Overcomer - The Journey by Judy Colella (top 10 non fiction books of all time txt) 📕

Stepping back from the window, away from his mattress and the boxes stacked on either side, and into the more open space of the cellar, he swung the sword in wide, swooshing arches. Soon he established a rhythm, one that became familiar now that he had a weapon more like the metal ones with which he’d been trained – yet another recollection of possible great meaning that somehow sparked little curiosity as it passed through his mind. Instead, he gave in to the motion’s familiarity until he was moving about with ease, stepping this way and that, ducking and whirling with the skill of experience. Before long, his movements became faster, then faster still, until his arms were nearly a blur of motion as he wielded the weapon first with one hand, then the other, his body fluid and swift. It was like a dance, and he exulted in its freedom.

A loud click – the door at the top of the stairs being unlocked, a sound that stopped Cian dead. His foster mother. Rushing into the bathroom, he tucked the sword behind a large pipe that ran from floor to ceiling. Along with the weapon, every bit of confidence and grace his swordplay had given him was hidden away.

When his breathing calmed to normal, he came out to find Letitia standing in front of the clothes washer, loading items into the top.

Without turning, she said, “Did you clean the bathroom like I told you to?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He ducked his head and stared at the floor. Multiple beatings had taught him never to look directly at her, so he didn’t wait for her to face him. His ugliness would make her sick if he did, but not too sick to hit him for it.

“Uh-huh, but what about the floor out here? It’s dirty as hell. I mean, look at all that dust!”

He didn’t see any, but what did that matter? The broom’s bristles visible in his peripheral vision where it had been leaning against the nearby wall disappeared. He cringed. Getting hit with the broom was always bad, but better at least than the wire.

“When I tell you to sweep the floors,” she growled, coming at him, “sweep – the – floors!”

Between each word she brought the handle down across his back, hard, and he went to his knees, biting back the cries rising in his throat.

“You stupid, stupid beast!” Grabbing him by the hair she snapped his head back. “God, you’re disgusting!” She backhanded him across the face, and when he fell sideways to the floor, she kicked him a few times in the ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, arms cradling his face and head against damage.

“What? Speak up, pig!”

“I’m sorry!”

“You’re sorry all right. What else are you?”

Oh, how he hated this, hated it more than the blows. “I’m uglier than Satan,” he choked.

“What else?”

“I’m stupider than… than a jackass with brain-damage.”

“That’s right. You’re a total moron with a face that could break the windshield of a Peterbilt truck.”

He had no idea what that was, but it sounded extreme, so he apologized again. A moment later he heard her crouch down beside him. This was the worst part: she started stroking his hair.

“That’s a good boy,” Letitia crooned. “No one would ever want you or put up with such a grotesque monster like I do, now would they?”

“No, ma’am.” Stop touching me!

“That’s right, little toad. Your mama must’ve been an even bigger idiot than you, wasn’t she. Well?”

No. He wouldn’t answer that one. The stroking stopped, replaced by a hard smack on the side of his head that crushed his other ear into the cement. Tears of pain filled his eyes, but he stayed silent.

“Fine.” He heard her stand. “Get up, you rotten piece of filth.”

Pain slowing his movements, he got to his feet, cradling his ear with one hand, nursing his side with the other. His ribs were sore, his ear hurt, and his back ached. Nothing worse.

Letitia had towered over him when he was ten. Now he was almost her height, and he had a feeling she didn’t like that one bit. How much taller would he grow? And would she still try to hurt him then, assuming she hadn’t killed him before that? Irrelevant thought, but a needed distraction from the pain.

“Do the laundry and get it done fast. I want to see everything out on the line by noon, or you don’t get lunch.” She turned to leave, but stopped and turned back. “In fact, I don’t think you deserve to eat today at all – I do not like your attitude, mister!” After stomping up the stairs, she left the door unlocked so he could take the laundry outside. The dryer was only used when it rained, and in the winter.

Like every other time he had to hang the laundry on the line in the small, weed-choked yard, he thought of escaping through the gap in the fence, running until he was far away from this awful place, these awful people. But like every other time, he was too injured to run far or fast. He was convinced that she hurt him on purpose on laundry days to keep him from bolting.

At least this time he had his new sword to practice with when he was done. But how well can I practice with my side and back hurting like this? Blast her! When he felt a little better, then. And that was okay. Having the sword made it all, in a twisted way, tolerable.

Yet even after more than two full years of physical, verbal and psychological abuse, it would not occur to him until years later that this weapon he wielded with so much skill could have been used against these horrible people to win his freedom.

*******

Connecticut - Now

Celeste and Katie finished setting the table and ran up to Celeste’s room. The meal would be in another hour or so, giving them time to talk about what had happened after school. Passing Tara in the upstairs hallway, Celeste issued a warning that she and Katie were not to be bothered, even if the house was burning down.

“No problem.” Tara gave her big sister an exaggerated grin and went into her own room.

“Great,” Celeste murmured. “That means she’ll bother us the minute she feels like it. I’m locking my door.”

When they were in and the door locked, Katie suggested Celeste stuff one of her blankets into the crack between its kick plate and the wooden floor beneath so her sister couldn’t hear their conversation.

“Good idea.” When it was done she straightened, went to her bed, and sat against the headboard. Leaning back, she hugged one of the throw pillows to her stomach, sighing.

Katie sat in her usual spot on the floor facing the side of the bed and shook her head. “What a mad, confusing day.”

“Yeah. Good description. I mean, how could I have possibly spoken Gaelic? I really don’t know the language at all!”

“Well, you did hear it, like when you were in Ireland and stuff. Maybe some of it registered subconsciously.”

Celeste drew up her knees, put the pillow on them, and rested her head sideways to look at Katie. “That’s not possible. You can’t ‘register’ complete understanding of a sentence spoken in a language you don’t know, and then know the exact words to the answer. I don’t think it works that way.”

“Okay, true.” Katie chewed on her thumbnail for a second. “So, like, how do you explain it?”

“I can’t.”

“Are you going to cry?”

“No, but I am freaked out. Wouldn’t you be?”

“I already am, Celeste. Cian kind of scares me, but what’s happening to you scares me even more.”

Burying her face in the pillow, Celeste groaned.

“Think we should talk to your parents about it?”

Celeste jerked upright. “No! What are you smoking? Oh my God, no!”

Katie shrugged. “You’re right. Never mind. But what should we do? I mean, I really think we need to talk to somebody about this. It’s too, uh, too…”

“Spooky? Eerie? Creepy? I can add to that list, if you want.”

“Don’t bother.” Katie got up and went to the window. “I have a long list of my own, thanks.”

“Are we going to talk to him tomorrow?”

Katie was silent for several moments. Then she nodded. “I think if we’re going to get this resolved, if we’re ever going to find out about your ‘visions’ and everything else weird that goes with them, we’ll have to. He said there’s more than what he already told us, and if we look at it like a puzzle, he’s got to have some of the major pieces. Let’s hope we have classes with him tomorrow.”

Celeste leaned back against the headboard, closing her eyes. Something was wrong with this. In fact, little of it was adding up. She opened her eyes, sitting straight, and stared hard at Katie. “Explain to me how this total stranger could be tied in so closely with my… visions. It makes no sense, yet it seems to be true. And another thing. He keeps talking about time as if it were an entity. Could he be a time traveler or something?”

A thick silence clamped down on the room; Celeste felt paralyzed by whatever force her own suggestion had unleashed, and if the look on Katie’s face was any indication, she felt the same. For several long minutes they sat, unmoving, and might have continued to do so for several more if Tara hadn’t banged on the door.

Katie and Celeste jumped, startled, and got up.

“Hey! Food’s ready! Mom’s been calling you guys to come eat, and I’m starved!”

As they went toward the door, Katie hissed, “Not a word of this.”

Celeste stopped. “Really?”

“Sorry, had to make sure.”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s go – before TARA BREAKS THE DOOR!” she ended in a shout, hoping to scare her little sister off. It seemed to work – the girl was gone when they came out, but her disappearance could as easily have been the result of hunger as the fear of getting pounded.

Celeste didn’t feel hungry, but she was willing to eat enough to be polite. As far as Katie appetite went, Celeste knew that food, unless awful, was never at risk of being ignored.

Taking her seat, Celeste gave the meal a sour glance. Most of the time, her mother’s offerings consisted of cleverly disguised tofu and vegetables that had been prepared with extraordinary skill. But at other times, like tonight, she’d make a meal that was somewhat healthy, but skirted the edge of the decadence cliff...

... lamb chops with a delicate, minty cream sauce; fluffy mashed potatoes oozing with sweet butter; steamed fresh asparagus sprinkled with chopped pecans and finely-shredded Swiss cheese; and to drink, peach nectar over ice with a mint leaf mounted in a sliver of lemon…

Celeste gave in. This was impossible to resist, and her hunger returned in a rush. She could go back to being solemn and angst-riddled later.

“Mrs. Kelly tells me you wanted another look at the harp, yes?” Donal Kelly asked after devouring three lamb chops, two helpings of potatoes and most of his asparagus, his glass halfway to his lips as he addressed Katie.

“Yes, sir.” She gave him a broad smile.

“Ah.” He took a sip. “Any idea how old it is?”

“Uh, no, but it sure looked way old.” She ate a piece of asparagus. “How old is it?”

“Well, I don’t really know myself,” he admitted. “It was part of an estate sale, you see, and the people didn’t have the original bill of sale. They only knew it had been in the family for a long time.”

“Was it an Irish family?” Tara asked.

“Now that you mention it, no, I don’t believe they were. Last name of Alwin.”

“Sounds British,” said Eileen, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“I’m pretty sure it is.” Donal took a longer sip, put his glass down, and turned to Celeste. “Guess what