THIEF -Chapter 2: The Story of Frankie's Youth-

I was merely a boy. My name- Frankie. Frankie Spanardo. My parents said they named me that because my dad's real name was Frank. I didn't believe that since everyone called him Jameson. Although really, I don't mind. Anyway- back to our topic. My family was genuinely poor, with the exception of the money we obtained from my grandparents. I was eight when my brother died at the age of twenty-three. He was shot and killed by a cop who had mistaken him for someone else that committed treason. You see, around here, shooting ain't too rare. The crime rate in my town is so high, that cops have the freedom to shoot down people as they please. People who look to be criminals- even if they really aren't. I can't say I was against the justice system, but I really hated it. These laws are what allowed them to take the life of my brother- and many other innocent lives. I just wasn't able to bring myself to forgive this country's laws.

My brother was the only one that acknowledged my existence. My parents were striving to survive, but they had high expectations from my brother, and little for me. My parents would constantly complain about how they would have more money if I were never born. They would give me the smallest portions of food, and I would sleep on the coldest parts of our stone floor. Some days, when I disappointed my father, he would beat me with a stick. In extreme cases, he would use a whip. Both of my parents would physically abused me- but mental abuse was common for me too. My mother would stick glass in my skin whenever I misbehaved, and she would tie me down while tearing my flesh. They would call me terrible things- that I can never forget. But there were so many things to remember.

Usually this occurred when my brother was off working- so he was unaware of the terrible things my parents did to me. He was the only one whom had found a job. However it was far from our area- and he had to travel every day. That resulted in him barely ever being home. When he was home, he devoted most of his time to playing with me. After his incredibly late shifts, he would take the train to the nearest station, and then walk the rest to get home. The minute he arrived, he would give money to our parents. He would talk to them a bit. But not for long, because very soon after, he would turn his attention towards me. Everyday I would run towards him and he would scoop me up in his arms.

He was more like a father to me than my father was. When he would ask me about the cuts, bruises, and lashes, I told him I got hurt while playing outside. My parents would threaten me with painful punishments if I had ever told my brother what they did. They feared that if he knew, he would tell someone that had the power to arrest them and bring them to justice. My only regret was not telling my brother- because I could tell he really wasn't too fond of our parents either.

Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure we were adopted. I mean, two black kids with white parents? Ridiculous. The only thing I wondered was- if they were so poor, why would they even take us in? We'd be better off on the streets. I even remember a bit from back then. It was just me and my brother. To be honest, I can't remember our real parents at all. I'm sure that my brother knew everything, but I'm also sure that he was waiting to tell me when I got older. Unfortunately, those bastards that call themselves police shot and killed him unexpectedly. That dad was especially awful for me. It had to be the worst day of my life- literally.

I woke up to a rainy day, my mother was shoving a lantern in my face as she yelled at me to wake up. My eyes opened slightly, but I was too tired to get up so early. It was 5 am. I rolled over to my side in an attempt to ignore my mother's shouting. She grabbed my arms and threw me. Then she gave me a hard smack on my face. After slapping me maybe twice, she stopped. I stood up and walked outside to take care of my chores. I would injure myself a lot while plowing the fields. The land was dusty and the area itself was just full of sand. The town looked as if it were deserted.

That day I cut open my right leg while I was working. I ran in my house, hoping to receive some medical treatment. All I expected was some water, and maybe something to wrap my leg in.

I just wanted to stop the bleeding and prevent an infection. And do you know how my parents react? They cuss me out. My father grabs me and holds me against the wall as my mother tosses vinegar into my open wound. The gash burned so much that I could barely stand. Then they slit me in several areas around my body with a knife. They rubbed every one of the cuts with anything they had that would burn. What they told me was: “That is your punishment for failing to complete your work in flawless efforts.” In truth, I worked my hardest every day to please them. All I ever wanted was for them to love me, and be proud of me. But I guess that was too much of a dream to be real.

As I was collecting firewood, I hear gunshots. “Not unusual” I thought to myself. Now it was about 10 am. I looked around to see what was going on, but sand blew into my eyes. In the distance, I see a man lying on the ground. I squint my eyes only to see a black suit and a bright red tie. Instantly, I knew it was my brother. I dropped all the wood to the ground, and ran to the scene. However, I couldn't run all that well due to my leg. I collapsed halfway, but I was finally able to see what happened clearly. My brother was bleeding out in the streets. And the bullet was shot by none other than an officer.

The cop blows the smoke from his gun and puts it back in it's holster. As he lay lying, my brother turns his head only to see me bleeding next to him. He glares at me with tear filled eyes, and smiles.

I crawl to his side and begin to cry in his chest. He tells me not to worry, and tells me to keep going strong without him. “How can I continue to live without you?” I thought. I laid by his side weeping, eventually passing out due to loss of blood and fatigue. In his final moments, my brother takes off a part of his suit and wraps it around me leg. Eventually he passes away. I was told that he died with a smile on his face. When I woke up, my parents were arguing. It was about five o' clock. I'm laying on my brother's cot. Through the corners of their eyes, my mother spots me awake. She walks up to me and slaps me. I was scolded for allowing my brother to die instead of myself.

Five years passed, and the abuse from my parents only got worse. I was thirteen now, and I couldn't bear living this life any longer without the cheerful face of my brother. It was as if my parents had completely forgotten about him, because they spoke his name as if it were some taboo. They even burned all his documents and personal belongings, in order to rid the house of his memory. Secretly, I kept one thing. The cross he was wearing on his neck when he died was hidden under his cot so my parents wouldn't sell it. He held that very dearly to him while he was alive. Apparently, our real mother had given it to him. That's what my “father” said.

When I was fifteen, I ran away from home. I hoped to start a fresh, new life. All I wanted was to desert all those painful memories from living in such horrible conditions. I traveled all the way to the city of Los Angeles, surviving on food I stole from merchants on the road. I stole more than I ever ate at home- but not more than what I could go without. I lived in what we call a trestle. Basically underneath a highway. I liked living such a carefree life. I didn't like being dishonest and stealing goods at first, but eventually, I began to love the feeling of robbing someone that had more than what they needed. It felt good. I came to love committing all sorts of crimes. But I was most wanted for robberies.

Eventually my poster was around in a few supermarkets and on a few poles. For once in my life, I felt wanted. (Get the pun?) Like there were people who noticed me. I wasn't ignored or beaten. Perhaps I was isolated from society, yes, but I was free.