Bane

January 13, 1998

David stepped past the threshold of the door.

The hallway stretched into darkness, it's width, and height distorted by an impossible length. His home was large, but not so large. It was a long walk to the end of the hall, to the distant call of the baby's little voice.

A man crept past him, larger than him, shoulders broad as he ever saw them. His father, long dead, and creeping past him. David could smell him.

"Dad?"

Clay turned out of habit, or reflex, and swung on David. David, younger, faster, caught Clay by the wrist.

The hall light was on, bright in his eyes - almost blinding - and David was face-to-face with his father. His father, young in the face, eyes wild and scared.

He's not afraid of you, David.

David marveled in the moment, his father's clenched fist suspended between them, the taught muscle in his forearm steely in his grasp.

Clayton's wide eyes searched his, mystified, pupils large despite the light.

"Who - who are you?"

David felt his throat tighten. "What are you doing out of bed? Is everything alright?"

"It's fine. I... I heard Jonathan crying. It's been a long night," Clay's voice took a hushed tone, "and I just want to let Emily sleep."

David was alone in the hallway, his hand closing over empty air. He stood alone in the middle of the hall near the stairwell. Sudden movement on the landing below the second flight of stairs drew his eyes away from the empty space in the hall. He stared past the railing and saw Jasmine Wood on the landing.

She was dressed in the clothes she died in, a large serpent coiled around her arm. She turned her expression toward him, her eyes somewhere between accusation and longing. Her skin took on a clear gleam, pale and blue in the bright light of the hallway. He could see muscle, and bone, and beneath it a dull light of her own.

"It's cold, David. Would you put on a fire? The rains won't stop, and I can't find warmth anywhere."

"Throw a log in the hearth, Jazzy. I'll be down in a moment. I have to find someone."

"Who?"

Yes, who for are you looking, David?

"I have to find my dad, Jazzy. If I could find him..." David returned his gaze to the stretch of hallway. It was dark again.

"You'll do what?" Her voice carried out to him, though her lips never parted, her mouth never moved.

"I could save him."

He looked back to the landing. It was empty, the hardwood floor polished, his mother's tea cart sitting in its place, the place he remembered it all until the end of her life.

The air felt as a palpable static, not the electrical surge before a shock followed, but the crawling black and white static of a television left on after the close of the national anthem, when the movies were over, and the infomercials were long over. The static that woke you from sleep to let you know it was time to turn off the television and go back to sleep.

He could sense something behind the static, just beyond the edge of sight. Arguing, and a struggle. He could smell his dad in the air, and the unmistakable scent of his grandfather.

David lashed out on impulse.

"Dad!" Clayton dodged David's attack, and edged away. "It's fine! Did Emily call you? We had an argument, but things are fine now. I'm ready to move on."