by A Corrin
That hurt, mostly because I knew she was right. But I tried not to let it show on my face.
“Do you remember what Garrett did to you? The things he said?” I asked in a low voice. “Because I do, word for word.”
“It’s in the past, Jon,” Nikki said, but her voice was tired and I could see that the pain of that experience still haunted her. “Beating Garrett up isn’t going to rewrite history.” She sighed and asked in a defeated tone, “Is there any way I can convince you not to fight?”
I hugged her with a confident smile. “Nope.” I popped the p. She smiled a little sadly. “I’m sick of taking crap from that guy,” I said, putting a hand on my chest. “I’m sick of you having to take crap from him. Next time he opens his mouth, I’m teaching him a lesson.”
“You sound so sure that you’ll win.” Nikki grimaced, starting for the door.
“If I have the heart of my lady, I can win anything,” I said, giving her a smug smile.
“You have my heart. Not my favor.”
“Ouch,” I grunted and wrapped my hands around the hilt of an invisible knife buried in my chest.
Nikki took my hand with a laugh. “Let’s go eat.”
Chapter Three:
The Second Dream
When Tyson dropped me off at home that night, I saw that all the lights were off, but Dad’s crappy pickup was parked crookedly in the driveway, which told me he was inside, passed-out drunk.
I thanked Ty and started to get out, but he grabbed my arm and murmured, “I’ll wait here for a bit. If he gives you any trouble just come back out and I’ll take you to my place. My parents won’t care.”
The pit of anger and depression that had been gnawing at my insides ever since I’d confronted Garrett in the restroom of the diner grew a little wider. I nodded, giving my best friend a tight-lipped smile, and climbed out, shutting the van door quietly behind me.
My steps were soft as I approached the front porch, and I turned the doorknob slowly and carefully. As soon as the door opened, I knew I was in the clear—I could hear Dad snoring from the living room. I shot Tyson the thumbs-up and closed the front door behind me. Pop was slumped in his favorite armchair with a beer can clenched in his fist as if it contained the water of life and he was a dying man. More empty bottles and cans littered the carpet. Dad must’ve had some friends from work over. How original, I thought. I shook my head disgustedly, a sneer curling my lip as I took in his filthy shirt, scraggly stubble, and softening neck muscles where they bulged, his head flopped to one side. Just looking at him brought me an ugly kind of rage—a lot like the rage I had felt in my dream when I’d been about to slay that dragon.
I snuck through the kitchen, grabbing a banana to eat as I went, and picked my way up the staircase. The once polished steps were now creaky and old. Luckily, I knew exactly where all of the loud banshee-wail spots were. Dad had given me a vitriolic lecture for every time I’d forgotten or made an accidental misstep.
Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up… I chanted in my mind, my ears pricked for any sound of movement from the living room, but I made it to the upstairs hall without incident.
Everything here looked dusty and old. Dirt had blended into the once red carpet, turning it a worn mahogany brown. It was so ratty I could count the floorboards showing from beneath it. Besides a closet, my dad’s room, and a small bathroom, my bedroom was the only other room upstairs. I turned inside it, shut the door behind me, and turned on the light, letting my breath out in relief. I’d gotten pretty good at avoiding confrontations with Dad, but the bruise on my hip was a reminder that luck wasn’t always on my side.
I could still hear Ty’s van idling out at the end of the driveway through the window I kept cracked for a cool, clean breeze. I sent him a reassuring text, listened to him drive away, and sprawled on my back in bed. Splashed across my entire ceiling was the image of a football player. He was diving over the end zone with the aid of a pair of outstretched wings. It wasn’t much yet, but I was proud of it.
All of the day’s bumps and aches started making themselves known as I relaxed and I forced my turbulent thoughts away one by one, just focusing on the brushstrokes above me, breathing in the harsh, chemical smell of the paint as it mingled with the crisp autumn breeze slipping in the window. I tried to muster the strength to get up, turn off the light, dress down for bed, and instead wondered what it would be like to have wings like that football player. Where would I go if I could fly away from here?
I think that was my last coherent thought before everything changed. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on a cold, wet street. My back had been on a mattress, but now it was pressed against a sopping dumpster. My thoughts had been on Garrett, snowboarding, my dad—now my mind raced and my heart thundered in my chest.
I fought to my feet, struggling as if invisible ropes bound me to the dumpster. The familiarity of where I was made me ache inside. I would’ve rather had the dragon-fighting dream again—anything but this.
The only light was from a streetlamp at the end of the alley, flickering on and off. I could only move when the light buzzed temporarily on. Without it, I would stumble into the shadows where cold hands would grab me and never let go. Bracing myself, I sprinted toward the alley’s mouth. The light flickered. I paused. Hands emerged from the walls, grasping, reaching, bloodstained and claw-tipped, groping blindly for my arms or clothes. I froze and forced myself to remain still until the light came back on, then I bolted again like a hare from its burrow.
When I finally emerged from the alley, I found myself in the middle of the sidewalk on a vacant street. A small car was parked across the road.
A woman was pinned to the open driver’s door by a taller man. I tried to run at them, but the ground was too slippery and with each step I took, I only moved inches. But I heard their voices as if their conversation were taking place right beside me. The words had formed over time to match the images that my mind had produced years ago.
Mom’s murder as the police reports told me it had played out.
“Give me your keys!” the man growled. He had savage eyes and a hollow face made scruffy with stubble.
The woman, my mother, calmly replied, “Why are you doing this? You don’t have to do this.”
“I want your damn car!” The man talked loudly over her, holding a gun to her chest. Mom shuddered, hands out, and looked, almost as if for patience, up at the sky. The way the light shone on her golden hair made it look like she had a halo.
The man scoffed and stepped back. “Listen, you bitch, you say all the prayers you want, but I need to get outta here by tomorrow morning, and I’m taking your car, so get the hell out of my way!”
Mom took a step toward her car. “Are you really a killer? Could you really tear apart a family? Take me away from my husband? My little boy?” I lurched forward, pouring every bit of strength I had into trying to move faster. Tears stung my eyes. My jaw was locked against useless sobs, against screams and curses and shouted warnings that would go unheard, wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t bring her back.
The carjacker’s mouth lifted into a twisted smile, but his eyes were narrowed into slits—all hasty impatience gone and replaced with resolve.
He steadied his arm, said, “You’re a mother,” with an interested tone, and shot her, hitting her shoulder.
Mom gasped and fell back, her eyes big and her hand swiping at the spreading blood.
The man stepped forward and shot her once more. Mom closed her eyes, pale, her expression twisted in unimaginable agony, and she died. Just as I reached the car.
I turned furiously on the murderer, able to move normally now, and glared into his triumphant black shark eyes with so much hatred that I shook, bracing to waste my strength pounding every inch of him I could until he shot me too.
He opened his mouth, showing me rows of triangular, serrated teeth and rumble
d:
“Deceit and lies,
Look in my eyes.
The Prince of Dreams
Must break his ties.”
Well, this was a new development. Usually, the guy looked just as I remembered him from when I saw him sitting in court and silently accepting the verdict for the death penalty. Now it was as if he had become a picture of what he was inside, having shed his mask and disguise.
I took a few steps away. And why was he all of a sudden spouting creepy rhymes? I felt like I should have had something just as witty to say, but all I came up with was a half brave, “Yeah?”
The shark-man laughed. “Do you think yourself brave, little griffin?” he asked mockingly. And just as fast as my nightmare had started, it ended, cutting off the monster mid-guffaw.
My eyes blinked open to my bedroom ceiling, the streaks of paint glowing brilliantly in the light of dawn streaming in my window. Covered in sweat, I sighed and forced myself to relax a bit at a time.
That was another dream I experienced on repeat now and again, but it usually wasn’t so disturbing. Mom had only been shot once before in previous dreams, and the killer hadn’t ever spoken to me directly. The whole incident with Carl and Garrett had really messed with my mind.
I rubbed my face, shivering, and sat up with a groan as stiff muscles reared their ugly heads. The alarm on my phone wouldn’t go off for another thirty minutes or so, but I decided to get ready for school anyway. After I’d showered and dressed, I donned my backpack buckling the torso straps, and looked at my phone. Nikki had texted me good morning. My spirits lifted as I texted her back—I needed to tell someone about my dreams. What better person than my awesome girlfriend?
Something clattered loudly downstairs and I heard my dad swear. I flinched automatically at his tone. Now wasn’t the time. I shoved my school books into my backpack and headed downstairs, alert and cautious.
Dad was fumbling around the kitchen, making some kind of hangover cure before he left for work. He looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot and bleary, and I nodded by way of greeting, making sure to keep the kitchen island between us.
“You headin’ to school?” he asked. His voice was gravelly.
“Mm-hmm,” I grunted. I didn’t stop walking.
He gave me a vague wave and poured water into a glass.
As soon as the door was shut behind me, I took a deep breath and jogged to the end of my driveway to wait for the bus. The hollow pit in my stomach from the night before opened up again, churning with a mess of emotions—anger foremost among them.
Tyson had found out about Dad’s more…violent moments in middle school. I’d shrug off the fact that I didn’t have a home lunch because we were out of food at home, or that I didn’t dress down in gym because I didn’t want kids to see the belt-marks on my back from when I’d smart-mouthed Dad. One day I’d trusted Ty with my secret and told him the truth. He’d known of my mom’s death; we lived in a small town, and our mothers had been close, but I had never told him how I felt about it and how it had affected Dad until that day. We had been close friends since infancy practically, but that was when we became best friends.
And then Nikki had discovered my secret later on when I’d itched a scab on the side of my head caused by the TV remote being chucked at me when I’d cussed at Dad. It had started to bleed badly, and after Nikki made me let her look at it, she put things together. She also stopped asking to be introduced to my family.
Over the years, I’d learned how to avoid my father when he was drunk. I’d slink into other rooms in the house when I heard him coming and slip out the back door when he came home late from the pubs roaring for me to get my ass downstairs so that he could scream at me, accuse me of doing something else wrong...
Dad wasn’t too bad when he was sober; he always apologized, promised not to drink or shout at me, or slap or shove me again, and then gave in and ended up going to some tavern or bar to drink away the pain anyway.
My school bus came trundling down the road toward me and I stuffed my anger and bitterness away. I was about to see my friends again. I was going to school miles away from Dad. It would be like taking a breath of fresh air. Things would be okay.
I always, no matter how much of a bad morning I had, felt pride when I saw my high school. It was the first place in my life where I had found somewhere to belong—a place that accepted me. A cobbled walkway lined by thick and elderly trees led to the foot of some wrap around stairs. The trees formed a canopy of fiery-colored leaves above us, fingers of sun beaming through them to cast shadowy webs on the ground. At the corners of the stairs, great columns stretched up to support an archway, forming a sheltered area below with benches on either side of the double doors.
Having obtained extra money from a bond our school passed, an architect had been hired to construct a unique sculpture of our school mascot for the entrance. The principal had in mind a stone griffin, sitting beside the doors like a sentinel. But the architect had insisted on something more “flavorful.”
He had climbed up onto the roof over the archway and, within a few months, made an intimidating stone griffin perched twenty feet tall, squatting back on its lion haunches as if tensing up to leap, and glaring down at those who entered its realm with eagle eyes. Its wings, intricately detailed down to the last secondary feather, were open, and they curled down over the columns as if to say, “This is my crib. Only griffins allowed!”
I stopped to stare up at the work of art, trying to calm down by bravely meeting the mythical beast’s cold stare. It was painted black with a red underside and yellow irises and wing tips. Our school colors. We’re big on pride.
Taped to the brick wall to one side was a black sheet of butcher paper. Red letters said, “Football Game Against the Serenity Grove Minotaurs Fri. the 27th!”
Not to brag, but my football team was one of the best in our school district, maybe even one of the best in Colorado. We had won all three of our games so far, but the upcoming match was looked forward to every year. The Minotaurs were our major rivals; even the freshmen harbored a special loathing for them. Before every game against them, we had a unique assembly just to motivate everyone. As our team’s captain, the pressure of leading the griffins to victory weighed heavily on my mind—tantamount to slaying a dragon. Hence, I suspected, my recurring dreams.
Tyson came over, clapped a hand on my shoulder, and laughed, his usual wild grin fixed on his freckled face. “Have you been interrogated about the Great Mountain Rescue yet, Hero?”
I groaned. The kids on my bus had been merciless, begging for a play-by-play account of how I’d rescued Carl the previous day. I knew I’d have to brace myself for a lot of unwanted attention in the coming days.
As our other friends started trickling over Tyson gestured to the football poster on the wall and said, “At least Garrett got you pumped up enough to slay the Minotaurs, right?”
I turned to face him, an eyebrow raised skeptically. “The game isn’t until Friday, champ.”
Ben, adjusting his fire cadets uniform, waved his hands dismissively. “That ain’t a problem. You have a week to make a Garrett voodoo doll and stick little pins in him at random times of the day.”
“And what would that help?” Nikki asked, a smile playing around her lips. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and we all started moseying toward the front doors.
Ben rolled his piercing greenish-gray hawk eyes. “It’ll keep him mad and haughty, duh.”
“Haughty?” Tyson echoed, puzzled. He shrugged and started to lead us inside, struggling to speak around the huge grin stuck on his face. “That doesn’t sound healthy. Can you imagine Jonathan in the locker room before the game?” He adopted a high-pitched yet strict voice, not at all like mine, and pantomimed telling the team a plan. “Okay, guys, the Minotaurs are out there waiting for us. It’s time to flash them the red flag and lock horns with the enemy!”
Nikki laughed. It was just the sort of figure of speech I would use.
Tyson went on. “Hold on a minute, guys,” he said before turning slightly away, mimicking stabbing a small object in his palm with manic squeals of glee. We all laughed loudly, and I already felt a degree better. Tyson was known for being able to brighten a room.
“Seriously though, did you all notice that Garrett was unusually...loquacious yesterday?” Ben pressed.
“‘Loquacious?’ Man, what, did you eat a dictionary for breakfast this morning?” Tyson teased.
We stopped by the crowded cafeteria decorated with crimson and ebony sashes and covered with murals, and Ben and Tyson entered to get school-breakfast, still bickering about vocabulary and chatting about me and voodoo dolls. Nikki squeezed past me, brushing my hand with hers.
I stood at the doorway for a bit, looking up at my favorite mural. It showed a football player crouching with one hand clenched over the ball, ready to pass it back. The senior class had done an excellent job with it. Through the helmet, I could see the tense jaw muscles and determined eyes. Because of his bulky mouth guard, his lips were parted awkwardly and his padding gave him the appearance of a brightly colored bear. But just barely, like a golden-colored spirit embodying the kid’s force and will, a griffin had been traced in a ghostly way into the player’s contours. Its wings were spread, making it look like the human had translucent wings of his own. Its talons were his hands. Its beak was his mouth. Its feathers were his uniform. The griffin and the boy were one and the same. The picture gave me a sense of belonging, like something grand and noble was in me too, just waiting to show itself. Looking at it reminded me of my dream. I wished I could suit up and fight my demons like I’d been about to fight that dragon. I wished I could conceive of a different, brighter future for myself, where I could be more than just a jock with nowhere to go and a short fuse when it came to bullies.