Feeling of Loss pt 5

Foster care didn’t add up to much. Not that Mark had expected it to. And thus, it lived up to his expectations. 8 days after the incident, he found himself being driven ‘home’ by Martha and Stewart – the Crossbys, his new ‘parents’. They were a childless couple who’d enlisted themselves with the local adoption agency years ago, once they’d found out biology wouldn’t allow them a child.

But somewhere along the intervening times, something had changed. A previously happy couple discovered their erstwhile promises of undying love were all but a false alarm. The strain of Stewart’s unemployment coupled with his wife’s drink problem threw a spanner in the works. By the time they welcomed a new member into their family, things were on the brink of turning nasty. The adoption itself proved to be the proverbial straw. Stu was growing increasingly weary of life itself and the idea of spending the rest of his wretched one with an unknown child wasn’t one that warmed the cockles of his heart. ‘Solitude is peace,’ he often told himself.

Within a week itself, 4 year old Mark turned up for his first day at elementary school. Covered in bruises. The teachers were understandably worried. But the boy wouldn’t cry. Or complain. Intrusive questions were met with a cold stare and poorly made up excuses about falling off stairs or ladders. Sympathetic pats and kind, reassuring words drew a blank expression. As the years passed by, little Mark began to change. The once stoic and painfully quiet yet obedient little man grew increasingly bashful and apathetic. By the time he was 15, Martha had passed away. Her and Stu had separated half a decade ago and the courts decided that consequent to the mother’s drinking issue, Stewart would retain sole custody. The abuse only grew graver from then on. But not once did he retaliate. The boy didn’t cry. Or complain.

Until one day. He had taken enough. He had tolerated enough. Someone had to pay. And it happened to be the classmate who poked fun at Stu’s ’65 Chevy. A baseball bat across the face later, he was being taken away to MV Juvenile Prison. But Mark wasn’t apologetic. He’d smelled blood. And he liked it. No more Mr Nice Guy.