IÆm MotherÆs prisoner.

I receive beatings or play another one of her "games," perform afternoon chores, then sit at the bottom of the stairs until IÆm summoned to complete the evening chores. Then, and only if I have completed all of my chores on time, and if I have not committed any "crimes," I may be fed a morsel of food.

My day ends only when Mother allows me to sleep on the army cot, where my body curls up in my meek effort to retain any body heat. The only pleasure in my life is when I sleep. ThatÆs the only time I can escape my life. I love to dream.

Weekends are worse. No school means no food and more time at "The House.ö All I can do is try to imagine myself away —somewhere, anywhere — from "The House." For years I have been the outcast of ôThe Family." As long as I can remember I have always been in trouble and have ôdeserved" to be punished. At first I thought I was a bad boy. Then I thought Mother was sick because she only acted differently when my brothers were not around and my father was away at work. But somehow I always knew Mother and I had a private relationship. I also realized that for some reason I have+ been MotherÆs sole target for her unexplained rage and twisted pleasure.

I have no home. I am a member of no oneÆs family. I know deep inside that I do not now, nor will I ever deserve any love, attention or even recognition as a human being. I am a child called "It."

IÆm all alone inside.

Upstairs the battle begins. Since itÆs after four in the afternoon, I knnow both of my parents are drunk. The yelling starts. First the name-calling, then the swearing. I count the seconds before the subject turns to me—it always does. The sound of MotherÆs voice makes my insides turn. "What do you mean?" she shrieks at my father, Stephen. "You think I treat æThe BoyÆ bad? Do you?" Her voice then turns ice cold. I can imagine her pointing a finger at my fatherÆs face. "You ... listen ... to ... me. You ... have no idea what æItÆsÆ like. If you think I treat æItÆ that bad ... then ... æItÆ can live somewhere else.

I can picture my father—who, after all these years, still tries somewhat to stand up for me —swirling the liquor in his glass, making the ice from his drink rattle. "Now calm down," he begins. "All IÆm trying to say is... wellà no child deserves to live like that. My God Roerva, you treat ... dogs better than ... than you do The Boy.ö

The argument builds to an ear-shattering climax. Mother slams her drink on the kitchen countertop.

Father has crossed the line. No one ever tells Mother what to do. I know I will have to pay the price for her rage. I realize itÆs only a matter of time before she orders me upstairs. I prepare myself. Ever so slowly I slide my hands out from under my butt, but not toofar—for I know sometimes sheÆll check on me. I know I am never to move a muscle without her permission.

I feel so small inside. I only wish I could somehow ... Without warning, Mother opens the door leading to the downstairs garage. "You!" she screams. ôGet your ass up here! Now!"

In a flash I bolt up the stairs. I wait a moment for her command before I timidly open the door. Without a sound I approach Mother and await one of her ôgames."

ItÆs the game of address, in which I have to stand exactly three feet in front of her, my hands glued to my side, my head tilted down at a 45 degree angle and my eyes locked onto her feet. Upon the first command I must look above her bust, but below her eyes. Upon the second command I must look into her eyes, but never, never may I speak: breathe or move a single muscle unless Mother gives me permission to do so. Mother and I have been playing this game since I was seven years old, so today itÆs just another routine in my lifeless existence.

Suddenly Mother reaches over and seizes my right ear. By accident, I flinch. With her free hand Mother punishes my movement with a solid slap to my face. Her hand becomes a blur, right up until the moment before it strikes my face. I cannot see very well without my glasses. Since it is not a school day, I am not allowed to wear them. The blow from her hand burns my skin. "Who told you to move?" Mother sneers. I keep my eyes open, fixing them on a spot on the carpet. Mother checks for my reaction before again yanking my ear as she leads me to the front door.

"Turn around!" she yells. ôLook at me!" But I cheat. From the corner of my eye I steal a glance at Father. He gulps down another swallow from his drink. His once rigid shoulders are now slumped over. His job as a fireman in San Francisco, his years of drinking and the strained relationship with Mother have taken their toll on him. Once my superhero and known for his courageous efforts in rescuing children from burning buildings, Father is now a beaten man. He takes another swallow before Mother begins. "Your father here thinks I treat you bad. Well, do I? DO I?"

My lips tremble. For a second IÆm unsure whether I am supposed to answer Mother must know this and probably enjoys "the game" all the more. Either way, IÆm doomed. I feel like an insect about to be squashed. My dry mouth opens. I can feel a film of paste separate from my lips. I begin to stutter.

Before I can form a word, Mother again yanks on my right ear. My ear feels as if it were on fire. "Shut that mouth of yours! No one told you to talk! Did they? Well, did they?" Mother bellows.

My eyes seek out Father. Seconds later he must have felt my need. "Roerva," he says, "thatÆs no way to treat The Boy."

I strain my legs, trying to stand a little taller; and begin to tighten my upper body so that when Mother strikes I can be ready. Suddenly she lets go of my ear and opens the front door. "Get out!" she screeches. "Get out of my house! I donÆt like you! I donÆt want you! I never loved you! Get the hell out of my house!"

Without thinking Father cuts her off "No," he states in a low voice. "This," he says, spreading his hands, "this is wrong." I can tell by his trailing voice that Father has lost his steam. He appears to be on the verge of tears. He looks at me and shakes his head before looking at Mother. "Where will he live? WhoÆs going to take care of ... ?"

I snap out of my protective mold and takke a chance by looking at Father. He misses my glance as he sips another drink. My mind begins to tumble. I donÆt understand the purpose of her new game. Suddenly I realize that this is no game. It takes a few seconds for me to understand that this is my chance—my chance to escape. IÆve wanted to run away for years, but some invisible fear kept me from doing it. But I tell myself that this is too easy. I so badly want to move my legs, but they remain rigid.

I step through the front door, knowing full well that Mother will reach out and yank me back in. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I quicken my pace. After stepping past the door, I turn right and walk down the red steps. From behind me I can hear the sounds of Mother and Father straining themselves as they lean outside. "Roerva," Father says in a low voice "this is wrong.ö

"No!" she replies in a flat voice. "And remember, it was his decision. Besides, heÆll be back."

¬1998. All rights reserved. Reprinted from The Lost Boy by David Pelzer. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the publisher. Publisher: Health Communications, Inc., 3201 SW 15th Street, Deerfield Beach, FL 33442.