by Jon Athan
***
Lawrence strolled through the back door, carrying Richie into the living room in his brawny arms. Patricia followed closely behind, caressing Richie's forehead and swiping the tears from his cheeks. Cecilia ambled through the doorway, keeping a keen eye on Jonathan as the pair trailed the family.
Patricia pointed through the kitchen arch entrance and instructed, “Cecilia, grab some ice from the freezer and bring it to mommy.”
Lawrence carefully placed Richie's timorous body on the black three-seat sofa in the living room. Patricia slid two couch cushions beneath Richie's leg to elevate the injured limb. She ran to the opposite end of the couch, then slid under Richie's head – resting his dome on her lap. Cecilia nonchalantly skipped into the living room, humming and capering about as she brought a bag of ice to her mother.
As she placed the ice on Richie's kneecap, Patricia explained, “This will make it feel better. It'll stop the swelling and pain for a while.” She glanced over her shoulder and asked, “Did you call 911?”
Lawrence stood by a black console table with a black landline phone planted on his ear. He shrugged and said, “We're disconnected. We'll have to take him to the hospital ourselves. No point in wasting time here.”
Patricia grimaced and stuttered, “I–I don't... I don't know, Lawrence. I...” She bit her bottom lip as she struggled to speak. She said, “We shouldn't leave... We can't go out again. We can't risk leaving with or without...”
Patricia glided her eyes towards Jonathan. Without uttering a single word, she delivered her explanation – an adequate unspoken word. Lawrence sighed as he glanced towards his gleaming dress shoes. He understood his wife very well.
Lawrence turned towards Jonathan and asked, “What happened out there?”
Jonathan leaned on the kitchen archway with his arms crossed. He clenched his jaw, refusing to answer to authority. Lawrence's lip curled as his body swelled with anger – the irrepressible fury coursed through each limb.
From the adjacent recliner in the living room, Cecilia responded, “I think it was Jonathan. I think he...”
Lawrence glanced at Cecilia and interrupted, “I know. I know, sweetie.” He turned towards Jonathan and asked, “Why? Why'd you do it this time? Why would you hurt your little brother like that?”
Jonathan inhaled deeply from his nose, then responded, “He cheated. You should never cheat. That's what you taught me and that's what I taught him. It's not right. I warned him, so it's all his fault anyway.”
Lawrence tightly clenched his fists as he glowered. His protruding fingernails pierced into his palm. A droplet of blood dribbled from the self-inflicted wound. Jonathan smirked and huffed as he watched his infuriated father, like if he were watching a peddling jester from a golden throne. He happily called all of his father's bluffs – intimidation was nothing without the actions to back it.
Lawrence sternly said, “You can't always have it your way, boy. I swear, I'll...”
Suddenly, Richie cried, “It hurts! It hurts! Please, mom, it hurts so much!”
Teary-eyed, Patricia said, “I know, sweetie, I know...” She loudly swallowed the lump in her throat, then said, “We... I guess we have to go. We should go to the hospital. I don't want my baby to feel this pain. I can't do anything here. Not this time.”
Lawrence nodded and said, “Fine. Let's go.” He turned towards his unscathed children and said, “Cecilia, you're in charge until we get back. Don't open the door for anyone, answer the phone when we call, and don't mess around with anything. We'll be back in a few hours.”
“Okay,” Cecilia whispered.
Cecilia glanced over at Jonathan with narrowed eyes. The luster in her eyes had vanished as she gazed at Jonathan's nonchalant but vindictive demeanor. She knew she was not in charge of the situation. She was a puppet, like her father.
Lawrence lifted Richie from the couch, cradling his son like a newborn baby. Patricia grabbed the clanking key ring from the console table, then bolted through the adjacent archway leading into the main hall. The keys clicked and clanked as she unlocked the front door.
Standing at the archway, Lawrence asked, “What are you doing?”
Patricia frantically tugged on the doorknob and said, “It won't open.”
She tightly gripped the doorknob and leaned her entire body away from the sturdy door, but to no avail – the door would not budge. Lawrence handed Richie to Patricia, then proceeded towards the door. Lawrence kicked at the door with brute force, then rammed the door with his shoulder. Despite his mighty effort, the door did not rattle or wobble. The unwavering door remained unmarked.
From the neighboring archway, Jonathan explained, “I don't want you to take him to the hospital. You treat him like a king, like if he's better than me. He's not. He's an idiot. I'm tired of him cheating. I'm tired of you pretending like it's okay.”
Patricia's bottom lip quivered as she asked, “Wha–What are you doing, sweetie? We just want to help your brother, okay? Is... Is that okay?”
“No, it's not okay. I don't want you to help him anymore. He can help himself...”
Suddenly, the hardwood floorboards rattled as Lawrence stomped. His cheeks were flushed and his ears were crimson from the uncontrollable anger. He scowled as he wagged his index finger towards his truculent son.
Lawrence shouted, “Open this damn door! Now!” As Jonathan chuckled, Lawrence yelled, “I swear, you will regret this, Jonathan! You cannot keep us hostage! You cannot stop us from helping your brother! I won't tolerate this bullshit anymore!”
Jonathan nonchalantly crossed his arms and legs as he leaned on the archway and said, “I already stopped you.”
Lawrence marched into the living room, Patricia followed closely behind. Lawrence gritted his teeth as he pulled on the bay windows overlooking the kempt front lawn. Thick veins protruded on his brow and his jugulars bulged as he exerted all of his energy to no avail – the windows did not budge. He breathed heavily as he turned towards the black end table by the sofa, then yanked the sturdy lamp from the tabletop.
“What's going on? What are you doing?” Patricia asked as she held Richie's head to her bosom. “What are you going to do, Lawrence? What are you...”
Before she could complete her inquiry, Lawrence heaved the heavy lamp towards the pristine bay windows. Lawrence and Patricia stared at the glass barriers in utter disbelief. The windows wobbled and the frame groaned, but there wasn't a single speck or crack on the immaculate glass. Lawrence stared at the windows with glum eyes.
He whispered, “It's impossible...”
Jonathan strolled into the living room and said, “I don't want you to go anywhere. I want you to stay. I want to play a game.”
Patricia's teeth chattered as she repeated in a dubious tone, “A–A game?”
Jonathan grinned and responded, “Yes. It's called, 'Pick The Least Favorite Child.' It'll be fun.”
***
Patricia sniveled, then said, “You can't do this to us, Jonathan. Please, Jonny, don't make us do something like this. We just wanted to help your brother. That's all.” Her eyes widened as a bulb illuminated atop her dome – an idea materialized. Patricia suggested, “You said cheating was wrong, remember? Well, this isn't right, either. There's no such thing as a least favorite child for a parent. It would be wrong to make us choose. We'd be lying. We'd be cheating.”
Jonathan scoffed, “There is. We will play or else.”
Richie's head swayed as he dozed in-and-out of consciousness. Patricia placed her immobilized son on the three-seat sofa and nuzzled his forehead. Jonathan sauntered towards the recliner. He glared at Cecilia, his sharp eyes piercing into her pusillanimous soul. Without a single word exchanged between the pair, Cecilia knew she could not trounce her younger brother. She stood from her seat, then walked towards the three-seat sofa. Like a king on his throne, Jonathan sat on the recliner and overlooked his family.
Jonathan coughed to clear his throat, then said, “We're going to play this
game. Cecilia and Richie will prove they are worthy to be children of this family. If not, I'll get rid of them. Mom and dad will vote for their least favorite at the end.”
Like if he had given up all hope, Lawrence staggered to the windowsill. He slowly shook his head as he gazed at his tyrannical son in disbelief. His mind raced with impracticable solutions to an unfathomable problem. He was lost in a maze, wandering from one dead end to another.
Lawrence asked, “What if we don't want to play? What if we don't vote? What are you going to do to us, boy?”
Jonathan smirked and said, “You will vote. If you don't, I'll get rid of you, too.” Jonathan rolled his eyes and explained, “I don't want weak parents anymore. I don't want cheating siblings. I want a strong family, a family as strong as me.”
Patricia asked, “What... What are you going to make them do?”
Jonathan glared at Richie and said, “He'll go first.” His eyes sharpened as he stared at his younger brother. In a sonorous tone, Jonathan roared, “Wake up, Richie! I know you're not sleeping! Wake up!”
Richie slowly opened his eyes, peeking towards Jonathan as his body shuddered from the pain and fear. He gasped as he caught a glimpse of Jonathan's vicious eyes. Richie squirmed towards his mother's bosom, seeking comfort and sobbing wildly.
Patricia clasped her palms together and pleaded, “Please, don't do this, Jonathan. I'm begging you. I'll do anything you ask. Please.”
Jonathan shook his head, then glided his eyes upward. Miraculously, Richie levitated away from his mother's torso, following the path determined by Jonathan's piercing eyes. As he floated through the air, Richie grunted and groaned. He could only utter a frightful croak as he struggled to comprehend the situation. Patricia, Lawrence, and Cecilia watched in utter awe.
Lawrence whispered, “He's getting stronger...”
In a hoarse tone, Jonathan said, “I'll let you go now, Richie.”
Slowly and meticulously, Jonathan lowered his younger brother towards the center of the living room. Richie sobbed and tottered as he tried to balance himself on his only functioning leg. His right leg was as limp as a noodle.
Jonathan said, “Prove yourself, Richie. Show us what you can do for this family. Show us why you're not the least favorite. And, don't you dare cheat.”
Richie grimaced as he turned towards his unavailing mother and his pensive father. With few options on the table, Richie hopped in place – bouncing like a kangaroo with one foot. He cried with the slightest movement of his right leg, each jump more agonizing than the last. Tears gushed from his eyes like sparkling waterfalls. Cecilia gazed at Jonathan. Her eyes were brimming with brackish tears and sorrow. She couldn't tolerate her younger brother's pain and Jonathan's vainglory.
Cecilia pleaded, “Please, stop. He's hurt. Let's just go outside and play, Jonny. We'll play like before. I won't cheat or anything. I swear...”
Jonathan scowled and shouted, “Shut up!”
The hardwood floor screeched as the three-seat sofa was shoved by an incorporeal force. Patricia and Cecilia gasped as they tightly gripped the sofa. Lawrence stood from the window with his fists clenched. He stepped forward, then stopped. The hesitation hit him as soon as he gazed into Jonathan's eyes. He was too frightened to fight back and he couldn't admit it.
Jonathan turned towards Richie and said, “You're useless. No wonder you have to cheat to win. You think hopping like an idiot will make you the favorite? Maybe they'll spare you because it's cute, right? No, you have no skills and you have no talents. You are useless, Richie. You won't last long.”
Cecilia placed her palms on her ears and yelled, “Leave him alone!”
Jonathan surged from his seat with a minatory scowl plastered on his soft face. He turned towards Richie and glared at his left leg. Abruptly, Richie's shrill shriek echoed through the home. The bone-crunching pop from his left leg bounced off the walls – the pain reverberated through his trembling body and the living room. Disabled by the attack, he plummeted to the floor – Timber!
To his utter surprise, Richie was caught by his father. Lawrence glared at Jonathan as he carried his injured son towards Patricia and Cecilia. Richie was savagely crippled by Jonathan's bewildering powers. Yet, Jonathan was not bothered by his own actions. His conscience was dormant – dead and buried beneath the cloud of venom eclipsing his powerful mind.
Lawrence returned to the center of the living room, gazing down at his brown dress shoes. Apathetic, Jonathan casually shrugged, then flumped into the recliner. Lawrence slowly wagged his index finger as he stared at the ground and contemplated his next move.
Lawrence inhaled deeply, then said, “You want to know something, son?”
Jonathan smirked and asked, “What? What is it, dad? What do you have to say this time? You can't stop me, so don't bother scolding me. Like you used to say, 'it goes from one ear and out the other.' So, what is it this time?”
Lawrence chuckled, then said, “You are my least favorite child.” Jonathan furrowed his brow as he leaned back in his seat. Lawrence smiled and continued, “You were never going to be the favorite. Something's wrong with you and it's not these powers or whatever you call them. You... You're sick. You're a demented kid and nothing I say can stop you. It's... It's rooted in your mind or something. Cynicism, narcissism, pessimism... It's all in there and I can't get it out. I tried, I really tried, but you're just horrible.”
Patricia swiped at her rosy nose and said, “Lawrence, don't do this...”
Lawrence shook his head and said, “No, he needs to hear this. He needs to know the truth.” He stepped closer to Jonathan, then leaned forward with his hands to his kneecaps. Lawrence said, “Jonathan, my son, I hate you. We all hate you. We wanted to love you, but you wouldn't let us. You are the least favorite child.”
Jonathan's eyes swelled with tears from the bitter diatribe. His throat was clogged with melancholic regret. Beads of cold sweat streamed down his brow and the nape of his neck, soaking his timid body with his anxious fluids. Jonathan was suddenly vulnerable, weakened by the verbal attack. Despite his abnormalities, he was still a child – he still sought love. Words were more powerful than even the most otherworldly abilities.
Jonathan said, “Okay, okay...”
He glanced at his mother's sorrowful eyes as she rocked Richie's enfeebled body. He glided his eyes towards Cecilia and inspected her trembling figure. He witnessed a portrait of apprehension and dolor – a portrait painted by his malign hands.
Jonathan said, “I understand now. You are not a family for me.”
Patrica bit her bottom lip, then said, “That's not true, sweetie, it's just...”
Jonathan waved his hand – silence. He stared into his father's remorseless eyes, then nodded. Lawrence returned the nod as he fought to keep his steady poker face – as he fought to keep the tears in his eyes from pouring out. Jonathan shuffled in his snug seat, then stared at the ceiling. An eerie silence drenched the room.
Jonathan whispered, “Goodbye.”
Patricia said, “Jonny, sweetie, wait a second, I...”
Before she could finish, the recliner was engulfed in scorching flames. Patricia held her trembling hand to her gaping mouth and her other hand over Richie's flickering eyes. Cecilia hide her face in her thighs and planted her palms over her ears. Lawrence staggered in reverse as he watched his son burning in the seat.
The crepitations from the flames echoed through the home, but the fire did not spread. Jonathan did not cry or yell, he did not squirm or squeak. The telekinetic child sat in unwavering solidarity, enduring the insufferable pain of being burned alive. As Jonathan departed, the flames miraculously extinguished. The black smoke rapidly dissipated, whisked away with the unfortunate death.
As he gazed at his son's smoldering bones and listened to his family's sincere cries, Lawrence whispered, “I loved you. I'm sorry, son. I'm so sorry.”
A Permanent Resident
Kristy Baker sighed as she balanced the touchscreen cellph
one between her narrow shoulder and her ear. She despondently gazed down at her bare feet as she pulled on the smothering gray sweatpants veiling her legs. She leaned back on the black leather couch, shuffling in her gray t-shirt as she searched from the elusive comfort she hopelessly sought. Her body shimmered with anxiety, her perpetual perspiration glimmered from the modest living room's fluorescent lighting.
Over the phone, a woman shouted, “Hey! Are you even listening?!”
Kristy shook her head as her rumination was shattered. She glanced at her reflection on the flat-screen television directly across the sofa. Her glinting blue eyes pierced through the dark television – sparkling eyes bright enough to illuminate the dreariest abyss. She twirled her beach blonde hair with her fingertip as she absently stared at herself.
Kristy sighed, then responded, “I'm sorry. I'm listening, Hilary. You know I have a lot on my mind. Sometimes I just... I just drift away, you know? I wish I could really drift away from all of this... Just leave this nightmare.”
Hilary responded, “I understand that. That's why you need to listen. I'm trying to give you advice. Advice doesn't work if you're never around to listen to it, right?” Kristy exhaled loudly – an exhalation of blatant agreement. Hilary continued, “Look, I know it's hard and I won't say anything to insult him now. You know I never liked him, but I know you loved him. But, Kristy, he's gone now. He's not coming back. Everything else is a... a product of your imagination. This move is a big step for your recovery. It really is.”
Kristy nodded and said, “Yeah, I know...”
She glanced around the puny apartment. The living room only harbored the sofa, a glass coffee table, and an entertainment center. There was a stack of cardboard boxes from the family's recent move beside the television stand. Behind the sofa, a double-door entrance led to the master bedroom. To her left, there was a hallway beside an arch entrance leading into the kitchen. The hallway harbored doors leading to the bathroom, another bedroom, and the apartment building corridor.
