A Sparrow for Job

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

Present day. December 13, 2018. Bleeden, Texas

I wish I could say I didn’t see this day coming. I wish I could say I’d never had nightmares about my father chasing me with a knife through our dilapidated house. I try to keep from lying if I can help it. I had no doubt this—or something very much like it—was bound to happen eventually. It wasn’t a matter of if, but of when.

“I hate being right all the time,” I mutter and then wince at the pain it causes.

I’ve been waiting to die since the first time my dad’s meaty fist connected with my face. And I have to admit that there have been many times over the past eighteen years I would have welcomed death with open arms.

Despite the pain, I run out into the cold night air. A shack retreats behind me, not quickly enough, the only home I’ve ever known. Though I’m bleeding from several cuts and stab wounds, I feel like I can breathe for the first time in my life. The stifling fear that presses down on me day in and day out is suddenly lifted. I take a deep breath, letting the cool, winter air burn my raw throat and fill my aching lungs. The sensation of the air is sharp and momentarily causes me to forget about my injuries, reminding me I’m alive. Despite the odds, I’m still breathing. I don’t think he is chasing me, but I do not slow my pace.

I pass house after house, knowing with each step I increase the distance between myself and the evil that has surrounded me since the day I was born. I never thought I would escape. I thought that house would become my tomb.

Several blocks later, I reach a gas station. My vision is becoming blurred. The world swims in front of my eyes. I try to wipe the blood from my face but more takes its place. Pain is everywhere. I don’t even know how many times I’ve been cut, stabbed. My father is usually lazy until he isn’t. Then he becomes quite motivated.

My mom has been gone for two days now. When she didn’t return the first night, my father’s twelve-pack-a-day habit became a case and then another. I’ve always wondered where he got the money for alcohol. Funds for silly things like food and clothing, you know, the frivolous things in life, are never available. But there’s always beer money. Anyway, the increased intake of booze caused my father’s usually lovely disposition to change into something rather violent. It has been most unpleasant since then.

That was sarcasm, if you weren’t sure. Although if I have to explain it, it’s not near as gratifying, so please try and keep up, which shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ve been stabbed and losing blood for several blocks now; my brain isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders.

“Ma’am, ma’am. What the hell?”

I hear a voice from somewhere far off. I try to turn toward it and trip over my feet. I fall, expecting more pain. But before I can face-plant, two strong hands grab my arms. This, too, causes pain, but I don’t think its severity is as intense as what the asphalt would have caused me. I sway and right myself.

Germs. Infection. I learned about them in science class. I laugh out loud. I don’t think I should be worried about infection right now, yet I am. Knowing Darrel’s penchant for cleanliness, at least I can trust the blade he cut me with was sterile. Sarcasm again. More likely he sliced me with the same knife he used on the raw chicken the day before. That can’t be good, right? Raw chicken means salmonella. Salmonella. Even the word sounds dirty. Sal, Sal, Sal, and Mona. Sounds like an Italian pimp and his dirty w***e, Mona. She brings salmonella wherever she goes. I giggle. Giant raw chickens, some wearing zoot suits and giant feather hats and others in miniskirts, appear before my sight. They march in a line. No, they dance. It’s a conga line, a raw chicken conga line.

My head hurts. Should it hurt? I didn’t get stabbed in the head.

Can you get salmonella from a contaminated knife wound, or is it something you only get if you eat the raw chicken? I feel like that’s something they should put on the package of chicken. “Warning: Women who are pregnant or breastfeeding shouldn’t get stabbed with a raw chicken knife.” I’m not pregnant. Am I? No, I’m a virgin. At least I was last time I checked.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?”

A deep voice. I blink and try to focus. A man’s face. Eyes. Kind eyes. He’s oldish, older than my father, but not geriatric. I hope he doesn’t stab me. Oldish people can stab, too. At least he’s not a chicken pimp.

“I need help.” I hear someone say using my voice.

“I’d have to agree,” the man says. “My name is Henry. My wife is a nurse at the hospital. Can I drive you there?”

A voice in the back of my mind. Never accept rides from someone you don’t know. Is that my mother? No, couldn’t be. Too motherly. Must be the voice of a teacher. One of the many who took pity on me over the years. Never take candy from a stranger. She probably told me that, too. Also, sound advice. But I don’t think it applies when you’ve been stabbed with a salmonella chicken knife.

I nod and the effort makes my head swim. “Yes, a ride,” I say. The exertion of the words proves too much. I slump forward and there is darkness.

I hear the sound of my alarm beeping. That’s weird. My alarm doesn’t beep, it plays music. And why are their people in my bedroom? I try to open my eyes but they refuse. As I take a deep breath, I feel a sharp pain in my stomach, and the memories come flooding back in like a tidal wave. Darrel, the knife, running, salmonella, chicken pimps and hoes, the man on the street. I must be in a hospital. That would explain the beeping.

I redouble my efforts, and my eyes finally crack open. Some jackass has been rubbing my corneas with sandpaper while I was asleep. I blink several times. Eventually, I manage to produce enough tears to clear my vision. The bright, fluorescent lights above me cause my head to hurt, or maybe they’ve simply brought to the forefront the pain that was already there. Regardless, it sucks.

I try to sit up, but pain flies like arrows through my abdomen. Involuntarily, a gasp escapes. “Note to self, do not move again,” I say as I try to breathe through the pain, fully aware that I sound like a dog in Lamaze class.

“Glad to see you awake, Sparrow James.” A nurse walks up next to the bed. “But attempting to get up would likely lead to you falling on your rear, which might cause a few staples to pull loose. Best stay where you are for the moment. I’m Suzy, your nurse this evening.”

“A man brought me here,” I say, my voice hoarse and scratchy.

“That would be my Henry.” She nods and smiles. Her tone is foreign to me. I’m so used to my mother speaking of Darrel with disdain. Forgive me for calling him Darrel. Sometimes, the “f” word is just too hard for me to associate with the man. “It’s a good thing he came across you. That cut on your stomach was deep, as was the one on your face. The doc got them sewed up, but he’s going to talk to you about seeing a plastic surgeon for the one on your face.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your school ID was in your back pocket.”

Would it be weird to say I still carry around my school ID, despite having already graduated, so the police will be able to easily identify my body? Yeah, you’re right, that’s weird, so I’ll just keep that tidbit to myself.

The words plastic surgery aren’t encouraging. I wonder what I look like, probably the bride of Frankenstein. And, unfortunately, there’s nothing to be done about it. Along with clothes and food, health insurance is another one of those luxuries my family can’t really afford. Who’s going to be paying for my current hospital stay? I have no idea.

“I know you’ve just woken up, but can you tell me how you got those knife wounds? The police have already been here, but they will be back to question you. We’re obligated to call them when someone comes in who looks like the victim of a crime. I’m doubting that you just had a mishap with an Edward Scissorhands costume. Do you remember what happened?”

“The man who attacked me doesn’t look anything like Johnny Depp. It was my father.” I feel like I should be more upset about the fact that the man who supplied some of my DNA tried to kill me, but I’m not. As I said before, it had only been a matter of time. Or maybe I’m just in shock. Perhaps, given some time to really think about what’s happened, I will collapse into a wailing heap. But, God, I really hope not. Crying is the worst.

Suzy’s hand raises to her mouth as her eyes widen. “Why did he attack you? Where was your mother?”

“Drunken rage. She left two days ago,” I answer. “She hasn’t been back since. And I don’t expect her anytime soon.”

She smiles, but I see the worry in her eyes. “I’m going to have to let the police know you’re awake. You’ll have to tell them what happened.”

I nod. “I will tell them, but I’m eighteen,” I rush to say. “They can’t put me in the foster care system.” This was the reason I hadn’t run away before. My parents were bad, but at least they weren’t strangers. I didn’t want to be put in the system. Better the devil you know. Isn’t that how the saying goes? But I turned eighteen yesterday. Now I am free. Finally.

“Okay, then,” she says, nodding before examining my I.V. “I’ve got other patients I need to check on, but I’ll swing by later and see how you’re doing.”

“Thanks.” My voice is a whisper.

Twenty minutes later, just as I was beginning to nod off again, two uniformed officers knock on the door frame.

“Miss James, can we come in?” one asks.

“Sure,” I reply. I don’t care if they come in. But even if I did, it’s not like I can say, ‘You know what, officers, I think I’ll just pass on the whole interrogation thing. On your way out, could you ask the nurse to get me a Jell-O please?’ Pretty sure that wouldn’t go over too well.

“I’m Detective Cutter and this is Officer Hale. We need to ask you some questions about what happened this evening.”

“Alright.”

“Tell us how you got stabbed?”

“My dad. He was mad at me.”

“Your father stabbed you?” Officer Cutter asks with raised eyebrows.

“Yup.”

“What’s his name?”

“Darrel Douglas.”

“Where did this take place?”

“At our house.”

“You live there with your father?”

“Yup.”

“What’s that address?”

“6662 Tiller Lane.”

The officer pauses and leans his head over as he presses the button on the microphone attached to his shoulder. “I need two units to head to 6662 Tiller Lane. Subject is Darrel Douglas, involved in a stabbing. Be advised the resident should be considered armed and dangerous.”

He looks back at me and begins taking notes again. “Was anyone else present?”

“No.” I felt like I should say, ‘It was Darrel, with the salmonella knife in the conservatory.’

Officer Cutter makes some notes in his pad before looking at me again. “Was there some sort of argument or something that instigated the attack?”

If being an asshole is considered something, then yes. “He doesn’t have a pleasing disposition on a good day, but he’s been drinking since my mom left a couple of days ago,” I say.

“Had they been fighting a lot recently? Was he physically abusive to her? Is that why she left?” He fires one question after another and my head begins to throb.

I laugh, though it hurts my head even more. “Fighting a lot recently? My parents’ only form of communication is yelling at one another. Both of them are abusive. Who knows why she left. I guess she finally got fed up with him.”

“She didn’t tell you where she was going?”

I chuckle again and shake my head. “She never wanted me in the first place.” My voice isn’t sad. I was only stating facts. I came to terms a long time ago with the fact that my parents were selfish to their very core. They felt no love for me or anyone else. The only reason they kept me was for the financial assistance my mom received as a single parent since she and Darrel weren’t married. And Darrel stuck around because Cheryl, my mom, couldn’t exactly throw him out as she was dependent on him.