“Please, help me.”
Billy barely heard the plea from inside
the box. In the beginning, the screaming and cursing were so loud they hurt his
ears, and he thought the kicking was sure to burst the box right open, but,
evidently shipping crates were as strong as they claimed. The kicking and
screaming wouldn’t do any good anyway. Billy had learned the hard way that
nobody heard your screams out there.
By the time the dirt had reached the
half-way point of the box, the cursing had stopped and the clawing and begging
started. The first shovelful of dirt Billy threw on top of the crate brought
about pounding and promises. Unfortunately, Billy had given up on promises a
long time ago.
“I… can’t… breathe.”
Billy laughed. “I used to feel the same
way when you had my face crushed into the pillow.”
“Billy? Is…tha..t..you?”
“Hello, Dad.”
“Please, son, let...me…out of...here.”
Billy ignored his father’s begging and
kept shoveling dirt onto and around the box. He was almost finished when his father
started crying.
“Please stop!” his father wailed.
“Please!”
“How many times did I say the same thing
to you?” Billy demanded. “You know, I thought it was my fault. That I was
somehow to blame for the pain you caused me all these years. That I did something
wrong or I really was evil like you said. You had me convinced, Dad, until last
night.”
When the begging and crying stopped,
Billy said, “That’s right. I saw you coming out of Jeremy’s room last night.”
“I…promise
it..wi…ll…never…happ…en..aga..in.”
“It should have never happened in the
first place!” Billy yelled. “He’s only six!”
“I know. I’m…sorr…y.”
“Sorry isn’t going to cut it this time,
Dad,” Billy said and threw another mound of dirt onto the crate. “Sorry won’t
bring his innocence back.” He pushed the shovel into the ground again. “Sorry
won’t stop his tears!” He brought the shovel around once more. “Sorry won’t
ease the pain! Sorry won’t stop the blood!” Billy screamed as the shovel handle
cracked. “Sorry won’t give me back the last eight years!”
The head of the shovel slashing his arm
as it flew by snapped Billy out of his rage. He tore a piece of his shirttail
off and tied it around his arm. He’d go to his uncle, a doctor, later. The man
was used to patching him up and not asking questions.
No matter how hard Billy tried to put
his brother out of his mind, the boy’s pleas from the night before kept
haunting him. He could still see his father coming out of Jeremy’s room and
hear Jeremy saying, “I’m so sorry, Daddy, I will be a good boy from now on. I
promise.”
Billy had waited until their father went
into his own room before going to Jeremy. The boy didn’t want to talk about it
at first, but after Billy started talking about his own experiences, Jeremy
finally opened up. By the time he was through, Billy was shaking so hard he
could barely stand. He promised his little brother that nobody would ever hurt
him again.
“Never again, Jeremy,” he whispered as
he picked up the shovel head and started scraping dirt into the hole. He
noticed how his blood mingled with the older, dried blood from where he’d hit
his father earlier that morning. Billy somehow thought it fitting. After all,
they both had blood on their hands in one way or another.
“Please, God,” his father whispered as
the dirt rained through the few remaining holes in the crate.
“Go ahead and pray,” Billy said. “It
won’t do you any good. God quit listening to this family a long time ago.”
