I pulled my hands out of my pockets, and clenched them. I felt helpless and confused. The peaceful feeling was completely gone now, and I felt like a worthless little cocksucker, getting a yet another lecture by my father again. Educating the psychopath’s prodigy again, sigh. Well, lectured by my father’s father, anyway. I forced myself to relax. I was older now, and I would not let him goad me with sharp-tongued words that cut to the quick. I was a veteran of the School of Infinite Patience and Control. I had graduated the impossible program, and nobody pulled that shit off as well as I did, so fuck him. I could survive these little bribes and jabs, and this man can only push my buttons if I let him. The puppet master had no control, as soon as you realized the strings were only in your fucking mind.
I clamped down on the waves of self-loathing, anger, and resentment that were trying to rise up within me. I already had entire pallets of that shit already bottled up inside me, ready to ship on a moment’s notice. What were a few more bottles when compared to the collection I already had?
I felt the peaceful feeling tentatively creeping back in on a trial basis. "Yeah, I probably am an abomination. I’ve heard that my entire fucking life. Elioud. Abomination. An affront to existence. Waste of fucking space and effort, blah, blah, blah. It’s a tired old tune. Change the goddamned channel already; I’m bored. Nobody cares. So fucking what?"
He gave me a wide smile, but it still didn’t reach his eyes. "You poor bastard. You are walking in shadows, talking to shadows, and don’t even know it. You don’t even know where I’m from, do you?"
I sighed. "You’re from Michigan, same as me."
Grandpa shook his head. "That story’s a fairy tale without an ounce of truth, you half-wit quarter-breed dunce. You don’t know a goddamned thing. I was Egregoroi. That makes your father Nephilim. This makes you Elioud, or Eljo. We are Elohim, the lost children of God, and damned because of it." He sighed, exasperated. "Redemption is unattainable. Most face annihilation. One tenth had the rather dubious fate of serving Ashtar under Mastema’s reprieve, but Tanner’s found you first. Tanner’s always had a good nose, that one, and that hunter's relentless. You’re screwed, but you have been always been screwed from square one. It was always a race against time. You’re lucky you’ve had as much time as you did. And now it’s too late—you didn’t remember."
I stared at him, and smiled, the smile never reaching my eyes. "Yeah, whole fucking freak show of psychopaths is what this family is. So fucking what? And too late? Too late for what? You’re wasting your fucking time. I’ve always been fucked. My father’s always made that abundantly fucking clear, and I don’t particularly care what you, him, or anyone else thinks, fuck you very much."
He looked at me sidelong. "No. There was never any goddamned hope. I am warning you. Not that’ll do much good. Took you too long to get here. You never should have made it this far on your own. Waste of goddamned talent. Now you, and more importantly, your children, will pay the price. The child, the child, the child. Always the sacrifice. The bill always comes due in blood. Always the suffering. Always. The costs are high, but they must be paid."
Bringing my children into this raised my hackles. I stepped towards him, my chest puffed out, chin thrust forward. When you stop to think of it, the classic male fighting stance is fucking retarded, but it is hardwired in. "Too long to get where? Warning me about what, motherfucker?"
He ignored my threat display and nodded his head, sad." There was only one choice for you and your children, quarter-breed. Damnation or destruction. Unfortunately, that’s the only choice that the bloodlines ever had, and that choice is gone. Too bad Justin didn’t find you first. Maybe you’d have chosen differently. Maybe he could have stopped you from continuing the bloodline. Just remember Tanner. Remember the shadows."
I snickered, and then smirked. "Doesn’t fucking matter."
He smirked back at me. "Just like your father. Knew nothing good would ever come from that man. You are no different than him, are you?"
I could feel the tension and anger rising within my body, but my voice was steady and low. This man knew how to push my buttons. I wanted to strangle him, but I didn’t think I could inflict damage on a ghost.
"I am nothing like that psychopathic, worthless, fucking asshole. So why the fuck are you wasting your time with me then? You were a cocksucking asshole when you were alive. Now I know where my father got it from."
He shook his head, his voice low and dangerous." So, you think you know me, you young whelp?"
I shook my head. "No, not at all. Thank fucking god for that. You had the courtesy to die before I was born. You’re nothing more than a ghost, long past any fucking usefulness." I pointed towards the road." Now get the fuck out of my backyard, grandpa."
He laughed. It was hollow and haunting, full of sadness and despair. Worse, it raised goose bumps on my arms. "Die? What makes you think I’m dead? I am not a ghost. I am not an angel. I am not a demon. I am not your grandfather. I am all of them and none of them at once, you ignorant little quarter-breed prick." He paused, reaching into his pocket. "You think I’m giving you a hard time? I am here to help you—not that I think it’ll do any good." He pulled out a cigarette, and tapped it on the back of his hand to pack it down. He looked up at me with a crooked smile. "I can’t tell you what is going to happen, because I can’t see it. But I know it’s coming. I can feel it." He tapped his temple with his finger. "You can feel it too. I know you can. Maybe I’m just a part of you. Maybe I am not. Either way, you know too, but you refuse to see. So I can’t help what happens until you’re willing to look and listen. You have to remember, or there’s nothing I, or you, for that matter, can do."
He put the cigarette in his mouth, bent his head downward towards his cupped hands, and lit the cigarette with the well-practiced flick of a match. He shook out the match.
I turned and walked away, mumbling. "Well, I think you’re full of shit, babbling nonsense. You’re not even fucking real."
"You just don’t ever fucking learn, do you?"
It sounded exactly like my father’s voice. I gasped, and whirled back around. They had never found him, yet there he was, standing where my grandfather had stood a second ago. My father countenance looked up, grinning as he shook out the match. There was no doubt; it was my father’s face staring back at me, smiling coldly. I could feel my stomach harden in fear. I could smell the faint smell of piss that I could never scrub out of my closet as a child. I could feel the anger and useless resolve rising inside me, and I felt my bladder, hot, loose and full and about to let go. I clenched my teeth. "Get the fuck out of my yard. You're not welcome here."
"You just don’t learn, no matter how hard I try. You’re the one trespassing in the shadows. You get the fuck out. You are an abomination before god. Eljo." He turned his head and spit on the ground. "A half-wit quarter-breed, unfit, forsaken, and lost. You don’t belong in any fucking world."
He unclasped his belt buckle, and I heard the metallic clink of the latch.
I stepped backwards. My voice sounded tinny, pathetic. "Don’t make me call the cops, asshole. You’ve been wanted for eleven fucking years now."
He cinched the belt between his hands, and the loud crack of the belt slapping together made my bladder feel full, and loose. He stepped towards me. My fight or flight response kicked in. My legs were shaking, my heart pounded. The imagined smell of hot piss became overwhelming.
My father/grandfather stepped towards me. "You’re the one that fucked it all up eleven years ago, and you’ve had this coming even since. You know this hurts me more than it hurts you, but it's my job to whip you into shape."
I jumped as I heard the screen door slam shut behind me with a muted bang. I turned, barely managing to stifle the scream that threatened to tear from my throat and my heart trip hammered within my chest.
I saw my wife Trisha looking around the porch for me, with two glasses in her hands. I whirled back to face my father, grandfather, or whatever the fuck he was, b
ut he was gone. I glanced about, frantic, searching for him, but he was gone.
I stepped towards the porch, unsteady, my legs still shaking. I realized that the world had lost its tinny quality. The night no longer muted the barking dog. The crickets, though quieter than before in deference to the storm, had resumed their harmony in strength. I could feel the clammy fingers of the breeze before the storm caressing me again, the rustle of the leaves sharp and clear.
I shook my head, as though to clear it, and looked around, my heart still pounding and galloping along, abused and cantankerous. I thought I might see my father walking away, but he appeared to have vanished. The walking dead. My grandfather. My asshole father. I felt twisted up and discarded inside.
I thought I had slipped sideways into the twilight along with the rest of my normally mundane backyard. I had no idea how dead right I was, how exactly my mood matched the moment at the time. It was too late. I had stepped sideways, in many ways: in the world, in my head, and in my life. It was the start of an avalanche. It crept along at first, momentum not yet built, but already it was too late. I could no more stop it than I could keep the sun from rising tomorrow.
I walked back towards the porch, taking deep breaths, trying to calm myself. My wife was waiting for me. She spotted me walking back. The breeze had strengthened, and the rumble of thunder was becoming ominous. I could smell the ozone of the electrical storm on the wind.
I smiled as I approached the steps. It felt false, like a mask. It was almost painful, but I smiled anyway. My wife cocked her head, still holding two glasses of wine. "What were you doing?" she asked.
I stared for a moment, guarded, gauging her mood. I climbed the steps, and cautiously gave her a hug. She hugged back, and I kissed her neck softly, vaguely wondering why she was being receptive to me. Another oddity for the night, I thought.
"Nothing," I lied, wishing I could talk to her—she seemed willing to listen for once.
I whispered into her neck. "Just waiting for you to join me."
She leaned back away, staring at me for a moment. Warily, I waited for her anger and resentment, but it didn’t come. "Ryan, you’re tense, and your heart’s pounding, and you’re sweating like a pig. Don’t tell me nothing."
I pulled back away from her too, my arms still around her. I let the moment draw painfully out for a few moments, struggling for something to say. "I thought I saw someone in the backyard. Turns out it was nothing." Close enough to the truth, I guess. The best lies always cloak themselves with a thin varnish of truth.
I smiled tentatively. "There’s a storm coming. I was hoping you would come out here with me before it came."
She pulled away, smiling, and grasped my hand, leading me back towards the glider. "I know. I love summer thunder storms."
I smiled back at her, cocking my eyebrow. "Yeah, well, I love you."
I waited for her response, anxious, but hoping my anxiety didn’t show. Then, her smile softened, and she kissed me. She didn’t tell me that she loved me in return, though.
We sat down on the glider together, and she snuggled up to me. I wondered why she had let down her guard, but decided just to be grateful for the tenderness that she was showing for once. The rumbles of the storm were strengthening, and the lightning flashes in the distance strobe lit the night sky. Soon, the storm would unleash its fury. Perhaps, so too would she. Best not to think of that, though, and just accept the peaceful moment from her for what it was.
I sat with my wife, sipping the wine. It was a local white wine, a nice Pinot Grigio; the coast of Lake Michigan had sprouted numerous vineyards. The lake, acting like a big-ass heat sink, moderated temperatures nicely, allowing grapes and other fruits to be grown along the lakeshore. I longed for that feeling of tranquility that I had possessed just a precious few minutes before. We rocked slowly, just watching the spectacular light show highlight the dark and crenellated undersides of the clouds in the sky.
As the lightning storm came closer, the flashes of lightning lit the backyard in harsh contrast. With every flash, I expected the strange man to be backlit in stark contrast to the surroundings, but all I saw were the children’s bikes and toys in bright grainy detail before they would fade into the varying shades of grey of suburban darkness.
My wife, sensing the tension within me, glanced at me curiously a few times as we waited for the first rain to fall. She said nothing, though. Either I would talk or I wouldn’t, and more often than not, most communication lately between us was harsh and unspoken. I didn't get the chance to talk to her, but at that moment, it was comforting to have her there beside me.
Insomnia Falls
This is the way of anger and violence; it isn’t pretty. I survived Hell itself, and this was just the beginning.
After the storm had finished its spectacular prelude and the first fat and heavy raindrops started to fall, Trish and I escaped inside and settled in to watch TV. I shoveled the trash off the cushions at the end of the couch, considered throwing it away, but I knew the trashcan would be full in the kitchen without looking. Instead, I piled the heap of garbage on the already full end table. I sighed, looking across the wasteland of toys scattered across the dirty floor. Popcorn, crumbs, and other food were ground into the carpet. I could see the moldy remains of a peanut butter sandwich playing peek-a-fucking-boo from under the edge of the couch. I put my feet on the coffee table, knocking over a warm, half-full, slightly fermented juice box, not giving a sweet fuck as it dribbled steadily into an open pizza box with the petrified and desiccated remains of a pizza within it. Perhaps the slightly fermented juice would reconstitute it, and it could come back to life and stalk me in my goddamned sleep.
I attempted to pay attention to the mindless sitcom blathering away with a rather tinny and harsh sound, but the crash and rumble of the thunder kept startling me, and the forced gaiety of the laugh-tracked sitcom had all the charm of the leftover lasagna you forgot about until it started to stink up the fucking fridge. It was as though the electrical current of the storm was running through me, and I was a high voltage conductor of tension. I couldn’t figure out what the fuck had happened in the backyard. The one thing I knew is I sure wasn’t going to discuss this with my wife—or my psychiatrist, for that matter. I might be certifiably nuts, but I’m not fucking stupid.
I fidgeted on the couch, restless, haphazardly swatting at flies as they cruised around me in holding patterns.
I couldn’t stop thinking about my father. I could feel the restless and familiar fear and hatred waking up inside me. My stomach felt like lead, and nervous tension coursed through my body. Only my father could make me feel like I was worthless, feel like I was helpless. My heart pounded erratically, and I could feel the piercing stab of a headache starting, building from the base of my skull at the spine, and creeping around to pulse above my eyes. My thoughts kept wandering back to the great unknown, that fateful night in the fall eleven years ago. The sheer violence, the endless questions about why I was the last one left standing, about how I was involved, about whether or not I had taken part in the killings. Why else had I tried committing suicide, if I wasn't guilty? I just didn’t remember, at least not anything that made sense, and in the end, Detective Ridenour ended up dropping the charges against me. He ended up looking like an idiot, though. They never charged anyone else, though they’d love to question my father. If they could ever fucking find him.
My wife had also lost interest in the TV, and had curled up on the other end of the couch with her legs tucked under her, reading a book. She kept glancing at me, waiting. Was she coiled, waiting to pounce? I felt like I needed to explode, tear things apart, scream in rage and frustration, break things in fury while the storm raged back at me; but I knew from experience that would accomplish nothing. In the end, I’d be just as empty and frustrated as before.
I had only vague, confused memories of that night, over a decade ago, with so many missing gaps and unknowns. They never found my father. So many questions circled back to h
im. I didn’t know what happened, and I often thought that maybe it was better that way. Knowing the answers to those questions might mean that I’m guilty of something, and maybe it’s better for me to question my innocence than to know, to truly know guilt as an absolute fact. What part did I play in that gruesome night? Questions are one thing. Knowledge could be far more terrible. Knowledge is permanent. There's something terrible about the finality of truth. Questions can fade with time.
Nobody, except the investigators and my therapist, knew about that part of my life, not even my wife. Some secrets should just fucking stay buried, but I often found it amazing how often secrets want to become unburied. Secrets seem to take on an insistence and life of their own. The inevitability of the way they creep in, and want to make themselves known. Small little edges that popped up for you to trip over. Insisting that you take a closer look.
I shoved these thoughts down, and tried to ignore them as they crept back into my train of thought. The only answers I had resulted in powerful drugs and intensive therapy—talking about them was not a choice I could rationally make. Pretending the memories and thoughts weren’t there was a choice I could willingly make. I stared at the TV, silent and brooding. The parade of images across the screen couldn’t seem to connect, try as I might. No gestalt.
A blinding flash of lightning struck just outside the house. The landline phone yelped a shrill, short ring in protest. The immediate crash of thunder was overpowering, and I uttered a harsh bark of surprise as I sat bolt upright, knocking over the pizza box and juice box.
Trisha stared at me, wide-eyed, startled as well. I heard my daughter shrieking in fear, followed by the sudden patter of her feet across the floor upstairs as she ran towards the stairs.
My wife jumped up from her end of the ratty sofa, and ran up the stairs, somehow managing not to trip on the heaps of dirty laundry scattered and strewn across the stairway, to comfort our daughter. What was she, a goddamned athlete? I could barely make it up the stairs with that obstacle course in the way, without tripping. It’s not as if Trish had anything else to do all goddamned day while I was at work, but she flat refused to keep up with the house, and I shook my head in bewilderment.
Ryan's Suffering Page 3