Detached: Book 1 of the Fleischer Series Read online

  Detached

  Book 1 of the Fleischer Series

  4th Edition

  WENDI STARUSNAK

  Copyright © 2014 Wendi Starusnak

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1497333148

  ISBN-13: 978-1497333147

  DEDICATION

  I’d like to dedicate Detached to my loving husband Ron and all of our exceptional children (Ashley, Ronnie, David, Jade, Derrick, Jenna, Laurie, and Luke) who never gave up on me, continued to encourage me even when I felt like there was nothing to encourage, and dealt with me through the emotional roller-coaster I seemed to ride while writing this novel. Without them, Detached would never have been written. Thank you and I love you all!

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Detached is a work of fiction. It's not true. There are truths woven throughout, some mine, some belonging to others, and some are just made up. Do things like what happened in Detached really happen? Yes, unfortunately they do. The main message in Detached is that abuse is a vicious cycle. This will be the main message in Book 2 of the Fleischer Series as well. You see, abuse feeds on silence and ignorance. Sweep it under the carpet, pretend it doesn't happen, that it's not as bad as it seems or that it could be worse. Pretend that it's not your problem. This is what abuse hungers for, what it needs to continue to haunt little children and grown adults alike. This is how abuse recruits its followers, it creates monsters out of once-beautiful people by putting them through unspeakable torments.

  I urge everyone to find their voice, to speak out against abuse when you see it or suspect it, or when it happens to you. Do what that little voice in your heart is begging you to do. It may not be the easy thing to do, anything worth doing rarely is, but it's the right thing to do. And remember: Abuse feeds on silence and ignorance.

  DISCLAIMER

  Warning: adult content, situations, and language. This Book contains extremely graphic material of a very sensitive and mature nature and is not recommended for persons under the age of eighteen or those of a fragile emotional state.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, places, or events, alive or dead, past, present or future is purely coincidental. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without permission from the Author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights and livelihood is appreciated.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Tasha Gwartney- for an amazing cover,

  Susan Lynch- for a professional editing job,

  Bryan Airel- for the best proofreading job I could have asked for,

  Andrea Smith- for great feedback and proofreading,

  Christine Vorndran and Louis Neverette, for always being there for me,

  All the amazing ladies (especially Noreen, Bonnie, and Sue) at my Writer’s Workshop for the help, encouragement and praise along the way,

  Grandma Cron for her input and encouragement and for living a life worthy of a hundred best sellers,

  Mom & Dad for reading my manuscript and giving me honest feedback and advice,

  My brother Robbie for his support and input,

  The SWAT Team for not confiscating my computer during that last raid,

  &

  Aunt Ginny (Virginia Buffett) for the “Don’t get too attached because it might be supper” idea and phrase.

  I give you all my sincere gratitude. I’m truly sorry if I’ve left anyone out. There are so many people that have given me advice, encouragement, and believed in me along my journey that I couldn’t possibly mention all of them here.

  CHAPTER one

  I felt the back of his rough, calloused hand slam into the side of my face. My whole head jerked around with the force and I had to grab the counter to keep from falling to the cold, hardwood floor. “Don’t cry. Don’t give him the satisfaction,” that voice in my head said, the one that was always there that I didn’t recognize as my own. The voice was that of my doll, Julie.

  Dad turned to face the rest of our family again. “I don't want none of you belly achin' over that dumb horse. It had ta be done. Tha's all. Yer all lucky I din' make one of you do it. Don't I always tell ya, don't git too attached 'cuz it might be supper? I think some of you haven't been paying enough attention to me when I speak. Maybe now my message is clear enough for all of you. Now go and get ready fer bed,” Dad said in that stupid fake accent he always seemed to use for some reason whenever he was angry. That thought was forgotten about as fast as it had come when Dad spit his tobacco into one of the three dirty cups that remained on the counter. I had to stop myself from gagging at the idea of his blob of goobery, stinky spit just sitting in a brown pool at the bottom of the cup.

  My heart ached along with my face. It was stupid of me to question him. I would have to remember to keep my big mouth shut before it got me seriously hurt. “You know it doesn’t do any good trying to reason with that guy,” said Julie’s voice again. There was something warm and thick trickling down my lip. I knew from experience that I must be bleeding. I licked the blood off the side of my split lip with my tongue as I told myself that she was right.

  We all knew Dad’s words well, “Don’t get too attached because it might be supper,” or some version of that. He had never used those words to explain feeding us our pet horse or anything of that sort. The first time I had ever heard him say that was when I was about five or six years old and one of our pigs had babies. I wanted to keep one for a pet. They had been so adorable and I hated to think they would only grow up and get fat so that we could cut them up to eat them. I ended up getting a beating because I couldn’t stop myself from crying.

  I was careful to keep my gaze focused on the plate I was washing to avoid eye contact with any of my siblings or either of my parents. There was a crack in the plate, right down the center, but the plate didn’t break. The crack had been there for a while, through several washings. Printed on the back were the words ‘Syracuse China’. Strangely, I found new strength in the cracked plate that refused to break. My family was a lot like this plate. “That’s enough. You don’t want to cry and get yourself into more trouble,” said Julie’s sensible voice from my head. Finally I heard them push their chairs away from the dinner table.

  There was a sniffle from behind me. Without thinking, I turned my head and saw the disgusted look on Johnny's face. He noticed me look at him and quickly fixed the expression on his face so as to try not to give away his all too obvious emotions. I was heartbroken for my older brother as well as for the rest of my family.

  I hated my father. I hated him before he fed us Whisper, our beautiful mare, and I hated him even more now. I would forever despise that disgusting beast. But I didn't dare say that out loud. I didn’t even dare to think it where he could see me. So I turned my head again, trying to stay as invisible as possible while I finished up washing the last of the dishes.

  Our dish drainer had rusted and been thrown out several months before now. M
y parents hadn’t bothered to buy a new one yet so I just set the dishes carefully on a towel on the counter until I was ready to dry and put them away.

  In my mind I could still hear Whisper as she whinnied in happiness while I groomed her beautiful blonde mane only the day before yesterday. She had looked at me with one of those big brown eyes and seemed to understand my troubles as I poured the contents of my aching heart out to her.

  Then I had taken her for a run to give her some exercise. I could still feel Whisper's raw strength beneath me as I pushed her to run faster along the side of the almost deserted gravel road. There wasn't another house for probably a mile, just open fields and trees. I hadn’t wanted her to stop ever. I wanted to ride off to someplace unknown, away from my father and the horrible things that he did, and live happily ever after, like they always seemed to do in the fairytales that I read.

  But instead, Whisper and I had made the short journey along the gravel road back to our yellow, two story farmhouse that looked so nice and normal from the outside. We journeyed slowly past our produce stand that was in desperate need of a new coat of brown paint for the season and up the slightly curved dirt driveway.

  In the late summer and early fall I liked to pick two apples off from one of the trees on our way up the driveway. I would give one to Whisper as a treat and keep one to snack on myself. The first crunch through the crisp skin as the juice from inside squirted out and into my dry mouth was a memory that always made me look forward to the end of summer. It wasn't apple season yet though. So the six apple trees that we had lining the left side of the driveway weren’t yet producing apples. I realized that I wouldn’t be able to feed one to Whisper this year or ever again.

  I jumped to the ground and led Whisper by the reins around the large, open front porch of our house. Two brown rocking chairs sat there, empty as usual, with a matching round end table between them that would look just right with a sweating pitcher of lemonade and two glasses sitting on it. I could remember Mom sitting in one of those rocking chairs and reading a book when I was younger, keeping an eye on the four of us kids as we played together in the front yard. Eric could barely walk then. It had been a long time since I had seen either of my parents sitting out on our front porch for any reason. That was such a shame. There was something kind of peaceful about my parents sitting on the porch just talking and watching us kids play.

  We walked past the big brown barn and the noisy chickens to the fenced area of grass where we kept the horses. There were only two: Whisper, our pet, and Buster, our work horse. Whisper’s leg had been injured as a foal and she wasn’t able to pull heavy loads the way that Buster could. The only reason Dad allowed her to stay around was so that us kids could learn how to ride on her.

  I couldn't help but think that if we had not come home that day, she would still be here with us now. I couldn't throw up. Or cry. But Whisper was gone. And gone to... I couldn't even bear the thought of where she had gone to without my dinner trying to come back up. My mouth got that horrible watery feeling and then I started to gag on the thoughts that were catching in the back of my throat. I was sick to my stomach with disgust and grief, but I was terrified of Dad and what more he would do. “He’ll know if you get sick and then things will end up being even worse. Stop thinking about it,” I heard Julie say in my head. I wanted to wash my mouth to get the taste of Whisper out of it.

  I'm sure he wanted more than anything for one of us to stomp or drag our feet. Then he would have an excuse to let loose on one or more of us. We all knew better. And we all needed time to heal from the horrible loss of our beloved pet before being put through any more pain.

  I made the hike to the room I shared with my younger sister Caroline, keeping in mind the fact that Dad was probably watching our movements for anything not quite right. Johnny and our youngest sibling Eric were already ahead of me on the way upstairs to their room, right across the narrow hallway from ours.

  Our rooms were actually in the attic, but it was all finished and insulated with sheet rocked walls and ceilings. The ceilings were also slanted because we were just under the roof, so my side of the room was on the taller side as was Johnny's in the boy's room.

  It was gloomy looking and dusty smelling up here, but not much more than the rest of the house was. In the winter it was a little colder up here than downstairs, and in the summer it was normally always hotter and stuffier- often it was almost too stuffy to breathe. Sometimes it felt as if the walls of the room would close right in on us. In the same way that our bedrooms didn’t really belong in this house, a lot of times I felt as if I didn’t truly belong anywhere in this world and most of the time I actually welcomed the suffocating feeling.

  Caroline, my younger sister, was right behind me with our goofy mutt, Lucky. He had black and gray fur that was a little wavy when it got long and he wasn't any bigger than a fully grown cat would be. My father normally shaved his fur off once in the Spring to help get rid of any fleas and to help keep Lucky cooler for the Summer. I didn’t really think it did much for the fleas, but it probably did work to make him cooler. In fact, it was probably already time for my father to shave him again.

  I wondered whose idea had it been to give a dog of ours a name like Lucky? Why was he lucky? Lucky he was brought home by us instead of being out on his own? No chores to do, nobody to answer to, no rules to follow? Free to do whatever. That all actually sounded so peaceful and relaxing.

  The thought of being free was so strange to me. It felt like I was just another one of my father's slaves. Everything we did was carefully watched by him: the way we sat, the way we ate our food, the way that we acted with each other and with strangers, even the way that we did our chores. We were never free. Even when we managed to sleep through the night without him sneaking into one of our rooms, he managed to haunt my dreams and probably the dreams of the rest of my family as well.

  Freedom sounded like a good title for a story that I could write. Yes! I could write a story like that tomorrow, maybe after our normal school lessons instead of reading. I always wrote down stories as soon as I got the chance after an idea popped into my head. Sometimes an idea for a good story came to me twice in one week and sometimes it was months before I had anything that I felt was worth being written down.

  Mom normally gave us a little extra time after our regular schoolwork to read or write whatever we wanted. She said that you could go anywhere you wanted in a good book and be whoever you wanted. I agreed with her and had many great adventures while reading different books that Mom had saved from her mother and from her own childhood. I read whenever I got the chance, normally after our school lessons and just before bed, and finished about one book each week. Reading the books that I knew my mother had once read also made me feel closer to her, like we had somehow shared the experiences that took place among the pages.

  Reading and writing were just about the only times that I ever felt anything close to peace. It was my only escape from the constant fear and worry that was my life. Well, that and the rare times that we kids all got to spend time just playing together.

  I listened for our door to latch before deciding on which nightgown to wear for bed. It was Spring and getting warmer every day, but there was always a dampness in this house that caused a constant feeling of being chilled to the bone. For that reason, among others, I wanted to wear the pajamas that left the least amount of my skin showing. After noting the familiar click, I went to our dresser and fought with the top drawer until it finally pried free.

  I couldn't remember a time when I didn't have to struggle to open the drawers on our dresser. It was old and Mom said it was an antique, like much of our furniture was, our dresser having been hers when she was a little girl. I took out my pink cotton nightgown, the longest one I had. I slipped it over my head and it fell to just below my knees. My hair got all staticky and I ran my hands over it to calm it back down. “Will you get mine for me too, Emily?”

  “Sure.” As I was wrestling with the dra
wer once more and thinking about what my mother must have been like as a little girl, I heard commotion coming from downstairs.

  “Why would you do that, you stupid fuckin' bitch,” I heard Dad shout. Then I heard the sharp crack of skin making hard contact with other skin, followed by more shouting from Dad, “I don't know why I keep fucking putting up with your bullshit! You're nothing but a lazy goddamned cunt, no better than those inbred kids of ours!”

  Huh? What did he mean by that? Mom was screaming, “I'm sorry,” over and over and crying. Hot, salty tasting tears started making their way from my eyes to my nose and down onto my hands. My nose started to run and my face felt like it would burst into angry flames.

  I didn't want my mom to get hurt, but at the same time Julie was telling me in my head, “It’s better than one of you getting beat. I actually hope that he wears himself out with her and leaves the rest of you alone for the night.” I made up my mind while drying my face that I wasn't going to worry about what was taking place downstairs. Focusing my attention on the dresser once more, I yanked on the drawer I had been fighting with, this time with more force. It still wasn't budging.

  I had to make sure that Caroline didn't do something to accidentally to draw unwanted attention to us. Turning my head to glance at my sister, I noticed her big blue eyes were wide with worry. She caught me looking at her and began to sob. Lucky seemed to know she needed comfort and jumped onto her lap to lick the tears away from her face. I decided I could continue my struggle with the dresser drawer another time.