I Turn to You
One.
The house Oliver grew up in had changed a lot since he had left it over a decade ago. He stood outside it now, looking up at it. The wooden slats that made up the walls were beginning to rot, and what had once been their garden was now overgrown, full of nettles and thorny weeds. Oliver stood calmly, knee-deep in wild grass, his arms folded around him, chewing his lip slightly. The guttering was beginning to fall away from the roof, and the windows were boarded up. They had been the last family to live here. No one wanted to live in a house where so much horror and heartache had occurred.
Oliver took a deep breath, thinking back to the day that it had all started.
"What’s wrong, Becky?"
Oliver walked into his room to find his stepsister curled up on the window seat, tears rolling down her cheeks. For stepsiblings, Oliver and Rebecca were extremely close, which was why Oliver was more worried than angry that the young woman was sitting in his room.
Becky turned to look at Oliver and she looked totally tragic. Oliver walked over, crossing the room quickly, and sat down next to her.
"What’s happened?" he asked her softly, gently touching her hand. Becky flinched slightly, closing her eyes tightly, though tears still spurted from them and trickled down her cheeks.
"Nothing," she whispered, and Oliver gave a small laugh.
"You expect me to believe that, Becky?" he asked. "You know me, you can tell me anything."
Becky looked at him then, and in her eyes was an urgency that Oliver had never seen before.
"I need your help, Ollie," she said quietly, and Oliver nodded.
"Of course, anything," he assured her.
"You say that now," Becky said quietly. "But I’m scared you won’t believe me. Out of everyone here I know you’re the one who’s most likely to believe me but ... it would destroy everything."
"What do you mean?" Oliver asked worriedly. Becky looked at him and sighed.
"Ollie ... I don’t know how to say this. I really don’t. But you need to know I’m not lying. I promise I’m not. You know I don’t do stuff like that. But Ollie ... it’s about your dad."
"Oh?" Oliver asked, feeling very apprehensive by now. "What about him?"
"He’s ..." Becky suddenly let out a pained sob and buried her face in her hands. Oliver had to listen intently to work out what she said next. "Ollie, he’s been coming into my bed at night. He’s been ... doing things."
Oliver was silent. He felt as though he had been punched in the stomach several times over. His head was spinning and he didn’t know what to make of it. He knew Becky wouldn’t lie about such a thing, but he didn’t think his father would ever do anything like that. Not his father. Not the man who had raised him.
"You don’t believe me, do you?" Becky asked, sounding mortified, and Oliver looked at her. He looked into her eyes, full of tears and sorrow, and he could tell as he kept his eyes upon hers that she was screaming for help, and he was the only one she thought would answer. Trembling slightly, he reached out, and pulled his stepsister into a hug.
"Why would you lie?" he asked her softly, and she began sobbing again, this time due to relief, clinging onto him. "It’s all right, Becky. We’ll get this sorted out. He won’t touch you again. I promise."
Thinking back to that day, Oliver was pleased that he felt more pride, due to his reaction, than horror at the revelation. He used to go over that conversation again and again, and how things went to total Hell after that. Becky, of course, didn’t want to go to the police at first. She was scared, she was ashamed, she didn’t want t make a big deal of it. But, after many sleepless nights hugging her and talking to her, Oliver eventually convinced her that she needed justice, and that by coming forward she could stop him doing the same to anyone else. By this point, it was obvious Becky was telling the truth. Oliver couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before. The way his father looked at her, the way he would always make excuses for them to be alone, the innuendoes he would make. As time went on, Oliver found himself hating his father more and more. He had stuck to Becky like glue, even when they both knew his father knew something was up. Oliver didn’t care. As long as his father couldn’t find himself alone with Becky, he didn’t care how obvious he made things. It got to the point where he would simply refuse to leave the room if it meant Becky and his father would be alone.
Of course, things came to a head pretty quickly. Oliver remembered the day the police came round. He looked at the boarded-up front door where they had come through, and remember the carnage that had followed. He had accompanied Becky to the police station, stayed with her as she sobbed out what had happened to her. They had agreed to accompany the police back to the house. Becky had to identify and confirm her attacker, and Oliver wasn’t going to let her do it alone. Not now he knew what she had been through. He remembered how his father had looked at him, what he had said to him.
"You know I wouldn’t do anything like that, Oliver,” he had said innocently. “You don’t believe her vicious lies, do you?"
"Actually, I do," Oliver had replied. "I know she’s telling the truth. You’re not going to get away with it."
"If you go along with this stupid story you’ll destroy this family!" his father had then hissed. "You had better be sure of what you’re doing, you little traitor!"
Oliver gave a thin smile as he remembered standing up in court, telling everyone of Becky’s confession, of all the signs he had noticed afterwards. His voice had shaken, but he knew he had to tell the truth. Even if it meant severing all ties with his own father, he didn’t care. In his eyes, he didn’t have a father. No man who was capable of doing what had been done to Becky would be a father of his. Becky’s own father, who had turned up to the court to support his daughter, looked murderous. Oliver almost wanted him to get his hands on the man he had recently stopped calling his father.
Oliver knew now why he had returned to this dilapidated little house. He looked up at the walls, in the beginning stages of rot. He looked at the shattered glass intertwined with the weeds and the boarded up windows, the small holes from the woodworm, the unstable front porch, the lop-sided drainpipe, and he took a deep breath, knowing what needed to be done.
Taking off his backpack, he placed it amongst the weeds and opened it up, to reveal a simple can of black spray paint. Taking it out, he shook it, took the lid off, and tested it against the grass. There was a soft hissing sound and the grass beneath the nozzle turned a speckled black. Oliver smiled.
Picking his way through the overgrown jungle of a garden, he raised the can up to the wall, and sprayed onto it the lesson he had learnt, and the lesson he hoped to teach others, including his own children, who weren’t very old themselves. It was the same lesson that his sister (for he saw her as a real sister after everything they’d been through together) would be teaching her children too, and it had never meant more to Oliver than it had sprayed onto the side of the house where the lesson had been learnt.
Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes.
Smiling, Oliver turned, put the can back in the bag, hoisted the bag back onto his shoulders, and returned to his car. He wouldn’t have to make another trip here now. He was finally done.
Oliver took a deep breath, thinking back to the day that it had all started.
"What’s wrong, Becky?"
Oliver walked into his room to find his stepsister curled up on the window seat, tears rolling down her cheeks. For stepsiblings, Oliver and Rebecca were extremely close, which was why Oliver was more worried than angry that the young woman was sitting in his room.
Becky turned to look at Oliver and she looked totally tragic. Oliver walked over, crossing the room quickly, and sat down next to her.
"What’s happened?" he asked her softly, gently touching her hand. Becky flinched slightly, closing her eyes tightly, though tears still spurted from them and trickled down her cheeks.
"Nothing," she whispered, and Oliver gave a small laugh.
"You expect me to believe that, Becky?" he asked. "You know me, you can tell me anything."
Becky looked at him then, and in her eyes was an urgency that Oliver had never seen before.
"I need your help, Ollie," she said quietly, and Oliver nodded.
"Of course, anything," he assured her.
"You say that now," Becky said quietly. "But I’m scared you won’t believe me. Out of everyone here I know you’re the one who’s most likely to believe me but ... it would destroy everything."
"What do you mean?" Oliver asked worriedly. Becky looked at him and sighed.
"Ollie ... I don’t know how to say this. I really don’t. But you need to know I’m not lying. I promise I’m not. You know I don’t do stuff like that. But Ollie ... it’s about your dad."
"Oh?" Oliver asked, feeling very apprehensive by now. "What about him?"
"He’s ..." Becky suddenly let out a pained sob and buried her face in her hands. Oliver had to listen intently to work out what she said next. "Ollie, he’s been coming into my bed at night. He’s been ... doing things."
Oliver was silent. He felt as though he had been punched in the stomach several times over. His head was spinning and he didn’t know what to make of it. He knew Becky wouldn’t lie about such a thing, but he didn’t think his father would ever do anything like that. Not his father. Not the man who had raised him.
"You don’t believe me, do you?" Becky asked, sounding mortified, and Oliver looked at her. He looked into her eyes, full of tears and sorrow, and he could tell as he kept his eyes upon hers that she was screaming for help, and he was the only one she thought would answer. Trembling slightly, he reached out, and pulled his stepsister into a hug.
"Why would you lie?" he asked her softly, and she began sobbing again, this time due to relief, clinging onto him. "It’s all right, Becky. We’ll get this sorted out. He won’t touch you again. I promise."
Thinking back to that day, Oliver was pleased that he felt more pride, due to his reaction, than horror at the revelation. He used to go over that conversation again and again, and how things went to total Hell after that. Becky, of course, didn’t want to go to the police at first. She was scared, she was ashamed, she didn’t want t make a big deal of it. But, after many sleepless nights hugging her and talking to her, Oliver eventually convinced her that she needed justice, and that by coming forward she could stop him doing the same to anyone else. By this point, it was obvious Becky was telling the truth. Oliver couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before. The way his father looked at her, the way he would always make excuses for them to be alone, the innuendoes he would make. As time went on, Oliver found himself hating his father more and more. He had stuck to Becky like glue, even when they both knew his father knew something was up. Oliver didn’t care. As long as his father couldn’t find himself alone with Becky, he didn’t care how obvious he made things. It got to the point where he would simply refuse to leave the room if it meant Becky and his father would be alone.
Of course, things came to a head pretty quickly. Oliver remembered the day the police came round. He looked at the boarded-up front door where they had come through, and remember the carnage that had followed. He had accompanied Becky to the police station, stayed with her as she sobbed out what had happened to her. They had agreed to accompany the police back to the house. Becky had to identify and confirm her attacker, and Oliver wasn’t going to let her do it alone. Not now he knew what she had been through. He remembered how his father had looked at him, what he had said to him.
"You know I wouldn’t do anything like that, Oliver,” he had said innocently. “You don’t believe her vicious lies, do you?"
"Actually, I do," Oliver had replied. "I know she’s telling the truth. You’re not going to get away with it."
"If you go along with this stupid story you’ll destroy this family!" his father had then hissed. "You had better be sure of what you’re doing, you little traitor!"
Oliver gave a thin smile as he remembered standing up in court, telling everyone of Becky’s confession, of all the signs he had noticed afterwards. His voice had shaken, but he knew he had to tell the truth. Even if it meant severing all ties with his own father, he didn’t care. In his eyes, he didn’t have a father. No man who was capable of doing what had been done to Becky would be a father of his. Becky’s own father, who had turned up to the court to support his daughter, looked murderous. Oliver almost wanted him to get his hands on the man he had recently stopped calling his father.
Oliver knew now why he had returned to this dilapidated little house. He looked up at the walls, in the beginning stages of rot. He looked at the shattered glass intertwined with the weeds and the boarded up windows, the small holes from the woodworm, the unstable front porch, the lop-sided drainpipe, and he took a deep breath, knowing what needed to be done.
Taking off his backpack, he placed it amongst the weeds and opened it up, to reveal a simple can of black spray paint. Taking it out, he shook it, took the lid off, and tested it against the grass. There was a soft hissing sound and the grass beneath the nozzle turned a speckled black. Oliver smiled.
Picking his way through the overgrown jungle of a garden, he raised the can up to the wall, and sprayed onto it the lesson he had learnt, and the lesson he hoped to teach others, including his own children, who weren’t very old themselves. It was the same lesson that his sister (for he saw her as a real sister after everything they’d been through together) would be teaching her children too, and it had never meant more to Oliver than it had sprayed onto the side of the house where the lesson had been learnt.
Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes.
Smiling, Oliver turned, put the can back in the bag, hoisted the bag back onto his shoulders, and returned to his car. He wouldn’t have to make another trip here now. He was finally done.