Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28428152-20181005011936

Chapter III

“You broke his nose in three places!” Penny screeched.

“It only looked like one place to me,” Ben mumbled.

“A lobotomized bag of piss could tell you where it broke! His nose looked like somebody put a jackhammer to it!”

“What does ’lobotomized’ even mean?” he demanded.

“Oh, never mind!” she grumped.

After the bus driver had pulled Ben away, he’d patched the kid up and made them sit separately in the front two seats after bandaging the kid’s nose with a first aid kit until we reached the school, the whole bus upset with Ben for making them late to get home. When they got there, Ben and the older kid were taken to the front office, where the other kid was taken to the nurse and Ben was taken to the principal’s office, both of Ben’s parents already there and the other kid’s mother also present. Somehow, Ben had been let off with a two-week bus suspension and a complementary two weeks of in-school suspension. They were on the way back home now, with the winter night already nigh.

“Look,” Dave shot forcefully from the passenger seat, “you better damn well hope his parents don’t press charges, or your little ass is fuckin’ grass, you hear me? You fucked him up pretty bad, kid!”

“But he was being an asshole.”

At this, Dave reached around the seat and smacked him in the mouth, screaming, “Watch your goddamned mouth!”

“But he was!” Ben protested.

“I don’t care!” he roared. “You don’t swear!”

“But you just—"

“He is an adult, Ben!” Penny yelled. “You’re only eleven years old!”

“Ben, when we get home, you're to go straight to the bathroom and wash your mouth out with soap,” Dave growled. “And make sure it’s the liquid soap this time. Apparently, you didn’t learn from the bar soap last time.”

“But Dad—"

“No buts!”

“But—"

“Not a word! Y’hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled dejectedly.

“And come back downstairs after you’ve got the soap,” he added. “I’m not about to sit up there for half an hour.”

“Half an hour?” Ben whined.

“Make it an hour!” he said sternly.

“But Dad—"

“Does it need to be two hours?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” He sighed and relaxed into his seat.

“Dave,” his mother said softly to my father, “do you really think an hour’s necessary? I mean, it seems a little—"

“Abso-lutely,” he said with relish, patting her knee and giving her a reassuring smile. “Boy’s gotta learn somehow, right?”

After a moment, he muttered, half to himself, “Yes, yes, absolutely necessary. Hey, honey, how ‘bout some Domino's?” “What about Benjamin?” she asked curtly. “There should be some bologna in the freezer. Might have some freezer burn, but it’ll be alright.” “Fine,” she sighed. “But no meat lover’s, okay?” “Well, what kind do you want?” “Extra meat.” “Deal! Oh, and uh, sport?” he addressed to Ben, looking at him through the rear-view mirror. “Yes, Dad?” “Don’t swallow the soap, it’ll give you mud-butt.” “What’s that?” “Diarrhea.” “Oh.”

They eventually made it home, and Ben did exactly as he’d been told. He went straight to the upstairs bathroom, filled his mouth with gingerbread-scented hand soap, kept himself from throwing up, and went downstairs. It wasn’t easy for Ben to endure them gloating over the pizza they were waiting on, but he figured that’s what he got for losing his temper, even if his parents did piss him off. After an excruciating hour, he was finally allowed to spit out the soap into the sink. “Rinse your mouth out with water a few times,” Dave called from the living room. “Should do the trick.” “Where’d you say the bologna was, again?” he asked, leaning over the sink, spitting out the last remnants of the soap. “I’sh in da freesher nesh do da fish,” he answered through a mouthful of pizza. “Can I put it in the microwave?” “No.” “But it’s frozen.” “Thaw it out under your armpit.”

Apparently, Penny found this hilarious, because Ben heard a series of short, girlish giggles. “Umm… I’m okay….” “Damn, honey, this pizza is so warm and rich,” his father gloated as Ben was forced to watch them eat their pizza while he only had frozen, fishy bologna. “The crust is so thick and soft,” his mother added with exaggerated food-gasms, “and the cheese is so moist and gooey.” Ben glared at them and cursed them internally for their precious pizza. “I sure wish Ben could have some,” Dave taunted as he reached for a particularly tasty looking piece. “Do you have to rub it in?” Ben snapped. “Go to bed, sport.”

*  *     *     *  *

He was in a wooded clearing, completely alone. Looking down, ben saw that he was holding a gas can in his left hand and a revolver in the other. Somehow, the gun looked familiar. He looked back up to see his parents standing a few yards away from him, the orange moon casting an eerie light on their faces. They were slowly shaking their heads in unison. After a moment, they smoldered away and were replaced by Ben’s grandparents, who were nodding at him in sync with each other. Charlie’s head exploded in a great gush of blood, immediately followed by Helen’s chest and head. They fell to the ground, thrashing violently. Ben heard a noise behind him and turned to see a large, black brindle Pitbull trotting up to him. He nipped Ben’s left hand, making the gas can drop. The dog picked up the can by the handle with his mouth and strode over to the flailing bodies, drizzling the gasoline over them. Immediately, they started hissing and coughing vehemently.

The Pitbull cast down the gas can and trotted over to a sapling that Ben was sure hadn’t been there before. The dog barked at the bodies and curled up as if to go to sleep. The second the dog barked, though, flames erupted from the drizzled gas, and Ben’s grandparents immediately became motionless and silent. Ben heard an insane cackling coming from somewhere and became furious, ready to shoot whoever was finding pleasure at this. He lowered the gun, though, when he realized that the cackling had been coming from himself.

The sapling began to ooze blood.

“Kill it! Kill it!” commanded Mohamed, who was now poised on the other side of the sapling, pointing at it. Ben tried to ask why, but his throat felt clogged and swollen.

“Kill it! Kill it! Kill it now!” he screeched. Ben raised the gun to the bleeding sapling. The Pitbull whimpered. “Kill it! Kill it! KILL IT!” He shook my head and let the gun to fall to the ground. Mohamed stopped screaming and the dog stopped whimpering. All was silent, save the soft crackling of the fire, the sapling gushing blood like an open artery. Mohamed made a slicing motion across his neck with his finger, giving Ben a look of deepest loathing. He reached down and picked up a revolver. Ben looked down at his feet, but the gun was no longer there.

“How?” Ben asked.

Mohamed only put his finger to his lips and put on a murderous smile. The dog was growling. Mohamed aimed at the tree. Then he fired. Ben collapsed to the ground instantly, screaming and clutching the new hole in his chest.

Warm… Wet… hollow…. he thought.

Looking up, all was total emptiness, save Mohamed, who was now standing over him. He glowed a deep, blood-red. He smiled saintly. “The tree!” Ben gasped through the blood in his lungs.

Mohamed shook his head, still smiling sweetly.

“You,” he whispered, raising the gun to Ben’s face. “Who are you?!” he wailed in agony. “Names,” Mohamed said softly, “have power. And while I know yours, Benjamin Ross, I don’t think I shall tell you mine. I’ve had many aliases in the past, and right now that alias would be Mohamed Bacchus. But… it is only that: an alias. But don’t worry… Mohamed is safe with me. Serving his purpose. But I suppose you could call me the Nameless, since I have no need for a proper name. Why would I, when I have people like your lovely friend Mohamed.”

“Wh-AAAGH!” Ben blurted through puddles of blood gushing out from my mouth, eyes, and nose. “I’m sorry?” the Nameless asked, knowing what Ben meant to ask but making him suffer the misery of speaking.

“Where… where is he?”

“Home. My home.”

Ben’s eyes began to throb, and he closed them tight against the imposter.

“What do you want?” Ben sobbed to the ground.

The Nameless hurled The Book of Agony in front of him, that crimson severed head leering up at him.

“You,” the Nameless said. “Though,” he added contemplatively, “I don’t think I shall take what I want. Not… yet. Tell me… who was the long-haired man at your birthday party?”

“Cousin Mike,” Ben gasped.

The Nameless smirked and rolled up his sleeves.

“Why are you doing this?” Ben choked.

“Only I,” the Nameless responded. He raised the gun, and his eyes grew dark as he pointed it at Ben.

He cocked the gun.

*  *     *     *  *

''Bang! Bang! Bang!''

“Ben, get up! Your grandparents are here!” Penny cried through Ben’s bedroom door.

“’Kay!” Ben cried, clutching his chest, his heart thundering in his chest.

He checked to see if the hole in his chest was still there, though he did not know it. Ben slumped back down into his sheets, trying to calm down from the dream, desperately wishing to understand what it meant.

''BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!''

“Ben, come on before I make you wash your grandmother’s dentures with your own toothbrush,” Dave called jokingly through the door.

“Grody,” Ben mumbled to himself, rolling out onto the floor with a soft thud.

Yawning with an awkward stretch that made him dizzy, he shuffled over to his closet and yanked it open.

Fwump!

“Ah, shit!” Ben cried as something came crashing onto his head.

“What was that?” Dave called in a dangerous tone.

“Tits!” he answered stupidly.

“What?”

“Mitts!” Ben lied frantically. “I found my mittens!”

“That’s what I thought.”

Cursing and massaging the top of his head, Ben reached down to pick up what had fallen from the top shelf. But what he saw made his muscles freeze into place.

It was The Book of Agony.

Only, Ben had been trying to find it ever since he sat down and read it and had scoured his closet to the point of taking everything out systematically just to put it all back. And yet, it felt oddly lighter than he remembered. It was then that he noticed that all of the pages had been haphazardly torn out.

He suddenly felt as though eyes were watching him, and though he thought he saw something in his peripheral vision, nothing was there. Not wanting to think about the book any longer, he threw it under his bed, in the same spot he’d always put it whenever he found it.

“Hi, Benny,” his grandma greeted when he came downstairs, “how are you?”

“Good,” he lied thickly while receiving a rib-crushing hug. “That’s always good to hear!” “Hey, son,” Charlie said to Dave, “You still got that rake I let you borrow?”

“Yeah, it’s out back,” he replied, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. “Good, good. I never got around to raking over the fall and figured I might as well get it back while I was here. Would’ve just let you keep it, but money’s a little tight at the moment.”

“Is everything alright?” Penny asked.

“Yeah, yeah, just had to get a new car. Engine was totally shot on the old one, repairs would’ve cost more than just getting a used car that works better.”

Dave glanced out the window.

“Oh, yeah. Didn’t even notice. What is that, a Toyota?”

“Yup. 1998 Toyota Tacoma. In practically brand-new condition, got it for a steal.”

“Damn,” Dave said as Ben peeped out the living room window as well, intrigues by the red pick-up truck.

“What happened to the Fiesta?” Dave inquired, stepping away from the window.

Charlie laughed and said, “Damn thing was old enough to have a mortgage and three kids. Just finally reached its limit. Kicked the ol’ pooper.”

Dave nodded and gave an empty “yeah.”

“Benji!” Charlie boomed, pretending to just then notice Ben as he violently attempted to break every rib he had, which his ribs were already sore from Helen. “Say, how ya been? School goin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” he lied.

“That’s not what I heard. Heard you got in a scuffle. Did you hit him good?”

“You’re not encouraging him, are you Charlie?” Penny scolded.

“Ahem, hmm-hmm,” Charlie excessively coughed, straightening his posture. “Ben,” he stated with a sudden seriousness that made him jump a little, “what you did was highly unacceptable. I hope you learned your lesson.”

However, when his parents’ backs were turned a few minutes later, he turned to Ben and gave him two thumbs up, a boyish grin spread across his face. Ben grinned back, a warm feeling spreading across his chest.

“Alright, well, you ready, Ben?” Charlie asked an hour later after they’d all had breakfast.

“Ready for what?” he asked.

“Did you guys not tell him?” Helen asked his parents.

Dave scratched his head awkwardly, and Penny coughed and stared down at her plate.

“Well, I thought we’d go out to Nashville today,” Charlie explained. “You ever been to the Frist?”

Ben shook his head.

“It’s an art museum,” Helen explained, catching Ben’s attention as he thought of his favorite television painter, Bob Ross. “They put on a lot of really interesting art shows. Think you’d like it a lot. Penny mentioned you like to watch Bob Ross reruns sometimes.”

“Who’s Bob Ross?” Dave asked, embarrassment gone as he chewed on a giant heap of scrambled eggs.

Helen smiled. “He’s a painter on TV.”

“They’re doing a show on Aaron Douglas today,” Charlie said to Ben. “He was a Harlem Renaissance painter, really good stuff.”

“What’s the Harlem Renaissance?” Ben asked, setting down his orange juice and putting his napkin on the empty plate.

“Well, guess you’ll find out. You ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Ben affirmed.

“Well, alrighty, then. You ready Helen?”

“Yup.”

“Well, guess we’ll see you later tonight,” Charlie said to Dave and Penny.

They put on their coats and left, and for once, Ben felt like a kid again. It had been so long since he felt safe to be himself that it felt strange and made him feel a little guilty. The ride there was filled with the kind of lighthearted fun and antics that made him wish he, Jay, and Thomas were less distant… wishing for some kind of crude bridge to close the gap between the islands they had all three moved themselves to. But he didn’t know how to build bridges, he only knew that his grandparents were building bridges between themselves and him. And that was enough for Ben.

And the art was beautiful to Ben. He didn’t know much about painting besides to use odorless paint thinner and to prime the canvas with liquid white, but the colorful, empowering paintings he saw displayed there made him feel like he could do anything. And by the time he left, he was already forgetting everything he’d learned about the Harlem Renaissance, which made him sad, but he remembered the paintings, which made him feel better about it.

Afterwards, they stopped at an Italian restaurant for lunch, and as they were headed back, Ben began to nod off in the hypnotizing silence of the interstate, and dreamt of dementors coming to eat his soul in Azkaban. 