"Oh, my head," I groan, sitting up with a throbbing skull that feels like it's been through a blender. I rub my eyes, attempting to shake off the lingering fog of the previous night’s chaos. Bits and pieces of blurry memories flit through my mind, but none that form a coherent picture. Sunlight filters through the grimy window, casting a multicolored prism on the dusty floor. I roll over, letting my head dangle off the edge of the bed. The room spins slightly as I fixate on the shimmering rainbow reflection. It's oddly captivating, providing a fleeting distraction from the splitting headache. The events of the night before are a haze, shrouded in the aftermath of whatever crazy antics I got up to. I try to piece together the fragments, hoping to remember how I ended up in this disheveled state. Eventually, I manage to sit up, my head still pounding like a jackhammer. I glance at the mirror across the room and see my reflection—a tangled mess of shaggy brown hair and a face decorated with doodles where someone got overly enthusiastic with a marker. I groan and run a hand through my hair, catching on what seems to be the remnants of a half-eaten lollipop. Yanking at the sticky mess, I stand up and make my way to the bathroom. On the way, I trip over a children's bicycle in the hall, the smell of weed wafting in through a nearby window. Taking a big whiff, my stomach churns, and I quickly shut the window. Still tugging at the lollipop wedged in my hair, I push open the bathroom door, only to find some random man asleep on the floor. Shrugging, I make one final attempt to remove the lollipop, only making it worse and wincing in pain. Leaving the sleeping man in the bathroom, I go to find my mom. I pass my brother’s room on the way, peaking in to see if he’s all right. Taking in his sleeping form as a sign that he’s safe, I continue my search for my mother. I find her asleep on the couch, her neatness seeming out of place in the mismatched and drab appearance of our house. I sit down next to her, draping a blanket over her, and remember the story she used to tell me when I was a kid about how she met my father. He was a salesman, and she was new in town. He took her in and showed her the ropes. They fell in love, got married... and then he overdosed. I try not to dwell on that last part, but it's the truth. She always said he was a good man, but what good man goes and overdoses, leaving a toddler and newborn for his poor wife to take care of all on her own.
My mothers stories are so positive. She always talks about where she came from—a magical place where everyone looks the same, everyone receives a good education, and everyone follows the same routine every day. A place of pure order. Every time I ask her why she left, though, she gets quiet and changes the topic, especially around my stepfather.
Speaking of my stepfather—at that moment, he staggers in through the front door, reeking of weed and alcohol. He makes his way toward my mother, an angry expression on his face. I step between him and her frail sleeping form.
"What are you doing, boy?" he slurs, his voice thick with intoxication.
I stand my ground, keeping his high, drunk self away from my weak, undeserving mother. I’m not sure whether the sudden bout of bravery is from the fact that I am still slightly intoxicated from the night before, or if I’ve finally snapped. I stay between him and my mother, not letting him past. He realizes what I'm doing, rage forming in his eyes. "Step away from my wife, boy!" he yells, waking my mother. She grabs my arm, her hold gentle but firm.
"Clifford, what are you doing? He’ll beat you," she whispers urgently.
I turn to her, my voice resolute. "I can’t let him keep beating you. Let’s just leave, let’s run away to that place you told us about."
She squeezes my hand, looking into my eyes. “I can never go back there. Now, please go before he kills you,” she pleads. “He wont hurt me.” I look between the two of them, the rage in his eyes and the pleading in hers, sending chills down my spine. My mind still foggy from the night before, I obey, my heart torn between fighting for my mother and fear of death. As I’m about to leave, I remember the drunk man in the bathroom. Glaring at my stepfather, I go grab the man and drag him out the door, still wondering how he even got in.
Just another day in Libera Viva, I think to myself as I shove yet another drunk off my front porch, still dragging the other one. I hoist him over my shoulder and carry him to a nearby bench, laying him down as gently as possible. I know I can’t go home just yet, for fear of making it worse for my mom, rather or me, I decide to use take a stroll. As I walk, all I can think about is how selfish my father must have been, choosing to do possibly fatal drugs, leaving my mom all alone, forced to marry an abusive brute in order to survive in this heck-hole of a society.
Unable to go home yet, I head towards the abandoned factory where everyone my age hangs out. The building is covered in colorful graffiti, and parts of it threaten to collapse at any moment. I still wonder why this decrepit place is where my friends choose to gather. As I approach, I can hear music blasting and people shouting lyrics in slurred voices. Most of my so-called friends are complete idiots, their brains damaged by their mothers' substance abuse while they were in the womb. Thankfully, my mother never even touched a drink in her life, let alone drugs. As soon as I step into the building, I'm hit by a wave of sweat, weed, and alcohol. The air is thick with the stench, making my head spin.
"Yo! Cliff! How about that rager last night! Great party man!" someone shouts as I enter the room where everyone is congregated. It's impossible to tell who called out to me amidst the sea of bodies, all merging into one incoherent, dancing mass. Entering the warehouse, my stomach lurches y hang-over state making the stench almost unbearable. I find one of my closer friends, lounging on a stack of what looks to have been blankets at one point, and join him, watching our peers dancing drunkenly. He offers me a smoke, and I accept, hoping to drown out thoughts of my horrible step-father. I pass out, awaking up hours later, the sun starting to set. Thinking my step-father has ether cooled down or gone out with his friends at this point, I decide to go home.
Just as I’m out of sight of the warehouse, a hand reaches out from a dark alcove, grabbing my arm. Whipping around, I see my stepfather's lackeys. Before I can even process what's happening, they seize me and pin my arms behind my back. I try to shout for help, but my cries are swallowed by the blaring music and a disgusting, chloroform soaked rag covers my mouth.
The men, reeking of alcohol, tie me up with rough, uncaring hands, not bothering to avoid causing pain. "Your stepfather told us to make you disappear," one of them sneers. "Said you were a nuisance."
Once I'm thoroughly tied up, they throw me into the back of a van, the dirty cloth shoved into my mouth to silence me. As I struggle against the ropes, panic sets in, and I wonder if I'll ever see my mother and little brother again. The van's engine roars to life, and the vehicle lurches forward, jostling me around. My heart races, and my mind spins with fear and uncertainty. The chloroform starts to kick in, my vision blurs, and a wave of dizziness washes over me. The last thing I see before everything goes black is the grimy ceiling of the van, and the faces of my captors, twisted in cruel satisfaction.
