This is it.
The middle portion, or 'Empire Strikes Back' section of Chapter Thirteen.
Hope you enjoy.
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For the first time in weeks, Patrick McAllister felt like being awake. He did not feel well exactly. His stomach still churned. His head still pounded. And every last part of him ached, leaving him empty; no––more like…drained…
His mother expressed a desire to expose him to some fresh air and sunlight. But even he had his doubts he could stand it. What prompted him out of bed this fine morning was not one, but rather a string of disturbing symptoms. His nightmares were worsening. He could scarcely dream at all anymore without that cold, hateful voice reaching out from beyond the silvery depths of…somewhere.
Might wanna save your strength, little guy…
And he believed it. To whomever it belonged, this voice meant the ugly things it said, and could most certainly carry them out with sadistic brutality.
He had no concept, of course. And no context. Not of the words––nor the voice––which he’d long stopped speaking of to others. As young as he was, and frightened, he knew it would come to no good.
An image, so clear and compelling, was the real culprit. A dream within a dream; so vivid, it would not leave his mind. In school he would draw all the time. He was not the most social child. Friends came easily enough. At seven, one just needed to be there, ready to play. Still, Patrick was always most comfortable alone.
From the toychest, he retrieved what supplies he needed and then, as though guided by some higher power, began rather innocently, to draw. The shapes flowed effortless. First he drew a neckline, then shoulders, moving the blue pencil to complete the shape of a head; a face, eyes bulged in fear; they too were blue. No––brown; and submerged in horrified tears. Her mouth was red. But not from lipstick. This red came from within, staining her teeth and tongue, which hung partially over her puffy lips in a helpless scream.
The image was clearer, growing moreso by the stroke. In no time, he finished the shape of her torso, and was touching up some finer detail. Who was this girl? Had he seen her before? No. Except in his dream–– She’s sitting next to a man; the bad man, he’s almost certain. Though he wears a disguise. She’s frightened of him. Screaming. Crying. He’s hurting her. Not only does he see it, he can almost…feel her pain…
When finished, it looks rough. Even at his best, he can only approximate, (most of his practice devoted to spaceships and fire trucks); sometimes, they’re nothing at all; the collective spew of subconscious. With age, he’ll begin to call it art…but for now…
“Patrick? Patrick, honey, what are you doing?” He was so wrapped up, he didn’t notice her soft, subtle approach; his mother, looking exhausted and ecstatic, all in a single dumbfounded expression. “You’re coloring!” she marveled, startling him half to death. “Does this mean you’re feeling better?” Again he did not reply. He simply lacked the words.
“The fever hasn’t broken,” she muttered. “How bout your tummy…?” At last he moved his tiny head from side to side. “No it doesn’t feel better, or no, it doesn’t hurt?” He mumbled, incoherent. “Did you draw this?” she asked, giving up. “It’s very good.” She pulled up a chair to examine more closely. “She doesn’t look very happy, though. Is she sick too?” Patrick nodded a lazy ‘yes’ this time; as good an explanation as any.
“Oap––think you forgot something, sweetie. What happened to her ear?”
“It’s gone…” he whimpered. Perhaps he should tell her, he thought; force her into understanding...but how? He hadn’t the words, let alone the stamina to withstand an interrogation. “He took it,” he finally decided. “Now she’s sad. And afraid...”
*
Mary listened, staring into the drawing with alarming understanding. Much of her face was submerged in red. Blood? She hadn’t wished to see it before; hadn’t even considered it before. For the first time, she began to see how little she actually knew of what went on inside his impressionable little head. A voice of authority ran suddenly through her own. ‘It’s always the quiet ones. They’re the ones you gotta watch out for.’ “Who?” she barely managed, still reeling from the frightful premonition.
“The bad man…” he whispered, coming to tears. “He hurt her real bad. And…others…” He jumped as she took a step back. “Make him go away, Mommy. Please.” The woman said nothing, a single tear struggling not to run down her cheek…
“I will, sweetheart. I promise…” His pain overwhelmed and she swept him up, rocking him back and forth. Together they cried.
*
Down the hallway, only two doors from his brother, Nicky heard weeping; a sound to which he’d grown quite accustomed. His mother did so often. He barely even saw his brother anymore, but suspected more than his share of wasted tears. For what? Their father? A tummy ache? The cancellation of Yu-gi-oh? Who knew? Who cared?
As usual, nobody noticed when old Nick was in pain. Who had time when cute little Patrick had a nightmare or two? Certainly not his mother; the past few weeks had made that abundantly clear. His father wouldn’t have put in the time either, even if he weren’t the source of all his raw hurt; and confusion. Dear God, please make this feeling go away...
Perhaps he wasn’t giving them enough credit. Adults seemed so sure of themselves. He’d never known a problem they could not solve. Never had a feeling, which did not, in time, fade away––pleasant or otherwise. But this was different. He knew it with a budding maturity the others were all too blind or self-absorbed to pick up on. Everything was different now. And none of it would ever be the same again.
He was almost ready. Just a few more essentials. Some shirts, socks, underwear; plus the new iPod for the bus. A cell phone sure would’ve been nice too, he thought bitterly. The gym bag was three-quarters full. Not long now. He was genuinely excited. Despite his youth––and so-called innocence––it was not a feeling that came easily to him, (especially these days), and if not for the––shit––someone was at the goddamned door–– “Nick? Nick, can I come in…?” The sound of her voice, all loving and chipper, made him angry. Why now, he thought, sliding the bag under his bed. “Please, Nicky. I want to talk to you.” Forget it, lady. You had your chance. Now do me a favor and run along. “I’m coming in,” she announced, and he adjusted himself––
“What’s the matter with you? I was calling your name, didn’t you hear me?”
“I was busy,” he shrugged. His mother rolled her eyes.
“That’s not what I asked you. The next time I call your name, Nicholas, I expect you to answer me.” He smiled to himself. That could be a problem, he thought.
“Nicky, did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The next time you call me, I’ll be sure to answer. Is that why you came in here?” The woman sighed and moved toward him, body language painfully awkward…
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. The boy did not answer. “Is it me? School?” Part of him; a part he was unconscious of, wanted desperately for her to throw her arms around him; to rock him as she had when he was a small boy around Patrick’s age. He wished he was Patrick. “Is it…your Dad…?”
“I told you, it’s nothing. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
*
For a second, she nearly did. With Patrick, words came easily, but Nick had a way of making it so very damned hard. “I’m going to take Patrick for some ice cream,” she said. Not the smoothest transition, but to the point. “He’s feeling better, isn’t that…?” Her voice trailed off. More awkward silence. She wondered if he cared. “We want you to come with us. It’s been so long since we spent any time together, just the three of us. That’s important to me, you know.” The boy busied himself with his computer, one ear open to her and the rest on some shoot-em-up online bloodbath he knew full well she disapproved of. “Well, what do you say…?”
“Do I have to?” The trap of all traps; how to answer...
“No, you don’t have to, but I’d feel much better if––”
“I think I’ll stay here then.”
What could she say? She had in fact opened the door. “By yourself?”
“You just said––”
“I know, I know.” To her astonishment, Mary found herself missing buxom young Cynthia more and more. At least she seemed to have some sort of rapport with the boy; similar to that with her husband, (which was the problem)… “Fine. You can stay.”
*
“Really?” A hint of surprise crept into his indifference. If not for his hurry, he might have marked the occasion. Extending his bedtime? Perhaps. A raise in allowance? No picnic, but doable, nonetheless. But all that was childsplay next to the brass ring––the whole house to himself. He almost wished he weren’t leaving.
“On one condition...” Of course. How could he not have known? “You and I are going to have a good old fashioned sit-down when I get back. Get some things strait.” The boy wore a look any parent should have easily recognized as irrational excitement. “You’re growing up now, Nick.” She went on anyway. “Now that your father is…well, you’re the man of the house. And with that comes added responsibility. It means our relationship will have to change some. Does that sound like something you can handle?” He was careful not to let his true feelings show.
It was too perfect. He knew it his best chance for success; far better than to simply sneak out the front door while she slept. Man of the house. How little she respected him, to think him foolish enough; naïve enough to jump for joy at her shallow praise. The man of the house was gone. Nicky could not replace him, nor would he ever wish to try. How disloyal she must believe him. How forgetful.
Ten minutes later, they were gone; and five minutes after that, young Nicholas McAllister stood in the atrium with gym bag in hand, staring at that mammoth oak door. A curious sensation engulfed his unstable spirit. It could have been fear. Or nerves. It could have been a piece of undigested food acting up––but it was none of these things. The sensation, he secretly knew, though dreaded with a fiery passion––doubt––had begun to take selfish hold–– Goddammit, don’t think. Thinking equals standing still. Just go. Take a swift, deep breath, grab the bag and one last look, then do what you promised...
The phone was ringing. If only he’d been more in tune with this new attitude, he might have just walked out that door and never looked back. But the phone was ringing. His next course of action seemed clear. “Hello...”
“Nicky?” That voice. Friendly. Sarcastic. Familiar.
“Cynthia?”
“Hey, least you haven’t forgotten…” He wanted to laugh––for several reasons. In spite of his feelings, it was good to hear her voice. “Is your mother around?”
“Are you ever coming back?” The words escaped without warning. He had not meant to come off so juvenile; so childlike and unsophisticated––with her especially. “Direct and to the point. That’s my Nicky. As a matter of fact I am, you silver-tongued devil. I was actually calling to find out a good time to drop over. Mind if I speak to your mother?”
“She’s not here,” he blurted. The concept itself just sounded so damn good.
“Oh. Oh, that’s too bad. I was hoping to talk to her. So, um…who is there? Did you get a new…? Did, um, your Mom hire someone new?”
“No.” He hesitated, worried she’d drop everything to save him from himself.
“Well I hate to sound petty, kid, but that’s comforting to hear. So what’s the situation? You’re not…? I mean there is someone…right?” Nicky cleared his throat.
“Nope. Just me. And in case you’re wondering, I’m doing just fine.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Not yet. “Still, maybe I could come over…” The boy after all, was only ten; and his obvious reluctance must have made him sound guilty of something; as though he had something to hide. He did, of course, but that was a separate issue altogether.
“That’s okay. I’ll just tell her to call you.”
“Are you sure? It’s no problem, Nick. Really. In fact, I’d fell a little better if––”
“I said no,” he snapped. And there it was again––more likely, it had been there all along. In Nick’s short experience, it always was. On some days, his nerves were a fortress of stability. On others––like today––little more than a thin layer of smoke and mirrors. “I’m not as helpless as you think I am. I’m old enough to be left alone for a couple of hours.”
“I know that, I just meant…I mean I thought it might be…never mind…” Her condescending tone only fueled his lulled fire. For an instant, he foolishly thought it might be different. The girl was back, after all. Perhaps he’d misjudged her. But why now? And for how long? He could stick around to find out; the option was not lost on him. But his desire for a new beginning burned hotter than ever.
“Whatever. I’ll tell her you called.”
No matter. Soon he would be gone. They could ignore him all they wanted. He knew full well they would not. His only regret was that he would not be there to hear them crying. In a way, it was better now that Cynthia was back in the picture. His mother would need a shoulder to cry on. Let them regret together. If misery did indeed love company, as he’d so often heard them all say, the match would be made in Heaven.
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One more part to this mondo-final chapter, (of Volume One), coming soon. In the meantime, I'll be posting some other, unrelated goodies between now and then. Stay tuned...
D.A.
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