Trapped with a Way Out

by Jeffery Martinez

  Jake? Vincent gasped, blinking with wider eyes. No. Jake's dad! His eyes fell to the man's side. Uncle! My uncle! … The kindling light of hope choked on Walter's detached expression and was then doused out with fear when Vincent spied the trembling scowl. The Angel of Death was furious beyond comparison to any memory in the child's mind. He just helped me, let me sleep in his bed, and now I do this? I follow him again and get in all this trouble…? Shame cleared some of the panic from Vincent's head, letting his senses better evaluate his position.

  "What should we do with him?" "I can't believe you stupid bastards let this happen! With the Angel of Death here! My god!" These were hushed voices, but full of emotion. A man was pointing at Vincent, others were as well, gesturing at his odd appearance or blaming individuals for letting him sneak in. Trouble. He was in big trouble.

  Uncle. Walter had taken a few slow steps in Vincent's direction, demanding instantaneous silence from the room so that his footsteps could be heard. Vincent had trepidation tingling in his marrow while some faint relief and thankfulness also entered his body. Then he numbed and all eyes watched without thought or opinion when Walter touched the dog that was still growling at the boy, black eyes of hate glued to the pale skin and dark clothes with all the malevolence that the dog could muster for an enemy. There was a click as the chain was unhooked from the Doberman's collar, and then came the raging blast of growling snarls when the dog attacked, flying free once Walter had released it Vincent let out a strangled screech and fell back with the weight of the dog attached to his stomach where the jaws had closed on his clothes, shaking him, ripping cloth. The jaws were a flash of motion, as were the blunt claws and hard limbs that the boy's hands tried to push away. His arm was bitten, his chest, his stomach, his wrist, his ribs, and his shoulder, were tattooed with bleeding bites. The hot breath felt cold, as if the fangs were sabers carved from ice, snapping at the air close to his throat. Vincent turned over, trying to protect his face. Teeth bit his head and a snarl filled his ear after a sharp bark when Vincent screamed. It bit his back and paws attached to muscled forelegs pushed down on Vincent in a rush to get to his neck.

  The boy threw himself as far as he could, which was only a few inches, turning himself with his hands and sneakers against the floor. He came face to face with the dog when it came upon his chest, black pits staring into the bright scarlet eyes. Instinct came to Vincent when no thoughts could breach his mind, consumed by fear and dread and rage. The sudden torrent of rage that this animal should take his life.

  It was an urge, the need he suddenly felt, to fight back, to intimidate back. So he snarled back at the fangs, baring his own teeth, his pupil's shrinking, stabbing into the animal's glare, and when the dog hesitated, Vincent lunged, grabbing at the dog as if his hands were talons, hissing and growling like he was a beast himself. A canine mouth and a human mouth came close together, biting at air, teeth snapping together. They rolled back, claws scratching Vincent's skin and making contact with his jaw when he forced the dog down. It was like had had been punched and scratched at all in one motion. The jaws came forward, red eyes saw, so a pale hand thrust out to catch them, holding them off and keeping them apart even as the teeth cut his fingers. Vincent's mind was empty of human thought, only drive, animalistic drive to fight and survive, hatred, anger, fear, and exhilaration. He felt the pain from his body. He felt that he was losing blood, that fatigue and blood loss were weakening him, but he felt as if he had a monstrous strength suddenly, and something that made him more worthy to live than the animal. No thought. No plan. Hands bleeding, head bleeding, body bleeding, hurting, pain, panic, hatred, hatred…

  The gurgled scream of an agonized beast ripped through Vincent's numbness, pushing him back and away from the animal so that he sat on the flow, panting with wide, crazed eyes that slowly returned to sanity and thought, catching up on what had just happened.

  The dog's jaws were torn wide open, a gaping, mangled picture of something that barely resembled a dog's snout, left with the animal's blood and the child's blood that had come from Vincent's fingers that now trembled incessantly while he stared. There was blood on his own human mouth, his blood and the dog's blood. The blood that was pooling from the Doberman's throat as if all that was contained in the beast was flowing from it. Like the man his uncle had killed. Blood poured from the hole that had been ripped into the creature's neck by Vincent's blunt teeth, the white teeth that were now stained with the blood of a beast and a human, the dog's and his own. As Vincent watched, the dog suffered, bleeding, whining, screaming…. And then it died when its voice turned to silence.

  And the room was silence as well. Silence, death, emptiness, shock, and fear. Grown men were afraid or intimidated in some way. But Walter's anger had been appeased.

  "Joel. Clean him up and then come back."

  That was all that was said. There were no other words. Vincent was carried from the room, barely awake, his head in a distant land far far away from Hell and even farther away from Earth. The large hands tried to be gentle, but Vincent's wounds still sparked with pain that made the boy gasp when his injuries were cleaned with water and a dabbing towel. Hydrogen Peroxide bubbled and fizzled, drawing out distant, muffled whimpers. Then Vincent remembered curling up in a corner on a soft carpet flooring, leaning against the wall with bandages and band aids beneath his tattered and torn, bloodied clothes.

  Then he was in the car. After that, he saw the doctor he'd seen before when he had been hurt by Jake. He got stitches, on his scalp, on his lip,and on his shoulder near the base of his neck. He wore patches and more bandages to bed that night.

  And he slept in his uncle's room.

  Uncle is a bad man. Uncle is a bad man, but I still want him. I still want my uncle and I do not want to lose him.

  But he doesn't care if I die. I mean nothing. I mean nothing to everybody and nobody.

  But why is he giving me water?

  It was morning and Vincent was propped up in the bed beneath a layer of band aids of various sizes, stitches, and bandages that held his battered, bruised, and scabbed body together. From beneath his wounds and his pain and weakness, the boy stared at the glass of water in the man's hand. His injured hands accepted the water, though it hurt. And pale lips touched the glass, though it hurt. And the boy swallowed the water, though it tasted of blood iron. He was thirsty, but it hurt, so he drank as much as he could. He missed school, sleeping without his uncle saying a word against his 'laziness'. His uncle remained in the house until late afternoon when Vincent began to wander from room to room, limping and moving slowly. The boy managed to eat, use the bathroom, and function on his own, returning to the comfortable bed with a book he was reading for school, one that he enjoyed. Vincent turned on the bedside lamp so that he could read peacefully.

  Walter came home late, when Vincent had fallen asleep with the book in his hands, but as Walter stood, looking down at the damaged pale face, the large crimson eyes, again retaining light, opened and gazed back at the man. Neither spoke and neither possessed thoughts.

  "Boy, are you part demon?"

  Vincent blinked, but his overall expression did not change, showing no alarm. He had been asked that question before. "No..…but I'm part 'you'."

  A flash of surprise crossed Walter's face, his eyes widening, lips parting, gaze clearing of darkness for a moment, and then the man's features moved to display an amused, thoughtful smirk. Vincent watched, his hurt mouth hesitant to speak, but he forced himself too, blocking out the pain.

  "Uncle…are you glad I didn't die?"

  The amusement stayed with Walter when the boy's words continued to hold some interest for him to feed off of. "If you had died it would have been troublesome. Sending you away would be much cleaner."

  Is that a yes or a no? What had he meant by 'cleaner'? Vincent wondered, but his optimism favored 'yes' with his uncle's maintained smirk. Walter did not give him that expression often, and it was oddly consoling.

  "Never follow me again. I
will bring you if I want you."

  A carefully preformed nod of the pale head was all that was needed to satisfy Walter.

  As time passed and Vincent's wounds healed more quickly than they should have, noted by his uncle who found this to be a curious fact, Vincent coexisted with the bad man and the bad man's 'badness' became less apparent, seen only as a component of his uncle's character. And so, younger Vincent came to know more about his uncle and to understand his new life; the life the older Vincent was returning to, submerged beyond the surface he had been aware of after he had come to accept his uncle and crime, things that were both bad and not bad.

  It was his life.

  Dishes clinked together while water from the tap flushed away suds that expanded to form foamy mountains in the collecting water as white rubber gloves handled the dishes and glasses, putting most into the dishwasher while a select few were cleaned entirely by hand. A cascading mane of golden hair ran down a thin, yet powerful, shoulder and one of the rubber gloves twitched with the instinct to brush a few strands of hair aside, but with the contagious suds making this a messy option the trailing hair was shrugged back by the shoulder so that it could no longer bother the woman while she washed and rinsed a sink full of dishes. Her son sat behind her under the halo of a few lamps that hung from the ceiling, slouching on a stool with a pink pencil eraser against his lips, two round lenses scrutinizing his school work.

  Richard Rodriguez's body preformed what was required to clean the dishes, but her mind wandered, as it often did when she participated in things that were considered domestic chores, falling into the stereotype of a wife for a brief moment. Her thoughts strayed to a specific topic that broadened. There was the boy who was almost a legal adult…but that was only in the eyes of the law. He was still young, a child, but at seventeen in the environment he lived in, his age was not something that could attest for innocence. Seventeen year olds, even fourteen year olds or younger children in gangs were capable of killing, of committing murders, armed robberies, sexual offences; the list was long. But for Vincent, Richard could not identify a criminal in his character. As he had warmed up to her family, she had seen him transform into a child, more specifically, a teenager. He was not like a ten or eleven year old, but he had qualities that were not always common in teens his age.

  But that man, the man whose very body represented what harm he could inflict upon her children - Jake Savage, she could not accept him. Alex, her son…she glanced back at the blonde teen and then brought her attention down to the dish in her hands. Leroy was a strong, healthy, and hardy boy, but Jake's body - she could envision it overpowering her son's if the two ever met in a conflict. Then weapons and drugs, gang affiliation and violence; the thought of her children being involved in these things, terrified her as much as the thought heated her chest with the rage she would unleash on any who might taint or harm her family.

  She had no fear at all, regarding her husband. She believed in his abilities as surely as she trusted her own. Richard could count on her mate to protect their brood, as well as himself.

  "Alex." The rubber glove dripped water onto the counter when it reached out to place a serving platter on the drying rack. With the name, her son stopped what he was doing and looked up, giving her his obedient attention. "When did you meet Vincentimir?"

  Green eyes blinked, thinking back and adding up the days. "Two weeks or so ago."

  That's not a very long time. It seems longer than that…and I can't even boast a whole two weeks. Richard sloshed the water collecting in the plugged sink when she lifted out a buried dish.

  She wants to talk about Vincent. Rodriguez's thoughts were followed by grim shadows. They hadn't heard from Vincent in a few days now, but he should be fine…

  "You met Vincentimir because you heard him play the piano, right?"

  Rodriguez, pushing past the embarrassing side of this memory, nodded. "Yeah. You know, because he's really good…I wanted to find out who it was."

  "His playing would attract or catch your attention. …Vincentimir is talented."

  With a bit of pride for his friend, the teen smiled. "Yeah. But I really want you to see his art too. He's good at drawing, at least from what I've seen…and that's not really much. But he drew this amazing dragon. Hopefully you'll get to see it, since I saved it."

  Richard cut in when confusion lifted one of her brows. "You saved a dragon, Alex? Really?" She chuckled, knowing well what he had meant. The teen added his own humor with sarcasm.

  "Oh yeah. You bet I did, Mom. Got a sword and beat off the knight that was trying to slay it, and everything. -No. Aha. I'm joking, but the dragon- Vincent draws really good dragons…and trees…and everything."

  "I think you already mentioned this before…you said he throws away his art? He doesn't turn it in?"

  "Nope…but he should. The teacher was amazed too. You should have seen her face when she saw his paper. Vincent tore up the picture…but I kinda put it back together…and it still looks good. Now it just looks like…um…mysterious, like some lost ancient medieval drawing. It was some kind of horned monster guy and then other pictures showed him transforming into the dragon."

  But he still tore it up? Even with a positive response? The woman frowned, scrubbing at a cup. Her curiosity darkened. "Alex, what kind of person do you think Vincentimir is?"

  Rodriguez, not expecting the question had to sit up and let his eyes wander the ceiling while he considered how he would respond. "I don't know." He replied lamely, hoping to buy a bit more time to think. He looked at the wall, his face calm, peaceful without raw emotion attached to any of his judgments. "He kinda likes to be alone sometimes. Doesn't like most people."

  "Really?" Richard hummed to herself, musing what her son had said. She knew that Vincent had been reluctant to mingle with law enforcement officers, but that was understandable, expected. But she had not observed any real aversion towards people. Vincent seemed to open up and accept William and her own father, Van King, readily.

  "Yeah, and at school he's kinda known to be dangerous."

  "Dangerous?" He is possibly dangerous…but I didn't expect the boy to be recognized as a dangerous figure…Vincentimir doesn't come across as being particularly dangerous…all the time that is. The woman sighed, reluctantly giving up on her childish interpretation of Vincent, a delusion she had momentarily humored herself by accepting. Yes. He is dangerous, withdrawn… He snarls…he has threatened me before…and he bit me. …It shouldn't be easy to forget these things. When Richard bit her lip, unseen by her son, Rodriguez spoke again.

  "Did you ever notice that he had blood stains on the back of his shirt- I mean the collar…some of it came out when we kept washing it here, though."

  Yes, I remember now. I did notice that. Richard grimaced, releasing her lip. I don't like remembering the bad things about the boy. He's not bad on the inside. I know he's not rotten like most of them… Disgust welled for her memories of despicable human beings she had encountered in the past. Murderers, sex offenders…burglars….forms that Vincent could easily fit into.

  "Yumie and Heinkel have been trying to convince me to stay away from him."

  And Yumie and Heinkel are both smart girls, Richard thought. She had known them for years. They had attended pre-school with her son. It makes sense that they would want him to stay out of Vincent's business…and maybe…he really should. But he won't. I know my son. I wouldn't be able to leave Vincentimir alone either… Leroy is too much like me…sometimes, for his own good.

  "Oh yeah and I've got plans with them later on. Is that okay?"

  "Nothing after 7 p.m. You know my rules."

  "I would be back for dinner. Yumie's got some community service activity she's doing wither her club and she wanted some extra help since a lot of people are out of town. I think it might be a bake sale or raffle thing…I don't know. I just know that they're selling something to try and raise some money."

  It was quiet for a time, the sink becoming silent. The rubber
gloves were hung on the drying rack and the now naked hands found themselves being cleaned by a towel, though they were practically dry. They had been completely dry while inside the gloves even though she had been dipping her hands in suds and water, but when she had removed the gloves her hands had become wet.

  "Are you almost finished?"

  "Huh?" Rodriguez snapped out of his daze, realizing that he had been staring at the wall, and his head turned to find that his mother was watching him. Finished with-? Oh, homework. Darn it. I still have more of this to do? The teen sighed, but had a smile on his face. "Almost."

  "Okay. It's good that you're not waiting until the last minute. But don't stay up too late. You can always finish the rest tomorrow."

  "Mn, yeah. I guess most people do that." Rubbing his hair and chuckling only because he was in a better mood, Rodriguez returned to his homework when his mother passed him, leaving the kitchen.

  From the hall, her voice came back to him. "Oh, and your father should be coming back soon. He said it's snowing where he is, but it's not enough to keep the planes grounded."

  "Oh, cool."

  Then Rodriguez buried his nose in monotonous homework once more.

  "Can you get me Jake?"

  A silhouette against the brick wall, Vincent gazed at the woman that was staring at him with her large, ringed eyes. His face remained undecipherable. He was standing on a sidewalk, the street in front of him receiving the tires of a few passing cars, their rumbling engines drowned out by the closer voices of the group, mostly teens, all of which were male, sitting on the old steps of a vacated apartment complex, graffiti on the walls and rust on the metals bars that protected the windows. The woman's wild, frizzy hair looked like a large brown mane of curls flapping discreetly in the breeze. A black bandana attempted to tame the unruly hair, but only managed to tie and flatten some of it down. Vincent looked at her as if she was standing some distance across the street instead of a few feet in front of him.