FITS LIKE A GLOVE
Written by Dan Waltz
Read For FREE here!
Hello,
my name is Megan Renard and this is my story about my older brother. I should
first tell you that I never met him personally, but I feel I know him better
than anyone else he ever knew. “How?” you ask. Oh, I’ll get to that, as for
now, just know I have my ways.
My big brother’s name was Ashton, and
he was very special. Now, if you’re like most people, the minute you here the
word ‘special,’ you automatically assume the ‘mentally challenged.' Not Ashton,
he was a pretty typical kid on the inside. Although, when all was said and
done, he did develop some pretty major mental issues that I wish he’d sought
help for. It was on the outside where Ash had his issues. You see, Ashton was
born with a facial deformity called cleft lip and palate. According to the
doctor, it was a pretty severe case and would require a lot of surgeries over a
period of twenty or more years. His appearance improved with each one, a little
at a time. Well, except for one time, when Mom and Dad fought for days, when
Dad felt that Ashton looked a lot worse than he did before. Mom disagreed at
first, but after a while, she finally gave in, and jokingly suggested, that
maybe he has to look worse before he starts looking better. What do I know? I
wasn’t even born yet, but that kind of made sense to me. After all, whenever I
clean my room, it always looks a lot worse before it looks any better.
Mom and Dad kept Ashton home from
school until he was eight years old. They were afraid of what people would
think, or worse, what they would say after they saw him. They home schooled him
up until then, and I believe it was a good thing they did. In hindsight, I wish
they had continued.
People can be so cruel. Ashton’s first
week of pubic school proved that.
Ashton was teased a lot, and not just
for the way he looked, either. They made fun of how he talked, as well. Mom
called it a speech immm-ped-iment. Sorry, I think I totally botched that word.
I just know that it had something to do with the roof of his mouth. He didn’t
have one, so he had trouble speaking certain words clearly. Okay, that wasn’t
entirely true. Unless you were around him a lot, my brother could be very
difficult to understand. My folks, on the other hand, could understand him just
fine, and so could I. I know, I said we never met, and it’s true, we never
have. It’s complicated.
Ash, oh I’m sorry, Ashton; I call him
Ash for short sometimes. Well, he hid the teasing from Mom and Dad rather well.
He hid it for a long time, years actually. He hid it until the teasing became
too physical to hide. He still tried, though.
It was Mom who noticed it first, then
Dad, after a long period of denial. It seemed Dad always gave Ash the benefit
of the doubt and tried hard to believe all the stories that Ash would bring
home, stories like how he fell one day, and skinned his knees. And how he
tripped the next day, bruising his arms and cheek. The following week he walked
into a door. That one was easy for Dad to believe. He’d done that himself, but
when he did it, it never left a black eye and a bruise, on the opposing side of
his body. The accidents started small, but came frequently—almost daily. Seemed
the larger the accident, the bigger the excuse.
It was the bad limp that Mom really
questioned first. It was when he fell down the stairs at school, or so he said.
Fell or pushed? Just how may times can one fall in a week? He didn’t fall that much at
home? How clumsy can one be? The concerns started to build, but it took an
unbelievable story of a bookcase falling on him in the library, leaving several
bruises and two black eyes, before the first of many school meetings began.
One thing led to another, and soon
Ashton was going to school less and less. He started having severe headaches
and stomach issues. He became sick a lot, but the funny thing was, he’d always
seem to start feeling better shortly after the bus pulled away from the
driveway. It took a while for Mom and Dad to catch on, but they eventually did.
Soon, my parents became more and more
aware, and started looking for things out of the ordinary; like how Ashton’s
friends, as few as they were, started coming around less and less, and how
Ashton’s phone seldom rang anymore. They noticed just how much alone time
he spent in his bedroom—if not there, out in the backyard. It seemed that all
Ashton did anymore was read and draw, which wasn’t a bad thing—he loved doing
both. His drawings were great—far beyond what a 12- year old boy should be able
to do. Mom and Dad were very proud, but also very concerned.
On one of many trips to the doctor,
the doctor noticed how much weight Ashton had lost since his last visit. He
asked him if he’d been feeling all right. It took some prodding but he finally
answered, “I’ve been feeling drained, lately; tired,” he said. Come to find
out, that bullies had been taking his lunch money at school. And, when Ashton
took a lunch, sometimes they would take that, too. When they didn’t take it
from him, they would smash it with their fist. Sometimes they’d throw it hard
against the cafeteria wall, then laugh and walk away. Did I mention people
could be cruel? I did, didn’t I?
As if that wasn’t enough, Ashton
sometimes would hide a couple pairs of extra underwear in his book bag, in case
of emergencies or should I say, accidents. There were times he was too afraid to
use the school bathrooms. He knew once in there, he would be trapped, with no
way out. If no one were around to guard the door, he just wouldn’t go in.
Sometimes, the bullies would hide inside and grab you as you walked by. They
would drag you in and hold you up by your feet over the toilet bowl and lower
your head down inside, while they flushed it. They called that ‘a swirly.’ And,
if you were dragged into the girls’ bathroom, it was called a “girly swirly,” a
bit more degrading than the standard, I’d guess.
Ash never went willingly. He always
gave a good fight, but it was never enough. The bully was bigger, and his thugs
always had his back. Ash would fight hard, kicking and screaming all the way.
He would get banged up pretty bad as he struggled to fight back with his head
banging hard against the porcelain throne. That explained a lot of the facial
bruises and black eyes he would bring home. Mom always wondered where his
underwear was going. She constantly bought new, and complained of the washing machine
eating them, along with the unmatched socks.
Mom and Dad would make multiple trips
to talk to the principal and school officials, but nothing ever seemed to get done. They said they were doing the best they could
with the short staff they had, but each still promising to do better, as they
left their offices. I just know the bullying never really stopped. It may have
slowed at times, but always returned, and it seemed to be getting more and more
dangerous every day.
All Ashton ever wanted to do was to
fit in, like a hand in a glove, but he knew deep down that would never happen.
Ash was starting to show signs that he’d had enough, and fought back like he
didn’t care if he lived or died. The bruises became bigger and the injuries
more intense. At times, he would come home so bruised and swollen you could
hardly recognize him, yet he still tried to hide the injuries from Mom and Dad.
He became ashamed, and too tired to fight back anymore. Every time he did, he
just ended up beaten worse than the time before. Ashton was now to the point
where he was too afraid to attend school.
One cold day became a day that Mom and
Dad would never forget. The school called. It seemed that Ashton never showed
up that day, and no one had any idea where he could be. Mom and Dad drove for
hours, searching for him. They would return home every now and then, just to
see if he came home, then they’d return to the streets searching once more.
They made a lot of calls and made a lot of stops, but there were no signs of
Ash anywhere. Dad wondered if he’d run away from home.
My parents filed a police report and a
statewide Amber Alert was issued. Mom told them everything; all the times he
was beaten and bullied at school. The police were appalled that the school
would allow such behavior to continue as long as it did. They even offered to
check in on him themselves, once they found him. Mom and Dad were grateful for
that, but for now, it was freezing cold, and getting dark. They needed to find
their son, and fast.
On the way back from the police
station, something caught Mom’s eye. “Stop, stop the car!” she yelled.
Dad was driving. He normally drove
whenever the two went somewhere together. He quickly turned his car into a gas
station’s parking lot.
“What?” Dad asked.
“Back there, I saw something.”
Dad quickly turned the car around and
headed back.
“There! Over there, look!” Mom
pointed.
“Look at what? I don’t see anything.”
“On the snow fence, see it?”
“That’s his glove!” Nate said.
A kid’s glove was positioned in a way
that it looked as if it was waving to passersby. Dad thought it was a joke at
first. Or, maybe someone found it, hoping the owner would see it on the fence
and stop by and pick it up. He whipped the car into the parking lot of the
school. They both exited the car and bee-lined over to the glove that was
perched on top of the fence post. Dad slid past. The sidewalks were icy. Mom
grabbed the glove from the top of the post and examined it. It was his, all
right. His name was written on the tag with a magic marker.
A lot of things raced through Mom and
Dad’s minds at this time, but it all came to a crashing end the moment Mom
looked to the ground where she was standing. She gasped for breath, covering
her mouth to stifle a scream that never came. She pointed to the ground.
Now Dad saw it too. “That’s blood” he
spoke under his breath.
He looked around, and so did Mom.
There were splatters of blood everywhere. The first thing they thought was a
possible accident. Maybe a car hit Ash as he crossed the road, but the scuff
marks in the snow told a different story. It showed there was a struggle,
possibly a fight, or worse, if it could get any worse; abduction. Now they were
worried even more.
They called the police and waited for
them to arrive. When they did, they took a lot of pictures, and they also took
the glove.
“Evidence,” one of the investigators
said as he plucked the glove out of Mom’s hand and stuffed it into a Ziploc®
bag.
Evidence
for what, they both
wondered. No one knew anything, including how Ash’s glove got on the fence post
in the first place. It was getting dark, and police sent Mom and Dad home. Maybe he’s there. They hoped, and this
time their hopes came true, he was there. Mom found him in his bedroom.
That’s when Mom’s scream finally came
out, and louder than ever. Ashton didn’t look good. He was badly bruised,
swollen and was covered with blood. Dad heard the scream and came running.
“ASH!” he yelled as soon as he saw him. He pushed past Mom standing in the
doorway and quickly ran to Ash’s side. He held him tight.
There was a lot of hugging and crying
going on, but I’m not sure that it was all for the good.
Two years later, I was born, and I bet
you’re still wondering how I know all this, if I wasn’t around to meet him.
Well, I would like to tell you that Mom and Dad told me these stories, but they
really didn’t. The fact is—they went to great lengths to keep them from me. The
reason why I know more about my older brother, than anyone else, gets rather
complicated, but I promise you’ll understand everything once you read, “Ash,
Like a Tattoo.” It’s a much longer
continuation of this story, filled with ups, downs, twists and turns that keeps
you thinking, and at the edge of your seat. You won’t want to miss this fun,
somewhat whimsical ride with serious issues. It’s written for all ages to
enjoy, so pick up a copy, and help spread bully awareness.
This is the end for now, but it’s
really just the beginning.
Read, ASH, Like a Tattoo for a ride you’ll never
forget.
ASH , Like a Tattoo
GET YOUR COPY TODAY!
To purchase your copy of ASH, click on the desired link above!
