Multi-Dimensional Merchant System

Pain blurred the frail looking boy's vision as he hit the muddy ground, reflexively curling into a ball to shield himself. Though a second blow never came, the shouting that followed made him flinch.

“You don't listen for shit, do ya boy? You snapped the damn line and let the fish go. For fucks sake...” A sharp kick to his side made the boy flinch again, though he never made a sound. “Get up, boy, and fix your pole. Dinner tonight is whatever you catch... If your dumb ass catches anything.”

“Jim, honey.” The boy's mother chimed in hesitantly, a tremor of fear running through her voice. “He's only eight. I'm sure Oli didn't mean to-”

A sharp smack sounded, and Oliver looked up to see his mother forcing back tears as she held her already reddening cheek. The man- his father, as the man hated to be called 'Dad'- took a sip of his beer without even looking at the family he so casually brutalized.

“Don't matter what age he is. The boy needs to learn how to do shit right if he ever wants to be a man. And you need to stop fucking coddling the little shit.”

His mother fell silent, though she sent worried looks at Oliver as he picked himself up. Hands awkward with inexperience, Oliver silently begin trying to tie a new hook on his fishing line. Thankfully, he was completely ignore by his father as the man continued fishing- and drinking, though that was such a common occurrence that Oliver wasn't sure he had ever seen the man without a beer in his hand.

Even at such a young age, he knew that things weren't right in their family. While his father did all the same things with him that he saw other father a son duos doing, it wasn't really the same at all. No matter what he did, it wasn't right. No matter how hard he tried, it wasn't good enough. And every failure ended in yelling and insults. Or being beaten.

Or worse, his mother being hurt because she protected him.

He had tried crying, yelling begging... Anything to stop him from being hurt. Anything to stop his mother from being hurt. But that only made things worse, so he learned to be silent. Eventually, even that wasn't enough and just the look in his eyes was enough to set his father off.

The man called it disrespectful, and that was enough to deserve a swift backhand.

Oliver's stomach rumbled as they drove home. He avoided the disgusted look in his father's eyes, knowing that he wouldn't get any of the dozen fish in the cooler beside him. His father said he wouldn't get dinner if he didn't catch it, and the man always followed through on threats like that- as long as he didn't pass out drunk first.

Though maybe mom would sneak something to him later, like she always tried to do.

Oliver was out of bed and scrambling before the sound fully registered. Yelling and sobbing cries crashed over him in waves as he yanked open the closet door. Silently closing the door behind him, he shifted a box over and slithered through the opening behind it. Carefully sliding the box back in front of the hole, he slide backwards in the darkness until he reached the wall. The crawl space was narrow and uncomfortable, but it was the one place in the house his father didn't know about and couldn't easily get to.

It was Oliver's safe place, and the place his mother told him to hide on nights when things got bad. Nights just like this one.

Fumbling around in the dark, he desperately tried to ignore the muffled shouts coming from the house until he found the closed plastic container he kept here just for nights like this. Opening the container, he hurriedly pulled out the headphones stored inside. Hitting play, music flooded his ears and masked the sounds of violence and pain.

He lost track of time as the music flowed over him. Jazz, blues, symphonies, rock, pop... The style of music didn't matter. Music was emotions given form and substance, and Oliver drowned himself in those feelings so that he wouldn't drown in his own.

His mind kept drifting to his parent's fight, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it. He knew the cause of the fight, and the reason his mother would be wearing a long sleeve shirt on a hot day tomorrow- his birthday. He had asked for a saxophone for his tenth birthday. He wanted to make beautiful music to bring hope and joy and happiness to other people.

His father didn't approve. He rarely approved of anything Oliver wanted, but this time especially. Oliver knew his mom must have tried to convince him again. It didn't take much to set his father off, and 'questioning his decisions' was definitely one of the quickest.

Oliver's legs grew numb as he hid in the dark, listening to music. When the battery died and his music stopped, he cautiously pulled himself out of the crawl space. Relieved at finding the house silent, he cracked open the closet door and peeked out to see his mom laying on his bed.

Despite the bruises dotting her arms and face, she smiled brightly at him before whispering softly. “Happy birthday Oli.”

Oliver stared numbly at the lump of metal sitting at his feet. What had once been a beautiful musical instrument, his most prized possession, was now just a crumpled ruin. His joy at being picked as section leader for the saxophones in his middle school concert band broke as his drunk father stomped on the instrument once again.

“Fucking waste of time, I told you. Don't know how many times I have to say it before you understand, but you need to grow the fuck up and learn that music ain't gonna take you anywhere in life.”

“And you wanted him to play football? You think that would take him anywhere? At least Oliver likes music! You-”

His father may have missed it, but Oliver thought he heard a tinge of anger in her words towards the end before a sharp slap cut her off. After years of constant abuse, anger surged in Oliver for a brief moment and he spoke before he could restrain it. “Why are you always such an asshole!?”

His father struck before he even realized it. It wasn't an open handed slap like he had grown use to, but a heavy closed fist slamming into the side of his face that sent him crashing into the wall. He collapsed to the floor with the second blow, and the screaming started. “You better watch how you fucking talk to me boy! Disrespecting me in my own God damn house?”

Oliver's vision swam as blow after blow rained down on him. Slaps to his face, punches and kicks to his body. Blood spilled from his split lips and busted nose, though somehow he remained silent throughout. He wouldn't give his father the satisfaction of hearing him scream or seeing him cry. With a loud crack the blows suddenly stopped. Oliver hesitated for a moment before lowering his arms from where they were protecting his face. With one eyes already swollen shut, the other widened in shock at what he saw.

Blood dripped from the broken lump of metal that use to be his saxophone, splattering across the white tiled floor. His mother, chest heaving with fury and adrenaline, held it loosely in her hand. When their eyes met, she quickly dropped it and rushed over to check on him, deliberately blocking his view before he could truly process more. “Oli! Are you ok baby?”

Oliver nodded dumbly as she checked him from head to toe, fussing over every bruise and pain. After a minute, he finally gathered himself to speak. “Mom... Is he...”

She flinched, and the look of fear and anguish on her face said it all. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I'm sorry Oli... He was killing you... I couldn't... I didn't mean to...” She breathed in raggedly, as her emotions ran wild. “I couldn't let him keep hurting you, even if... Even if it means me going to prison for the rest of my life. Even if they decided its self defense, I don't know if they will let me keep you...”

Her words had grown so soft that Oliver barely heard them, though it was clear she didn't mean for him to hear the last bit. Straightening her shoulders, she smiled lovingly at him. “At least you'll be safe now. Ok? You can make music and do whatever you want... It will be ok, understand? It will all be ok.”

Oliver's mind raced over what she said and all the implications. He knew he was different. He never really understood why; maybe it was because of how his father treated them, or maybe he was just born different. But finally, Oliver accepted it and understood something important:

Sometimes being different was useful.

“Uncle Willie has pigs.”

Oliver's cold, detached voice cut off his mother's tears. Leaning back to meet her son's eyes, she stared into them in confusion. “Yes? But... Why? What does that-”

“Pigs will eat everything but the teeth and hair. It's better than he deserves anyway.” Oliver took her hand gently, a touch of warmth seeping into his voice even as he winced from the pain of his bruised ribs. “I don't want to lose you, mom. Not because of him, not for any reason. Ok? We can just tell people that he ran out on us. It happens to people all the time, right?”

Silence stretched between them as his mother sat, stunned and uncertain. Looking into her son's eyes, her heart swelled with the love she held for her precious baby boy. Firming up her will, she nodded decisively.

She would do anything to protect her son.