by Debbie Wingate

Created on: July 25, 2008   Last Updated: July 26, 2008

Sanctuary

So tired. Matthew couldn't remember ever being so tired. He scrunched his jean-clad knees closer to his chest, and lay his head down on top of them, careful not to rub the angry welt on his cheek. He muttered softly, "Can't sleep. Gotta stay awake to hear if they get too close." When his eyes began to close, Matthew jerked his head up, slamming it into the wall of the hollowed-out tree. He immediately clamped one hand over his mouth to keep from crying out. The other went to the back of his head where he could feel a lump growing larger every second. Uncontrollable tears leaked out of the corners of his tightly shut eyes.

At least he didn't feel tired anymore.

As the pain subsided, Matthew surveyed his shelter in the fading light. It would be dark soon, and while the tiny space had served him well over the past five months, he had never stayed past nightfall.

When he'd first discovered the tree, Matthew had been thrashing his way through the woods after yet another beating. He'd run full out, not caring that the thick underbrush constantly snagged his t-shirt, and scratched his bare arms. All he knew was that he needed to put a lot of distance between him and the monster he was forced to call Dad.

Matthew had no idea how long he'd been running, but when his chest began to burn, he slowed to a fast walk and took several deep breaths. He looked back once to see if anyone was following, but even then, he never stopped moving forward, and away from his father.

No matter how hard he tried though, Matthew could never run far enough to be rid of the man's voice.

"You gotta be tough to be a soldier in God's army, boy, so suck it up!" Dwight Ramsey flexed the time-worn leather strap, and tapped it against his open hand. It was the same piece of leather that his own father had used on him as a boy; the old man had wordlessly handed it over to Dwight on the day his first son was born.

Dwight sat down on the edge of Matthew's bed, and leaned in close. In a soft, almost civil tone, he said into Matthew's ear, "Harsh discipline is for him who forsakes the way, and he who hates correction will die. Proverbs 15:10.' I am trying to save your life, boy."

Matthew knelt over the side of his bed, clutching the bedspread. That his pants were around his ankles, humiliated him to his core. It was worse than the pain from the long, thin welts he could feel rising on the backs of his legs. He looked over at his father, and pounded the mattress in frustration. "Then st-st-stop

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