The King of Mars

In a shadowy room, cluttered with old newspapers and magazines and dusty boxes, a young boy stood at the foot of a dirty armchair. Sunlight weakly filtered through stained curtains, illuminating motes of dust that drifted through the air. The silenced static on the television set behind him cast an eerie glow on the occupant of the chair; a half asleep, substantially large woman. “You called me?” The boy asked. The woman cracked open a pair of beady, black eyes that reflected the sheen of the television set.

"About time, Chris," she croaked, moving her swollen arm weakly to try igniting a white bic in front of her morbidly obese face, which briefly burned orange with every failed attempt. "Go get me a working lighter." The boy nodded slowly and hurried out of the room as a coughing fit overcame the woman. In the dirty kitchen, the young Chris pulled open a drawer with a chorus of clattering. Knives and forks and spoons were thrown in haphazardly, mixed with other tools and miscellaneous objects. Chris carefully sorted through the tarnished silverware and the screwdrivers and hammers and can openers until he pulled out a small box of matches.

In the other room, the woman was still coughing. "I couldn't find a lighter, mom." The boy's small voice said as he approached the armchair, barely audible over the coughing.

"How many times do I have to tell you, don’t call me mom, you stupid little fuck!" She half screamed, well, attempted to. Instead, it sounded like a frog having an asthma attack. "I give you simple fucking directions and you can't even do that right! No wonder your parents ditched you at that shithole of an orphanage!" She snatched the box of matches out of Chris's small, outstretched hand. Her sausage-like fingers fiddled with the matches until she successfully lit a half smoked cigarette.

She blew a stream of smoke directly into Chris's face, stinging the tears welling underneath his eyelids. He stared at her, unblinking, with fury. She sneered; knowing the boy wouldn't dare talk back to her. His father would kill him if he did, she knew it and he knew it. "Get outta here." The foster mother grunted, grabbing at a remote on a table littered with wrappers and other garbage beside the armchair.

Chris ran from the dingy living room, through the filthy kitchen, and out of the backdoor into the cool, early autumn air. Crying, he ran into the grove of sleeping trees behind the peeling house until he came to a tiny shed-like building covered in brown leaves. He opened the door of his clubhouse and fell, sobbing onto the thin blanket covering the splintering floor…

"I was adopted," I explained to the captivated girl in front of me. "Unfortunately for me, I wasn't adopted by a kindhearted, middle aged couple with sterility issues. I was adopted by a pair of scumbags that only tolerated my existence for their government checks."

"What happened to your parents?" Jess asked. She was genuinely interested in the story I was telling, which was really weird.

“Who knows.” I have had to go to school counselors and other nut jobs like them in the past, but they never really cared about me. Like my adopted parents, they only cared about their checks. They listened to my story, prescribed medicine that I never took, and sent me away.

Now I'm here, pouring my heart out to this girl I just met. After going my whole life not wanting to talk about this shit to anyone, I'm finding myself not able to stop. It is weird, but in a way it actually felt pretty good…

There was a party in the peeling house.

Other shady adults crowded in the foster mother's lair of a living room. Everyone was smoking. The choking haze was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Young Chris constantly walked between the living room and kitchen, carrying drinks and plates. On the way back in, the foster father was telling a horrible story to a few of his horrible friends. They each looked at Chris with disdain as the child set down cans of beer on a nearby table. Chris just wanted to get out of here before his foster father could grab him and use him to illustrate a point in one of his stories. Unfortunately for him, before he could get out and return to the safety of his bedroom, a large, grubby hand grabbed his small, skinny arm. The huge hand wrapped completely around Chris's forearm, tightening when the boy tried to yank away.

"In fact, I found the little fucker hiding in his treehouse thing. He was crying like a little bitch." They were making fun of Chris, as usual.

"Give him something to really cry about, Jack." One of the drunken men chuckled.

"I always do." It felt like Chris got shot in the stomach. He fell over and almost puked as his foster father pulled back his hand and kicked the boy in the ribs. It was really funny, everyone laughed. They left the poor boy alone after that. Chris crawled out of the room thankfully.

In the darkened hallway, Chris climbed slowly up the creaky stairs and into his room. It was small and bare, only a bed and a dresser was enough to take up most of the space. The boy fell onto his bed, sobbing silently.

"It's horrible how they treat you." A soft voice spoke. Chris bolted around to see another guest in this plague house. He recognized the man as one of his foster father's closest friends, "Uncle Eddie." And, even though he was just a boy, Chris always had a feeling in his gut that Eddie was worse than his foster father. He definitely wasn't there for something good.

"Please don't tell my dad I was crying." Chris sat up and wiped his face.

"I would never," the man in the doorway stepped in. "I know your father is sometimes harsh, but believe me, he loves you."

"No, he doesn't," Chris said. The look on Eddie's face terrified him.

"... Do you want to run away?" Eddie said, drawing closer to the bed with each breathless word. Chris didn't answer. He couldn't answer. His tongue was caught in his throat. "I could take you away. And you would never cry again." Eddie continued in a whisper. His mouth stayed slightly ajar, he was now standing directly over Chris, who stared blankly at his glinting belt buckle.

Soft, warm hands grabbed Chris's face. "Look at me. You want that, don't you?" Eddie leaned the boy's head up to look down at him. Chris still couldn't answer. He wanted it desperately, to run away and never be seen again. But never with his Uncle Eddie. Never with this monster.

"... You are adorable. You always have been." There was the distinct sound of a zipper undoing. Eddie's other sickeningly soft and warm claw slid down Chris's arm and grabbed the child's tiny hand. He brought it up to his glinting belt buckle and slowly slid it down until it was resting on top of his undone zipper...

Chris screamed. He didn't even think, only react. The hand on the zipper coiled back and sprang forward with all of the strength the boy could muster. Eddie bent over with a groan of pain. In a second, Chris leaped up and ran to the closet. Inside of the closet was a shoebox that held everything in the world that was dear to him. In the shoebox was a switchblade that he stole from his foster father for an occasion just like this. As Eddie turned around and began to curse, Chris shoved the knife as hard as he could into the pedophile’s stomach. Sheer surprise turned into terror as the young boy pulled the knife out and began to plunge it back in, only to be roughly shoved aside by the hand of his foster father, Jack.

Jack turned from Chris and looked at Eddie with pure rage in his eyes. Eddie began to stammer out some excuse but the much larger man was hearing none of it. One beefy fist grabbed Eddie by the scruff of the neck and the other plowed into his face. Chris could only watch as his foster father proceeded to pound his assailants face into a bloody pulp. Other party guests showed up in the doorway, yet no one intervened. When Jack was finished and the other man hung limply in his bloodstained shirt, Jack threw him at the foot of his audience. “If you ever, and I mean ever, show your face around here again, I’ll fucking kill you.” Jack snorted and hocked a loogie onto the moaning, beaten, shell of a man. “Someone drive this piece of trash home, party is over. I can’t fucking believe this.” Jack slammed the door shut when the crowd dispersed.

He turned to look at Chris with a long sigh, breathing the fire out of his lungs. “I’m sorry about that, kid.” He said. Chris looked at him with utter confusion, never daring to dream that Jack would apologize for anything. “I know we been rotten to you, but what that… that worm just tried to do, even I can’t tolerate that. Just goes to show, you can’t ever really trust anyone. Gimme that knife.” Chris cautiously approached his step father and gingerly placed the stolen weapon in his outstretched paw. Jack’s hand closed around the bloody knife and the other swiftly connected with Chris’s jaw. Stars erupted in the boys eyes and he was unable to stay on his feet. “That’s for stealin’ from me. Never do that again.” With that, Jack left the room, leaving the stunned boy to wonder what in the world just happened.

“After that ordeal, things got a little better.” I continued. “I mean, things were still shitty, but the constant beatings and humiliations stopped. I’m not sure, nor do I really care, but I think I got that man’s respect.” To illustrate my point, I pulled the dinged up switchblade out of my pocket and opened it with a smooth flick. “He gave me the knife back a couple years later, when I was fourteen, and told me that if ever I stabbed someone again; make sure to get them in the fucking neck.” I stabbed the tip into the log I was sitting on. “One of the very, very few life lessons I ever learned from him.”

“Wow… what a terrible story,” Jess said, shaking her head. “I would have killed someone if I was there.”

“Jack almost did,” I laughed. “Unfortunately, he never had to. After that, they made me go to therapy for years. I don’t think they ever really told anyone why, though. Jack hated cops and tried his hardest to stay out of their radar.”

“Why did he hate cops so much?”

“Well, him and his wife or whatever he called her, they were deep into selling contraband. They never really did drugs, other than the occasional meth binges when I was a teenager; I stayed out of the house for those.” I laughed again.

“Jesus Christ.” Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “Don’t these people do any sort of background check before giving someone a child??”

“Well, I was adopted when I was really young, like two or three years old.” I explained. “Apparently back then they seemed like decent human beings.”

“So whatever happened to them?” Jess asked.

“To be honest… I’m not entirely sure.” I told her. “When I was seventeen I unwittingly went back into the house during one of his meth trips. Jack attacked me so I stabbed him, pretty sure I missed his neck though, which he would have probably beaten my ass for.” A bitter chuckle escaped my lips. “Anyway, I stayed with my girlfriend’s family after that until we went away to college together. You know the rest of the story, you satisfied now that I spilled my guts to you?”

“Yeah, that’ll do I suppose.”

“Good,” I sniffed the air. The food smelled about ready and it made my mouth water. I almost forgot about how hungry I was. “Now, for the love of all that is holy, can we eat?"