"C'mere, butthole. I wanna talk to you."
Jack froze stiff as a storefront mannequin. staring blindly into his hall locker. He knew the voice immediately. A distinctive male voice, dark and menacing.
"Get your sorry ass over here or you're dead meat." The familiar voice belonged to Gary Boyle, a strapping fifteen year-old eighth-grader better known around JFK Junior High as The Gargoyle.
Jack felt the blood rush to his face and his heart pound in his chest. His feet refused to move, but his mind was racing at warp speed. A close encounter with The Gargoyle meant trouble. Serious trouble.
What would his nemesis do next? Rip off his lunch money again? Squeeze a bottle of ketchup on his head as he did two weeks earlier in the cafeteria? Or maybe punch him in the other arm until the cruel bruise this time turned an even greener shade of purple?
The Gargoyle looked up and down the hall for any sign of a teacher or the security monitor. As soon as he was sure no one was around who could give him detention, he strolled over to where Jack remained frozen in place. A swarm of boys circlee the two, buzzing with anticipation.
The bell rang for Third Period. The Gargoyle acknowledged the shrill sound with a primal grunt. He typically waited until lunchtime to harass one or more of his regulars. Then again, he had a reputation for being as volatile as a stick of dynamite in a match factory. You never knew when he might explode. Yet you could always count on The Gargoyle to terrorize his victims in person. Cyberbullying had no place in his arsenal. He got off on seeing the fear in their eyes firsthand.
The Gargoyle grabbed Jack by his shoulders and spun him around. "Hey, retard, are you deaf," he growled, inches from Jack's face, "or just plain dumb?" His sour-milk breath turned Jack's stomach.
"Don't mess with me, Gary," Jack said with false bravado.
"What'd you just say?"
"I said, leave me alone, Gary," Jack replied with as much conviction as he could muster. "Okay?" he added weakly.
"Unh-unh. You called me Gary. Twice. Nobody calls me that. Not around here. I am The Gargoyle. The one and only. I rule this stinkin'school. And I own your stinkin' ass. Don't you never fuckin' forget it, neither."
The students Gary Boyle began bullying in fourth grade gave him his nickname. Not only did it rhyme with his actual name, but his muscular body, hunched shoulders and chiseled sneer also reminded them of a beastly architectural gargoyle. Gary thought the nickname suited him just fine.
Gary was nearly a foot taller than Jack and a solid fifty pounds or so heavier. He put a hefty arm around Jack's neck and muscled him across the hall to the boys room. "C'mon, booger breath," he snarled, "I got sumpin' I wanna show you."
The lavatory reeked of a commercial strength cleaner. Still, the heavy pine scent couldn't hide the stubborn whiff of urine and the stale stench of the night custodian's cigar. The Gargoyle checked the room to make sure they were alone, even searching under the doors of the dark green toilet stalls.
Jack was trembling now. "Relax, everything's cool," The Gargoyle lied, mere seconds before shoving him hard against the concrete block wall. Jack hit headfirst and slumped to the floor, dazed and in pain. The Gargoyle crouched over him like a hungry lion over an unfortunate antelope. He seizedJack by the front of his t-shirt and pinned him to the wall with his forearm. Then, with a gargoyle-esque sneer, he attacked Jack's face with hot-pink lipstick.
Jack twisted his body and rocked his head from side to side as he tried to free himself from The Gargoyle's grip. But he was no match for the bully's superior strength and finally surrendered to the assault.
As soon as The Gargoyle finished his crude artwork, he yanked Jack to his feet and stood him in front of a tall, cracked mirror above one of the white porcelain sinks lining the wall. "Here you go, fart face," he said. "Meet the new girl in school. Ain't she purty?"
Jack was in too much pain to say anything. The Gargoyle studied the muddled mess he created and grunted his approval. He dropped Jack in a heap, satisfied he'd succeeded in ruining his day, and charged out the door, giggling, in search of another victim.
Jack was woozy as he picked himself off the cold tile floor. He grabbed hold of both sides of the sink to steady himself and leaned into the mirror to get a better look at the damage.
"Jeezusss Chrissst!" he hissed through clenched teeth, as much a prayer as profanity.
The Gargoyle's random scribbling covered Jack's face. It reminded him of a Picasso self-portrait he once saw on Sesame Street when he was only two years old. The distorted image of the artist's face looked like a disfigured monster to the impressionable toddler. And it haunted his childhood for years.
Realizing he was already late for Tech Ed, Jack pumped gobs of liquid soap into the palms of his hands and washed his face furiously. Hard as he scrubbed, though, he couldn't get rid of all the lipstick. He worried he'd never be able to explain the hot pink graffiti to his teachers and the other kids at school, let alone his doting grandmother.
He felt like crying. But, of course, he couldn't let anyone see him like that either. I don't want guys sayin' I'm more of a wuss than they think I am already, he said to himself. His emotions swung back and forth like the pendulum on a clock, from deep pain and humiliation to seething anger and indignation. He vowed to get even one day.
Resentment quickly changed to astonishment when Jack looked again in the mirror. Every trace of lipstick had vanished! He turned to the empty lavatory and cried out: "Who...how the...?"
"I can elucidate."
"Hunh? Who said that?"
"I did. Here, in the mirror."
Jack could not believe his eyes when he spun around and saw something even more astonishing. His reflection in the mirror was smiling broadly. And it waved at him.
The mirrored image looked exactly like Jack, right down to the sprinkling of freckles on his nose. "Hey, man, can I get a high five? I just saved you a whole lotta grief, ya know." Sounded exactly like him, too.
Jack was fascinated by the likeness. The resemblance was uncanny. But he became alarmed when it sunk in that his reflection apparently had a life of its own. He shut both eyes tight, hoping like the toddler he once was that doing so might somehow make the strange apparition disappear.
Jack never liked looking at himself in the mirror. Caught between boyhood and full-fledged teendom, all he ever saw was an underachieving loner "cursed" with a shock of orange hair, a freckle face and a lanky body that could use more than a few pounds.
He definitely didn't like what he now saw looking back at him in the mirror -- his reflection, but with a cheerful look on its freckle face that couldn't possibly be his. Or so he thought.
* * * * *
Jack had a morbid outlook on life ever since his parents' untimely deaths. He'd also developed a fear of being alone in a dark room. Not that he was afraid there was a monster under his bed or a zombie hiding in the closet. He was fearful, because the darkness reminded him of that darkest of days when his older twin sisters, Milly and Molly, woke him in the dead of night from a deep sleep.
Both girls had sat on either side of his bed that night, sobbing softly, neither one saying a word. Jack couldn't tell which twin was which in the dark. He was half-asleep and having a hard time trying to figure anything out. Whatever was going on, he was alert enough to surmise it couldn't be good.
In the back-lit open doorway of his bedroom, he was able to make out the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing what appeared to be a wide-brim hat. "Why don't we all go into the next room, son, so we can talk some." The man's voice was gentle but firm.
Jack refused to budge. "Jack, please," Molly implored, the words choking in the back of her throat, "you need to hear this. Please."
That darkest of nights, the tall, broad-shouldered state trooper in the wide-brim hat informed Jack his mother and father were dead. They were killed that evening in a violent collision with a Chevy pickup coming around a sharp curve on Route 61, east of Shamokin. The grim news would shape the contours of his young life.
His parents were on their way home from a quick bite at McDonald's and a Twofer Tuesday thriller at the Majestic. The driver of the pickup, Eddie Bonds, was headed home from Sharkey's Bar & Grill when he swerved into the opposite lane.
Eddie survived the crash with a broken nose and a few facial scratches from his airbag deploying. The police blotter reported that his blood-alcohol level was more than twice the legal limit. He was sentenced to serve twelve to fifteen years in prison after pleading guilty to charges of reckless endangerment, drunk driving and two counts of vehicular homicide.
Jack's father, Bill, had been the produce manager at Boyer's Food Mart in Frackville. His mother, April, worked part-time at the shirt factory in Ashville and waitressed weekends at the Crossroads Diner in Mount Carmel.
His parents were like the clichéd high school sweethearts who get married right after graduation and start a family. They worked hard at their jobs, living from paycheck to paycheck, barely able to keep up with the bills. Nevertheless, the kids were well-fed, well-dressed, well-loved.
Jack took comfort in looking back on the family's only vacation together, a fun week on the Jersey Shore. They'd rented a rusty RV and parked at a campground within walking distance of the ocean. His favorite thing was to search for seashells up and down the beach. "Find yourself a pretty one," his mother suggested, "one you realy like. Keep it for a souvenir. Then you'll have something nice to remember me by."
He found the perfect shell -- a smooth one with a pearly opalescence of milky colors -- and kept it on the table next to his bed. He saw his mother's soft face and heard her pretty voice each time he looked at it.
Little did Jack know his mom and dad would both be dead two months after the family returned from their trip. The accident was the lead story on the front page of The Item, complete with a grim photo of their mangled Hyundai. The simple headline read: "Crash Kills Couple."
Jack cut out the newspaper article, stuck it in a library copy of Lord of the Flies, and tucked the book away in a dresser drawer. He hadn't looked at the article since. He simply couldn't.
The dark days immediately following the accident were agony for Jack. In one horrific moment, his entire life had been turned upside down, inside and out. Buried in grief, he felt angry, lost and alone.
He was visited, too, by a recurring nightmare where he finds himself falling, falling, falling, slowly, endlessly, into a deep, dark abyss. The outcome was always the same. He'd never reach a bottomless bottom before waking in a panicky sweat.
The day of his parents' funerals was the worst for Jack. The seemingly endless church service, with its dual litany of eulogies from family and friends, was painful to endure. On the way to the cemetery, a raw pain gripped his gut as the funeral procession wound through the streets of Ashville behind the twin hearses. Through it all, he fought back the tears. But the tears finally won out at the end of the burial service, as the mourners took turns placing a single blood red rose on each casket.
* * * * *
Jack figured there'd likely be more dark days in his life, some darker than others. Now, as he stood in front of a lavatory mirror, eyes closed, he had a gut feeling the dark days he'd been dreading were all too close at hand.
He also sensed something dark, something sinister, lodged deep in a corner of his soul, waiting patiently.
_______________
How can you be certain your whole life is not a dream? ~ René Descartes, French Philosopher (1596-1650)