Letter Unknown
I don’t know where to really begin. The story I tell you now is nothing but the cold, honest truth. I should start from the beginning and work my way up to the important things, should I not?
Most people believed my life was a paradise, but to me, Vincent Beltryn, it was the equivalent of Hell on Earth. I grew up in the wealthiest part of middle-of-nowhere Ventra, Washington, a small town north of Seattle where people either made their fortunes or squandered it. Split into two distinct parts, the dirt poor or the overly rich, I lived where bath tubs were larger than bedrooms, a painting cost more than a working man’s yearly salary and the wine cellars in the basement were stocked with the rarest wines which flowed like the fountain of youth. I lived in a paradise, a place where people stared enviously out their car windows as they drove by, hearing only the melody of laughing and expensive glasses tinkling. I would gladly have turned the tables with them if I had the chance if not for the fact that Fate was a cruel, twisted bitch.
Now, before I continue in what may seem to be a whiney entry into a life of considerable luxury, let me explain why the world revolved in the direction it did; rich people feed off of the unfortunate people bleeding helplessly below their feet. As it was, children of rich executives—or defense attorneys in my case—were the stepping stones over the gore their Bostonian shoes and stiletto heels created. My father and step-mother, darlings in their own sadistic ways, were the type of people who would throw extravagant parties for the Hell of it, just to flaunt their already apparent wealth—tuxedo suits meshed with crushed velvet dresses, black against off-white, eyes swimming in the same glazed ocean of Monte Puliano D’Abruzzo and Chivas Regal.
James Beltryn, my father, had gained his fortune thanks to the disgusting crimes of others. A defense attorney to the rich and powerful men of Seattle, my father had gained the name of ‘Best Defense to anyone who is able to shell out more than a hundred grand’. I never understood how a man could stomach allowing rapists, murderers and child molesters back into modern day society, until I finally realized he enjoyed being the monster behind the suit and tie.
Unlike my father, my step-mother Vanessa did not need a mask or suit to allow her to play the proverbial boogeyman. She didn’t need a job either, so she became what ‘Good Morning America’ called a housewife. I could never call her such because in my mind a housewife was the mother who baked chocolate chip cookies and picked her kids up from soccer practice, not a woman who sat on the couch all day watching cheesy Lifetime movies and knocking back Boodle’s gin as though it would magically make the age lines disappear.
Growing up with Vanessa had meant for a simple cough I was shipped off to the local hospital. To say I lived in a hospital room the first five years of my life would be sadly accurate. The first word which ever left my mouth was not doggy, cookie or daddy, but ‘pokey’, the nickname the doctors used when they referred to needles. It was stomach churning and slightly disappointing. I, of course, was not aware of this until the second grade—most other children believed I was weird from that moment on.
The only reason I was even kept around in the wonderful happy home was for social and economic reasons. A married couple needed a child to be considered a happy family. Without a cooing baby the words of ‘adultery’ would slip from the neighbors mouths. Money-wise, I was worth more than most people’s lives. I loathed every cent of it but was not able to prevent it from coming.
I would say I was a liability to my parents since diapers; as a small child, I was forbidden from leaving the premises. I was never allowed to play in the soft grass, to touch the petals of flowers or taste the rainwater which bloomed from the sky. My parents, particularly Vanessa, were horrified I would open my mouth and let spew the world from my eyes to one of the neighbors. Secrets were meant to stay secrets, after all.
I snuck out once, making it down to a neighbor’s front yard. I was four, with wide eyes and an open heart. I shudder at the thought of what might have happened to me if I had met the wrong person that day. Probably would have had my body tossed into the local Greenedge Swamp, no doubt.
A lovely young woman sat on the front porch of her manor-like home; a small child lay on the grass nearby. He had been my age, and that day I met my first friend. Mikey was a smart little kid with a smile which never wavered. Even after my step-mother screamed as she tore me away from the boy’s front yard, yelling about ‘scaring her to death’, he kept smiling.
Sadly, the people four houses away were the only neighbors with consciences, meaning they were most frequently the talk of the block. Even with money and power there were outcasts.
Most children look at their childhoods and remember amusement parks, picnics on the occasional sunny day and thousands of hugs and kisses. I, on the other hand, remember wine flowing like a river during Christmas parties, the screams which seemed to shake the houses foundation during my parent’s fights and the multiple accidental walk-ins on my father and his secretary during Vanessa’s spontaneous trips to Malibu. I figured after the first incident the two would remember to lock the door behind them, but they never did.
When I look back on my years of living in the house, I cannot recall one time which ever equaled the amount of suffering caused by my horrid school years.
On the first day at Saint Peter’s Catholic School for Boys, I drew an upside down cross on the class mural, where the children were expected to show something of their lives. I had picked the upside down cross in favor of a bottle of whiskey. My step-mother had always told me since I was an infant the cross was one of the only items which never should have been desecrated, and if I ever did something to it I would be sent straight to the fiery pits of Hell. In innocent curiosity, I wondered whether I would be instantly transported home, or under the ground.
Anyway, the nun nearly had a stroke when she saw what I had drawn, and brought me to the principals office. The stern man called in my step-mother, who in my mind was the reason why I was in trouble in the first place. It was she who had ingrained in my mind I was to always ‘use the best shit’, which just so happened to be a violent hue of red paint. Perhaps the crucifix would have been slightly less inconspicuous had it been a nice floral green or sky blue.
The principal, after speaking with my mother, considered it best if I went to see the counselor and perhaps get actual mental care from a professional. A shrink was probably the last thing I needed, considering the fact I was perfectly sane, but surrounded by lunatics. Needless to say, I never stepped a foot in Saint Peters again. My step-mother could not have me at a school where the principal thought I was mentally disturbed. It was a travesty to society for Vincent Matthew Beltryn to be considered insane, and even worse for people to know it.
That very day my dark blue uniforms were switched for maroon. Saint Michael’s was just as excellent as Peter’s but a thousand times stricter. After speaking with the principal, stressing the fact I was to be strictly taught and punished accordingly, with no peace or leniency, I wandered aimlessly for some futile sign of hope.
Once again, I went against the ways of the school, forming my own path. The very first day, little Mikey, the one kid who would speak to me without pulling on my tie or yanking on my long hair, the very same child who lived a few doors down, formed a friendship which put him in the direct path of personal injury. Granted, Michael Christian Lovar was already doomed from the beginning, but he could have lessened the blow by ignoring me. The two of us together destroyed public property, disregarded rules, and caused the people of Saint Michael’s an extensive amount of migraines from kindergarten to the eighth grade.
Punishment was a common occurrence, but a nun could only smack hands with rulers for so long before the pain faded into deep resentment. By the second grade I feared just about nothing the school officials could possibly do to me legally. Living in Hell would do such things to a person, correct?
For the most part I was spending months in detention for smoking in bathrooms, digging my initials into school windows and happily spreading rumors of how Zachary Taylor would give head to anyone with a penis and a driver’s license. It wasn’t true, but it was interesting to watch his face turn pale green as the nuns would search his backpack and locker for sinful material which would show he desired for the same sex. Later my childhood bully made life for me quite. . . interesting.
The worst punishment in the school was when Mikey and I filled the bathroom sink with lighter fluid and lit a match. The white tiled walls glowed with the incandescent light of marble on fire. We sat around the burning blaze lighting cigarettes until the fire alarms roared to life, letting water spray down from the metal asterisks. That was what ended my eighth grade year, and according to the principal I would be spending my entire high school career in a detention room. His face was amusing, a purplish color which managed to make my lips turn upwards in what could be considered a small smile.
The school rarely called my father, preferring my insane step-mother over the never seen legend, but that day was the first time he entered the school. He raised Hell in his wake, leaving my principal still and me shaking. The profanities which slipped from his mouth were words not even I dared to ever utter. I could see the lips of my principal forming the words to the Hail Mary as he left, steam almost rising from his vacant chair.
Entertainment was at its highest during the summer; I was not allowed to leave the house for the entire summer, as well as having my name enrolled in Saint Paul’s Catholic High School. The disgust of having to deal with another four years in a school which nuns still had the option of boxing ears or beating children with the tips of rulers was honestly unbearable. I spoke with a tremor in my voice, walked with a wince and hoped with every ounce of me pity would be taken into account and mercy would be granted.
One day as my father was out and my step-mother was getting drunk I decided, rather than dealing and suffering as I was expected to, I retaliated. Mikey’s mother, an angel, drove the two of us to the local high school. As she filled out Mikey’s forms, I attempted to forge my own. I hadn’t believed she would be too thrilled with me after the fiasco, lighting the bathroom on fire, but she had shook her head and told me she thought I was an idiot who craved attention but she loved me anyway.
Two days later, my father was called by Ventra High School because one of the counselors had noticed distinct similarities between my father and my signatures. The steam once again rose that night when he spoke to me, but I had somehow convinced the man to a deal. Attorneys always have a way with words, and their children pick up ways to slyly attempt to get what they want, using their parents tricks of the trade against them.
Somehow I was supposed to make sure Vanessa was gone every Sunday afternoon, which ended up being as simple as dumping her stash of alcohol and, more importantly, cocaine down the toilet. She never once imagined it was me; Vanessa was convinced she must have drunk and snorted it all the previous day. I never bothered asking why he wanted her gone, and I had no intention of finding out as long as he signed the papers, which he grudgingly did.
I remember as he signed the papers mentioning something about a few of the neighbors allowing their children to enter public school rather than private, but there was much more concerning me at the moment than someone talking about other people. I also can remember quite clearly how I ran up the block with the papers in my hand, my father yelling behind me how I was still very much grounded.
My step-mother, for some odd reason or another, did not complain about my new and rather interesting school. I had expected some type of reprimanding; at least some violent screaming and thrashing from the woman but it had unusually never came. James had a hand in her silence, I was certain, but I was at a loss to see how exactly he had done the impossible. I didn’t care either, so I never tried to figure it out. It was best not to delve into my parent’s twisted relationship. I started school in rainy September happy, until reality took its toll against me.
On the very first day at Ventra High School I noticed the issue. Dressed in clothing I never imagined I would ever wear, I noticed how my father’s words should have been taken as a warning. All around were Saint Michael’s students: left, right, behind me and in front, I was positive I had fallen into my worst nightmare. But, my nightmares had never been as terrifying as the reality I was forced to face. If someone threw you into a tank with a hungry class of piranhas, you would have been terrified out of your wits.
By the second week I was viewed not only as a trouble maker almost in the same league as the Anti-Christ, but an outcast as well. My peers were bigoted assholes who had the audacity to see me as unnatural and strange because I had no desire to be some stupid collar popper on the football team. I went the direction I wanted to, which in no way signaled I was anything like them. The fact I wore dark clothing and more makeup than porn stars didn’t change the matter either. What was worse for them was I refused to apologize for being the black sheep among the herd of white, for not conforming to the molding of a perfect teenage boy, to not be what CNN wanted of a rich boy, but the child who seemed to fit into every category of evil. I wasn’t what people wanted, but they had little say on the matter.
Going to Ventra High School was another experience entirely, something I had never expected. The teachers were underpaid, the books were tattered and torn, and the entire place stank of cleaning detergents and the sand and dust which had accumulated from the shoes which traveled down the hallways every day. Even though the building was an asthmatic’s worst nightmare, it was much better than where I could have ended up. When things got really bad, I just remembered at least there were no nuns chasing me around, throwing holy water at me.
Basically, my life couldn’t have possibly gotten any worse than it already was, let alone change, but that was before I met the raven-haired mute which would change my life forever.
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