The Road to Somewhere Else

• A Road to Somewhere Else came out of nowhere, nothing personally witnessed or experienced, written in its entirety over four intense days and nights in the early 2000’s. Mike’s story has never left my mind all these years, a tale that continues to haunt me . . . with no clear venue but this to bring it to light.

 Partial magical fantasy is inserted into a grim tale of a child abused and neglected. Mike is a victim, along with his mother, of a man’s brutality. Mike thinks of him only as The Monster, and so that is who he is in this story.

The Story

 Mike’s story begins as he sits cross-legged in a puddle of sunshine in his room, a pad of drawing paper on his lap and a cluster of colored pencils scattered on the floor beside him. Mike is remembering a time when Mom and Nana loved his drawings, displayed them on the refrigerator door, a long time ago. He is just about to make the first line of drawing when . . .

 Mike cocked his head toward the door.  He listened. The pencil wavered between his fingers; a cloud settled over the sun, gray light filtering into the tiny room. Clump-galump! Clump-galump! The Monster was coming!

 Mike frantically gathered the scatter of colored pencils and scrambled to his feet. He shoved the paper and pencils under the pillow on his bed, flung himself over them, burrowed his face and held his breath. He slid one hand under the pillow and clutched the bundle of pencils. They felt warm and tingly in his fist. He lay very still.

 With a rattle of the knob and screech of hinges, the door swung open. It was there in the doorway. One step. Two steps. The Monster was in the room.            

“Humph,” It said. “You better not be playing possum, boy.” It waited. It stepped away and the door clicked shut. Mike took a deep, shaky breath.

 RattleScreechWHUMP! The door flew open. Mike whimpered and burrowed deeper. It was there, watching and waiting. Finally, as if satisfied, It went away.

 Mike’s whimper grew to a sob. He took a long quavering breath. He hated being scared, but he couldn’t help it. He turned his head to the side and a single tear rolled down his nose and disappeared into the pillow. He opened his eyes and blinked. The room was bathed in sunlight again, but it didn’t quite reach the dark, gloomy corners.

 Mike slipped the other hand under the pillow and felt the smooth clean paper tablet. Relieved and exhausted, Mike relaxed. His eyelids felt heavy. They drooped and closed. This time he wasn’t playing possum.

 Mike is awakened by a tapping and his door opening, his mother telling him quiet time is over and it’s time to get washed up and ready for dinner. With confusion, because he never falls asleep during quiet time, Mike gets up in a room dimmed by evening, the sunlight gone.

 Mike gathers the pencils and drawing pad from under his pillow, tucks them safely into the small chest next to his bed. Maybe tomorrow, he thinks. The pencils rainbow of colors glisten at him as he pushes the drawer closed. If I had a flashlight . . . Oh, well. He sighs and slumps his shoulders inside his baggy t-shirt.

 In the bathroom, Mike avoids the mirror where he would see dark circles around his eyes in the flickering fluorescent light. He carefully scrubs his hands and nails for the inspection that will come. He puts the soap back just so, folds the towel neatly over the towel bar.

 “Hey! Get down here! Dinner’s on!”

 Mike jumped as the voice leaped up the stairs. He fast walked down the hall and gripped the bannister. Each downward step led closer to where the monstrous shadow loomed at the bottom of the stairs. Mike sidled around the bottom bannister post to the far side and ducked around the corner, almost in time.

 THUNK! A hard knuckle thump caught the back of Mike’s head.

 “Whatcha doin’ up there, Boy? Lookin’ at your purty little face in the mirror? Huh? Pickin’ your purty little nose? Huh?” THUNK!

 “Leave him be,” Mom said. “There’s no hurry. I don’t have it all on the table yet.”

 “Well, get a move on, woman. There’s hungry menfolk here.” It barked a short, harsh laugh. “One man, anyway. I’m not sure what this other thing is.” THUNK!

 The man Mike only thinks of as the Monster grabs and painfully twists Mike’s wrists to inspect his hands for cleanliness. It smacks Mike’s hand away when he reaches for the mashed potatoes spoon with “Wait for your mother!” as he proceeds to pile food on his own plate. Mike longs for a meal when he isn’t scared, his stomach doesn’t hurt.

 The Monster sneers and makes fun of the gift Mike’s Nana sent him from an art museum in the city, the drawing paper and colored pencils, all while gulping and spewing food as he talks and eats. Mike worries the art supplies might be found and taken from him.

 With one final WHAP! to the back of Mike’s head, the Monster tells him to bring his dessert to him in front of the TV.  Mike hurries to gulp down the last of his supper while his mom cuts pie, adds a large scoop of ice cream. Mike wraps his chicken drumstick in his napkin and puts it in his shorts pocket.        

“Go on outside before it gets too dark, Mikey. I’ll take care of dessert,” Mom said.

 When he didn’t answer or move, she made a small frown. They stood looking at each other in silence until she looked down and away, shook her head.

 “Go on, now, Mikey.”

 “I’m not Mikey. I’m just Mike.” He stood a little straighter and went out the back door.

 In the scruffy back yard, Mike hears the shouts and laughter of neighborhood children he’s not allowed to play with. Out past the broken swing set and a three-wheeled wagon, he notices the garden shed is unlocked, the padlock hanging on the hasp. With the memory of those bright pencils and white paper, Mike takes a chance, slips into the shed and there, an old army green flashlight sits upright on a shelf. Standing on a paint can, he barely reaches it, tucks it under his shirt, into the waist of his shorts.

 Balancing on the three-wheeled wagon, Mike enjoys eating his drumstick in peace. Licking his fingers he almost tosses the bone into yard until he remembers what happened when one of his toy cars, lost in the grass, was run over by the lawnmower. No, the bone gets wrapped in the napkin to go in the trash.

 As he goes back to the house in the fading light, he sees the first star shining over the peak of the roof, and makes his wish:

“Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight.

I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.

Save me, Nana! Please come save me!”

 Bath time was the best time of Mike’s day – a steamy tub, a locked door, and toy boats his Nana had given him. Every part of his body relaxed in that safe time and place, until . . . the tap-tap-tap and his mother telling him it was time to get out now.

 “Yes, ma’am.” Mike shivered goosebumps in the cool air. He carefully dried each boat and lined them across the toilet tank.

He winced as he dried himself. He couldn’t see it, didn’t need to see the big bruise on his back. The Monster had a big fist. The bruise would go away soon, but there were other marks that would not. Mike didn’t look at the ones on his chest and arms. He never looked at the small white scars on his body. Most of the time he could forget about them and how they got there . . . if he didn’t look. 

Pajamas on, Mike scampers to his room, removes the boats and flashlight from his bundled clothes, shoves them under his pillow. With a deep breath, he gathers his courage to go downstairs to say goodnight. It is something he dreads, but it is one of the Rules. There is never a good excuse for breaking a Rule and there is always a price to pay if it happens.

In the darkened living room the flickering TV turns the Monster’s smile into a wicked leer. Mike’s mother looks at Mike with what is almost the Mom he remembers, until she pushes him to the big man sprawled on the sofa. The Monster heaves himself upright, grabs Mike into a choke hold. The knuckle-rub on Mike’s head begins as if friendly, but the arm squeezes tighter, the rub gets harder and harder. “GRRRR!” With his face pulled into the broad chest, Mike can barely breathe; his head throbbing pain by the time those big hands grip his shoulders and hold him away. Mike tries squeezing his eyes tight enough to hold the tears, but they slip out, down his cheeks. 

“Ahhhh! What a namby-pamby!” The meaty hands pushed hard and then let go so fast that Mike fell backwards over the coffee table, his eyes opening wide with surprise. He tried to catch himself with his arms flung wide. Magazines sailed across the floor and his elbow hit the blue glass bowl of plastic fruit. Mike and the bowl hit the floor with a thud and a crash of broken glass.

“No!” Mom cried out.

Mike didn’t wait to find out if she cried out for him or the bowl. He scrambled upright, raced for the stairs and his room.

Panting and sobbing, with more strength than he knew he had, Mike began to shove his heavy chest of drawers in front of his door. Inch by inch he pushed. He turned around and shoved it with his back. It moved a few more inches. Again, he pushed as hard as his arms could. There! He did it!

Mike sank to his knees next to the scrapes the chest had made on the floor. Gulping in great gasps of air, he touched one of the scrapes with a shaky hand. Those marks would mean really, really big trouble.

Trembling from the effort, Mike crawled across the room to his bed, pulled himself up and sat on the edge. As he reached to turn off the bedside lamp, a jar filled with seashells from Nana, tears filled his eyes and turned the shells shimmery so they seemed to be floating behind the greenish glass.

“Oh, Nana, I miss you so much,” he sobbed.

 In exhaustion and fear, huddled under his bed sheet, Mike begins to be soothed by the nighttime sounds drifting in his open window . . . twitters and chirps of insects and bedding-down birds, a dog barking. His eyelids begin to droop.

Thumpata-thump. Thumpata-thump.

Mike opens his eyes wide. The door knob rattled. Mike held his breath. He waited for the awful sound of the door banging the chest, what would happen next.

“No! Stay out of there!” It bellowed. “The brat better be asleep!”

“I’m just going to . . .” Mom whined.

 SLAP! Her whimper and footsteps ran down the hall, larger feet pounding after her; a door slammed; the growly voice rumbled. Mike wished he’d never hear that voice ever again. He opened his eyes and blew out his breath.

 Remembering the flashlight under his pillow, Mike fought to stay awake until everything was quiet. Counting made him sleepy, so he sang a song three times in his head.

In the quiet dark, Mike clicked on the flashlight, squatted in front of the small chest and pulled open the drawer. A streak of colored light soared through the crack. Mike sat back with a whump! As he peered inside, a glow of colors dazzled his eyes!

Opening the drawer wider, the pencil colors glimmered with magical light! The pad of paper had the shine of moonlight on fresh snow, filling the room with light!

“Wowww! Nana sent me magic!”

With the first pencil, Mike creates a brilliant cloudless blue sky, perfect for soaring birds. Next, a brilliant yellow morning sun streams warm summer sunlight. A hill of spring green grass, perfect for rolling down, grows from the green pencil, with a meadow for romping barefoot, for flowers and butterflies and . . .

Bam! A door slammed. Poof! The brilliance faded. Only the flashlight, lying on the floor, gave light.

I knew it couldn’t really be magic, Mike thought, closing his eyes, pulling the paper close to his chest. In his sadness, he rocked, humming a wordless tune, all while his heart was breaking.

The toilet flushed and a door banged shut.

Mike’s chest grew warm; sunshine crept beneath his eyelids and he opened them to that perfectly marvelous day held in his own two hands!

The brown pencil created a tree . . . one for climbing, for a treehouse, for birds’ nests. Green leaves rippled in a breeze that called for a kite, with an orange jack-o-lantern face, bobbing on an invisible string. Under the tree sat a red wagon, with all four wheels, filled to the brim with crisp red apples for one of Nana’s apple pies!

One colored pencil remained.

Purple. What did Mike know of purple? Nana! In her purple jacket, of course! Mike drew his Nana at the top of the hill, arms outstretched to gather him into the best big hug. A beautiful picture, all done. He wrote “By Mike” in one corner.

Wriggling his fingers, Mike tensed. A small noise in the hall, a door quietly closing, a floorboard creaking. The door knob rattled. Someone was there! Mike gasped as the door cracked open. The chest! In front of the door!

Bump. Then another bump-bump.

“Mikey?” she whispered. “Mikey, wake up. What’s wrong with your door?”

Mike froze.

She bumped and pushed.

“Mikey!” she called softly, bump-bumping harder.

“Gawd almighty, what’s goin’ on out there?” It bellowed. 

Oh, no! Mike scrambled up, dropping the pad. He looked at the breeze in the tree, the kite flying, at Nana waving from the hilltop.

Wait. Nana was waving?

“What in hell is goin’ on? It’s the middle of the damn night, woman!” It growled.

“I just wanted to check on him. I can’t get the door open.” Her voice was whiney like when she looked scared.

Oh, Nana, Mike thought. This is going to be very, very bad!

Mike twists this way and that, with no place to hide. He feels sick, throwing up sick. He shivers with the sound of a big wind in his head. It was going to be so mad! So mean and hurting mad!

 Mike whimpers and whirls. His hands flap like fishes on the ends of his arms. The purple pencil flies from his fingers in a purple flash of light.

BAM! The door hits the chest. Mike reaches out for the purple glow as it falls. He drops to his knees, clutching the purple of Nana.

Scra-a-a-a-pe! The door moves the heavy chest.

The safety of Nana’s arms reach out for him. Mike can almost smell her lilac scent. He stares at the pencil.

 If I had a road, he thought. If I had a road I could run to her. We could run away to somewhere else!

 Surrounded by a warm purple glow, Mike drew a road, right to Nana’s open arms and the terrible roar faded to a whisper of a summer breeze.

 With a bellowing roar, the chest slammed into the wall; a brutal dark shadow loomed across the floor.

 “Don’t hurt him! Please, don’t hurt him!”

 The flipped switch sent a glare over the pitiful room . . . dingy chest, scrapes gouged in the floor, a raggedy blanket tumbled on the bed, years-old smudges marked the walls.

The brute of a man stubbed his toe on the edge of the door. Howling rage, he grabbed the foot of the bed, flung it aside. The flashlight rolled toward the corner, beam dim and failing. A drawing pad lay nearby, open to a picture drawn by a little boy.

 He looked under the bed, stalked to the closet. “Grrrrr!” He tossed clothing and toys aside.

 “When I find you, Boy, you’ll be dead meat!”

 The woman crept behind him, arms wrapped about herself, bewildered by the room so sadly, strangely empty of the missing boy. With trembling hands, she picked up the drawing by her son and stared at the green hill, at the two figures . . . a woman in purple with curly hair, a boy in pajamas, holding hands at the end of a scribbling purple road.

 The man snatched away the pad, glanced at it, then flung it against the wall.

 She watched the page of drawing as it fell. The two figures seemed to be waving as they fell to the floor and lay still.

 Finis . . . almost

 “How did you know, Nana?” Mike asked, safe at last.

 “It’s a long story, Mike, about a wonderful place, and magic,” Nana replied.

 “I know about magic now. Tell me the rest, please.”

 Final Finis . . . Perhaps

"You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension - a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone." Opening, Seasons 4 and 5 of The Twilight Zone

Where is Rod Serling when you really need him? Where is The Twilight Zone?!