I'm Not From Earth - 6. Six

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Ten years ago, Kenneth Stilles was a loving father.

Back then, he was a gentle, controlled being, and aimed to keep his emotions from showing. So successful he was that it was hard to tell him from happy to sad. He always seemed to be wearing a stern mask, but Rover didn't mind, as his father didn't raise his voice. As a matter of fact, he never talked much, but Rover had been fine with that too.

Rover's mom, Alexandria Stilles did all of the talking, and she was the noisiest in the household. Like a bee, she buzzed around, cracking lame jokes that Rover tried to understand at his age. And she was the only one that could make father smile -- something that always inspired a certain amount of awe amongst the neighbours. She was the sunshine of the household, and although she regularly gave heated lectures, Rover felt as utterly devoted to her as any child should have been.

When she was diagnosed, everything was then destined to change.

It happened fast. There were no long, extended periods of life planning, no nothing. The cancer came, and it took her away within half a year. Rover was five, and couldn't remember much about the time when she passed away. As a matter of fact, when he looked back, he could barely remember anything about Alexandria Stilles. There were vague flashes of smiles, memories of laughter, but there wasn't enough for him to miss her.

Instead, the sadness and anger that Rover felt were for her leaving him with his father.

For awhile, things between Rover and his father were fine. The two short lived years after mother was gone were joyful; short lived though they were. Silent though Kenneth was, he couldn't have better expressed his love. He spoiled his son, bought him many gifts, and brought his uncle over when he ran out of ideas to entertain Rover. When Kenneth went on his business trips, he would take both Rover and Somerset along so that they could explore the wonders Europe, Australia, Asia, and indulge in the luxuries of the hotels. Father never talked much, but he did everything in his power to try to make his son happy. Rover had known this, and felt even more utterly devoted to him than he did to his mother. Looking back, he realized what a fool he had been.

Things turned for the worst after Rover turned seven.

It was on that bright, summer day in a clean hotel that the men came. Rover didn't quite remember which country they were in, but they were just getting ready to go back from a business trip. The luggage was all packed, and his father, upon receiving a phone call, had urged Rover to hide in the closet. So he did, and staying silent, watched as a group of men burst into their room. Too afraid to make a noise, Rover watched through a crack as his father was kicked in the stomach until he coughed up blood.

He never dared to ask who the men were, for everything changed after that. Father's trips took longer, and Rover was no longer taken on them. Somerset was no longer allowed over. They stopped going to church. His mother's pictures were thrown out. Rover was confined to the house, not allowed out other than for football practice and games. Despicable bodyguards were hired to watch Rover's every move. Everything changed so quickly that Rover had barely enough time to adjust, or even understand.

It was ten years ago that Rover confronted his father angrily during Christmas Eve, sick and frustrated with it all, and it was the first beating that he got.

He'll never forget that night. The details were etched into his head like designs on frosted glass, and he remembered everything. The cold, snowy night, the lit fireplace, the number of steps that he counted when he walked up to his father and offered a carefully drawn Christmas card. It was exactly six months after the violent incident. Without sparing even a single glance at it and without a single mumble of a thanks, his father placed it aside on his table and proceeded to file through his papers.

Rover threw a temper tantrum, something that had never happened before. And his father, upon staring for about a minute, drew his hand back and struck his seven year old son, hard enough that his whole body whipped from the impact and crashed into the dining table behind. He then proceeded to beat Rover until he passed out cold on the floor.

It wasn't the actual beating that was so horrific, but the things that Kenneth said when he was bringing his fists and his damned wine bottle down over and over again. The silence that his father once held onto broke, and his cold and laughing threats never stopped throughout the ordeal.

Rover woke the next morning in a pool of his own blood and vomit, and upon climbing to his feet and cradling his broken fingers, discovered that his father had left for yet another business trip. But Rover was no longer angry. He no longer resented his father for those changes. He was scared shit-less, and -- the blows might have altered his mind -- he felt sorry. Sorry for his own spoiled temper, sorry for his father, sorry for the situation he was in. He believed, at that moment, that that it was himself who had driven his father further and further away.

And so, from then on, Rover held onto the silence that his father had neglected and convinced himself that he needed to help his father.

Convinced himself that he needed to see his father smile again. Convinced himself that the beatings were his father's way of letting out steam, and convinced himself that the violence was okay. Convinced himself that years and years worth of this pain was fine. Convinced himself that if he endured it, things will be okay. He worked for his grades and tried out for the swim team, the track team, and joined the football team. He participated in leadership and tried for band. He allowed his father's bodyguards to abstain him from all social outings excepting school related activities. Rover pushed himself in school hard not because he wanted to impress his father or to prove his worth, it was because he thought that if he showed his father that he was the ideal son his father would love him and that whatever pains he had been burdened with would be washed away. Rover sacrificed his own happiness and kept his silence because he loved him.

And now, as Rover ran through the streets of his well-off neighbourhood, he knew, after ten years of that shit, all that love had pretty much rubbed off.

He wondered where Somerset's house was. He had been over a few times, but that was before father had changed, and the years had their toll on Rover's memory. It was a thirty minute drive from home, but how long was that for walking? Was it a left or right at the next set of lights? He stopped at the edge of the block, searching for landmarks, wondering where he was. Everything looked the same in the dark, with or without the streetlights.

A deep purring of a luxurious car roared behind.

Rover didn't need to turn his head to know that his father's guards were in pursuit. He could imagine them, in their dark suits, calloused hands to their earpieces, shaved heads glowing, eyes cold and focused, nothing on their minds but their fat paychecks.

Rover turned to the right, faced the fence of someone's house, planted a foot firmly along its precipice, and hurled himself over effortlessly. He was supposed to be limping in pain from where his father had hit him, but the fear and adrenaline pounding through his limbs was enough to numb everything over and give him that extra strength to keep on running.

His feet pumped in a blur and he was a wildcat, weaving underneath trees and scaling hedges, leaping in between cars when he broke through the backyards of a foreign neighbourhood, climbing stairs of apartments and keeping to the shadows when the city lights grew more and more denser.

There was no thinking. He didn't know where he was going, and he didn't have time to care. All that was on his mind was to get as far away as possible from his father's bodyguards.

He wouldn't go back tonight.

The sound of a raging drum pounded into Rover's ears, strobe lights piercing his vision, and he realized that he had climbed the stairs of the outside of some club. Now, he knew he was far from home. There were no clubs in his neighbourhood -- the area back home was quiet and private. He was in the city now, and that meant he was completely and utterly lost. A single rummage through his pockets and he knew that he had left his cellphone. Forget about searching for Somerset's house now, he might as well just find a quiet place to sleep. It was a good thing that it was June, as the night air was warm and pleasant.

Tall buildings surrounded him, and Rover gazed upwards, marveling at how different things were here. The traffic bantered and blared, neon signs shining with blazing lights of distorted reds, radiant yellows and piercing blues, illuminating the glossy expanses of windows, the black rivers of road and sidewalk and the faces of the crowding civilians making their way far below.

Continuing his way up the rusty staircase, Rover flinched as a flash of deep pain rushed through his side. He gingerly felt the affected area, and brought his fingers up to the meagre light. They were covered in blood. Upon further examination, he found that his whole side was drenched. He had been so focused on running that he didn't even notice this.

How damaged was he? Were his ribs broken? How much blood had he lost?

Run, run, run away.

Step by step, Rover proceeded to climb the metal stairs, determined to make it to the roof. He wouldn't stop now, no matter the pain. Once he was there, he would lie down and sleep, for there he would be safe and sure that no one would bother him. His bodyguards couldn't possibly reach him there, right? There were so many buildings in downtown, and they couldn't have possibly followed his elaborate and wild escape.

He reached the top of the stairs, entering the flat rooftop of the building with a sigh. His head throbbed terribly. But here he was, and he had to make the best of it.

Rover limped over to find a spot to sit himself, moving carefully so not to trip over something in the dark. Something caught the edge of his vision and he froze. His eyes snapped straight ahead, and he squinted at the horizon that was the blackness of the roof and the glowing navy of the night sky, noticing...

Someone balanced on the edge of the roof.

Rover stared for a few seconds, then the figure turned around, facing him, and approached. Even from such a distance, Rover could tell that the figure was very well muscled and tall. Was he a bodyguard? Rover took a step back, his heart back pounding, then yowled when he stumbled and fell flat on his butt. His every instinct told him to get back up and run down the stairs and away, but his legs failed to move, and his arms were powerless. He was captured in a spell that wasn't yet cast. He was petrified and completely unable to think.

Step by step the figure approached, stopping a foot away from Rover. He slowly crouched down, extending a hand in which Rover cowered from. What was he going to do now? Pull out a knife and kill him?

A window from a building to the left opened and a weak flow of light poured down into the stranger's face.

Rover blinked once, feeling all of himself -- all that he was and ever will be -- melt into those slitted eyes of entrancing green.

And in a daze, Rover reached out to take the proffered hand.

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