12-01-2015, 06:17 PM
SLAM.
He sits bolt upright, his chest heaving with the thump-thump of his pulse in his ear. His room is dark. The only light filtering in comes from around the navy blue sheet nailed to the chipped frame in front of his window. Dark, and cold, “fuck.” The furnace's ignition switch is still failing. “Piece of shit,” He mutters, hunching over his half-bent legs. He runs his right hand through the front of his hair, before moving to spread his arms straight up to stretch. The movement is too sudden, and pain shoots through his left shoulder. The boy grunts through clenched teeth, “Damnit.” Right. He reaches with his right hand and touches his left shoulder. It dislocated when he tripped and fell down the stairs two days ago. He sighs, grabbing the collar of his shirt. “Ahh. Fuck.” Sweat dampens the red cotton with bright white snowflakes in rows. A big swoop from his collarbone to his belly button. It has cooled, plastering the red material uncomfortably against his hairless chest.
He kicks his legs off the side of his bed and pulls back his covers, pushing his body up with his strong arm. (His sheets are soaked, too. But... what is all this?) He sways, blood rushing to feed his too-quick uprightness. The teenager pulls his shirt first off from the right and then gingerly down his left arm. Throwing the red shirt to the side, he rifles through a pile of maybe-or-maybe-not clean clothes, extracting from it a grey, striped t-shirt. He shrugs slowly into it. His shoulder, still not examined by a doctor, is painfully swollen and weakened. It'll heal on its own, his mother had assured him. Heal up just fine. Probably more scared of a visit from child protection than an honest guess at a subject she has no clue about. Dumb bitch. Sixteen years old — too old to be protected. Not a child by definition.
She wouldn't have to worry about that again. But habit can be hard to buck.
Besides, he couldn't be bothered to go on his own.
Thump. He flinches, whipping around to face his bedroom door. He grabs for his phone from its spot face down on his bedside table, and presses the power button on the side. It's too bright for a moment, his vision fuzzes over — 3:00 AM. His mother isn't supposed to be back yet, if she is coming back at all. He hadn't been counting on it. He would find her in over-worn makeup and clothes in the morning. Slumped in an armchair, encouraging ("encouraging") swiftness in his present unwrapping. No. He reaches out into the dark to replace the phone, but his aim is off and it makes only cursory contact with the tabletop. Pressing his eyes closed tight as it hits the hardwood, he waits in tense motionlessness. Nothing, and then enough nothing to loosen his muscles and bend over to inspect the health of his phone. Cracked, but likely usable. “Ugh. Of course.” Thud! He tosses his phone onto his bed, too piqued now.
He bounds silently across his room, pressing his palms and left ear against his door. Bump. He looks up with narrowed eyes. Up? There is nothing up. Well, nothing but... What. The. Hell. he mouths each words singularly into the dark, wrapping his right hand around the doorknob. He blinks, his eyes lingering on his pale, lanky hand. “Wha—,” he yanks his it away from the knob, and spreads his fingers out wide, turning his hand over and examining both sides. “What the...” He shakes his head and grabs the knob again. He tries to refocus. But images intrude his mind — he reaches back with his good hand, touching his tender shoulder blade. No wing (of course no wing why would there be a wing you lunatic?)... but... “This is insane,” He grabs the knob again, with more purpose than before and turns it slowly. The clicking of its innards sound entirely too loud, click-click. And the lock has retracted fully, the door ready to swing (creak, really) open. But, he has learned just how to manage the motion of the door to mitigate the tired squeal of the hinges. (Sneaking out has it's advantages.) He knows his bedroom window as intimately. He begins to push slowly, his breathing increasing in speed.
Just down the hall he hears a garbled jibbering. Not of this world, not natural. He tugs the door back in haste and it settles in the frame with a clunk! He moves quickly to turn the knob's lock, clink, and stumbles back. A pile of guitar song books catching his heels nearly upends him. “No way,” The boy whirls around, tumbling for his bed in the dark, searching for the phone with both hands. There. He clicks it on — 3:00 AM. Desperately he tries to swipe the screen to activate the menu, but it stays, frozen. 3:00 AM. Must have sustained more internal damage than it looks. “Just f-f—ah! great,” He mimes a throwing motion before tossing it back on his bed, crawling up and across it with a wince. He kneels for a moment in front of the window and looks down at those odd fingers on his red-and-white clothed thighs. “Just breathe Elliot you damn...” He places his head in his hands, rustling his darkened blonde hair. (Elliot? Is that it? Yes, Elliot Poll...) He pushes out an warning exhale. The last thing he wants is more meds.
He hooks his right index finger around the back of the sheet, pulling it away inch by inch. His room is on the second story of their squat and brown subsidized, attached housing. He looks down on three back lawns — his and his neighbours', left and right. The houses on the street are attached in brown-bricked trios. All three are brightened by LEDs on a string. He hadn't bothered to put up lights on their gutters this year. The dad next door had simply bridged the gap so all three households had some cheer. (He had lit and made-up the tree downstairs with care, though.) His mother had brought him cookies, of course. Whore.
The moon is fat and round, obscured in part by greyish clouds. It has a mighty glow, and the lawn below nearly looks like it could be an overcast day. Instead the whole scene just looks otherworldly, the brightness an alien source. There are four black and oddly shaped figures standing around a lifeless young crabapple. Short. (Maybe a foot tall?) A few weeks back, the two small children from next door had festooned it with an old string of multi-coloured, incandescent Christmas lights with their dad...
His mouth is dry, and his tongue feels thick. He lets the sheet back a bit, so that he can just barely peek down on the lawn. The creatures look to be in conference, pointing and moving with quick motions. One shoves another and crosses its arms with machismo; the other two wave their arms wildly. Suddenly Elliot hears tittering outside his door behind him, like a conversation or an argument. And then his doorknob wriggles. He turns to watch it (must be two, one on another's shoulders), his hand moves instinctively to cover his mouth. From outside the window, a thud and a sudden darkness eclipses his room. He turns back in a flash, hand still in place. His finger drags the sheet back a centimeter, a millimeter more. Hanging, with one arm from his roof and pointing emphatically with the other, is a green, humanoid... monster. It is two arms' lengths (and a window pane) away.
Elliot Pollock (or is it just...) stifles a yelp. But he is helpless to return the sheet to its original position in fear of alerting the creature to the movement. Or perhaps just because of fear in general. It drops down with a heavy thud and straightens up, stomping towards the gremlin-like gathering. He thinks he can hear the muffled sound of a voice. Is it English? He seems to instruct the group like a field general, and they begin to skitter up the trunk of the tree, biting the thick string and shattering the coloured glass.
The green monster turns and Pollock can see now that he is sickeningly tall — well over six feet. He is portly and... hairy?; his face human enough but twisted and exaggerated by a wide and horrible grin stretching impossibly from ear to ear. His eyes are worst of all, like green headlights. He seems content with the destruction and strides across the snow to... is it his backdoor, maybe? Elliot jumps back from the window and onto his feet and the floor. “Oh fuck,” He whispers. For a second he comes to an epiphany... but of course, those things don't work here. He feels it, understands it, with an admixture of nausea and frustration. Besides, how the hell would he even go about turning invisible, hmm? Keep it together Pollock, christ. He turns around and around, umm-ing under his breath.
In his closet is a graphite hockey stick, and a .22 air rifle that his father had left him. A slow loading, one pellet at a time, .22 air rifle. “With maybe 10 pellets left. If I can even find the box,” He agonizes, slowly sliding down to sit on the floor with his back against his bed, facing his door. He raises both hands, with effort, to grab a fistful of his shaggy hair each. And who the hell knows what those little things are even made of. They could have rock hard exoskeletons, or they could be armoured. He couldn't see them clearly enough. It could kill a rabbit or groundhog, easy. (He had tested that out extensively.) And Him. Too big. It will take a good knock with the stock, best case scenario, to the head somewhere. The stick, he thought, is out of the question. It is weakened by overuse — snapped, it could be a carbon fibre spear. But that's about it.
His mind churns. Scenarios play and replay in his head. (I'm an okay shot. Just okay at range. Close quarters? With a long barrel?) The stick would be lighter, but the heft of the rifle would swing faster. All this is well and good, but aside from a few fistfights Elliot had never really defended himself. His home. Especially not armed. And not against...
Downstairs he hears a great clash. Maybe the decorative ceramic bowl be had painted as kid. The one with happy snowmen, red and blue scarves whipping in the wind. Likely in quite a few shattered pieces right now. More thumping and banging, a great racket gathering. The tree, with it's glittering bulbs, candy canes and winking warm-white lights. The paltry, but cherished, selection of gifts. He couldn't bear to think. He almost didn't hear the sound of pattering feet, and then much more regular strides, up the stairs. And down the hall. And stopping.
“In here?” The voice is deep and theatrical. There is excitement, but in a dangerous way, Pollock thinks. Like a hound finding a squirrel up a tree.
Frantic tittering in response.
“Well. We should take a closer look. I like to be... thorough.”
His doorknob wriggles, and Elliot begins to think. He needs to get his rifle, maybe a zip-up from the closet if one catches his eyes immediately. And he needs to slip out the window. Fast. Really fast. And then a voice surfaces in his head, just barely. It slathers with venom, and he shakes his head against it.
(You're weaker here than even there. It growls, it's a slap to the face, and the boy doesn't even know why. Let's see how deep we can go, hmmm? It sounds so familiar. Better remember who you are fast, because you're all you have.)
He sits bolt upright, his chest heaving with the thump-thump of his pulse in his ear. His room is dark. The only light filtering in comes from around the navy blue sheet nailed to the chipped frame in front of his window. Dark, and cold, “fuck.” The furnace's ignition switch is still failing. “Piece of shit,” He mutters, hunching over his half-bent legs. He runs his right hand through the front of his hair, before moving to spread his arms straight up to stretch. The movement is too sudden, and pain shoots through his left shoulder. The boy grunts through clenched teeth, “Damnit.” Right. He reaches with his right hand and touches his left shoulder. It dislocated when he tripped and fell down the stairs two days ago. He sighs, grabbing the collar of his shirt. “Ahh. Fuck.” Sweat dampens the red cotton with bright white snowflakes in rows. A big swoop from his collarbone to his belly button. It has cooled, plastering the red material uncomfortably against his hairless chest.
He kicks his legs off the side of his bed and pulls back his covers, pushing his body up with his strong arm. (His sheets are soaked, too. But... what is all this?) He sways, blood rushing to feed his too-quick uprightness. The teenager pulls his shirt first off from the right and then gingerly down his left arm. Throwing the red shirt to the side, he rifles through a pile of maybe-or-maybe-not clean clothes, extracting from it a grey, striped t-shirt. He shrugs slowly into it. His shoulder, still not examined by a doctor, is painfully swollen and weakened. It'll heal on its own, his mother had assured him. Heal up just fine. Probably more scared of a visit from child protection than an honest guess at a subject she has no clue about. Dumb bitch. Sixteen years old — too old to be protected. Not a child by definition.
She wouldn't have to worry about that again. But habit can be hard to buck.
Besides, he couldn't be bothered to go on his own.
Thump. He flinches, whipping around to face his bedroom door. He grabs for his phone from its spot face down on his bedside table, and presses the power button on the side. It's too bright for a moment, his vision fuzzes over — 3:00 AM. His mother isn't supposed to be back yet, if she is coming back at all. He hadn't been counting on it. He would find her in over-worn makeup and clothes in the morning. Slumped in an armchair, encouraging ("encouraging") swiftness in his present unwrapping. No. He reaches out into the dark to replace the phone, but his aim is off and it makes only cursory contact with the tabletop. Pressing his eyes closed tight as it hits the hardwood, he waits in tense motionlessness. Nothing, and then enough nothing to loosen his muscles and bend over to inspect the health of his phone. Cracked, but likely usable. “Ugh. Of course.” Thud! He tosses his phone onto his bed, too piqued now.
He bounds silently across his room, pressing his palms and left ear against his door. Bump. He looks up with narrowed eyes. Up? There is nothing up. Well, nothing but... What. The. Hell. he mouths each words singularly into the dark, wrapping his right hand around the doorknob. He blinks, his eyes lingering on his pale, lanky hand. “Wha—,” he yanks his it away from the knob, and spreads his fingers out wide, turning his hand over and examining both sides. “What the...” He shakes his head and grabs the knob again. He tries to refocus. But images intrude his mind — he reaches back with his good hand, touching his tender shoulder blade. No wing (of course no wing why would there be a wing you lunatic?)... but... “This is insane,” He grabs the knob again, with more purpose than before and turns it slowly. The clicking of its innards sound entirely too loud, click-click. And the lock has retracted fully, the door ready to swing (creak, really) open. But, he has learned just how to manage the motion of the door to mitigate the tired squeal of the hinges. (Sneaking out has it's advantages.) He knows his bedroom window as intimately. He begins to push slowly, his breathing increasing in speed.
Just down the hall he hears a garbled jibbering. Not of this world, not natural. He tugs the door back in haste and it settles in the frame with a clunk! He moves quickly to turn the knob's lock, clink, and stumbles back. A pile of guitar song books catching his heels nearly upends him. “No way,” The boy whirls around, tumbling for his bed in the dark, searching for the phone with both hands. There. He clicks it on — 3:00 AM. Desperately he tries to swipe the screen to activate the menu, but it stays, frozen. 3:00 AM. Must have sustained more internal damage than it looks. “Just f-f—ah! great,” He mimes a throwing motion before tossing it back on his bed, crawling up and across it with a wince. He kneels for a moment in front of the window and looks down at those odd fingers on his red-and-white clothed thighs. “Just breathe Elliot you damn...” He places his head in his hands, rustling his darkened blonde hair. (Elliot? Is that it? Yes, Elliot Poll...) He pushes out an warning exhale. The last thing he wants is more meds.
He hooks his right index finger around the back of the sheet, pulling it away inch by inch. His room is on the second story of their squat and brown subsidized, attached housing. He looks down on three back lawns — his and his neighbours', left and right. The houses on the street are attached in brown-bricked trios. All three are brightened by LEDs on a string. He hadn't bothered to put up lights on their gutters this year. The dad next door had simply bridged the gap so all three households had some cheer. (He had lit and made-up the tree downstairs with care, though.) His mother had brought him cookies, of course. Whore.
The moon is fat and round, obscured in part by greyish clouds. It has a mighty glow, and the lawn below nearly looks like it could be an overcast day. Instead the whole scene just looks otherworldly, the brightness an alien source. There are four black and oddly shaped figures standing around a lifeless young crabapple. Short. (Maybe a foot tall?) A few weeks back, the two small children from next door had festooned it with an old string of multi-coloured, incandescent Christmas lights with their dad...
His mouth is dry, and his tongue feels thick. He lets the sheet back a bit, so that he can just barely peek down on the lawn. The creatures look to be in conference, pointing and moving with quick motions. One shoves another and crosses its arms with machismo; the other two wave their arms wildly. Suddenly Elliot hears tittering outside his door behind him, like a conversation or an argument. And then his doorknob wriggles. He turns to watch it (must be two, one on another's shoulders), his hand moves instinctively to cover his mouth. From outside the window, a thud and a sudden darkness eclipses his room. He turns back in a flash, hand still in place. His finger drags the sheet back a centimeter, a millimeter more. Hanging, with one arm from his roof and pointing emphatically with the other, is a green, humanoid... monster. It is two arms' lengths (and a window pane) away.
Elliot Pollock (or is it just...) stifles a yelp. But he is helpless to return the sheet to its original position in fear of alerting the creature to the movement. Or perhaps just because of fear in general. It drops down with a heavy thud and straightens up, stomping towards the gremlin-like gathering. He thinks he can hear the muffled sound of a voice. Is it English? He seems to instruct the group like a field general, and they begin to skitter up the trunk of the tree, biting the thick string and shattering the coloured glass.
The green monster turns and Pollock can see now that he is sickeningly tall — well over six feet. He is portly and... hairy?; his face human enough but twisted and exaggerated by a wide and horrible grin stretching impossibly from ear to ear. His eyes are worst of all, like green headlights. He seems content with the destruction and strides across the snow to... is it his backdoor, maybe? Elliot jumps back from the window and onto his feet and the floor. “Oh fuck,” He whispers. For a second he comes to an epiphany... but of course, those things don't work here. He feels it, understands it, with an admixture of nausea and frustration. Besides, how the hell would he even go about turning invisible, hmm? Keep it together Pollock, christ. He turns around and around, umm-ing under his breath.
In his closet is a graphite hockey stick, and a .22 air rifle that his father had left him. A slow loading, one pellet at a time, .22 air rifle. “With maybe 10 pellets left. If I can even find the box,” He agonizes, slowly sliding down to sit on the floor with his back against his bed, facing his door. He raises both hands, with effort, to grab a fistful of his shaggy hair each. And who the hell knows what those little things are even made of. They could have rock hard exoskeletons, or they could be armoured. He couldn't see them clearly enough. It could kill a rabbit or groundhog, easy. (He had tested that out extensively.) And Him. Too big. It will take a good knock with the stock, best case scenario, to the head somewhere. The stick, he thought, is out of the question. It is weakened by overuse — snapped, it could be a carbon fibre spear. But that's about it.
His mind churns. Scenarios play and replay in his head. (I'm an okay shot. Just okay at range. Close quarters? With a long barrel?) The stick would be lighter, but the heft of the rifle would swing faster. All this is well and good, but aside from a few fistfights Elliot had never really defended himself. His home. Especially not armed. And not against...
Downstairs he hears a great clash. Maybe the decorative ceramic bowl be had painted as kid. The one with happy snowmen, red and blue scarves whipping in the wind. Likely in quite a few shattered pieces right now. More thumping and banging, a great racket gathering. The tree, with it's glittering bulbs, candy canes and winking warm-white lights. The paltry, but cherished, selection of gifts. He couldn't bear to think. He almost didn't hear the sound of pattering feet, and then much more regular strides, up the stairs. And down the hall. And stopping.
“In here?” The voice is deep and theatrical. There is excitement, but in a dangerous way, Pollock thinks. Like a hound finding a squirrel up a tree.
Frantic tittering in response.
“Well. We should take a closer look. I like to be... thorough.”
His doorknob wriggles, and Elliot begins to think. He needs to get his rifle, maybe a zip-up from the closet if one catches his eyes immediately. And he needs to slip out the window. Fast. Really fast. And then a voice surfaces in his head, just barely. It slathers with venom, and he shakes his head against it.
picture © Henry Potter
![[Image: kkN1kfc.png]](http://i.imgur.com/kkN1kfc.png)