“His name is Steven.” His frantic mother told the police at the scene of the crash. This was the first interest, acknowledgment, worry; she would show for Steven for the next three years. Steven is a tall, lean, tan-skinned boy with messy dark brown hair and dark blue eyes. Dark freckles occupy his cheeks and bridge of his nose. When he was 14 years old his dad got in a fatal car crash with Steven in the passenger seat. Steven felt guilty that his dad hadn’t had the pleasure of walking away with him. He decided to start a journal of his thoughts and feelings. A place where he could write letters to his dad and immerse him into a different world. A world where he could have exactly what he wanted, his dad. After his dad died, his family seemed to dwindle into pieces. Skylar, Steven’s older brother started doing drugs and drinking. Only 16 years old. In and out of juvenile prison. Slowly but surely, Steven’s mom started losing control. She too turned to drugs, prescribed, but maybe even more dangerous. The day Steven found his mom lying on the couch in a foggy, drugged haze he went to his room and started his first entry;

“Dear Dad,







August 6, 2011


Mom was lying on the couch all drugged up today. I don’t know what’s going on with our family, but it doesn’t feel like a family now that you’re gone. Why’d you even leave? Why couldn’t it be me? I wish I could be with you right now. Why couldn’t mom just keep it together? Just for Skylar and I. She never was the strong one, you were. I don’t know how to fix this.


Sincerely yours,



Steven.”

Two years after the tragic crash, Steven’s mom got remarried. A seemingly pleasant guy quickly turned to be a known enemy of Steven. He started beating his mom, and then Steven. His step dad’s temper was uncontrollable and unpredictable. Every night that he had a beating, he would write to his dad, the same letter;
“Dear Dad,







September 7, 2013
Her new husband hit me again. Why did you have to die?


Sincerely yours,



Steven.”
Steven struggled to cope. He started stealing pills from his mom, two, eight, and twelve at a time. Steven had spiraled downward to the darkest part of his own mind. Self- doubt and insecurities snuck up on him. The day his mom ran out of pills he decided to write his dad a letter:
“Dear Dad,







December 2, 2013


I’m sorry it’s been so long. My life is so hard without you. I know what I’m doing is wrong, but it takes my mind off of reality for a while. I can imagine. Maybe I’m with you, in a happy moment. Skylar is back at home and out of trouble, and mom isn’t going crazy with all the drugs. I’m starting to think that the beatings I get are the things I deserve. I don’t know where to start; can I even change things at this point? All I can think to do is ask why. Why did you die? Why did mom marry him? Why is my life falling apart?


Sincerely yours,



Steven.”


School was the safest place for Steven. He fit in. Played drums in the band, maintained a 3.7 GPA, and was on the varsity basketball team. Steven felt valuable. His journal entries started to have a different light.
“Dear Dad,







December 27, 2013
Today I made the varsity basketball team! I’m so excited I don’t even know what to do with myself. I think that it’ll keep me clean from the bad influences and give me a reason to stay on top of things. I still get hit, but since I’m happy with something in my life it’s not as bad. The weird thing is, only four people talked to me today, a classmate that had a question, the varsity coach and my chemistry teacher, and a teammate congratulating me. I thought I would be looked at as a little cooler now that I’m an athlete, but I almost feel invisible. It’ll be okay I think. I love you dad.
Sincerely yours,
Steven.”

Not until the beatings at home left marks did the beatings at school start. On his walks to and from school he had a chance to think, to dream, to cry, and have no judgments made. He was so soothed by his comfort, but so empty because it wasn’t his dad’s. The kids in his classes, the “popular” kids, started noticing the bruises. Taking advantage of the clearly vulnerable kid, they teased, and made fun of him at every opportunity. Eventually they took it up a notch and started beating him up on his way home from school. Everyday Steven would brush it off, and carry his dignity and pride home, leaving it outside knowing the wrath waiting inside. He started to fall
into a rut. The letters in his journal coming less and less often, taking the beatings, stealing pills, enjoying the high and falling to sleep. About a month into the basketball season he had realized he neglected his journal. When he got home he avoided contact with his step dad and went to his room, picked up the pen and wrote;

“Dear Dad,







February 2, 2014


Basketball is going great. I mean I don’t play because of the senior starters, and it hasn’t really kept me off the drugs, and no one talks to me anymore, but I enjoy being there. I feel like I kind of belong for once. I was feeling good for a while. Some kids noticed the bruises I had from mom’s husband beating me… They started to beat me up on my way home. Why me? Can’t they see I get bruised enough? I don’t understand the motivation behind people and their actions. I want them to know that it is wrong, I want them to feel bad for beating me up and calling me names, not just me but other people too dad. Why did you die? If you were here, everything would be back to normal and the same. I would be happy and never would’ve gone through any of this. I just don’t understand, I can’t understand. All of this pressure is getting too much to bear. If I end it, I could be with you, see you, and laugh with you again. I wouldn’t have to deal with mom passed out on the couch, or dodge the beatings from the people around me. I could end it so fast, but am I brave enough? If I did it, they would all see. They would realize their actions and how easily they affected me. I try to ignore it, but I believe I deserve it, why else would I get this? I don’t know dad, I just don’t. I need you.


Sincerely yours,



Steven.”


Something about the journal made him feel whole. He felt like his dad was reading them and could just comfort him somehow. Steven started to realize the mistakes he was making. He slowly started to stop the drugs. The beatings stayed consistent, but he was numb to them by now. Even though they were relentless, he stuck to his headstrong ways and kept pushing through the adversity.

“Dear Dad,







April 7, 2014


It’s been a while since I wrote you. I feel strong, but when I go to school and no one talks to me, and my teachers won’t even call on me, I start to feel weaker. I’m surprised at how well I have kept my strength, but I know I can’t last anymore. I know what I want, and it is to be with you. If I finish this, I can be with you, and make them feel guilty. They can understand the hurt and misery they have put me through. I just don’t know if it’s worth it. Why can’t they just stop? I hope to see you soon.


Sincerely yours,



Steven.”

“Dear Dad,







April 29, 2014

I’ve decided something crucial. I have to keep holding on. It’s going to be a bumpy road, but I think I can do it. Basketball season is almost over, I still haven’t gotten any playing time, but it really helps me hang on tight. I know that I have to do something to keep myself from slipping over the edge so I will only cause minor pains to myself. I just have to help
myself cope, deal with the beatings, and carry on with my life. The hardest thing for me to do is stick around in this miserable world. Sure, the things they do don’t affect me anymore, but I’m sick of the teasing, the bruises, and black eyes. It gets old after a while dad. Why can’t they just pick on someone else? Better yet, why can’t I take it?

Sincerely yours,


Steven.”
The small cuts on his wrists turned into deep gashes all down his arms. No one noticed, but no one cared anyways. The last basketball game of the season, Steven naturally was ecstatic, and jumped up from the bench, ripped his sweat suit off and ran into the game. At first, no one really acknowledged the cuts on his arm. Steven didn’t think anyone had noticed, so he kept being nonchalant.

“Dear Dad,







April 30, 2014


Today this lame counselor sat me down and tried to talk to me about feelings. It was so weird that she even called me into her office. I thought about the cuts, but I didn’t think it was a real possibility. She sat there with her tissues on her desk, looking at me with those counselor eyes, all sad and depressed. I felt awkward and uncomfortable. All I told her was that they didn’t affect me anymore. I was numb. It wasn’t a lie; they really don’t bother me anymore. Once I got used to the beatings, it was like the bruises stopped hurting. I thought it was weird, but she seemed like it was perfectly normal. She let me go after an hour of silence, and hasn’t said a word since. I don’t know what’ll happen next. Why does she even care?


Sincerely yours,



Steven.”



“Dear Dad,







May 7, 2014


You remember how I told you about the counselor last week? Well it turns out I was wrong about it being no big deal. The police showed up at our house a few days later and told me that they had ‘examined the living environment and conditions’ and were there to take me ‘to a better place’. They talked to me like I was stupid or crazy or something. I didn’t like it, but I just went with them. Where could they take me that was worse than home? Mom wasn’t home, and neither was her husband. Not like they’d care anyways. They let me grab my journal, which was the only thing I really cared about. Today I’m writing from a crazy house. More professionally said a mental institution. I hate it here, but I would rather be here than home. I feel like a psycho, but I know I’m not! Cutting my wrists isn’t a big deal, but apparently it’s a suicidal action, and needs supervision. Whatever, I just go with it. No abuse and free food pretty much sealed the deal for me. There’s this old lady that has the room next to me, now she’s crazy. Every day when I walk by I hear her scream and point at anyone who crosses her window. Everyone except me. It might be weird, but she reminds me of mom. Someone who will cry and reach out to everyone except her own son. I still haven’t heard from her. I wonder what’s going on back at the house. But do I really care? Because I know she doesn’t. I love you dad. Thanks for listening.


Sincerely yours,



Steven.”