he sat.
Ross came back finally, staring with blatant confusion at Santiago and his unknown acquaintance. "Don't you want your fru--"
"You can have them," Santiago said. "I'll see you later."
Ross stood there, dumbfounded, for a moment. Then he shrugged and went inside.
"I didn't know you came to school here," Santiago said. It was true --he'd attended McCollen Academy since kindergarten, and he'd never seen Daniel. Maybe they were in different grades. Maybe Daniel was just really good at staying out of sight.
"Yeah," was all Daniel said.
Santiago didn't know what he was waiting for, or why he didn't leave. He probably should have, but he stayed where he was, studying the other boy with curiosity and some pity.
Daniel was thin. Not extremely so, but he could be healthier with a few more pounds. His skin was very pale, so that it contrasted with his hair and his eyes, both brown and deep but not quite dark. The knees of his khakis were worn and his blazer had a little hole at the wrist — they were second-hand, Santiago guessed.
Daniel must have felt Santiago's stare, because he seemed to shrink further into himself with every second; Santiago realized that he could have easily had a class with him and not noticed, because he seemed to want nothing more than to hide.
His eyes scanned the book in front of him with unusual speed. Santiago wondered if he was smart. He seemed smart.
"They hit you at home?" Santiago asked, caution quieting his voice.
Daniel didn't answer at first. He shifted uncomfortably, then turned the page in his book. "No," he said.
"Do you lie about that a lot?"
The question hit Daniel with a surprising, overwhelming force. He hadn't been prepared for its brashness or its truth. Everybody had always believed him after the first assurance.
"Are you okay?" "Yes." "Alright, good."
"Is there something going on at home?" "No." "That's a relief."
"Do you need to talk?" "No." "If you say so."
"Yes," Danny found himself admitting; it come out in a huffed breath, like a sigh without relief. He didn't look at Santiago; he stared forward, nervous and humiliated, angry that he had so easily given in after four years of deflecting.
"Why don't you try to tell someone?" Santiago fumed. "You should call the police, or run aw--"
"I don't wanna end up in some orphanage with more people that will treat me badly," Danny snapped. He hated when people started acting like that -- like they pitied him, like he was some sad case in need of charity. When people who had never made any effort to know him saw that he was hurting and suddenly acted like his friend. "And I tried running away, remember? I'm not seven years old and stupid anymore."
Santiago was surprised by the outburst -- like everything Daniel said, it was quiet, but the edge behind it was unmistakable.
"What do they say to you?" he asked, recovering from the blow just to stick his nose back where he knew it didn't belong. But he couldn't help it -- maybe it was the guilt, or maybe it was how small and fragile Daniel seemed, or maybe it was just Daniel himself, but Santiago felt the urge to know him, if only a little.
Daniel furrowed his eyebrows, and he looked like he was going to snap again when his expression deflated and he gave in without a fight. "They don't really say anything," he shrugged.
Santiago pursed his lips. "Well they've gotta say something, right?" he pressed, because it didn't make sense to him. "When they're mad at you, do they ever call you useless, or curse at you, or insult you?"
"No," said Daniel. "They never say anything mean to me."
"Every parent says mean stuff to their kid," Santiago insisted. "You know what I mean. When they're real mad, and they tell you you'll never be anything if you don't do what they say . . . or that sometimes they think you're a waste of space."
Santiago said it casually, albeit cautiously, as if it was normal. Daniel shook his head. "That's like saying every parent hits their kid. Do your parents hit you?"
"They would never do that," Santiago said defensively, though some of the confidence seemed to have left his voice when he said, "Your parents really don't say that stuff to you?"
Daniel shook his head. "But . . . yours do?"
Santiago hesitated. "They -- they just want me to be better is all," he said meekly. "I'm sure most parents do it -- out of love. Yours just don't because there's no love there."
Daniel finally raised his head to look at Santiago. Scared eyes met sad eyes; behind them, two young minds interlocked -- one that was damaged and knew it, one that was damaged and refused to believe it.
"Yeah," Danny said, just because he didn't want to risk upsetting Santiago -- suddenly, he didn't want the other boy to leave. "You're probably right."
Santiago gave a weak but genuine smile. "What's that book about?" he asked.