Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28897611-20160706145501

This is my first ever story..need some feedback and tips for the future.

Hey. My name is Thomas. It’s been a few weeks now, and they keep trying to get me to talk about...it. I keep refusing, because every time I start, the visions of everything I saw start rushing back, and I break up into a mess. So they told me to try and write it down. So here I am. Third try.

Hopefully I won’t have another panic attack and rip it up.

So here we go. In a way, It all started with my little brother, John. he was an odd kid, but odd in a way only little kids are. You know, playing with dirt and eating some, mixing mustard into milk. It was gross, but he was my brother, so I put up with it. Unfortunately, not everyone was as tolerant as me. He didn’t have a lot of friends. But of the few friends he did have, his best friend was always this kid named Sammy.

They’d met in preschool, and had stayed friends up into first grade. Sammy wasn’t a bad kid. He was quiet at first, and really shy. But after a few weeks he grew to like me, looked up to me like I was his brother and not John’s. He was sweet, and silly. While he didn’t share john’s nasty sense of humor, he’d often contribute ideas and even help. I remember on one such occasion, they worked together to pelt me in yellow snow. Not my most fond memory of them, but memorable all the same.

The only weird thing about Sammy was..well, there were a few things. For one, he never let John come over to his house. He’d never really explain why, just that it was “against his parents' rules”. He’d have small scrapes and bruises all the time, even a black eye on one occasion. I always assumed it was just him being a kid, not careful. The weirdest thing though was his love for fantasy worlds. Neverland in particular, he’d sometimes go on about how he was planning on taking a trip to Neverland, how he’d be Peter Pan’s best friend. How he’d be a lost Boy and fight Captain Hook. It was odd his amount of fascination with the place. It was cute all the same, though. I can recall more than one time when we’d pretend to be different Peter Pan characters.

It all changed one night.

It was just after a play date with Johnny, and he had gone home already. My parents called me into the room and said that Sammy’s parents had called, saying Sam had left his favorite blanket here. I knew how much Sammy loved that blanket. It was green and fraying a bit at the edges. He carried it along with him every time he came over. He loved it.

I looked around the house, and after a few tries, I found it draped over a chair. I picked it up and draped it over my shoulder, I yelled up the stairs that I was bringing it back to sammy’s house. I knew where he lived, i just rarely ever went there. I slipped on my sneakers and walked out the door, the cold breeze hitting me.

When I got to his house, I knocked quietly, but no one answered. While I stood in the quiet street waiting for a reply, I began hearing a faint sound.

Yelling. Crying.

The crying and screaming was from Sam, I could never forget. The sheer helplessness of those cries. The yelling came from an adult voice, one I didn’t recognize. In a panic I turned the knob and burst in. The faces that turned to meet me were twisted in anger, with the exception of Sammy.

Sammy.

To this day I’ll never forget what he looked like. Splayed out on the floor, his lip busted and swollen. One eye had swelled shut, and he had long, angry red welt marks that covered nearly every inch of his skin. His shirt was off, and for the first time I could see how thin he really was. Beyond the gashes and red marks and bruises, I could count every rib on him. One leg was twisted at an odd angle, and I could see the very tip of a bone poking out through the skin of his lower leg, because he was dressed in nothing but shit-stained underwear.

The man that was standing over him with a belt, his father as I would learn later, had a red face and his hair was a mess. The woman was holding a knife, and stared wide eyed at me. I ran from that place, out the door and down the street as fast as my feet would carry me, the wind blowing in my face.

They didn’t bother to chase after.

As soon as I got home I ran to my mother, a blubbering panicky mess. After I got enough of the story out we called the police.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">The investigation was short. The trial was even shorter. They found Sam’s now dead body in the river. His parents were arrested and given a life sentence.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I remember Sammy’s funeral. He was dressed up as well as possible, but there was no mistaking how badly mutilated his face was. I could barely look at him, not that anyone could really recognize the boy in the casket.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">Johnny threw up near the grave.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">We were all pretty somber after that. Dinners were quieter, and more than once one of us would break out into sobs. Sammy had been like family to us, so his loss hit home. John cried for days, until the days turned into weeks. Sometimes it would get annoying and I’d want to tell him to shut up, but I never did for fear he might notice that I was crying too. I sometimes felt I had it worse than the rest of them. I’d had to see his suffering, the open wounds and pain that had coated his face. It was as if I’d seen evil in its purest form. We never talked about him, though. We knew it would only make the pain worse.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">It was a few months after the incident that we received the news that Sam’s parents were dead. Both of them had been found in their cells on the opposite sides of the jail. I’ll spare you the details, but they were basically just as torn apart as Sammy had been. Needless to say, not too many people felt bad, and their funeral had very few attendees. Of course, there was still an investigation. No matter what kind of scumbags they were, a life was a life. But no one could explain their deaths, and after a few months the case was closed.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">We sort of chose to forget after that. Of course, no one really forgot, but life went back to as normal as it could be.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">Until September 6th.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">It was the anniversary of Sammy’s death, and we all went out to visit his grave, naturally. I went as far as to buy a bouquet of flowers to lay there. It was a silent drive up there, and more than a few of us shed tears before we’d even arrived. We went to the office and he told us where the grave would be located. We followed the map, and arrived at the tree where he had been buried. Everyone clearly remembered this being the spot, because honestly, who could forget? Everything was the same as when they’d last visited.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">Except there was no grave there.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">We immediately filed a complaint, and searched the entire yard just to be sure that he wasn’t buried someplace else. On the ride back, father ranted about how disrespectful it was for them to not give him a headstone. No one disagreed with him, so no one said much back. Perhaps it was that we were all angry. Or perhaps it was the fact that we all were trying to bury the thoughts in the back of our heads.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">The clear memory of a pre-placed headstone being present at his burial.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">When we went to bed that night, I had a hard time sleeping again. I kept tossing and turning, wondering what in hell could have happened to that headstone.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I heard a scream.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">It was shrill, and the voice pierced the eerily silent night like an arrow. It wasn’t this about the scream that sent shivers of back down my spine.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">It was that the voice belonged to my mother.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I darted from my bed and dashed down the hall towards my parents’ room. I could hear my father yelling, and just as the tip of my finger touched the knob…

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">Silence.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I hesitated for only a second in pure fear, my stomach doing a horrified flip inside me. I burst open the door, and nearly fainted at the stench.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">Fresh blood was splattered all over the walls, bits of meaty flesh strewn around. I saw both of my parents splayed out on the floor, covered in blood. My mother’s jaw was open far more wide than natural, blood gushing out of her exposed throat and nonexistent stomach. My father’s ribs were flayed out, open like wings, bent too far back. His organs lay in a pile on his legs.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I felt myself choking up, tears running down my cheeks. I wanted to run away, to never come back. And yet I felt paralyzed. Until one thought shot into my mind:

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">Johnny.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I saw dad’s pistol on the ground, blood soaked. I made a grab for it, the thick sticky liquid coating my hand. I darted towards John’s room and swung the door open. The window was open, and Johnny was still sleeping. A small figure was standing by his bed. It’s skin was a tint of green, his clothing seeming to be made of thorny plants. It looked almost like a small child. It turned to look at me. Its eyes were tinted yellow, and he smiled at me.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">“Hey” he said.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">And that was all it took to realize what I was staring at. That voice. So shy and familiar. I could only shake my head, breathless as I started backing away and aiming the gun at him.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">“S-Sammy?”

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">The boy smiled again, almost sweetly, then shook his head.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">“I am Lost Boy.”

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">He pointed with his little finger at the wall above Johnny’s bed. There, in the same thick red liquid that coated my parents’ room, was one word:

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">NEVERLAND

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I stared at the wall, then looked back at the...the...thing that Sammy had turned into. Except he wasn’t there.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">He was poised over the open window frame, Johnny in his arms.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I didn’t care if this thing used to be Sammy. I was going to kill him before he took my brother.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">I raised the pistol and fired, but felt something slam into my stomach.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">My head knocked against the wall, and pain seared through my stomach. I looked down to see a rip in my shirt bleeding profusely.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">The Lost Boy stood over me, his smile now wide and psychotic.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">“Neverland. Happy.”

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">With that he was gone. I didn’t see him leave, or anything. He was just gone.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">So was Johnny.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">When I finally was able to call 911, they didn’t believe my story. When I kept insisting it was true, they put me into therapy. I wouldn’t let go of my story.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">Of the truth.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">So now here I am. Shliessen’s Mental hospital.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">And even now, as more parents get murdered, as more children disappear without a trace, they refuse to believe me.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">And so the Lost Boy lurks.

<p style="font-weight:normal;color:rgb(212,212,213);font-size:14px;line-height:22px;">Taking his children to Neverland. <ac_metadata title="Sammy"> </ac_metadata>