Storymania - Truth Need Be Hidden by Angel Of Hope

Truth Need Be Hidden
Angel Of Hope

Freddie’s hair reeked of blood and banana peels as his face was being smashed into scattered trash by Jacobi.
“I never said your girlfriend was a bimbette! I swear! Chill!”
Freddie began sputtering with puss from his busted lip dribbling down his right cheek. Jacobi just continued punching, slapping, beating until his knuckles were sore from the hard impact against Freddie’s right cheekbone. He could almost hear his fist grinding into Freddie’s bones. The sky was dark and thick fog made the scene invisible from the neighborhood. His assurance about getting away with what he was doing encouraged Jacobi even more and made him more violent; he kicked the imbecile hard away from the dumpster.
“Yeah, schmooze! Who you callin’ bimbette, now?! You better not talk about my girl again! Hear me, barfbag?!”
The victim’s consciousness was slipping away, and he could no longer comprehend what his attacker was yelling at him. His head rolled from side to side, and his eyes slowly began to focus on a peculiar wooden chest hidden behind the dumpster’s “Tampa, FL Waste System” sign. Jacobi saw that his punching bag was no longer in as much pain as he was hoping for. He followed Freddie’s gaze and saw the chest of interest. He became intrigued as well. He didn’t care about beating Freddie up anymore. That job had been done.
“Alright, dweeb. Get your useless self outta here. Nobody needs you, you waste of space.
It took Freddie all the strength and motivation he had left to push himself off the pebble-covered ground. He dragged his legs away from Jinx Wink Middle School and began the extremely painful hour walk home.
Jacobi watched the bleeding body limp away until it was out of sight. He quickly got on his hands and knees and tried to grab the shabby handle of the chest. It ripped off when he tugged at it. Lying flat on the gravel, his skinny six pack pressed down against the rough surface, he groaned and grimaced from the discomfort. He reached for the chest and lifted it by its base. The chest was much lighter than Jacobi expected, and its lid came off quite easily. Inside, there was a single sheet of paper: numbers and a name on someone’s criminal record.

I used to know myself before
My dad was forced out our door.
Arrested for manslaughter,
He was put to trial.
He made me lie to protect him
As he stayed in absolute denial.
Admit the murder, he would not.
Confess by order, he should not,
Or so he thought.
A chest of evidence lies underneath a dumpster
Sheltered from rain, snow and thunder.
Sometimes the truth shall be told,
But now I must keep my father from scold.
Secrets be held, be silent.
Confession must stay strictly forbidden.
May my father stay a tyrant
As his truth need be hidden? – Fabio Fernandez
My poem was carried in a hidden compartment in my backpack at all times. I hated my father for who he was. I hated the bruises that colored my tan skin. During class, I’d leave my backpack right outside the door, hoping that some nosy kid going to the bathroom would go through it and find the poem of my issues. I wanted my ruthless, good-for-nothing dad in jail. I had had no such luck in trapping a boy who stuck his fingers into funny-looking backpacks. I still waited.

It was morning, and the skies were more blue than usual. The Florida sun wasn’t sweltering on my cul-de-sac, and bunny-shaped clouds littered the baby blue horizon. The view of that morning was absolutely breathtaking, but the burst of beauty seemed dangerous in a way. I knew that something memorable was going to happen that day, but I had no clue how I knew. I walked to school, as I did everyday: with a loose jersey that was five sizes too big for me, colored parachute pants, and clean Vans. I got to Jinx and was walking towards my first class when I was called down to the principal’s office. I knew something was wrong: the voice on the intercom was definitely not the principal’s, as it was supposed to be. I waited before starting to walk slowly to the main office. I got there and saw my enemies: Jacobi and Kyleson. Between their hands was the chest. I fainted.
I woke up to kicks and slaps.
“Get up, dipstick! Get up before I beat the phat outta you!”
Kyleson’s threats were a match for my pain, and I got up after a few more seconds of excruciating pain. Jacobi moved close to my face, letting me smell his breath of cigarettes, the grease of his dirty and long hair, the rusty metal of the chains on his leather jacket. Kyleson’s snickers could be heard clearly in the background.
“Yeah, that’s right. This ain’t bogue. This ain’t no psych. We got yo daddy’s precious, little chest. Hey, you listenin’?”
I looked at his young, scruffy face through a swollen eye. Yes, I was listening. I wanted him to stop talking.
“Hey, your dad’s a killer, huh? Answer me, Fab. Did yo daddy kill a woman? Did he get away with it? Answer me.”
I choked out a raspy, “Yes.” I could taste throw up in the back of my throat.
“I’ll make you a deal, kay, buddyboy? You get me a lil’ money, and I let your daddy go. $2000 or your paps gonna end up best buddying my old man at Jessup.”

Some kids told me that my parents called the popo that night, because I didn’t go home. If my dad saw that I had been beaten, he would have felt no sympathy. He never did, and I knew through experience that if he saw how I hadn’t fought back, that heartless scumbag would get his kicks outta hurting me even more. I slept in a park, or should I say I cried in a park. How was I supposed to get $2000? Did I even want to back him up again?
The answer was no. I was done with being scared to go home. My mom hated him and wanted him locked up for killing her sister, but every time she tried to get him out of the house, he would pull his gun out of his waistband and threaten to shoot her. I could take care of my moms; I could get him away from her and with the criminals he belonged to. I love my momma and my lil’ sis. My “worst fear” once tried to suffocate her when he was wasted and fried. I made the best decision of my life and didn’t even try to get Jacobi the money he wanted.

He got away by getting on a plane to another country the day he was supposed to spend his first day in jail. He forgot his record at home, though, and I hid it at Jinx. My little sis, my moms and I dreaded the day he would come back, and when he did, he hurt us even worse than before. He got away with stabbing an innocent mother twice in the face, four times in the chest, and drowning her in a plugged sink. He must’ve felt pretty powerful. Not once did he mention his criminal record, probably because he was too happy and relieved to think straight anymore. He got a little too happy just a little too soon.

It was lunchtime at Jinx, and I tried to find Jacobi. With over 800 middle school students and the nuisance of a sun creating blind spots in peoples’ eyes with its bright beams, it was hard to find a specific person. Then, I saw him with the 7th graders. He only chilled with them when he wanted to spend time with his chick. My best friend, Freddie, and I secretly called her the school bimbette. She was a total ditz, fer sher fo sho. Jacobi’s arm was across her stomach. There was a bump. What?! Jacobi got the bimbette knocked up! That’s why he wanted money!
I felt intense pity for Jacobi. I thought I had problems when he knocked up some young chick. What if his parents didn’t know? What if they discovered his shenanigans and abused him like my dad would? If only I had $2000 to hand him. If only my dad wasn’t such a fruit and actually had a good paying job. If only he wasn’t a heartless killer with a sadistic mind. I hated my dad more than ever when I imagined the type of things Jacobi could be facing for getting a girl preggars. I didn’t want to tell him that I wasn’t gonna give him the dough. I wanted to help him, but what could I do?
Slowly, I walked up to him. My throat started to dry, and I knew I was starting to choke. I got to his table and could not possibly speak so I just tapped his thick, sweaty shoulder. He gave me a grin that quickly disappeared when I shoved my hands, bare palms up, in front of me for him to see. And he did see: he saw the scariest thing he could imagine. He saw absolutely nothing. Not a single penny rested in my palms. I could almost hear his heart break, and he turned to his girl and started crying, sobbing into her chest. She held him like he was her child and stroked his hair so lovingly. She, then, raised his head by pushing up his chin with two delicate, pale fingers and looked straight into his murky eyes.
“It’s okay, baby. I love you.”
Her words touched me. Her faint smile, the way she looked at Jacobi, how gently she cradled his face in her hands – it all touched me. I had never seen anything so beautiful. Then, she looked at me with one arm still around Jacobi’s back, took one of my hands and said the most soothing words known to mankind: “It’s okay.”
Still, I was ashamed and felt guilty for not being able to help with their baby. I looked down and shoved my hands into my pockets. I felt a wrinkled piece of paper and took it out; it was an old one dollar bill that had been washed one too many times in my parachute pants. I knew what to do with it.
“Hey, buddyboy.”
Jacobi wiped his face with the sleeve of his girlfriend’s Duran Duran T-shirt and looked at me. I put one hand on his knee and opened his fingers with my other one. The dollar bill drifted from my palm into his. He smiled, not a wicked and sly smile but a real and genuine one.
“Thank you. How can I show you how grateful I am?”
So many ideas came to me: don’t pick on me or Freddie anymore, don’t push my friends into lockers anymore, don’t beat up on younger and smaller kids anymore. But there was one thing that needed to be done ASAP that he could help me with.
“Get my dad locked up and give my moms, my little sister and me a safe home.”
“You sure, bro?”
“Fer sher fo sho, Jacobi.”
“Aight. No doubt, yo. Thank you for caring. Really. And don’t worry about me beating up on no one no more, aight? I’m chill. You helped me. Besides, I’ll be too busy with taking care of my baby to pay attention to nerds…”
“Wait, what?”
“Chillax, man. I was playin’.”
He turned to face his girl again and whispered, “I love you so much.”
She wasn’t a bimbette, just a confused kid in Tampa trying to survive through 1987, like me. All was better.