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Nowhere Near Fair: Not an Average Day
Nowhere Near Fair: Not an Average Day
Nowhere Near Fair: Not an Average Day
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Nowhere Near Fair: Not an Average Day

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Read the heart wrenching stories of Aaron, Billy, and Derek, who have been sexually abused and are roommates in King Behavioral Health Center for Troubled Youths, as they weave through life painfully discovering that it is...Nowhere Near Fair
LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 29, 2015
ISBN9781466986800
Nowhere Near Fair: Not an Average Day
Author

Jennie Buhl

Zachary Parrish was born in Miami, Oklahoma, in 1993 as the youngest son of Daniel Newberry and the middle son of Deena Parish. At age seven, he began writing bedtime stories for himself and his older brother, Jamie. At age twelve, he got an A on a short story he did as an assignment in English class. He is multilingual and often sings songs in the Japanese language. He lives in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. ---------- Jennie Buhl was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in 1954 to Thomasene and Floyd Crabtree. She has been writing poetry since an early age and was invited to join the English Department at Northeastern State University during her undergrad studies. She currently has a master’s degree in social work and sees clients as a contract therapist on a contract basis. Jennie lives in Tulsa, has traveled extensively, and lived for twelve years in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. She hopes to move back home to Tahlequah soon.

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    Nowhere Near Fair - Jennie Buhl

    © Copyright 2013, 2015 Zachary Parrish and Jennie Buhl.

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

    ISBN: 978-1-4669-8679-4 (sc)

    ISBN: 978-1-4669-8680-0 (e)

    Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

    Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

    and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

    Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

    Trafford rev. 01/27/2015

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    North America & international

    toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

    fax: 812 355 4082

    CONTENTS

    Dedication

    Prologue

    Part One

    Part Two

    Part Three

    Part Four

    Part five

    Part six

    Part seven

    Part Eight

    Part Nine

    Part Ten

    Part Eleven

    Part Twelve

    Part Thirteen

    Part Fourteen

    It’s the terror of knowing what this world is about, watching your good friends screaming Let me out! pray tomorrow gets me higher–

    Queen and David Bowie, Under Pressure

    DEDICATION

    Zachary: To Elliot, in loving memory.

    Jennie: To Greg, and Zachary.

    Dear Reader,

    Our second installment of the planned 5 book ‘Nowhere Near Fair’ series is currently being written. We hope to get it to you soon! Oh, and, we hope you want to read it –

    Zachary Parrish and Jennie Buhl

    PROLOGUE

    The truth shall get you incarcerated!

    Aaron’s story

    N ow, before I get started here, I am not a bad person, not in the slightest, (but to be honest, that’s just a personal opinion), I will admit to my shortcomings in due time, but I need to get this out.

    All of that aside, my name is Aaron Cox, I’m thirteen, and I live in Augusta, Maine. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me, but this is my story of my time in King Behavioral Health Center for Troubled Youths, a mental hospital in Bangor, (yeah, it is a real city in Maine) and the friends I made… and of other stuff. However, before we get to all of that, I guess you want to know why I’m in this place at all, right? Well, it’s complicated, but I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you… so, enough stalling, may as well get this off my chest so I can start to heal the mental scars in my heart, as Doc says. What a load of dog crap!

    Well, here goes nothin’. When I was five years old my dad died in a shooting, in the line of duty, because he was a cop. Mom decided I should stay with my grandma and grandpa for a while so she could deal with the funeral stuff and all that. I didn’t really mind, I mean, I love my grandma and loved my grandpa. Yeah, I said ‘loved’… one day, while I was playing outside by grandpa’s shed, he called me over and I went in. He told me he wanted to take some pictures of me and…um, well, he raped me. He had been molesting me for quite some time before then, but had never gone THAT far.

    That went on for a bunch of years, whenever me and Joey, my baby brother, visited grandma and grandpa’s house; I was living a hell I had never imagined existed. He was my granddad, a man who I had once thought loved me and wouldn’t ever hurt me. I had made a terrible mistake, thinking that. After he raped me each time, I’d run as fast as I could manage before tripping into the corner of the shed, yelling, screaming, crying at the tip top of my lungs, I hate you! until my chest ached from screaming, and that took a long time…

    Since I couldn’t talk to anyone about it, I just kinda, you know, bottled it up inside. But, thing is, I was a big brother now and I swore to myself that I would do anything to keep Joey safe. Nevertheless, that night when grandpa got home, he took Joey out to the shed and I knew what was going to happen to him, so I followed them. I heard Joey crying No! and my brotherly instincts kicked in; I burst into the shed with a 2x4 in hand to do what had to be done.

    Grandpa turned and looked at me with a look in his eyes that was kind of a mixture of fear and anger and confusion. What the hell do you think you are doing, Aaron! He yelled a few dozen cuss words at me. When I didn’t answer, he rushed over to me and punched me hard in the gut, sending me to my knees. He took the 2x4 and hit me with it over and over. You dumb shit! he screamed in my ear, you want to kill me!? I saw the rage in his eyes for a split second, before he punched me again, this time in the face. You can’t even take a goddamned fucking punch, you little fucker! He hit me in the head with the 2x4, which sent the message that he would likely kill me–or at least maim me badly–if I couldn’t do something to get him away.

    I saw my chance, picked up a crowbar from under the toolbox, and jolted the sharp end of it into his chest. He dropped the 2x4 and staggered backward, before he fell over dead. So, yeah, now you know it all. That’s my life pretty much in a nutshell. Oh, but after the cops showed up, they took me to my house and gave me a court date, which freaked me out even more than knowing I killed my grandpa.

    So at court they made me seem like a cold-blooded murderer, and an evil, evil, evil psychopath, and a maniacal socio-whatever, which I am not, I assure you of that. Lucky for me though, the Judge didn’t seem to think I was as much a lost cause as the lawyers made me out to be, and gave me an easy, get out of jail free (literally) card. Two years in King Behavioral Health Center for Troubled Youths; easy my buttocks!

    Well, now you know the road to hell I’m taking thus far, so I’ll just stop. Don’t want to ruin anything for you… because this is such an absolute joy! I’m being sarcastic by the way…

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    Billy’s story

    Umm, I don’t exactly know how to do this so I’m just going to go along with what Doc Tennant told me to do with this journal, because otherwise I’d be drawing pictures of anime things in it.

    Uh, my name is William Young, but my friends call me Billy. I’m eleven, live in Jersey Shore, New Jersey, and I like to walk on the beach and find seashells, draw anime, ride my bike, and stuff like that; so this is my story of my time in King asylum.

    I suppose it can’t hurt to tell the truth to you, right? I mean, what’s the worst you can do? Call the FBI? Go ahead; my address is 1909 South Dakota Avenue, Spring Lake, New Jersey. Now then, if you’re not the kind of person who cringes easily, then please, be my guest and read the rest of my story. I suppose I’ll take the whole ‘this is just for me’ thing as a sign to go deeper as to why I’m here, sigh…

    My baby brother, Timmy, and I were raped by three eighteen-year-old teenagers. The rapists… murdered him. He was only five-years-old. I wasn’t always nice to him but I loved him and would have done anything to stop anyone who tried to hurt him. He was my little sidekick who begged (and usually succeeded) to go everywhere with me. I couldn’t have imagined my life without him, as annoying as he was. But in the end, I couldn’t save him… I can’t save anyone, and now he’s just a memory that makes me cry. If I could change places with him, I would in a heartbeat, but that’s just a dream, not something I could actually make happen, and that tears my heart into a trillion pieces every time.

    Now I guess I have to tell all, right? Ok, then…it was your average New Jersey afternoon, overcast, chilly and about to rain. Timmy and I were playing in the neighbor, Jim’s, back yard like every weekend, while our dad was at work. He was our babysitter, not that I’m a baby, but dad insisted. He paid him in Twinkies and stuff like cigarettes and soda, you know, the better things of life. No, I didn’t forget to mention our mom, she left when Timmy was only a year old.

    After a few hours of non-stop brotherly games, Jim, the teenage football playing son-of the-dude-who-owned-the-house, called us in, claiming to have a snack and a surprise for us. Like idiots, (especially since he had molested me in the past) we went inside to claim our snacks and surprise. Lo and behold, we were surprised alright. Our innocent childish world was about to become a place of horror, and pain, and misery that no child should have to go through. EVER! But, sadly, sometimes they do, and it’s not just GIRLS, ya know!

    Two of the biggest, strongest guys on the high school’s football team dragged us into Jim’s house, and them and Jim raped us. The rest is burned into my mind for eternity. I’m sorry… I can’t explain any further, it still kinda hurts to talk about it… even to my diary.

    I can tell you this though, after raping us more than once, they cut both of our throats and tossed us into a trash bag. The feeling of my blood pumping out of the wound in my neck hurt and I can still remember the stinging, searing pain in my heart knowing that that was the end, and I wasn’t ever going to get to make out with a girl, or have kids, or even see my twelfth birthday.

    Timmy was quiet and still and cold in the bag next to me as I felt them lift us up and carry us outside–not that I can remember it all clearly, something about a repressed memory or something–then came the feeling of the bag being lifted higher and then dropped into a dumpster. Blood was still pumping out by the gallon–or so it seemed–no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t able to lift the lid after I ripped the bag open. Timmy moved and helped me push the lid up as best he could, but it still wouldn’t budge.

    About that time, dad was getting home and finding that we hadn’t done our chores, like taking out the trash, ironically. I couldn’t even lift myself up, I was too weak… not that that was anything new. Timmy held onto me and I cupped my hand over his wound. I’m cold, were his last words as he looked up at me and I brushed his hair to the side. I hugged him tight and cried as I watched the light fading from his eyes…I realized that he was dead when he exhaled softly and didn’t take another breath. Dad came outside with a trash bag, muttering about how he was going to give us a good spanking when he found us. I closed my eyes tight and let everything just drift away. God, just let me die, I prayed to myself as everything blacked out, and I felt the coldness of death overtake me.

    I woke up in a hospital bed with tubes and wires aplenty, I don’t even know how long later. I could hear the beeps of the EKG machine and the huffs of the respirator. The idea that they had saved me and not Timmy was killing me… and I welcomed death! Dad, who is a doctor, told me that I was alright, that everything was alright. Where’s Tim? Is Timmy okay? I said after they pulled the respirator and feeding tube out. Son, Timmy… he isn’t with us anymore. He died on the scene.

    Hearing those words, even already knowing he was dead, sent me over the edge. I tore the IV out of my arm, the electrodes from my chest, and ran out of the room. I felt dizzy halfway down the hall and fell on my butt. I felt myself bleeding from the neck, and arm where I had torn out the tube. Out of options, I curled up into a ball and just cried like a baby as the security, doctors, and my dad came rushing over to me. Dad took me into a warm hug and we just sat there for a while, crying until I couldn’t cry anymore. They hooked me back up, and Dad’s face was, like, pale and ashen at the same time.

    Dad told me stories from when he was in med school while he patched my neck up. Then he told me about his friend, Doc. Dad said he, Doc Tennant, I mean, worked as an administrator here at the mental institute, and that it would be good for me to get help. I wonder if he knew about the two-year minimum thing. Regardless, here I am.

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    Derek’s Story

    My name is Derek Kurtz. I’m ten-years-old, and I live in Baltimore, Maryland, but I was born in Germany. I’m here in the King Behavioral Health Center for Troubled Youths, fourth floor, which is for the victims of sex-related stuff (which

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