Deamons

Chapter 18 We're the Victim part 3

He goes through the next day of school a different person. His body is so heavy he can barely make it to his next class then falls into his seat. All day its like. Propped up books to hide behind and sleep. He even walks into corners and doors to save a step. He cannot wait to get home and slumber. Making it to the end of the day he is glad to see his mother is home. The door is locked. He knocks. No one comes. He knocks again a little harder so tired he just wants to climb in his bed. He sits down on the ledge at the bottom of the door so down and tired it is too much to stand. I just want to climb in bed, he thinks. His back pressed against the door he slams his elbow into the door three times, "Thud, thud, thud." The door vibrates on the frame. He nods his head to catch a little rest.

"What! Why are you trying to bust my door up!" his mother screams. Starke fell in when she suddenly opened the door. He had slipped into sleep. He wakes looking up at her screaming. He does not care. It is just more of the constant noise he always hears he tells himself. He drags himself up and hearing laughter. It is coming from across the street, Danny has a new girlfriend and a few other people standing on his porch. They delight in the sight of his bulgy mother blistering at a dull Starke. He looks back inside thinking of nothing but his bed. His mother wants to stand there with the door open and scream loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. Starke makes like he is reaching for something he dropped on the ground at his mother's right foot. She falls for the fake grab stepping right to block him. He moves in as quick as he can to her left barely slipping by.

She is furious. "Get back here! You don't wake me! You wait! Wake me up again and see what happens to you!" she screams. He makes it to his bedroom collapsing on his bed and falls right to sleep. As he sleeps Diligence is at the inner ear. He hears them coming. The body is rumbling with Anger tied up by Oppression way down below. Diligence runs to strength who immediately knows what is necessary. They grab the gifts up forming a chain hand in hand and run slamming themselves against the inner wall.

Starke wakes up with a headache overshadowed by a sense of impending doom. At his door is his mother and father gawking at him like he is an augmented lab rat gone bad. "I should have made a stain on the sheet instead of a baby," his father says. Damper on Starke seems to be lifting. His mother looking around the room asks, "What else can we take from him? He has earned none of this." That's it Starke has had it. Not earned it! What kid has to go pick up dead bodies by the pissed-up feet! Bare handed! The last one even some of the cops would not go back by the body! Anger cuts loose from Oppression blowing into the great hall like a blustering wind knocking open a barn door.

"What! What the fuck do you want! You fucking animals I am your fucking son! I wish you would have squirted me out on your sheets!" Starke screams at his father. "Why didn't you abort me!" he screams at his mother. "For both are fucking sakes," Starke screams more his eyes so laden from his elevated blood pressure they feel as if they will pop out of his skull.
"There is something wrong with him. Look at him Allan he is a mad man."

Incensed Starke loses it. Anger so prevalent in him now it need an outlet. He slams his head on the wall next to his bed breaking through the drywall he does it again making the hole bigger. It is exhilarating to give Anger an outlet. He pulls his back hard like a shot-putter snapping his neck with the full weight of his head against a new spot on the wall. He sees white light. Liquid rolls down in his eye. He looks at the wall through the other eye, seeing the head size hole from the first two strikes then a dent and crack from the last. He hit a two-by-four. Allan grinds his teeth his hands wadded into fist. "You will fix that wall," he says then walks off. Starke's head starts to throb. He reaches up with his hand feeling it all wet. His forehead where the hair meets is swelling already. It feels like someone is trying to push a softball out from under his skin. He needs ice and a towel but they are in the kitchen. He can hear them in there talking about him. He goes through his draw and finding one of his older t-shirts. He wipes his head with it. Thick maroon blood with the first wipe. He keeps gently wiping the shirt in new spot until the blood it a bright red. New blood he reasons. He applies pressure to that spot. It is the right spot. Where he presses is so tender he needs to force himself to allow himself to push as hard as he thinks necessary to stop the bleeding.

Oppression chases back up to the great hall. Anger shrinks from being released by the blows to the wall. Oppression releases the black sticky powder cloud. The cloud attached to Oppression's being somehow it looks like Anger is netted. Oppression pulls the net back down below disappearing again into the darkness.

Starke tired again feeling as if his best days are behind him in short life of misery his future as bleak as a dark ink blot. He fades into the oblivion of a dazed sleep. His dreams that all life is hell. The gifts exhausted with him the deamons play dress up in his sleep again. Not nightmares this time. More like dreams of uselessness and dreary life with no meaning but to hurt giving balance to the world for the ones that have nothing but joy. He is the law of averages. Someone that exists below the line of the ones that feel life is worth living and the others that life will be better one day. He sees life as the horror of a war with no end and home destroyed by toxic waste. The deamons will feast and he is living to feed them.