Humayre: The Chronicles of Ronin Wilder

Just pop off already, cringed Ronin.

Two weeks, that’s how long the pain, the itching, the pressure had been tormenting him. Clenching his fists he rolled to his side. Five AM in big bright digital numbers seared Ronin’s eyes. At least it wasn’t three AM. It was the first morning in a week he was able to sleep in, well sort of sleep in. School didn’t start for another three hours. Ten purple and black pulsating beings, like angry little aliens dancing at the ends of his fingers, reminded him how lucky he was they didn’t wake him earlier.

Racking his brain, yet again, Ronin tried to recall anything that might explain how he could’ve smashed all ten fingernails without remembering. The pain started a week earlier. Nothing was different about that day. He went to bed and when he awoke there they were. Ten throbbing monstrosities at the ends of his fingers. At first he thought he might’ve been sleep walking and somehow managed to slam them in bathroom door, but not all ten at once, that had to be impossible. Dick, his foster parent, maybe he came into his room while he was asleep and took out some of his drunken fury on him? But that too was far-fetched, no way would Dick do anything to jeopardize the precious check he received from the government. If Ronin showed any signs of abuse, Child Protection Services would remove him from Dick’s care and that would be the end of Dick’s income.

As much as Ronin didn’t want to believe it, the only answer which made any sense was that he was sick or had some kind of disease. The trauma was inexplicable. How could something so painful just come out of the blue? Diseased or injured, it didn’t matter, the reality was he wouldn’t be getting any help. Dick was a firm believer in letting things run their course. Doctors were only an option when the ailment could lead to questions of abuse. Unfortunately for Ronin ten black and blue fingers nails were not on child protection services list of red flagged injuries, which Dick was quick to point out when Ronin first showed him his nails.

Searing sharp pain, like needles being shoved into the tips of his fingers tore through Ronin like a terrible storm. Clasping his hands together and squeezing tight, Ronin lifted his exhausted body out of bed. The mattress creaked and moaned as though it were on its last legs of life. The rest of his room wasn’t much better than the decrepit thing he called a bed. At least he had his own bathroom, having to share one with Dick would have been the ultimate torture. The man was no cleaner than a junk yard dog.

The bathroom smelled like mildew, or rotten eggs, Ronin wasn’t sure of which. Either way it was disgusting. What he wouldn’t give to have one of those bathrooms like he read about in the magazines. The ones where the countertops were made of marble and the faucets were silver and shiny. Instead his bathroom looked like something out of a bad seventies movie. He exhaled and wiped a bit of blue tooth paste off the faux wood countertop.

Duct tape, his cure all, was hidden behind a pipe underneath the sink. If Dick knew Ronin had taken his only roll, there would be hell to pay. There was only one rule in the house, or dump as Ronin liked to call it, don’t touch Dick’s stuff. He grabbed the tape and tore off ten small strips. One by one he lined them up on the sink. A slight throbbing on his chin pulled his attention to the mirror. He leaned in close and squinted his eyes. A zit. Just what he needed.

Staring hard into the mirror he shook his head. Ronin didn’t like looking at himself. He was sixteen and looked like a skinny fourteen year old. There was no greater curse in high school, especially when a certain seventeen year old blonde preferred a more mature look. It wasn’t as though he thought he had a chance with her, she was clearly attracted to tall, dark and football player. Ronin was pale, and his dusty blonde hair hung messily over his piercing blue eyes. And football, well, maybe he could play the water boy if he put on fifteen pounds. Despite his insecurities he was a rather handsome boy with fine chiseled features. But that’s not what he saw. All he could see was the occasional zit and the one pair of jeans he wore everyday like a badge of shame.

The toothpaste tube was almost empty. He was barely able to get enough to cover the mountain of a zit he had protruding from his chin. Toothpaste rarely worked anyway, if anything it made it look worse. Whoever thought of this brilliant idea should probably be fired. Shaking his head he chuckled to himself. Using his sore middle finger he tried to push the zit down, but it only seemed to make it redder around the edges.

“Great,” he huffed under his breath.

Without warning the fingernails called to him again. The pain was sharper than usual. He held his hands up, the nails were so purple. At any moment he thought they might explode off his fingers, blood and fingernail juice flying everywhere. He wished for it. Anything to stop the throbbing. One by one he grabbed a piece of tape and tightly wrapped a nail. He inspected his handiwork. It looked terrible. Over the last week he was repeatedly made fun of at school for his makeshift bandage work. It didn’t really matter though, the kids, and even the teachers, always found something wrong with him. Especially after The Incident. A quick jolt of panic fired through his body. He needed to shake The Incident from his mind, to think about something else. The Jeans caught the corner of his eye.

The Jeans. That was what he called them. They were just that. The only pair of pants he owned. Dick bought him one pair a year. If they didn’t last, well, that was Ronin’s problem. He would’ve had more than one pair if Dick didn’t tear up his old ones and use them as rags. But that was Dick. No name could suit anyone better.

The Jeans were draped across the side table next to Ronin’s bed, the only other piece of furniture in his room. The tear across the seat of his pants was easily visible from where he stood in the bathroom. He tore them the day before while hopping a fence. It wasn’t like he was stealing anything. The comic book guy was throwing out the damaged books anyway. But, he didn’t like Ronin getting freebies as he called them. So he chased Ronin to an abandoned lot which had been fenced in. Part of The Jeans might still be hanging there. At least he got away.

Duct tape was The Jeans only chance. Hopefully it would hold. The last thing Ronin needed was more ammunition for people to use against him. Duct tape usually fixed everything. It seemed to be holding his shoes together just fine. He grabbed The Jeans from off his side table and turned them inside out. After tearing off five strips of grey tape his hands shook in agony. Perspiration beaded above his lip. He wasn’t sure he could finish the task, but embarrassment was worse than the pain he was suffering. Clenching his jaw he lined up the five strips of tape as best as his trembling hands would allow. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip and examined his work. It looked to be a pretty good job. After pulling The Jeans on, and doing a few squats, he realized the tape wouldn’t hold if he wasn’t very careful. At least it was better than nothing.

Onion, garlic, lemon, chicken and black beans attacked Ronin’s nose. He could smell them all at once but each scent was singularly distinctive. The scents were so pungent he could almost taste them. Then the sweet smell of perfectly browned plantains creeped into his nostrils. His mouth watered. Right away he knew the restaurant, it was his favorite, Casa De Plantain. The smell was like nothing he could explain, it was as though some living breathing thing was playing with his senses. Without realizing it the scent led him out of his room and down the stairs. He closed his eyes and something amazing happened. In his mind he could see the smells as though they were a trail leading him somewhere. It scared and excited him.

When he opened his eyes Ronin somehow found himself in the kitchen. The scents pulled him to the countertop to the right of the sink but nothing was there. He glanced around in disgust. The faucet had a black ring of mold encircling its base. The laminate floors looked as though they had never been mopped. Streaks of dirt and crumbs could be found in every corner. The once white fridge was more of a brownish color and the handle had some kind of black smudges all over it. Despite the dirtiness there wasn’t a single sign of food or utensil.

Ronin opened the refrigerator hoping to see the white Styrofoam box he knew Casa De Plantain used for takeout orders. All he found was a cartoon of eggs, a half-full bottle of water and an empty box of Fruity O’s cereal. Ronin closed his eyes wishing the smells would come alive for him again.

“What’re you doin’ in there?” asked Dick. “Sounds like you’re tearin’ the place apart.”

Crap. The air sucked itself from Ronin’s lungs and his heart thudded in his ears.

“You better answer me!” shouted Dick. “If I have to get off this couch…”

“Nothing.” Ronin’s voice was timid and nervous. “I was just looking for your leftovers.” He wished he had lied, but he hated to lie out of fear. Being too afraid to tell the truth sickened him.

“Leftovers? What in the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“The Casa De Plantain leftovers.”

“Casa De Plantain?” Dick coughed. A smoker’s hack. Ronin imagined the spit flying from his mouth as it always had when he coughed. Dick continued, “What in the hell are you talkin’ about. I had Cuban a week ago. Somethin’ wrong with your head?”

A week ago? That can’t be right. How can I smell food from a week ago?

“And what in the hell are you doin’ lookin’ for my food anyway?” Dick coughed again, this one was deep and phlegmy. “Did you forget The Rule, boy?”

“No sir,” said Ronin in a rush. In his head he scoffed at the idea of The Rule. The truth was, there were no rules. Ronin could do what he wanted whenever he wanted as long as he didn’t touch Dick’s stuff. He would have given just about anything to have real rules, to have someone care enough to give him boundaries.

A long uncomfortable pause held Ronin still. He waited, and then waited some more. Nothing. He got lucky. Dick must’ve been in a good mood. A deep growl came from Ronin’s stomach. He sniffed the air hoping to find those delicious smells but they were gone. All he could smell was the faint hint of cigarette smoke. He closed his eyes to see if he could make the scent come alive once more, but there was nothing. Oh well. Eggs were going to have to do.

Ronin opened the refrigerator and pulled out the cartoon of eggs. As he turned to put them down, Dick made an angry grumble. The noise jerked Ronin’s head around causing him to lose his grasp on the eggs. The cartoon opened in slow motion. The three remaining eggs each flew in different directions. He snatched the first egg out of the air and placed it on the countertop. The second egg was falling at such a slow rate it almost seemed to float. He reached out and grabbed that one as well. Then, out of nowhere the third egg started to move faster. He was barely able to catch it before it hit the laminate floor.

“Whoah,” said Ronin, as he looked at the eggs in his hands and the egg on the countertop.

“Get in here,” said Dick.

There was no time to reflect on what had just happened. Ronin set the two eggs on the countertop and hurried into the living room. To make Dick wait was asking for trouble. Dick would never risk hitting Ronin but it was obvious he wanted to.

Ronin stopped in front of the weathered grey couch where Dick was sitting. Dick was a small man, only about five foot seven. That might have been most of the problem. Dick hated anyone bigger than him. Good thing Ronin was still smaller. Dick looked exactly like he should. He was balding, skinny, and terribly wrinkled for his age. He was only forty but looked at least sixty. His eyes were brown, beady and always sizing everything up.

Squirming left, then right, Dick lifted his casted leg from off the floor and dropped it onto the warped coffee table. The loud thud that followed startled Ronin. No doubt Dick was trying to remind Ronin of The Incident. Not wanting to give Dick the satisfaction, Ronin quickly averted his attention from the once white cast.

There was a long pause as Dick stared at Ronin. One of his eyebrows was raised, at least what was left of that thinning eyebrow. The other was gone. Ronin shuffled back and forth waiting for it, whatever it was going to be. The silence was terrible. Ronin just wanted him to get on with it already. Something caught Ronin’s attention.

“We got a new T.V.?” asked Ronin. It just sort of came out. The surprise of it all was shocking. They never got anything new. But there it was. Mounted to the wall as though professionals came in to do the work.

Dick laughed. “I got a new T.V., you mean.”

Six years. Six years of hell. How could his parents do it to him? How could they die and let this happen to him? How could child protective services allow Dick to be a foster parent? How could they not see through Dick’s lies when they came for their monthly inspections? Ronin tightened his jaw and glared hard at Dick.

“Finally see a little fire in ya.” Dick laughed, a terrible taunting laugh. “You gonna be a man now? You think you can take me boy? As soon as you think you’re man enough, come and try it. We’ll see how that works out for ya.”

Ronin didn’t say a word. He knew it would only make it worse.

Dick leaned forward and puffed his chest out. “What? You think you’re better than me? You’re nothin’.”

That was it. For the first time in six years Ronin didn’t care what Dick would or could do. He’d had enough. Ronin turned his back on Dick and walked to the front door. The only time Dick ever raised a hand to Ronin was the one time he turned his back on him without asking for permission to leave. The memory burned hot in Ronin’s mind as he placed one foot in front of the other. He could almost feel the heat emanating off Dick. Ronin put his hand on the door handle and began to turn.

“Yeah,” said Dick. “That’s what I thought. You ain’t got no backbone.” He coughed and spit his diseased phlegm into an old rag made from Ronin’s last pair of jeans. “I don’t get what they see in you.”

Ronin desperately wanted to know who or what Dick was talking about but he was determined to leave. Then courage took ahold of him. He turned and faced Dick. Ronin’s chin was up and his shoulders pulled back. “I am better than you,” is what came out of his mouth. The power he felt with these words made him feel like he could do anything. He had finally stood up to the monster. He wondered if the spirits of his parents could see him, see what he had just done. He wondered if they would be proud. He turned back around and opened the door.

“Yeah,” said Dick. “And that’s why you’ll never be anythin’. Because all you want to be is better than me. Way to aim high kid.”

As Ronin walked out the door he glanced down at his fingers and to his surprise felt nothing.