And of course, how can I stop from participating in something that is required to be "dark " and "gritty?" Come on here.
I never really wrote for a contest on Figment before. I know that Figment is skewed so that writers with the most followers usually win. Everything gets judged by Figment writers--so that means a bunch of tweens choose the most romantic and peppy entries for everything. I hate it. Before, I was resigned to this fact.
But then I realized that I am not the only one frustrated by the standards of Figment. So, other Figgies and I will write a petition, demanding that contest rules change so that entries are judged not by tweens, but the moderators and judges at Figment. Then, after the semi-finalists get chosen, based on their quality and NOT the author's popularity, the finalist will be chosen by Figgies. The petition is work in progress, but I have my hopes up.
Funny, because I actually had this idea before the contest. Like, way before. I was ecstatic to find that I can enter and finally make the idea a reality for the contest.
Now, without further ado, I will introduce my entry (1399 words, baby) to this contest (with only a few edits to be made):
The Haven (but title can be changed on suggestion)
The boxer danced across the room, throwing combos of jabs, crosses, and uppercuts. He exhaled loudly in exertion, but his moves were silent and swift. He kept his wrists tight and torso bent, imagining a distance between him and an invisible opponent. Soon he gravitated towards the “heavy bag” which hung from the ceiling at the center of a cold, desolate basement.
As the bag swung from repetitive impact, time passed. The boxer, a young man in his early 20s, let his mind wander.
He remembered just why he was doing this—reminding himself of the horrors in his past. He always thought back to the Sundays when the family went to church.
The pastor used to stand behind his pulpit, preaching to the rapt audience.
“You must love yourself and your family. Be patient and forgiving,” a white-haired elderly man would enunciate, fixing an importunate gaze on each person in the front row. The young man would stand in-between his mother who cradled his little sister Jade in her arms and his father. His mom had always smiled over at her husband and winked at the boy who never returned the gesture.
Whenever the pastor spouted his nonsense, his dad would place a hand on his little brown-haired head. For an observer, it always looked like a nurturing motion.
A nauseating sensation started in his stomach, so the young man kept punching.
Thinking back, he was never able to handle it. After church, he’d always retreated to his room, throwing his ragged toys, pillows, and bed sheets to the floor, screaming until he could no more, as his parents chatted outside with the neighbors next door. His sister, blissfully oblivious to all, would gurgle and giggle in her dad’s arms.
No one knew that his father never cared. That hand on his head was a constant warning.
A loud knock brought the young man out from his thoughts.
“Come in,” he said, focusing on the punching bag.
“This is the third time you’re down here, Asher.”
Another man, no older than Asher, approached him.
“I need to keep in shape, Liam,” Asher said, grunting as he dipped to the right and launched a strike at his practicing bag. The sound, like a basketball hitting cement ground, caused Liam to flinch.
He glanced chaffingly at Liam. “Looks like you need to also.”
His friend only scoffed. “According to you, Muhammad Ali, but I’m pretty awesome the way I am. Plus, researchers like me don’t need much muscle.”
“Yeah, you just sit on your bony ass in front of the computer all day, looking constipated,” Asher remarked dryly.
“And I find cases for you. That’s what keeps this place running,” Liam smugly countered, ignoring his comment about his physical appearance. He knew he won when Asher only continued to box.
Cases—it sounded so official, but really, everything was under the radar.
The Haven, the society was called, lived by three rules: Protect, Heal, and Avenge
Members had to come on their own and swear by the rules. The society didn’t force its members to stay. Asher and the uppers encouraged it, but never was imprisonment enforced. He tried to make the society safe; he wanted everyone to know that the Haven could be another family, a better family. Protection of those inflicted was top priority.
Then came the healing process—possibly the hardest thing to go through. Asher and Liam knew what it meant. They both went through it; years of being treated like scum, a lifetime of believing that one was useless and worthless, had to be erased. Asher hoped eventually all will heal from what they had suffered through. He asked around for help and got volunteer social workers—older members—to come and teach the younger ones. Food, clothes, and beds were also given to the habitants of the Haven.
The society had 53 members now. For many, Asher knew, the abuse began when they were young. Yet, there were some that went back, resigning to their fate, thinking that they could never escape from harm.
And those members would never return.
Asher tried not to think about the reason, but the members knew. They couldn’t deny reality.
As a third rule, the game of avenging would come next. The Haven had a 97% closing rate, according to Liam, that is.
“I talked to Sam at the shelter. He has a girl, eight-years-old. Her name’s Alexis,” Liam continued. “Sam tried to talk to her, but she’s pretty shaken up. Not eating or being social. He suspects abuse.”
Liam paused, watching Asher jab at the punching bag, more rigorously than before, but he knew his friend was still listening.
“What kind of abuse?”
Liam, who was never comfortable talking about things like what he was about to say, ran a hand through his jet black hair. He didn’t answer right away. Asher, knowing the reason for his hesitation, pretended to adjust his wrist wraps.
He started again; the smacks of the bag reverberated throughout the room. The wooden floor creaked as Asher kept on practicing his right crosses, feet travelling across space.
“She screamed when Sam tried to tuck her in bed.”
Asher stopped for a moment, suddenly feeling sick. His heart pounded from the workout and his breath hitched. In the back of his mind, he registered the throbbing ache of his knuckles.
“We’ll get her then,” said he calmly, tiredly brushing perspiration away with the back of his hand.
Liam cleared his throat. “Sam did some research though. He contacted his people at the city police department and had them run background. Alexis is from East Hampton. Dad’s an anesthesiologist and mom’s a business woman.” He furrowed his eyebrows. “That’s not our usual case, right?”
Asher wasn’t very surprised. Most often, rich people seemed to think they can get away with anything.
“More money, more ability to pay some people to shut up, I guess,” Asher answered monotonously to his friend.
He threw a final sharp uppercut, causing the punching bag to break from the hook that was supporting it. He watched as the heavy piece hit the floor. Liam jumped away in surprise.
Asher jerked his head, gesturing to the door which would lead them upstairs to the main room of their headquarters. He stood tall as he removed his wrist protectors. “Come on; we need to call a meeting. Researchers will find who the pedo is. Once we confirm, call the Cleaners and say they’ll be needed in the Hamptons and then have Addie pick up the girl—Alexis, you said?”
Liam nodded, placing himself alongside Asher as they walked to the exit. “You want Cleaners?"
“If Alexis went to a shelter to escape from the Hamptons, she needs help. Cleaners will make the perp’s death look accidental—whoever’s “unfortunate” enough to be the target.”“Okay, but I think we need to be more careful. Last time—"
“I know,” Asher interrupted. “The guy is still alive and blabbed. But the police didn’t believe him, you remember? At least, not after they found all the child porn on his computer.”
“But the Cleaners, they—"
“—need to be watched. I know, Liam.”
“Still, Asher,” Liam said, exasperated. His insistent tone made Asher stop for a moment. “The Cleaners can be the one thing that ruins us. If they talk, if anyone finds out, you know the police, the state—whatever—they’ll break us apart. Everyone will go back to their ‘homes.’”
He exhaled loudly. “And you know what the means.”
Asher paused at the doorway, his back to Liam. He flicked all the lights off; one by one, each fluorescent light shut down, clouding the room in darkness. Liam watched, unsure, as his friend gazed out into the black.
Even with the lack of light, Asher’s eyes landed on the cylindrical punching bag, still on the floor. He saw 3-year-old Jade with hemorrhaged eyes and a bruised neck with fingernail marks on the skin. He imagined every child who had been in his place, every child who had cried, screamed, and begged as supposed loved ones inflicted abuse on them just because they could.
The Haven will save them.
No one was there to save Asher when he desperately needed help, but by God, he’ll save them.
“Come on,” Liam said gently, bringing him back once again. “We’ll get everyone together.”
With a nod, Asher climbed the stairs without another glance backwards, Liam following him.
