Shad's Awakening
A NovelBy Helmut W. HorchlerAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Helmut W. Horchler
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4634-0579-3 Chapter One
Los Angeles, 1957/1958
Running away from home had been a frequent temptation for him, but he could not abandon his mother and leave her behind to suffer alone. He knew she loved and needed him. Terrified as he was of his stepfather, he accepted the moment had come for him to act no matter what the consequences.
His private hell had boiled over; he could no longer keep a lid on it. He had anticipated the looming, ultimate showdown with his stepfather and was prepared. He did not think of the future; knew he would not have one if he did not take measures into his own hands to put a permanent stop to the abuse to which his mother and he had been subjected for years.
The long kitchen knife he had absconded was hidden within reach in his room, ready to be used if it came to that. His mother, knowing what her son had to endure, continued living in her own world of terror and denial. She had secreted herself in the back of the house, in her room, where she could pretend to be oblivious to his screams. She knew she would be next if she so much as made a sound.
If his stepfather noticed he was not cowering as he had always done, he gave no sign.
"Did I or did I not order you to be home by 11:00 o'clock?" he hissed, his lips stretched into a mean thin line. "Did you think I was kidding? What the hell is wrong with you, you little piece of shit?"
The boy did not answer; refused to take off his shirt and lower his pants when told to do so. Instead, he stared at his stepfather defiantly. It threw the man momentarily off stride.
"I guess I have been too lenient with you, haven't I? Well, that can easily be remedied," he said, raising his arm, ready to strike, his face contorted with whiskey driven rage.
"Don't you dare!" the boy croaked his warning, barely hanging on to his new found determination not to accept what his stepfather was so fond of dishing out. His heart beat wildly; sweat poured down his back. His hands shook. His blond hair was plastered to his scalp. He was deathly afraid; could already feel the lash of the belt and the bite of the buckle and instinctively turned away and raised his arms to protect himself, but there was nothing he could do about his exposed back.
His stepfather's wild roaring shattered the ominous silence as the belt whistled down. The boy couldn't help himself; screamed in pain as the metal buckle struck his elbow, nearly paralyzing his left arm. Blind outrage consumed him. He rushed his stepfather, both of them tumbling to the floor. A leather wrapped fist found his face and stars exploded. He managed to scramble to his feet in the tight quarters, his stepfather, still on the floor, holding on to his ankle, determined to pull him down.
They struggled. Grappled. His stepfather was caught off guard by the stepson's unexpected defiance and show of strength. A knee drove into his groin, the full weight of his stepson behind it, and he curled up, gasping for breath. He wrapped an arm behind the boy's leg, reflexively holding him down while his roundhouse connected with the back of his head. The boy's fist smashed into his nose. Blood spewed and he bellowed with rage and pain. The boy took advantage of the man's momentary incapacitation to drag himself within reach of the hidden knife.
His stepfather, with blood smeared face, stared at the gleaming knife in shocked surprise. "You wouldn't dare use that," he taunted before scrambling up and launching himself at the boy, his arm with the belt ready to slam down once again. But he was too slow. The boy had stepped into the attack and plunged the knife high and deep into his hated stepfather's midsection.
* * *
In the emergency room of the hospital photographs were taken of the boy's latest injuries and his mother's barely healed scars, documenting their persistent abuse and the wounds he had suffered in defending himself. The man had died on the operating table, the surgeon unable to stop the profuse internal bleeding in time.
His mother had been totally supportive, backing up his testimony of years of severe physical mistreatment through her second husband. Before their 911 call they had agreed to tell the police her husband had brought the knife along and the boy had wrestled it away from him in the fight. With the man dead, no one could dispute the chain of events by which the knife had gotten into his room or explain why his stepfather had brought it along.
It was all plausible, given their difference in height and strength. Since the knife had come from the kitchen both his stepfather's and his fingerprints had been identified on the handle, corroborating his version of events. The amply documented, clearly visible scars on his back and buttocks confirmed the abuse story, as did the angry red welts on his mother's body. The severe bruising of his elbow and the lump on his head from his stepfather's fist had been further evidence of his self defense claim.
The printing business the family owned was profitable enough to allow them to hire a good criminal attorney when the grand jury indicted him, and yet he had not been able to prevent the boy being convicted of involuntary manslaughter. He had fought for self defense or justifiable homicide, while the prosecutor had argued for pre-meditated murder, trying to convince the jury that the boy had brought the knife to his room. At the end a plea bargain had been struck which required the boy to serve three years in prison. The first year was to be spent in a juvenile detention center, with subsequent transfer to state prison upon attainment of his eighteenth birthday.
* * *
The juvie center had in some ways been worse than his stepfather's beatings. He didn't believe he would survive his initial incarceration, let alone two more years in state prison. He had little hope he would be paroled much earlier, based on the terms of the plea bargain. He thought constantly about escaping and starting his life over, but how? Lying awake on his bunk, he thought feverishly about how to get out but could not come up with a viable plan.
He had all but given up hope when an escape opportunity came about unexpectedly. During the transfer from juvie detainment to state prison, a short period of confusion suddenly arose. He was among a group of fifteen juvies loaded on a bus with only one guard sitting in the back in addition to the equally armed driver. They were not considered high escape risk prisoners, given their age, short sentences and criminal histories. Halfway to their destination, a brief pee break at a truck stop had become necessary. The toilet facilities were limited. There were too many prisoners to be effectively controlled off the bus by only two guards. Following a short discussion among the guards, they decided one group would stay in the bus with the driver, while the other half went inside, with the second guard patrolling the vestibule and supervising the prisoners' entry and exit to the toilets themselves.
It astounded the boy that the guards were not more vigilant in keeping a tight rein on their charges. They should not have let more than two or three at a time off the bus, to be escorted by one guard while the other one remained in the bus with the balance of the prisoners.
But the guards were old and overweight and less than diligent. No one had ever made an attempt to...
