Justin's Story Part III My Return Chapter 16 4/27/00
Written By: Justin Case
Disclaimer: OK, so you got this far. Now you have to ask yourself, do I continue or do I leave now? I can't help you with that; if it's legal and you're comfortable, stay. If not, do what you need to do. This story contains graphically sexual material. It is placed here for your enjoyment and education. This story is my semi-autobiography; most of it really happened. I have changed the names to protect the anonymity of actual people.
I accept no responsibility for what you do after you read my words; you must be responsible for your own life. I am the author of the story and retain all rights to it. Printing, reprinting, or copying of this story of any kind is restricted by the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any violation to the law may result in fines and imprisonment, or both. I prosecute all shoplifters.
Words from our Author: Hey, my homies, wassup? I have missed you. I have missed my time in the limelight. I need to speak; I need to be heard. Are you listening? Do you care? If not, fast forward. Yep, yep, it's my soapbox and I can say what I want; you can read or not. Don't you love the control? I do.
I love the new Marc Anthony song. Have you heard it yet? I never realized how much music influenced my thoughts, until recently. I mean, I have my rap artists I love to listen to, Nas and DMX. They always make me realize how bad it really is in the inner cities, how much hurt and pain the people imprisoned by society are feeling. I have my pop artists that make me feel all warm and comfy: Marc Anthony, Savage Garden, Celine, just to name a few of my favorites. Then there's the boy bands. Well, need I say more?
I listen to music whenever I write. Either the radio or a CD is playing in the background while my creative juices are flowing. I can control the CD, choose which one I listen to; the radio is a random choice, the radio personality chooses or his program manager selects.
Have I lost you yet? The point I am trying to make is, life is full of choices. We make choices all day long. It's the choices we make that define who we are. It's the choices we make that take us on our journey either safely or not. I have made many choices in my short life, not all wise ones. I hope you see the differences when you read what I write. Please, try to learn from what I have been through. Think it all through.
I got an interesting e-mail the other night. First I got an instant message from a young girl in California. She explained she was contacting me because her eighteen-year-old brother wanted her to contact all his "buddies". Apparently, she claimed he ran away from home. I felt badly for her and the family. I told her to keep me posted and offered my private e-mail address for further correspondence. I offered help in any way I could, as I have many contacts worldwide. I closed my IM session with her, saying I would keep them all in my prayers.
I then received an e-mail from the alleged eighteen-year-old runaway boy. His letter was to four people, three of his real life friends and myself; he apologized to his friends for things I knew nothing about, and he thanked me for giving him the strength he needed to run away. He told me that if I could do it and survive, he felt he could.
I want to tell you all, yes, I left my home, I felt I had nowhere to turn. Read my words, do they say it's a good thing to do? I don't think so. If your home life is that bad, find a family member or friend's parent you can trust and tell them. One of the last things I would suggest is going to the authorities; they don't care and whatever they do could be worse.
If your home environment is intolerable, first look at your behavior. Is there anything you are doing to cause the problem? If there is, sit down and examine ways to change yourself. Practice the ways you think will improve the situation. Now, if the problems are truly unprovoked because of drug use or sexual abuse by your parents or step parents, most states say the legal age to be on your own is sixteen; find a friend and move out. The last thing you want to do is run away blind, as I did. Trust me.
Now, while I believe the instant message was fictitious, as was the letter, because of the wording and other reasons I won't go into, let me end with this. Just because the song says, and just because I say, doesn't make it so. Think, my friends; think for yourselves. I know you already do. This was really for the crazy people who think we do things because we heard it on the radio or read it online. HEHE :)
I arrived at Bradley International Airport at midnight that same Monday. I was in a state of total numbness. I was numb to all feelings and thoughts. I wasn't where I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be there. I didn't know where I was and why I was there. I just was. I just existed. I had not lived yet. I had truly found my emotional bottom; I was on my knees.
I had thought I had love, when I didn't. I didn't know love when I had it. I thought my home life was horrible and found wherever I went, there I was. The horror I brought with me, like the baggage I carried so long ago when Ryan brought me to the Peter Pan bus station, my garbage in the garbage bag. I had come a long way and hadn't gone anywhere, I was back where I started from. HOME!
Home is what you make it. I had to make my home. I had lost some people in my life, all to drugs. I lost JT before I left, Mark in Texas; I lost Billy, my friend in Louisiana, and now my grandparents, all due to drug use. While it may not have been due to my drug use, all these lives were lost to drug use. I lost Chuck in St. Louis and myself due to my own drug use. Yes, I lost myself. Who the hell was I? I didn't even know who I was.
As I disembarked the plane I remember thinking this was truly going to be the first day of the rest of my life. I was tired, I was sick; I was starting my life over. God had carried me this far and had never let me down; he never gave me more than I could handle. I thank Him every day for the blessings He gives me. I have learned to watch what I pray for, too. I pray for patience and He makes me wait in long lines at the grocery store, or I get stuck in traffic. I laugh at the simplicity of life now. While God has closed many doors in my life, He has never made me wait too long for a new one to open. Although sometimes the wait in the hall is frustrating, I practice patience. Never pray for patience, it's a bitch.
I came out of that tunnel thing they connect to the planes, into the airport; there was Betty to meet me. My Aunt Betty is not my favorite person; she tends to be self-centered and controlling. I think that if you look up the word bitch in the dictionary, you might find her picture. She stands about five foot five, has strawberry blonde hair that she keeps short. Large blue eyes, and very wrinkled skin on her face. She only weighs maybe a hundred and ten pounds; she may be anorexic. My Aunt Betty is the only one I know that can eat M&M's like six at a time, she actually rations them. M&M's are her weakness, her drug of choice, if you will.
"Justin, hey, Justin," Betty yells. She always yells.
"Hey, Betty," I said and reached my limber arms out to hug her. As I hugged her; an uncontrollable fit of crying overcame me. I cried right there in the airport in my Aunt Betty's arms and on her shoulder. The only time in my life I ever showed her any affection was that Monday night.
"It's OK, kid, let it out, it's OK," Betty said as she hugged me. "George is down at the luggage area; let's go and pick up your bags." She finally said as she released her grip.
"I only have one. My friends gave me a suitcase to come home with. I miss Grams and Gramps. I should have been here. I should never have left. I told them I loved them the other day on the phone, I'm so glad I did that. Oh, Betty, what am I going to do?" I said between my sobs; the tears were still running down my cheeks.
"Well, Justin, I know they loved you too. They loved us all. We have some things to discuss when we get to the house," Betty said.
"The house" was a family term. It meant my grandparents' house. My grandfather built the home when I was little; he always called it the family homestead. He brought us up to know that no matter what, it was always "the house" and we were always welcome there. My mother had divorced my father while she was pregnant with me, so we lived with my grandparents and my three aunts, the younger generation of my grandparents' offspring. They had my two uncles and my mother, waited like ten years, and had three more daughters. When I lived at "the house", my two older uncles were already on their own. So my first four years of life I lived with my grandparents, three aunts, mother, and Sarah. We called Grams and Gramps "Mommy and Daddy" when we talked amongst ourselves, and because of our ages my aunts were like older sisters to my sister and me.
I remember thinking it was strange we were going to "the house" but I let the thought go. I wondered where my mom was and "What's his name". Not that I really wanted to see them, but they were my parents. I thought they might be there under the circumstances. I guess people do what they think is right, no matter what my expectations are.
Betty and I met George in the airport baggage claim area and waited for my things. George stood there quietly; I imagine, being with Betty, that he doesn't get many chances to talk. Betty can be quite consuming with her opinions and verbalization. If she wants to talk and someone else is already speaking, she thinks nothing of yelling over him or her. She insists on being heard.
George is about six-feet tall; he has brown hair. George is pretty nondescript as far as looks, he blends in well with a crowd. George has a passion: he loves to play chess. I have lost every game I have ever played with him. George is twenty-two, a year older than Betty. He comes from a small family of four. I always wonder if he feels overwhelmed when he comes to "the house" and we are all there. Of course, I wondered if there would be any more family gatherings at "the house." George also has the ability to take a piece of wood and, with a jack-knife, create a piece of art. He loves to make hand carved furnishings, and he uses no nails. He makes little wooden pegs; he uses glue and the pegs to fasten any joints. He carves things like wine bottle racks, lamps, and end tables out of wood, using just a jack-knife.
By the time we got my suitcase and out of the airport, it was one o'clock in the morning. We got to "the house" at quarter to two. It was so quiet. I walked in right behind Betty. I had never felt so alone, so very alone in "the house" before. I could see my grandparents in their chairs in the dining room when I looked into it. I could visualize them in the front room when I looked there. As you come through the front door, and everyone always comes into "the house" through the front door, you enter a foyer; the dining room is on your right and the parlor on your left.
"Justin, do you want a cup of tea or coffee?" Betty asked me.
"Well, kind of, but I am awfully tired," I said as I yawned. I had had enough of her blabbing in the car. I think George had too.
"Betty, why don't we leave him until the morning?" George said. He may not say much, but when he does, people tend to listen. He is always commanding and authoritative in his mannerism.
"Yeah, maybe you're right," Betty conceded. "Justin, we'll leave you here, you know where everything is. I'll call you in the morning. We do have to talk, about the will and the arrangements," Betty said to me. She kissed me on the cheek and then she and George left.
I remember thinking how odd this all was. My aunts had always been a little jealous of my relationship with my grandparents. Why was I being left there alone? I didn't really like the idea, but where else could I go? I had caused my own dilemma and would have to make the best of it. I could complain, but who would listen?
I went to my bedroom, the one in the middle of the hallway. Not a thing had changed since I had been there last. My grandmother had kept it ready for my return. On my dresser was an envelope with my name in the middle of it. I opened it; it was a Christmas Card from my grandparents. On the left hand side was a note written to me from the both of them. It read:
"Justin, we love you so much. We love you for being who you are. You are the sweetest grandson a grandmother could have. We hope you come home soon, we will keep your gifts wrapped. Love, Grams
Justin, come home, I miss you and love you. Just Gramps"
I read the notes from them both and cried. I realized how much I hurt them and now they were gone and I would never have the chance to change what I put them through. I could imagine them lying awake many nights while I was away, worrying about me. Wondering if I was all right. I had never given that a thought until I read the card and realized it was too late. They were dead and the damage had been done, and done by me. I pray to them every day for forgiveness. I know they have forgiven me. I still have to forgive myself. I went to bed that night and cried myself to sleep.
I could hear the rain falling against the roof of the quiet house. I woke from my deep sleep to the sounds of rain. I looked out my bedroom window and realized it was daylight. I checked my alarm clock for the time; it was ten thirty. I had slept since my head hit the pillow, straight through. I usually wake up during the night, but didn't that night. I felt relaxed; I couldn't figure it out. I felt at ease and comfortable, I also felt a twinge of guilt for feeling so at home. I couldn't figure out why I was having the conflict of feelings, at the time. That took me some real soul searching to realize why I felt the way I did.
I could hear the phone ringing. I ran up the hall to the kitchen phone. There was one in my grandparents' room that was closer to me, but I didn't feel right going in there. I was still in my boxers. I felt like it would be disrespectful.
"Hello?" I said into the phone.
"Justin, it's me, Betty. We were going to come and pick you up. We have to go see Mr. Fiore, Mommy and Daddy's lawyer, then to Hanley's funeral parlor. Your mom is bringing your car to Hanley's for you. Can you be ready in half an hour?"
"Well, yeah, sure. I'll be ready," I said, wondering why I had to be dragged through all the decisions. I mean, couldn't I just be allowed to go to the funeral. I didn't have anything else to do; maybe they were just picking me up for their own convenience sake. I knew Fiore's office and the funeral parlor were both in Manchester, it was probably easier for George and Betty to come and get me first. I did want my car too. I missed my baby.
"Justin, wear the black suit in your closet. I bought it at Regal's. I had it altered to the same size of the pants you had in the closet. I hope it fits. Try it on right now and call me back if it doesn't. OK? Good," Betty said. She does that, asks you a question and then answers it for you too.
"OK, I'll do that right after we hang up. I'll call you right back," I said politely.
"OK, do it now. Call me right back. Bye." Betty repeated her direction and hung up.
I stood there in the kitchen, wearing my boxers, staring at the dining room table. The kitchen and dining room were adjoining. When my grandfather built the house, a wall separated them; at some point he removed the wall and made it one big room. The kitchen had a vinyl floor, and the dining room was carpeted. I looked to the chairs at the table. I could see Grams at her chair and Gramps at his. I missed them so much.
I went to my bedroom and tried the suit on. It fit me fine. I checked myself out in the mirror I had next to my bedroom door. I looked at myself in the mirror, really looked at myself. I looked at my face. Who was that guy, I wondered? For the first time in my life I realized as many times as I had looked into a mirror, I had never really "looked" at me. Thoughts flooded my mind. I began to cry again. The phone ringing disturbed me.
"Hello?" I said, between my sobs.
"Does it fit? For crying out loud, I told you to call me right back," Betty yelled into the phone at me.
"Yes, it fits." Click, I hung up. "Bitch", I thought.
I looked at the clock on the wall in the kitchen; it read 10:45. I had stood staring into my mirror and crying for almost fifteen minutes; no wonder she was mad, but she could have been a little more sensitive. I had to hurry; George would be upset if I weren't ready when they got to the house to pick me up. I only had fifteen minutes; it usually takes me twenty to do my shower and dress.
I had just finished dressing and gone into the front room when I saw George and Betty's Honda coming up the drive. The house sits up on a hill and has a three hundred-foot gravel driveway. Woods surround the house on all sides of its green lawn. There are a total of three acres of property the house sits on; one and a half are woods. I remember when I was little thinking it was something like out of a fairy tale. I walked outside to meet my aunt and uncle. Heaven forbid I make them get out in that rain.
"Good morning, Justin. Did you sleep all right?" George greeted me as I took my place in the back seat.
"Morning, yes, thank you for asking. How are you both doing?" I greeted them and inquired.
"Fine, Justin. How do you think I'm doing? I mean, I just lost my parents. I'm upset. Aren't you?" Betty said in her usual loud voice.
"Of course, I am," I said and didn't feel like going into any more detail. I mean, Betty never listens anyway; she hears what she wants.
"Justin, does the suit fit?" George asked, trying to lighten up the conversation, I imagined.
"Yeah, thanks. What do I owe you?" I asked.
"Oh, we got it from the estate; Betty's the executor of the will. It was your Grandmother's wish that all her children and grandchildren be provided with church clothes at either of their funerals. It was in the will."
"That sounds like Grams, she always wanted us to look nice. I remember every Easter, Christmas, and Thanksgiving she would take us to buy clothes. Remember, Betty?" I said.
"Yeah, too bad you weren't here Thanksgiving or Christmas. While you were gallivanting around the countryside making poor Mommy so upset, the rest of us were here. Oh yeah, I put your Christmas presents under their bed. You have four boxes, still wrapped," Betty said, with only one breath taken.
I endured the rest of the ride in silence. I wasn't going to respond to her last comment. I owed her no excuses. If I said anything, it would not have been nice. George saved me by turning the radio up.
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Well, that's it for now. What is going to happen? I know but won't tell. You'll just have to return to find out. I want to thank you all for your kind e-mails and instant messages. If you feel so inclined, you may send me more. I love hearing from you all. You keep me grounded. My e-mail address is Justin69SK@aol.com
Thanks, Ed, for all you do.