Inherited Behavior

Inherited Behavior

By

LF Gillis

Copyright © 2017 LF Gillis

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

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The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Parents, although this book is not graphic in nature, the subjects dealt with my not be suitable for younger readers. Although the author does not wish to place restrictions on Inherent Behavior I do ask that you discuss the subjects dealt with, with your child before allowing him or her to read it.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Author's Note

Chapter 1

Lowndes County, Georgia 1990

Sylvia-Ann stood outside door 321 of the county recreation facility. Hesitantly, she pressed her hand against the grayish-blue metal. My first day of group therapy. She inhaled until her lungs filled to capacity, then slowly let the air out through her nose. You can do this, Sylvia-Ann.

Group therapy for child abuse victims wasn’t what she wanted to do, but after she told her private counselor about her flashbacks and night terrors, he all but forced her into it. He said it would be beneficial to talk to those who going through similar experiences. Perhaps he didn’t want, or know how, to deal with her.

Across the hall, a city league basketball game was going on. Sylvia-Ann listened to the cheers of the audience. Guess the right team scored. She shrugged. Wish I was there instead of here.

She had asked her best friend, Bill Denali, to come with her for moral support, but he had other plans. Ever since he started dating a girl from another school, he never had time for anything.

Sylvia-Ann held no grudge against him for distancing himself from her. His girlfriend gave him the kind of love and support she couldn’t.

Watch it, she yelled, when someone wearing an oversized hoodie and baggy jeans crashed into her while going inside the therapy room. Jeeze, she said, rubbing her triceps. Are you afraid of not getting a seat?

The person had already disappeared behind the now shut door.

Sylvia-Ann reopened the door, but stopped just inside. She scanned the room looking for the person who had slammed into her. Abused or not, there was no reason for his or hers hit and run.

The room looked much like she expected. Metal and plastic chairs were arranged in an incomplete circle. An office chair stood close to the empty space.

Sylvia-Ann sniffed the air, her lips curling into a smile. Turpentine—the strong scent reminded her of the place where Hank wanted to build his house. A feeling like sunshine—all warm and glowing—covered her as she thought of the silly reason he had for kissing her. He wanted to kiss her on that site, so when their grandchildren asked where he kissed her the first time, he’d be able to say it was in their future front yard. Sweet excuse, but total bull. They were never going to have kids, never mind grandkids. In a few months they would get bored with each other and move on. That’s the way she wanted it, she kept telling herself. That’s the way it had to be.

The hoodie sweatshirt person was seated between two girls; one wearing no makeup and a baggy t-shirt, while the other wore a white tube-top and heavy makeup. Tube-top’s frizzy hair remind Syl of an eighties’ pop star.

Sylvia-Ann took the seat across from her assailant. There was no use trying to see his or her face. The person wore ski goggles.

The plain girl looked up. You’re the first person I’ve ever seen smile in here.

Someone Kamikazed me on the way in. Sylvia-Ann rubbed her arm again, while looking at her shrouded attacker. I’m happy he didn’t break my arm.

Hello. A man hunched down in the office chair. Bright orange hair and beard added to his bizarre appearance of baggy clothes and sunk-in cheeks. He was thin enough to have convinced Sylvia-Ann that he hadn’t eaten in weeks. I’m Marvin.

Hello, Marvin, everyone except Sylvia-Ann and the person in the hoodie, said.

Saying nothing, Marvin stared at the group.

Sylvia-Ann crossed her arms in front of, glaring at her assailant, while Marvin continued doing nothing.

Placing her right hand on her left forearm, Sylvia-Ann began tapping her forearm with her fingertips. 1-2-3. 1-2-3. 1-2. 1-2. 1-2-3, she repeated the set, speeding up the tempo.

I see some new faces, said Marvin at last. Please welcome them.

Welcome, the others said.

Sylvia-Ann shook her head. Did these people not have any freewill, or were they mindless drones?

You there, tapping your fingers, said Marvin. Why don’t you go first?

If it’s all the same to you, she rolled her eyes, I’d rather not.

Don’t be shy. Marvin smiled, revealing cracked and yellowing teeth. The first time’s always the hardest.

Sylvia-Ann cringed. Could her counselor not afford dental insurance? Then it dawned on her. If hooded sweatshirt spoke, she would at least find out if it were a boy or a girl. How about letting someone else go first? You know—to show me how it’s done.

Fair enough. Marvin turned his head toward the right. Troy, why don’t you start?

Darn it. Sylvia-Ann opened then closed her left hand. Why didn’t he make hooded sweatshirt go first?

A muscled, dark-skinned boy stood. My name is Troy.

Hello, Troy, everyone except hooded sweatshirt, chimed in.

Sylvia-Ann hoped that by cooperating, her counselor would sign her release and she could start living life instead of talking about the past.

Troy’s forehead glimmered under the fluorescent lighting as he spoke. As most of you know, my step-dad started abusing me verbally and physically when I was thirteen. He seemed to be looking directly at Sylvia-Ann. I know, I know, his voice quivered. How could an hundred and eighty-pound man abuse someone as big as me?

Sylvia-Ann stared at hooded sweatshirt’s dirty sneakers. She had seen blue and white high-tops like those somewhere, but where?

Believe me, the first time wasn’t easy, Troy continued. That’s the reason he enlisted the help of some of his cop friends. A few whacks to the head with a nightstick, and some kicks to the groin while you’re handcuffed, takes the fight right out of you.

How did you make it stop? Sylvia-Ann asked, without meaning to.

Young lady. Marvin wrote something on a clipboard.

Sylvia-Ann figured it was something unflattering about her.

It’s okay. Troy raised his hand. I don’t mind. He knelt down in front of her. Walnut eyes commanded her gaze. My stepdad nearly beat me to death one night. I woke up a week later, in the hospital, with my jaws wired shut and my right cheek crushed. He rubbed his eyes. After that, no more stepdaddy. He sniffled. Of course, they charged my mom with aiding and abetting. I now live with a foster family.

And you’re also last year’s State Championship’s most valuable player.

I guess I am. Troy looked to his right, blushing. You follow high school football?

I read the newspaper, Syl answered.

Since you’re more relaxed, young lady, Marvin interrupted, why don’t you tell us something about yourself?

After Troy returned to his seat, Sylvia-Ann started. My name is Sylvia-Ann.

Hello, Sylvia-Ann.

She cringed at the group’s robotic response. Doreen has been beating the crap out of me for as far back as I can remember.

Doreen is your mother, am I right? Marvin asked.

If you want to call her that. Sylvia-Ann glared. I have a few other names for her. She turned her gaze on hoodie sweatshirt. For reasons she didn’t understand, focusing on him made talking easier Anyway, it all ended when I pushed her down a flight of stairs in my old apartment complex.

A collective breath was gasped by the group.

I snapped, okay? She gritted her teeth. This was supposed to be the judgement free zone. In case y’all are interested, the woman tried to cut my throat that night. She removed her choker. Only a dark scar remained as evidence of Doreen’s vicious attack on her daughter. See?

The girl in the tube top looked away.

It could’ve been worse. Anger boiled inside Sylvia-Ann. If these people wanted horror tales, she would give them nightmares. Doreen—excuse me, I meant to say my mother—was about to sell me to our pervert apartment manager. To her credit, I don’t think she realized what he was. He told her he wanted me to work for him.

What makes you think the apartment manager wanted anything other than help? Marvin asked.

Because while he was trying to rape me earlier that day, he mentioned something about my dead boyfriend, charging him to break me in.

Did you kill your boyfriend too? asked the girl in the tube top.

What is with these people? Sylvia wrung her hands. On television, people in group therapy were allowed to speak freely, not undergo ridiculed questioning.

Greg may have been a pimp and a sociopath, but part of Sylvia-Ann still harbored feelings for him. She lowered her head, attempting to choke down the pain. No, she uttered. The cops never caught his killer.

So he really was murdered? the girl asked.

Sylvia-Ann wondered what part of killer, didn’t the girl understand. She fought the impulse to ask her. That’s what I was told.

That’s quite a tale, said the plain looking girl.

It just so happens to be true. Sylvia-Ann fell backward with the feeling that if she continued, these people would try to have her arrested. It felt like they were already ganging up on her. Then the most unexpected thing happened. Baggy hoodie came to her rescue. He stood, pulling back his hood while taking off his googles. My name is Bill Denali and I’m an abuse survivor.

Chapter 2

The mish-mosh of noise in the crowded cafeteria closed in on Sylvia-Ann as she waded through the sea of bodies. Holding her tuna sandwich at chest level, she made her way toward the nearest exit, hoping her lunch wouldn’t be smashed or dropped in the process.

How do people eat in places like this? To Sylvia-Ann, lunchrooms were a nauseating combination of food, cleaners, and bodies of varying odors. She had never been in one that wasn’t uncomfortably hot and humid. And the noise level in this one was ridiculously loud.

Sylvia-Ann swatted a balled up napkin before it could hit her head, as a group of boys sitting at a table a few feet away laughed and squirted each other with milk from loaded straws. She avoided the splash by moving between two crowded rows of table. Getting sworn at because she bumped into a few people was better than smelling like soured milk all day.

At last, she proclaimed, while pressing the metal bar that opened the glass door. I can breathe.

The tables on the patio were taken, so she sat on the low, brick wall. All around her people flirted and joked around. Although she talked to a few kids in class, Sylvia-Ann was still an outsider in this school.

Even Bill and Hank avoided her lately. Ever since group therapy, Bill either ducked down the nearest hall or ran in the opposite direction whenever he saw her. She called out him before their last class started, but he walked past her—no Hi, Sylvia-Ann, no anything. She and Hank had gone out once or twice but nothing ever came of it. Not that it mattered. In spite of his proclamation of love at the place where Hank planned to build his future home, she never considered their relationship anything but a few good times. Bill, on the other hand, was her friend. Losing him hurt.

Sylvia-Ann stared at her tuna sandwich, wrinkling her nose before dropping it on her paper plate. She would have rather spent this time running, but her Grandpa Cal insisted that she eat something. She barely made weight during her last tournament. One pound lighter and she would have had to drop from lightweight to featherweight. Considering she was moving up in the lightweight ranks, that could have been disastrous. So she nibbled here and there while studying from her anatomy book.

It’s refreshing to see one of my rising stars working to keep up their grade point average.

Huh? Sylvia-Ann looked up from her book, dazed. Oh. High, Mr. Connors. Had it not been for his balding head, she might not had recognized the track coach in his crumpled gray suit. But today, the school superintendent was visiting. All the teachers were dressed up.

What was that ‘rising star’ crack? She stuck a pen in the book then closed it. What can I do for you?

Mrs. Downing was supposed to take over the girls’ track program this year, but she can’t.

What does that have to do with me?

For practice, I’m combining the boys’ and girls’ teams.

Sylvia-Ann shrugged.

One of my most talented male runners is also my laziest. I was wondering if you could give him some competition.

She laid her sandwich on top of her books. You want me to challenge your fastest guy?

Believe me, he could be, but isn’t any competition for you. Mr. Connors sipped from his coffee cup. Since boys don’t like to lose to girls, I’m hoping you’ll motivate him.

Enticing, she answered, ready to vent her frustration on the first guy to come along. I’ll do my best.

"I would expect nothing less.