Good and Evil

The party was in full swing, all the couples danced together, the show offs took the spotlights, and the wannabes kept flailing like fish on the shore. Yep, you could say everyone was having a good time, except for one, easily jealous jerk caught some guy he didn't like talking to his girl. The innocent one here is me, yep I knew this girl since I was in preschool and we were both the best of friends, and besides, I was already here with my girlfriend who was standing right beside me.
The bully immediately made a beeline for me, I swear tossing each unlucky dance that stood in his way as if they were sheets lined up to dry. He cut in between us actually pushing the his girlfriend back and stared me dead in the eyes. The first thing he asked was "What do you think you're doing?"
I replied that I was just having a conversation with my childhood friend but he didn't care, all he heard was "I was hitting on your girl because I think you are dumb and can't do anything about it."
I know he thought he heard that because the next words out of his mouth were, "I ain't dumb! I'll show something I do to punks who hit on my girl."
My girlfriend tried to intervene at this point, she thinks at times that I can't handle myself, but he already had pushed me away from her and his girl. He asked me again about what I was trying to do and again I repeated myself, he must have lost his ear drums to the black hole that filled his head.
Anyway, he started to ball his fists (he probably already had them closed but I hadn't noticed till they were up at my face), and slugged me once in the side of my face. The people around had stared to give notice to our struggle when it started but after that hit, it was like the music died and everyone locked on to the fight.
I'm pretty sure someone was saying "Fight! Fight! Fight!" like they always do in the movies but I couldn't be sure as my hearing (as well as my vision in my left eye) became fuzzy from the impact.
The moments ticked by slowly and I heard the watery cry of alarm from my girlfriend calling my name, but the second the next hit connected with the side of my head, I didn't even hear that. I fell to the floor my head throbbing violently from the impacts and a foot went into my ribs again and again as I curled into a fetal position.
My new position took most of the damage to my arms and legs instead of my main body and I opened on eye to see what was happening. My girlfriend was coming behind the brute and she slapped him across the face. He staggered back a bit but then directed the rage at her. He said something but it was heavily slurred, presumably because of beer he had.
At the sight of his menacing walk and dangerous talking, something snapped inside of me, like a rubber band that had been stretched too far and in an instant was standing with my fists clenched and my teeth bare.
Before then I had never been in a fight, if I was challenged I refused, if I was hit, I didn't fight back. I had developed a reputation around campus that said I was tough because I would take the hits but never show a bit of weakness. But this was different. He was verbally threatening the one I love and I knew the only way to stop him was to actually fight.
I had seen plenty of action and fighting movies (what guy hasn't?) but I always thought that I would never be able to use any of the moves the people did.
I surprised myself. In a barrage of punches I landed at least three solid blows as he maneuvered his clumsy arms to defend. I landed one in the gut that made him lean forward, then I repeated his tactic on my: attack the face and landed two on both sides.
He fell to the floor like I had and coughed a bit while holding his head, now he knew what I felt. I thought for a moment that that was it, he wasn't a threat at the moment and I could leave with my girlfriend, but his friends didn't seem to think that way. Two goons jumped from the crowd and took swings at me landing decent blows to my shoulder and chest. With my temper already spiked at the big jerk's threats, I started to fight back and began to take these two out. In the process though, I began to enjoy the fighting, the blood rushing through my veins and watching them yell out in pain and fall. During this the big cheese head got back up and began to fight as well so it was three on one, and the one was getting stronger.
Then I felt it again, another thing snapped and I knew everything was different. I took a step back and knocked all three opponents to the floor with one sweep of my leg. Everything became fuzzy at this point and I could think about was hurting them, and to allow as much of my anger as I could to create bruises and marks on their faces.
You could almost say I became: demonic.
I started my assault on them, leaving them no room to attack or defend, using my fists, feet, knees, forehead, anything that I had that could hurt them. They started crying out for mercy but I gave them none. I fell upon them faster than a shadow from a dark cloud passing the sun, my desire for pain growing with each second. I knew when they all became unconscious when they fell to the floor and didn't move, but my fun had just started. My dark eyes zipped along the crowd and I turned to my next victim. Who that person was I can't say. Male? Female? Young? Old? I didn't care, I only wanted to cause pain.
As I took my slow, cruel steps, I made sure to crunch each piece of broken glass, each piece of garbage, anything that came in my path. The person must have been frozen because they didn't move. I raised one hand and laughed, a deep cruel laugh that the devil himself must have created, and threw the punch. But something happened. The fist stopped in midair inches from the nose of the target. I gave a puzzled looked to it and the fist, under its own accord, turned and hit me smack in the nose. I felt the feature collapse and the blood come gushing out of my nostrils, I knew my nose was broken.
The fist began to attack again hitting anyplace on me it could reach and, though as strong as my other hand was, the fist was stronger. I fell back against a wall, attempting to evade my own hand out of instinct but I was still getting pummeled. Blood rained from my chin now and my fist began looking like it was dipped in red syrup. I gasped and tried to pull away, to gain control of it but then it grabbed my throat.
I twisted and pulled but the grip was too strong and I actually was lifted off the ground by this possessed hand. The crowd gasped and “ah”ed and their reaction confused me, I thought it was being lifted, but instead it was the blue and white light that began to stem from the elbow of the uncontrolled arm and painted in all hues and shades into the form of myself only transparent. The ghost’s eyes stared into mine with intense focus but with a hint of understanding.
My body at this point began to feel heat the likes of which was beyond anything natural. My skin began to burn and spit flame and in an instant became a ball of fire in the hand of a spirit. My vision changed to that of the spirit and I felt my anger cool and my mind focus. Skin began to grow over my transparent skin and I stood there, in my new skin, and knew the demon was sealed for now, but for how long I had no idea.
Slowly I turned to the stunned crowd and motioned for my girlfriend to come with me. We left that party, and tried to get the events that took place, as short as they were, out of our minds.

In the Matter of the Ritual...

Dear Leader,
The annual rite of passage is a time-honored tradition, encompassing the very divine authority the people of Drominia hold. The young must learn through example, and create their own future with their most powerful tool; their mind. By changing that fact you endanger the very future of our race!
By eliminating the ritual, you risk the child’s untapped potential lying to waste, forgotten into imagination, and turned into fear.
You and I have been through the ritual, and both of us have become successful in life. You have climbed to our most prestigious position as our leader, and me, taking up the noble role of master scribe. I had hoped that our continuing race would thrive under your rule; I can see now that you held false hope.
Starting out with destroying our children’s imagination? I must say that this a sorrowful error. That is why I am writing to you directly about this travesty.
What would your father think? Or your mother? Do you honestly believe they would approve of this?
My childhood friend, I wish for you to reply to this, there isn’t much time before the time the ritual would have been.
It’s not too late.
Sincerely,
The Master Scribe.

Winston L. Mercy

It started out as a simple community project for school. Didn’t want to do it but my dad made me. I think it was just an excuse to him to keep me out of the house while he “disciplined” my mom for her behavior. He would always tell me it was the alcohol that made it bad, but I know he isn’t always drunk when it happens. The “behavior” he accuses my mom of is actually his own. He would come home with someone, look at me and my mother, and then he would say,
“I’ll be upstairs.”
My mom would stare at them as they went upstairs, then she would cry a bit. Usually she had a bag of frozen peas that she would hide with he got home, then put over whatever was physically hurting her. I know it wasn’t enough to help her true pain.
Back to the story, I was supposed to have a certain number of volunteer hours in order to have a good grade. I didn’t want to do it, but eventually I did by my father’s wish. I decided to work at the local hospital, sit around all day and bring the occasional coffee.
It was actually like that. I brought drinks and snacks when a patient asked me to, and I sat around. I didn’t speak with the patients, just brought what was needed, until one day this old man came in because of some heart troubles.
His name was Winston L. Mercy, a retired military veteran who fought in many wars, and saved many more lives. A local hero.
Anyway, I was wondering the halls on my second day of volunteering and was called to bring another pillow to Mercy’s room. I grabbed one, and went to the man’s room.
He was watching the television, some older show that I don’t know, and he looked at me and said,
“Welcome! Welcome! Come on in, I see you brought a gift! I’m glad someone remembered my birthday!”
I didn’t know what to say, I handed him the pillow, but felt awkward if I were to leave. It was his birthday.
“Sit sit!” He said to me, “I’m going to need someone to finish this cake for me, diabetes, damn thing. But aw well, I still have my youth!” There was no cake.
He was an excited old man, but it didn’t take long for me to realize his mind was going. He told me story after story about his life, and all the challenges he had to overcome. I enjoyed listening to him, it was, for those moments, a way to get out of my own life and life his. All the adventure, all the places he visited, I saw them all in my mind.
I would listen until I was told to leave, but the next day I would be back, even after my hours were filled. Soon, I spoke to him about my life, and my problems. He listened and gave me kind words to help me move on.
“I’ll be your dad if you want to. But your mom has to like me first!”
I laughed at that, but it was true, I wish that that man was my real dad, or at least a grandfather I could go too. But he wasn’t. I knew that.
I visited for a week, and got away from my life for those few hours. Life was finally getting better for me, I thought for once I had someone to rely on. Till the last day I saw the old man.
I went in, got my volunteer sticker, and proceeded to Mercy’s room to wish him good morning. I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped into the hallway. First, his door was closed. He always requested it open except for when it was absolutely necessary. After I entered the room, I noticed next that he had a few more monitors on him then the previous day, and lastly, I saw his face was paler and his breathing was labored.
I went to his side and immediately asked if he was alright. After a few seconds I asked again when I got no response, a bit louder, but still no real reaction. I wanted to touch his shoulder, shake him awake but I knew it wouldn’t help. The room was eerily silent, all except for the steady beeps, from the heart monitor, one of the only thinks keeping me hopeful he was alright.
I took a seat and just waited for a bit. The seconds became minutes, the minutes became an hour, and with every tick of the clock my heart sank lower. The truth was in front of me, hanging over my old friend like a dark cloud.
He was dying, and with each breath he became fainter. I didn’t cry. At the time, I refused to believe it, until finally he began to move. It was a quick twitch of the fingers, barely noticeable; I got up quickly and came closer the dying man.
His eyes flickered a bit, refusing to open without a fight. I whispered,
“Hey there. Feeling ok?”
He continued to fight to open his eyes and eventually they gave in, releasing his aged eyes to the room. I smiled, a true smile, one that broke to a frown at what Mercy said next.
“I’m dying.”
And with that I began to tear. I don’t know why, he didn’t yell, or seem scared. He spoke as if making casual conversation, even trying to through in a smile. I won’t lie, I began to cry. Tear by tear marched down my face and jumped from my chin.
“Why the tears son? Did something happen to you?”
He seemed to be more focused on making sure I was alright more than himself. I cried a bit more then said,
“Mercy… You’re dying.”
The old man looked confused for a minute then said simply,
“So I am aren’t I?”
He looked like he just lost something unimportant or something keep him a few minutes late. I looked at him confused.
“Everyone comes to this point, I’ve known that my entire life. Is that why you’re crying?”
I felt my face scrunch, and my eyes flood with tears. They dropped down onto the sheets, leaving large, damp spots on the blue sheets.
“Oh son, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. No tears now.”
I put my head down on the bed and cried harder, my sobs echoing in the quiet room.
“Son. I’m going to die, probably in the next few minutes but, I want to thank you. You kept me company the past week. I knew I could wake up the next day and talk with you, like you were my own grandson. I’m sorry about your family; I wish I could help more. The only thing I can tell you is get help. The police can help; it’s not right what your father does. You’re a good kid.”
He spoke slowly and with some labor, but he didn’t stumble or pause. He continued talking to me, comforting me as I wept for him. Finally, when he was done talking he closed his eyes and said,
“Time for me to go son, might want to stand back for the doctors to do their job.”
I looked at him and he smiled. I slumped up and forced my legs to back up. The heart monitor began to change, the steady beeps began to spike and in a matter of seconds, was dead.
I cried out in sorrow, in pain, in loneliness. I was all alone again. My only true friend just died not two feet away. That was that. The doctors came in, and I crumpled in the corner. A nurse ushered me to the waiting room. The entire scene was a blur, a flurry of movement as the nurses and doctors tried to bring the old man back. I knew that was not so, the man was dead.
The death shook me, much fiercer than I thought it would have. It was about three weeks after Winston Mercy passed away that I bought the gun. I got it from a kid in my class whose father was an avid gun collector. It was a small, handheld pistol. It probably only had one bullet now that I think about it.
I don’t remember what I was thinking, why I was doing it. My mind was autopilot, while I silently cried inside. Moving through the happy people, but knowing I went to an angry family… and facing it alone.
It was a rainy night, one that made me think the heavens were weeping for my sorrow. My father had just finished with my mom, and went down to the basement for his beers. I felt this was the last straw. I knew my mother could walk out of it if she tried but she insisted that he didn’t mean it, that my father was just going through a phase, but I knew he was too cruel to be in a phase. I wanted out, to feel the freedom I felt when I had my old friend back.
I sat on my bed, with my feet planted firmly on the carpet, and picked the gun up from under the pillow I housed it under. I had no thoughts, just a yearning for peace.
“Good bye mother.”
I whispered and let a single tear drop from my eye and put the barrel to my head. Time slowed down, I felt the weight of the gun in my hand, the muscles in my arm tightening; I became aware of every sense. Sounds that were far away or soft became loud and blaring, the lights made my eyes squint, and I felt every inch of my skin.
The moment was then, the moment I felt peace again. My hand tightened, my finger began to pull and then… then… I heard it!
“Don’t do it Son!”
I fired.
The bullet went into the wall next to me, leaving a quivering gun that dropped down to the floor. That voice I heard, I’m sure it was Mercy. He came to me to save my life. I began to babble Mercy’s name again and again, crumpling into a frightened heap on the floor.
So, to finish, the neighbors heard the gunshot and called the police. When they arrived they found a drunken man, a beaten woman, and a teenager with a smoking gun crying on the floor of his room.
My mother now is in a battered woman shelter, and my father is behind bars for a while. Myself, I am seeing a councilor now, living with my relatives. This is the first exercise I was told to do: write about why I had the gun and attempted suicide.
Looking back now, I am glad I didn’t do it. My freedom did come from the old man I guess. I thought I was free when he was around, but now I see he gave me a chance to live. His passing gave me the opportunity to live and now each day I thank him.
I wonder how the rest of my life will turn out; I’ll be seeing my mother next week. Maybe she is better now.
As for my father, I have resolved to live my life to repent his own sins. I will be a much better man than he was.
Good bye.

The Thoughts of a Father

She was beautiful.

Once again I found myself staring out this window and wondering: How can I even think to let her out of her own? I once could hold her in my hands and could tap her feet till she giggled in my arms. Now, I can’t hold on with even one hand; she’s gotten too old for that.

She used to ask me about the birds and how the plants lived; how life was so pretty, but now she tells me about her friends and where she is going in her life.

It’s strange to think back on her as a child, all innocent and adorable. Now she has a fiancée and a brand new life she is starting without me.

It makes me proud, I did my job, my child is grown up, living in today, reflecting on the past, and dreaming for the future.

I’m sure her mother fells the same about our darling.

Gone are the days of homework helper, gone are the days of messy finger paintings, and so long to the days when I held her hand when she needed me after a bad dream.

Now I can only watch her mature through her voice and actions.

I’ll still be her father, I’ll still want to know what she is doing and offer her advice but I have no control anymore.

She can take care of herself now.

-~-