by Kevin C Noel
Garrick felt a sudden gush of air and the beating suddenly stopped. He heard a series of loud thumping and groaning sounds which suggested someone had fallen hard on the concrete. Although he covered his face with his hands, he peeked through his fingers and realized his three assailants lay on the floor knocked out cold.
“I guess I don’t need to ask if you’re okay,” said a familiar voice. Garrick removed his hands from his face and saw Octavius looking down at him concernedly. “Let me take you to a hospital.”
“No!” he blurted out. “I need to get home.” Garrick couldn’t help but notice the difference in Octavius’ appearance. His hair was long and shiny, and his face wasn’t as pale as before, but almost tanned. His eyes were a bright blue and he, for the first time since he had met him, was standing up straight. “You look…. Better,” Garrick said.
“And you look worse. Please, I need to take you…”
“What did you do to them?” asked Garrick as he looked down at the unconscious trio. “Are they… are they dead?”
There was no glint of surprise or disbelief in Octavius’ eyes. His face remained calm and serious. “Do you want them dead?”
Such a direct question had taken him off-guard. Of course, he’d want them dead. At that point he had wanted so many people in his life dead. But it was all ultimately wishful thinking. “N… no,” he finally answered.
Octavius smirked while he nodded his head as if he didn’t believe the young man’s answer. Garrick thanked him and stumbled away in a poor attempt to run home. Octavius’ gaze rested steadily on the skinny kid. Somehow, he knew the time had come. It was that unexplainable feeling inherent in every potential Incardian Questioner. That night he would liberate the young man.
They would finally become one.
After what felt like hours later, Garrick finally managed to limp all the way home. He stopped a few blocks from his house to see if everything was in order. Jared wasn’t one to keep his anger contained. If he had found out Garrick snuck out, the whole street would have had to contend with his boisterous bibulous blaspheming. But there was nothing of the sort. All was peaceful. The old man must’ve passed out in a pool of his own vomit.
He had time.
He crossed the street, dragging his left foot like excess luggage, and headed for the front porch Regardless of his weakness, he was going to climb up to his room and pass out before Celina returned. Maybe—just maybe—he could fool Jared into believing he never left.
He had only just made it to the steps when the front door creaked open and the red eyed monster stood there swinging a leather cat-o'-nine-tails.
A window upstairs slid open and Garrick looked up. With probably the widest grin he had ever seen on her face, Celina mouthed the words “you are dead.”
6
Garrick lay sprawled on the floor, his shirt ripped where the cat-o'-nine-tails had struck. For a drunkard, Jared had enough energy to whip his son senseless. The sweat dripping from his face spurred him to further action, rather than serving as an indication of over-exertion and impending fatigue. However, it was more than likely that Garrick’s silence during the ordeal was another incentive. He lusted for the boy’s helpless screaming. Lusted to hear him beg for the pain to stop.
But Garrick wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Pain was no longer an issue for him.
“I give an order in this house and you elect to disobey me?” whip. “I am the man of this fucking house. You have no say!” whip whip. “I am going to kill you, you son of a bitch!” whip whip whip.
In a feeble attempt at defiance, Garrick muttered: “That’s your wife you’re talking about.”
The apoplectic drunkard stopped and panted heavily. Through his panting, he blurted out “No… no I’m not.” whip! “This obviously isn’t working.” He dropped the whip, sat down and lit a cigarette. Delilah had walked in and screamed at the sight of the bloodied Garrick.
“Jared, what the hell are you doing?” She demanded as she tried to pick Garrick up.
Completely ignoring his concerned wife, Jared took another drag of his cigarette. “Celina had a great idea,” he said. This caught Garrick’s attention. Any great idea from Celina was going to be bad for him. “How about I burn your letter from Dartmouth and keep you here for another year. You’re still a minor so you…”
Garrick could hear nothing more. Nothing but the constant thumping of his heart. It raged on furiously—faster and faster. The image of Jared sitting and smoking before him slowly dematerialized until his figure was replaced by another—by his own.
Wait, no, not his own. That could not have been him. This man’s raven hair was long enough it reached his shoulders; his pale white face was complimented by a contrasting black beard; he had an athletic physique; his eyes were sparkling green; he looked far more advanced in years—yet the resemblance felt stronger and stronger the more Garrick looked at him. He became familiar.
This vision had begun to shake his head slowly and instinctively Garrick said only one thing, “Volant.” It came out quietly like he’d simply blown out cold air from his mouth. He said it as though he had sighed in relief.
Jared, who yet again hadn’t gotten the reaction he had anticipated from the boy, picked up his whip and stared at the boy perplexedly. “What the hell is that?” he asked.
Garrick was no longer in the house; no longer in Reading. He was lost in his own world. That same cryptic nihilistic world of uncertainty he fell into during his panic attacks. There was only one difference—he wasn’t panicking. As he closed his eyes, he felt his eyeballs burn from within their sockets. It was a pleasurable sort of burning. As pleasurable as the burning of a spirituous drink. He was on his knees and his arms were outstretched as though he were begging to be carried away by this other version of himself. This version of himself that radiated a bestial, yet noble, aura.
Jared raised his hand and swiftly let the whip back down at his kneeling son. But before the whip could hit its intended target, Garrick had opened his eyes which glowed a dark red and everything came to an abrupt standstill—to him at least. All he could think of was how he had returned home in bad shape—and yet his father saw it fit to worsen his pain and inflict more damage upon him. What was wrong with him? He was an impenitent drunk. He had no control over his actions. He couldn’t, in his right mind, do such unspeakable things to his own son!
Then what spurred him to such vehement action?
He answered his own question instantly.
Garrick looked over his shoulder at his simpering cousin. She was by the stairs, gripping the rail as though she were having an orgasmic burst within her at the sight of his merciless trouncing. Her eyes glowed with sadistic anticipatory glee. Her urge to watch the whip strike him was greater than anything she’d ever felt—even with her own boyfriend.
She was sick.
Garrick wanted her dead that night.
He looked back at his father. The whip had gotten closer now. He smirked and snatched it before it could strike. He pushed Jared away and ran toward the stairs. Bedazzled, Celina tried to make a run for it, but he had caught up with her almost immediately. He didn’t want to whip her with the cat-o'-nine-tails—he considered that to be an act of remorse—no he wished to throttle her with it… to watch life gradually find its way out of her body.
Due to the madness of his new-found bestial fury, Garrick was a bit callous in his movements and tripped unexpectedly. His glasses had fallen off and as he searched the floor wildly, Celina backed away. Once he had found them and put them on, he was struck on his forehead. He winced with pain, his eyes tightly closed. Celina had hit him with the heel of her shoe. He was incapacitated for a bit. He waved his hands around wildly as the blood spilled into his eyes. She tried to strike him again, but her speed was nothing compared to his. He grabbed and wrestled her to the floor. Once she lay on her back, he grabbed onto her neck and squeezed with all his might. Her screams were replaced by her uncomfortable choking. He just needed to cont
inue squeezing harder and tighter and she’d be gone…gone. Die bitch…die…die…DIE! He prayed in his mind.
The pain on his forehead and back were suddenly rivaled by a new and sudden pain from the back of his head. He wasn’t sure what Jared had struck him with—a baseball bat? A steel rod?
Soon, Celina’s choking face was replaced by total blackness as Garrick passed out.
Garrick groaned as he gradually came to. Coagulated blood from his forehead had glued his eyes shut while he was unconscious. His hands were tied up to a wooden beam at the center of the basement and left him dangling. His shoulders felt dislocated as every attempt to move gave way to blinding pain—he was helpless.
Warm tears rolled down his cheeks. These tears were not because of his physical pain, but an emotional one. It was the realization that it was all over for him. Celina had won.
Garrick had given up.
His family was lost to him and there was nothing he could do to get them back. He found himself an orphan’s equivalent—and yet he struggled to understand what exactly could have spurred his father to such violent scourging. How could Celina have so much power over a fully-grown man? He sobbed like a little child. He felt as though all the pain he’d ignored over the years had struck him all at once. It was unbearable. He could not contain himself. He was overcome by a surge of emotion.
Garrick had given up.
No, an orphan was better. It would have been better to have no parents to care for him to begin with. It would have been better if all he knew about his parents were stories others would tell him. It would have been better if his parents’ attitudes and mannerisms were all a construct of his imagination. Orphans wouldn’t want parents like his—they were better off without any.
Garrick had given up.
His tonsils throbbed and speaking became extremely trying. He wanted to yell at the top of his voice. How dare they slept while he was in agony? How dare they? He let out a childish squeak.
Garrick had given up.
He swayed side by side like a pendulum. The room turned and soon became a farrago of colors. Was this going to be one of his panic attacks? The air in the room seemed to vanish leaving him fighting for breath. His eyelids got heavier and heavier. He was almost passing out again.
“Nasty thing, this,” stated a familiar voice from behind him. “Such inhumane treatment of one so young. Never mind you’re supposed to be his child.”
Garrick had managed to spin himself around but saw no one in the corner where the voice had come from. “Who said that?” he demanded frantically.
There was a brief moment’s silence. Then a figure emerged from the shadows. His suit was so dark, it merged with the darkness around him, yet his face was shining as a bright white light. He looked like a chiaroscuro painting—it was Octavius.
“Mr. LeGrey?” muttered Garrick incredulously. “How did you…?” He dropped his head and let it dangle from his neck as he could no longer keep it up.
Octavius put a finger under Garrick’s jaw and raised his head up. He examined the young man’s face before smirking cryptically. Then he pulled out a small knife from his pocket and cut the rope that bound the semi-conscious teen. Garrick fell flat on the floor and lay face down and spread-eagled. For a moment, he tried to push himself back up, but the soreness in his arms and shoulder made it impossible. “How did you get in here?” he finally mustered up the strength to ask, though he still couldn’t raise his head to look at Octavius.
“I guess I snuck in.”
Finally, Garrick was able to turn and sit up. He leaned on a wall as he tried to wipe the dry blood from his face with a handkerchief Octavius gave him. He winced in pain as his back touched the wall. “Why would you do that?” he asked.
Octavius scoffed and paced around the room leisurely. He looked interested in his surroundings. “Looks like you spend more time down here than in your room,” he said as he pointed at some books neatly arranged on a small shelf at the corner. They looked worn out as though they were bought second-hand. Octavius reckoned they probably were. “The absence of a bed suggests you have a bed somewhere else, right?”
Garrick felt something hard swarming around his bloody mouth and spat it into his hands. Cupped up in his palms, swimming in blood, was a tooth. Garrick chuckled as he reckoned it was because of his scuffle with Dennis earlier. He still wasn’t sure what had happened, but it seemed his all too abnormal adrenaline had spurred him to yet another unlikely action. If only it were permanent, he thought.
He looked back at Octavius who was playing around with a paper airplane Garrick had made during one of his idle moments. “If you knew my father, you wouldn’t make such an assumption. I’m sure it’s clear by now,” he said as he pointed at his swollen face. “My old man doesn’t exactly care about my comfort.” He forced himself up to his feet, groaning as he did so. “Thank you, Mr. LeGrey.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Garrick? Call me Octavius.”
Garrick closed his eyes and let out a restless sigh. “Thank you, Octavius,” he corrected himself, with emphasis on the name. “Now I’d suggest you sneak out the way you snuck in.” Garrick was already heading for the stairs. He liked Octavius, that’s why he wanted to leave. His mood had been completely tainted, and he didn’t want to take it out on his favorite substitute teacher.
“I can take you away from this place. This house; this town. Would you want that? Would you want to leave it all behind?”
Still walking away, Garrick snickered. “I’ll be leaving soon anyway”
Octavius simpered. “You know better than I do that your father won’t let you go.”
Garrick stopped midway up the stairs. His mind wondered to thoughts of Arianne—the love of his life. Almost immediately, Octavius picked up on his thoughts. “You’re beyond every one of them, Garrick. All they’ve ever done was look down on you; hurt you; they’ve made you feel insecure. Not too long ago your own father shattered your dreams—dreams that involved you leaving this accursed town. What good would you be to the few that love you if you live a futile life thanks to those who don’t?”
His words sparked a fire in his soul. They were dangerous words. Words that drove him to rage. A rage he had kept locked up for so long because for so long he had blamed himself for everything. He truly believed he was strange and deserving of his pariah status in Reading. Yet, what Octavius was saying made him see things differently. Yes, he might have been different—but evolved-different, not strange-different. All these years he had given weaklings power over him. All this time, he had failed to realize his fullest potential because he felt he was weak. His father always said he was useless for as long as he could remember—this idea had become ingrained. His father’s words were the opium which made him comfortable with an uncomfortable existence.
And what spurred the nefarious Jared to malevolent action? Alcohol? Not at all. It was none other than his scheming cousin, Celina Hagen. Celina was responsible for all the abuse he’d taken for most of his life. Before she came, Jared and every other person in Reading merely ignored him. But once she came, they focused on him with ferocious intent. She was the queen instigator of all his problems. If anyone was going to pay for all the wrong done to him, it had to be her. Celina Hagen had to pay.
And Arianne was willing to follow him to Dartmouth—what would stop her from following him anywhere? Even to wherever Octavius would take him.
“You have to turn your back on them!” continued Octavius, “and someday you will come back, and you shall have revenge. Dartmouth won’t teach you this.”
His words were seditious. The thought of vengeance suddenly gave Garrick the much-needed strength to turn and look into his savior’s eyes. “Revenge?”
“When I’m done with you, the heads of your enemies shall roll,” assured Octavius.
“Heads?” repeated Garrick. “How would I accomplish that?”
“Leave this place with me and you shall realize there’s very little you cannot
accomplish, Garrick.”
7
Octavius reluctantly drove Garrick to Arianne’s house to say goodbye—at least that was what he told Octavius he was going to do. Instead, he planned to convince her to join him on his journey. He had no place in the world without Arianne. If Octavius wasn’t fond of the idea, Garrick wouldn’t go anywhere with him. It was that simple.
On the drive over, Garrick indulged in a mental struggle. He knew more than anything that he wanted Arianne by his side, but he wasn’t sure what he was going to tell her. “Come, Arianne. Let’s elope—though we might have to spend some time at Mr. LeGrey’s house so I could learn how to make Celina pay for what she did to me,” he thought. This was going to be difficult.
Once they’d reached Arianne’s street, Garrick asked Octavius to park a couple blocks away from the house so her parents wouldn’t get suspicious. He alighted the car with clear intent etched on his face. Octavius, on the other hand, stayed in the driver’s seat of his black Jaguar with an impatient scowl on his. The only reason he acquiesced to this was because of Garrick’s importance to him. Otherwise…
Unexpectedly, Arianne was already sitting on a bench by the fence of her house. As he got closer, he could tell she had been crying. Before he called out to her, she’d seen him and jumped to embrace him. “I was so scared!” she said at once. “I’m sorry—I’m really sorry.”
Still in pain from his various sore encounters that night, Garrick pushed her off him slowly as he winced. She realized his face had turned red with anguish and began to apologize even more. “Stop it, Anne. It wasn’t your fault.”
“You were hurt at my party!” She pointed out. “It’s my fault for ever dating a jerk like Dennis.”
