Shadow of the Past Page 10

  “Stop struggling. I know He’s there, I know you can see Him! Tell me that you see Him!”

  The boy was just sobbing, shaking his head back and forth. As the boy writhed around in his chains, Darren could see numerous cuts and bruises all over the boy’s body. Who knew how long he had been hanging there.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” the man roared. He let go of the boy’s neck with a disgusted shove and swung the cane up into the boy’s stomach. The boy’s legs actually left the ground, the impact causing him to swing back and forth.

  “He’s in there!” the man said, pointing with the cane at the gaping mouth of the furnace. “Don’t lie to me! Don’t tell me that you can’t see!”

  Darren looked, expecting to see something, but all he saw were flames staring back at him.

  The boy just hung there, sobbing, his toes barely touching the ground.

  “You liar,” the man hissed, bringing the cane up. “I’ll make you see Him.”

  Darren tried to close his eyes, but he couldn’t. All he could do was hold his hands in front of his face and try not to see the torture played out between his dirty fingers. The sound of it echoed all around him: screaming, grunts of exertion, the rattle of chain on metal. Above it all the flames of the furnace roared in approval. Darren screamed as loud as he could. He couldn’t stop the sight of the beating, of the blood flying through the air and silver flashing up and down, but he could drown out the noise. At the end, all he could hear were his screams and the flame.

  Mark sprung out of bed, arms thrashing in the air, ducking low to avoid ceiling. When he stopped, out of breath and covered in panicked sweat, he realized he wasn’t a little kid, or in a basement, or in any real danger.

  He got back into bed, reminding himself that it was a dream, like the one he’d had about Darren before but far more powerful. The sensations were fading but he could feel the stinging in his palms from hitting that tiny metal door, and his throat felt raw from screaming. These were not normal dream feelings. Seeing a man beat a little kid with a cane is not a normal dream experience.

  Yeah, how about that cane, huh? Kind of looked familiar didn’t it? If you’re having trouble remembering, I’m sure Clara could help.

  He rolled over, trying to drown out the nagging voice with the rustle of sheets. It was right, though. If Clara’s death happened the way he saw (and it did!) and the cane was in his dream both before and after, then what he was dreaming could be real.

  Could be? Kiddo, you’re really dreaming if you think there’s any doubt here.

  He rolled over again, grabbing his sheets with balled up fists. It wasn’t true. Clara died and it was horrible, but these were just dreams. He squeezed his eyes shut, but in the blackness he could still see the fire-eyes of the Shadow Man staring back at him.

  “I fucking hate grapefruit juice.” Jack snarled at the viscous pink concoction in the carton before taking a long drink. It was all they had to and his late night thirst left him with little choice. The cuts on his lips had healed some in the days since the fight but the pink menace’s tangy “goodness” still burned. So did his pride every time he looked in a mirror. Or touched his face. Or breathed.

  Every useless part of every stupid fucking thing in the world reminded him of that goddamn fight.

  “Fight.” It was a beating, handed out by a weak, crybaby little faggot that sucker punched him, with a helmet of all things.

  What burned worse than all the citrus in the world was that he could’ve turned it around, even after the cheap helmet shots. He’d had his chance, two of them even, and he fucked it up. He fucked it up so bad Watson left him bloody and on the verge of tears in the middle of the parking lot.

  And for that, he was going to do everything in his power to kill him.

  “I mean it. I am going to kill him for this. If he thought losing that bitch was something, wait until I get done with him,” he’d told Eric when they were waiting in the emergency room, Jack waiting to get a couple of stitches in his chin and Eric’s nose wrapped and stuffed with gauze.

  It hadn’t been the smartest thing in the world, but then again, Dad always said he had a “propensity to think with his fists and not with his brain.” If there was one thing his dad loved it was doling out nuggets of wisdom like that. This is why we don’t behave like savages. This is why we try to keep our emotions in check. This is why your mother couldn’t see reason and left. This is why grapefruit juice is healthy and nutritious.

  With a deep rumble, Jack called forth a giant ball of spit and phlegm and then spat it into the remaining cup’s worth of juice in the carton. This is why I spit in your food, you cold, arrogant piece of shit.

  “You want to kill him, don’t you?” a deep rumbling voice said, from just behind his right ear.

  Everything in Jack’s body skidded to a halt, and when it restarted it added up to: run. As soon as he tried something swept his feet out from under him. He toppled over, arms flailing and managing to turn so that he didn’t land on his still stitched up chin. As soon as he hit the ground he started crawling, knowing he needed to get away as fast as possible.

  “Stop it.”

  He obeyed, freezing in place with one arm still outstretched. Something hard pushed under his armpit and flipped him onto his back. He tried to get up, but a thin black stick planted itself just below his throat with enough pressure to pin him to the floor like an insect.

  He looked up, tracing the stick to the silver at its top and the swirling black hand that held it. That same swirling darkness covered the entire body of the man pinning him to the floor with his cane, billowing out to give the illusion that he was wearing a long trench coat and wide-brimmed hat.

  Jack’s gaze stopped just below the hat’s brim, at the two burning embers where the man’s eyes should be.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Jack opened his mouth to ask, but then he knew who he meant.

  Mark.

  “Yes,” Jack said, when he voice returned to him. He kept staring into the Shadow Man’s eyes, and they seemed to widen and flare with more intensity the longer he stared into them. There was something deep beyond those flames, and he could feel it drawing him in.

  “I can help with that,” the Shadow Man said, breaking the spell for a second.

  “How?”

  “All you need to know is that I’ll send you a sign when it’s time. Wait for my call, and then you can have your revenge. Not before.” The cane pressed into him harder at the last.

  “I understand,” Jack said. The pressure was close to cutting off his breath.

  “Excellent,” the Shadow Man said, and then the pressure on Jack’s chest was gone, and with just a ripple in the darkness around him, so was he.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Steve had taken up post by the school entrance nearest to the bike rack. It wasn’t his usual point of entry, but with this being Mark’s first day back after suspension he figured he should make the effort and give him the grand welcome back. He clambered to the top of the once-impressive decorative concrete barriers and sat with legs dangling over the edge.

  He nodded at a couple of girls as they passed his perch and when he got his usual eye-rolls and disgusted looks he called after them. “You don’t want to miss it, ladies! The conquering hero of Cedar Ridge High is coming back today, and I know you want to feel those hands of steel!” Hair flips and the annoyed sucking of teeth were his only response.

  The V’s distinctive whine turned him away from watching the rest of their retreat. Mark jumped the curb faster than his usual safety-first mindset allowed and he skidded to a stop in front of the rack, just in time for the second bell to ring. Steve watched while Mark frantically chained up the scooter and then made it four steps towards the entrance before realizing he still had his helmet on.

  “Mark Watson, you’re my hero,” Steve said, dropping down next to him as he passed, tugging the slightly worse for wear but much cleaner looking helmet.

  Mark s
cowled and brushed past him. “I know you’re running late, but don’t worry dude. You’re a fucking rock-star! If I were you I’d drop that thing in your locker before people want to start touching and signing it and shit.”

  Mark glared at him and Steve finally got a good look at him. Mark’s eyes were dark and sunken and his face was paler than his usual “I don’t go outside without a helmet” pale. Everything about him was more ragged, mismatched and frantic than normal. If Steve hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he’d have sworn the scooter rode Mark to school today.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve had time to relax, take care of yourself. Y’know, have some me time.”

  “It wasn’t a vacation,” Mark growled, fast walking towards his locker. “Joe wouldn’t even let me leave the house, and he had me cleaning and doing all kinds of other bullshit chores. I had to make sure the garage was spotless before he’d let me ride to school today.”

  “Well, you wear captivity well. At least as well as can be expected.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Mark said. He tossed the helmet in his locker and slammed the door shut. “I had to wait for him to inspect things before I could even leave for--Fuck!”

  “Well, I’d inspect things before then, too. Who knows what you’ll find.”

  “No, I was supposed to see Ms. Kennedy before homeroom.”

  Above them, the bell rang.

  “Dum dum DUM!”

  “It’s not funny,” Mark snarled, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs. “I could get kicked out of school.”

  “Think of all the time you’ll have for chores, though!” Steve called into the stairwell. When he didn’t get a response, he rolled his eyes and headed towards his own homeroom.

  Mark vaulted down the last four steps and spun around the group of kids who came through the doors. One of them called after him, and it took Mark a second to realize it wasn’t the usual smart remarks but something about the fight and how he was the man.

  It was hard to feel like the man when everything in your body was tired and sore, with a side of terrified and possibly insane.

  He was either awake and hauling garbage or asleep and watching torture. His dreams continued with the same intensity and theme, each night bringing a new variation to horrors he’d seen the first night. Mark would’ve tried swearing off sleep if all the physical labor wasn’t making him want to pass out before 10.

  “This is what happens,” Joe growled the first time Mark complained. “If you’re going to screw up so bad you have to stay home, I’m going to make damn sure this isn’t a good time.” He’d made sure to take the power cords to both TVs with him to work. He was able to convince him to leave the phone in his room hooked up so he could still talk to Christine when she got home from school, so long as everything on the list for the day was taken care of. He managed, barely, and every day brought a new list of chores and the implicit threat that if all the work wasn’t done his punishment would continue past his suspension, not to mention the loss of his “phone privileges.”

  Of course, since he’d screwed up getting to school on time, it looked like his suspension would probably continue anyway.

  He ran into the office and was about to ask the secretary about Ms. Kennedy when she walked up beside him.

  “You’re late,” she said with a smile.

  “I know,” Mark said, his breath mostly gone from his run across the building.

  “Well, at least you made the effort. Since we’re out of time now, what period do you have lunch?”

  “Fifth. Why?”

  “Well, we can just do it then. That’s when I usually take my lunch anyway.” He tried to keep himself from gritting his teeth in frustration. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have plans.”

  “With Christine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m sure she’ll understand. After all, it’s not like I’m giving you a choice.”

  She understood, of course.

  After a long kiss in a deserted stairwell and her fussing over how tired and worn out he looked, he explained the situation and she nodded with perfect understanding. “Anything that keeps you from getting into trouble is fine with me.”

  He, of course, was filled with disappointment. Frustration, exhaustion and now disappointment, but she just batted her eyelashes and told him everything was going to be fine and she was okay with it.

  He watched her walk off to class. She looked back at him just before she turned the corner and gave him a wave and smile brimming with understanding and not a molecule of disappointment.

  “So,” Ms Kennedy said after clearing a space at the small table next to her desk so they could eat, “let’s talk about anger.”

  “Why? I’m not angry,” Mark said.

  “Mark,” she said, picking at her Chinese food with chopsticks, “you don’t go beating someone with a bike helmet if you’re not at least a little angry. And yes,” she said, holding up a hand to cut off his protest, “I understand it was self-defense. But still, you can’t tell me you weren’t angry at these boys when, by your own admission, they had been bullying you for quite some time.”

  He failed to hold back a heaving sigh and took his sandwich out of his bag.

  “Okay. So, I’m angry. What am I supposed to do about it?”

  “But why are you angry?”

  “Well, you just said, they were messing with me. That tends to make people angry. Unless I missed a memo or something.”

  “No, getting upset about that is normal. Reacting the way you did is extreme. I’m just worried about where that comes from.”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s just who I am.”

  “Mark, I’ve talked to some of your teachers and they all tell me the same thing. That you’re a good kid who gets okay grades and doesn’t say much. They were all genuinely shocked when I told them about what happened.”

  His derisive snort was both unexpected and uncontrollable.

  “Are they wrong?”

  “Well, my grades are okay and I’m not a hand raiser.”

  “But?”

  “But nothing. They all knew what was going on and they either don’t care or think it’s funny.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Oh really?” he said, leaning up against her desk. “In the 8th grade we went to the shore for our end of the year class trip. We were all just goofing around, playing and whatever, but when Jack and his friends found out I couldn’t swim they all grabbed me and carried me towards the water to throw me in. I was kicking and yelling, and they carried me right by Mr. Eccelstein, our Math teacher. Right by him, like three feet away, and he was just chuckling, hands in his pockets, watching them drop me in the water. He actually nodded at them as they walked by. Forgive me if I’m not exactly trusting of what your colleagues are and aren’t shocked about.”

  She put her chopsticks down, folded her hands on top of each other and leaned forward as well. “I’m sorry that happened to you. It wasn’t fair, and that’s really awful. But there are things you can do about that and ways that you can react so that you don’t keep stuff like that bottled up inside you.”

  Mark leaned back into his chair. “Yeah, I doubt that.”

  “Sure there is. You could talk to someone, and we could’ve figured out a plan for you to take control of the situation. Without violence. Jack and his friends still have to follow the rules like everyone else, and there are plenty of things that we can do to combat their behavior effectively. Like conflict resolution or mediation.”

  “Mediation? What the hell am I supposed to say in mediation? ‘I’m sorry that I make you so mad you have to shove me to the ground and mock me. I pledge to work on that issue with you.’”

  She just stared at him. “Are you done?”

  “No. Yes. See, now I’m mad. Seriously, where did you come from? How do you work in a high school and not understand how they work?”

  “My high school career isn’t really up for discussion, Mark,” she s
miled. “And all I can work with is what I know about. Now that I know about this, here we are talking about it.”

  “I don’t like talking about things.”

  “Yeah, it really sucks sometimes, but sometimes it’s the only thing that helps. What about your Uncle? You two talk don’t you?”

  “Oh god no! I mean, things like ‘Pass the salt’ or ‘Where are you going to be.’ This week there was a lot of ‘These are your chores’ too, so thanks for that.”

  “So you don’t talk about your parents, or your aunt?”

  “No, we don’t. He’s an old-school guy who doesn’t talk about his feelings and tells me my hair is too long.”

  “That’s really unfortunate. What about your friends? Christine?”

  “My one friend? Well, he knows and he’s cool but he just doesn’t take anything seriously. And Christine . . . well, she doesn’t need to worry about me and my weird and embarrassing past.”

  “Well, if you want to have a relationship with her, you’re going to have to try to be honest with her. But that’s it? There’s no one else?”

  If there was anything the chores and the dreams had done it was take focus off Clara’s death and the emotional sucking chest wound it had caused. For the first time in almost a week he thought of Clara again, and he was stricken by her loss and how he’d been able to forget about her. Ms. Kennedy could see it on his face, and she leaned forward again.

  “What is it, Mark?”

  She’s like an emotional vulture. She can’t wait to explain to you how this is “natural” and what you’re feeling is “normal.” How much horseshit is that, huh?

  “I . . . well, there was someone. A friend, a real good friend who . . . she died.”

  “I’m so sorry. When?”