The Works of Julius St. Clair - 2017 Edition (Includes 3 full novels and more)

by Julius St. Clair

  I had met it before, but not formally. It was the type of creature to stand outside your house and wait to be let in. No knocks, rings of the doorbell, but I knew whenever he would arrive – his presence foreboding and intimidating, confident I was peering at him through the peephole. Usually I tried my best to ignore him, but this time I was ready to embrace his help. He played no games with me. He simply demanded for me to let him take control.

  I did.

  I threw honor to the wind and instinctively went for the coup de grace. I had been told to never go for a low blow on a man, yet I learned it was the only option for one of such a small frame like me. The bully yelped like a wounded animal and immediately this Rottweiler lost its teeth. He almost fell to the inviting underbrush, but humiliation caught his buckling legs. It didn’t matter as my hands lunged toward his body, coursing with a new kind of poison. My fingernails became venomous fangs – my right fist striking with all the power and resolve to swallow my prey whole. Lashing out instinctively, furiously, blindly – he didn’t feel like a rock anymore. His grunts began sounding more and more like a soft whimper – until an involuntary cough escaped his chest and snapped me out of my attack. A heavy silence blanketed our metaphoric boxing ring. No one had witnessed my triumph, but I didn’t care. Finally, I could go back to my books. I had time now…

  CHAPTER 2: STILLBIRTH

  They told me I had beaten him to a pulp. I wasn’t sure what the phrase meant exactly, but ironically, I suddenly had a craving for orange juice. I received none, but the school administration took the liberty of calling my parents. The infamous ride to the police station was both surreal and anticlimactic. The officers sat in front of the wire frame that intentionally separated good from evil, whispering about how dangerous I was, to inflict such damage to another human being – their assumptions, convicting me before I had said a word. No one had asked for my side of the story when I was found behind the weeping willow. I guess my predator had spoken quite adequately in his silence, for I was promptly snatched away from my reading and held until the police arrived. The minimum wage politician I knew as my history teacher kept a steady hand on my shoulder the entire time, staring at me with righteous indignation, his “A” student now a hoodlum – one of them.

  And so, I was taken to the station, where class skippers, gang members, and borderline rapists were interrogated and sent on their merry way – given a fifth, sixth – infinite number of chances to clean up their lives while I would not be afforded the same. I was expected to understand the rules of society and follow them accordingly. Supposedly, I knew better, while my classmates were sick in the head, confused, or had had a difficult childhood; therefore, a chance to strike again was allowed. I didn’t know they changed the rules of baseball…

  I wasn’t obese, but the chair kissed my thighs all the same. The curved metal back support braced against me so hard, I thought I had scoliosis. The room was as lonely and frigid as a mountaintop – the grainy gray walls enhancing the stale, thin air; the numbing cold clinging like wet jeans to my bones. The only reprieves were a one-way mirror, which may as well have been a wall, and a table to rest my arms on.

  One of the officers who took me in broke protocol and started questioning me without my parents’ consent. He was a stereotypical cop – one of the overweight, righteous kinds that spoke to me like I was a drug lord. I let him get out his frustrations, for I had already resolved not to speak. I had to tread carefully. It wasn’t every day you saw a teenager engrossed in a novel next to a crimson mound of unidentifiable flesh.

  “You know you almost beat that kid half to death?” he spat in my face, which was the worst interrogation tactic as of yet. I stifled a laugh, but he caught it before it dissipated.

  “You’re sick, son,” he said through grit teeth. “But don’t worry, we have a specialist coming in just for you.”

  I shifted my listless eyes to the right, staring through the concrete walls. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was sick. I felt…different, and I doubted it was the puberty. Before, my composition could best be described as one of fear with a pinch of anxiety, but now, I sensed an incalculable change that scared me to no end. It was like I didn’t feel anymore, and I couldn’t know what the consequences of such a loss could be. Hate had overtaken my heart and I refused to let go. Hate was now my mentor, my mother and father – my friend. Only hate had saved me – not them. When I needed Jason most, he was in class. When I needed a teacher to pass by, they were too busy. Sure, it could easily be said that the whole predicament was my fault. If I had went inside, Donald wouldn’t have found me. But like the damsel in distress, I cared little for the reputation and past of my savior. I embraced him in my arms and cried onto his neck with gratitude. For so long I had tried to avoid conflict, minding my own business and skating through life. But it seemed fate had other plans for me, as if it wanted me to take a more active role for some unknown purpose – what that purpose was, only time would tell. But instead of expressing my thoughts, I played the humanity card.

  “Is he okay?” I asked, my voice sounding natural and full of concern.

  “He’s in a coma,” the officer said flatly, looking at me credulously.

  “I hope he recovers,” I lied, surprising myself on how easily it slipped out.

  “Of course you do,” he said between grit teeth, turning his head to a noise behind him.

  The only door to the room slammed opened with authority as three adults entered. Two of them I knew all too well.

  “What have you done?” the woman cried, with chestnut-colored hair covering half of her face, her eyes frantic and worried. She was unsure of what emotion to trust – fear of the charges against me, or concern, perpetuated by motherly instinct. I noticed that, despite the urgency of the situation, she still managed to end up arriving here in her most expensive attire. Gaudy jewelry and makeup were applied with the precision of a surgeon, and it cloaked her like royalty. The older man was stoic, his favorite gray wool suit jacket comfortably draped over his shoulders, the khaki shorts he wore only on special occasions gracing us all. The police officer halted his interrogation at the appearance of my father – that husky, serious man…but it was only because he didn’t know him for the sponge he really was. My father tried desperately to be a rock, but the slightest bit of emotion invoked an outpour of monsoon quality that his wife regularly had to clean up the best she could – only for him to pretend as if nothing had happened. They disgusted and inspired me at the same time, for it was because of my parents that I worked hard enough to achieve greatness in my academics – if for no other reasons than to ensure that I would not become like them. Someday I would leave their care and never look back.

  The third adult was a mystery man with a foreign air to him, his look matching the vibes he gave off. His oasis eyes and sandy skin were just as odd as his lanky, skeleton-like frame. He wore a three-piece suit and his glasses were rectangular and smooth, a perfect symmetry to his boxy and angular face. His composure suggested a strive for perfection with a hint of established superiority. Ignoring my mother’s words, he extended a bony hand that immaculately complemented his fake smile. I was scared to grab it. It might break on me.

  “Vincent, it is nice to meet you,” he said. “My name is Dominic.”

  “Who are you?” I inquired. “Really.”

  This mystery man intrigued me, for although I wasn’t a stranger to diversity, I had never seen a human being that looked so exotic and unique. Instantly, I forgot my parents were in the same room.

  “Now, Vincent,” he said condescendingly, “I already told you.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  The command in my voice tingled across my skin, catching me off guard and relaying a startled expression upon my face. Dominic ignored it.

  “Of course I know,” he smiled. “Well, to put it lightly, I am the leading practitioner of child psychology and deviant behavior in the state. We specialize in diagnosing children with special needs. You may be
a candidate if your test results deem you so.”

  “So, a kid gets beat up on school grounds and you get a call? That’s interesting. Where were you two weeks ago when Donald nearly killed a classmate of mine? Did you call Donald in then? Huh? What are you going to do to me now? Put me on an IEP and call it a day? WHAT-”

  “-VINCENT!!!” my mother shrieked, standing up and slamming her palms onto the table. “Don’t you talk to an adult like that! You know better!”

  I turned to my creator in defiance, boring a hole through the very eyes that could once subdue me. She gasped in astonishment and clung to my father’s arm. He was unaware of his wife’s plight, staring at the adjacent wall, locked in a daze.

  “No worries, Mrs. Alexander,” Dominic stated assuredly. “It is vital that he speaks his mind. Besides, I am perfectly in control.”

  Oh. Is he now?

  “But he knows better,” she lamented, pleading with the man to condone her outburst.

  “Be that as it may, you must allow me to conduct the conversation. We spoke about this earlier in the vestibule.”

  “He’s not a bad boy,” she continued, ignoring him. “I don’t understand why we’re here - he couldn’t have done what you claim. How could he have hurt that boy? All he does is read silently and keep to himself. He’s been in fights with other children in the past and this has never happened. If anything, he’s always the one to come home bruised and swollen.”

  “Everyone has a breaking point, Mrs. Alexander.”

  “But he has perfect grades in school. He’s a good boy. I don’t see the problem.”

  “His teachers seem to have a different interpretation. They say he’s variant, always countering what they say with his opinion when he called upon – he talks out of turn, sometimes disrespectfully. He constantly corrects them.”

  “The teachers are intimidated by him, that’s all. He only speaks out when they’re wrong. They should be grateful. I mean, you don’t listen to someone who has bad breath and just act like everything’s okay, do you? You tell them.”

  “I will take your thoughts into consideration.”

  His demeanor was beginning to irritate me. I could tell he considered himself on a plane of intelligence beyond our comprehension.

  “So, what’s wrong with him?”

  “That’s why I’m here, ma’am.”

  “Oh, there’s something in him,” a voice cut through the room.

  The sponge had finally lost some of his emotional girth.

  “Explain,” Dominic said curiously.

  “I see it in his eyes.” my father spoke, nodding his head, his thick, country accent causing him to lose credibility in the educated man’s eyes.

  “Go on.”

  “Sure, he don’t say much. Reads all day, does his chores and the like, but it’s when you watch him – when he thinks no one’s lookin’. That’s when you see the real him. You see his thoughts run and these ideas floating around that should never come to light. I got no proof, but I know my son. I know what he is.”

  The educated man was not impressed.

  “Again, I am listening to every word you have to say, but at this time I think it would be most beneficial…for all of us, if I talk to Vincent alone.”

  “Do what you must,” my father said with award-winning bravado - always the man’s man. He swiped my mother’s hand and led her away before she could say a word. Dominic kept up his façade until they were completely gone, locking the door the moment they shut it. He adjusted his glasses and sighed heavily, sticking his right hand in a pocket. He stood over me, letting every breath he took resonate with confidence. Subtly, he peeked at the one-way glass mirror, smiled, and parted his lips to speak.

  The curtain rose.

  “I assume from our exchange earlier that you abhor the thought of small talk or playing games, am I right?”

  “I wouldn’t say abhor,” I said mockingly, “but you’re right. I hate playing games, probably more than you do.”

  “Then let’s skip the charades and get to the grit of it.”

  “Your move.”

  Dominic cleared his throat.

  “When you were found, you were sitting by a tree reading a book, while an injured student – a result of your actions - was dying at your feet. Hardly normal. The teacher who reported you stated that even if you had not been the culprit, it would be rather strange to say you just stumbled upon him and decided to take out a book and enjoy the ambiance while he died beneath your feet. The examiner said he could have been bleeding anywhere from five to ten minutes. So, my question is, what were you doing there?”

  “The real question should be: how is Donald considered a student?”

  “I thought you hated playing games, Vincent,” Dominic stated through pursed lips, temperate but firm.

  “I hate when people play games with me. Playing with them is fine.”

  “You’re not smart, Vincent.”

  “My record would defend me.”

  “Hardly. It convicts you.”

  “Okay, now you’ve got my attention.”

  “Vincent, I already have you figured out,” he said, smiling like he knew some deep secret, “but I had to see how you would react to my initial question – to confirm my suspicions - and I’m pleased that you did not disappoint. I’ve only met one other person like you in my life. The odds of meeting two, so similar, were beyond my expectations.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If you were like your classmate, the bully – I mean just like him…a depressing home life, horrible grades, lack of discipline, no motivation whatsoever – then I could understand what you did, as strange as that sounds. You’d be off the hook. I wouldn’t even have come here to talk to you personally. God knows I could have saved on the gas.”

  “I’m sorry…did you just say that because I’m on the honor roll, I’m disciplined, and I have an adequate upbringing – my actions are worse? I’m the suspicious one? That makes no sense. Is our justice system really that off?”

  “The justice system is fine. I’m here for preventive measures.”

  “Oh, okay, so what’s next? I get sent to juvie? Is that what you mean by preventive measures? For beating up a criminal in self-defense and getting good grades? I hope minors get trial by jury because I’ll just let you explain yourself and I’ll walk free.”

  “Listen, Vincent, you’re still a kid,” he said matter-of-factly, “so let me dumb it down for you.”

  Again, that self-righteous, high-and-mighty tone adults loved to use. I had no qualm against adults displaying their knowledge and experience - it was how I learned. Through books, I experienced others’ mistakes and how to capitalize on them. I became proficient in the art of conversation by reading dialogue. By observing my mother, I learned how to glide through social gatherings and dinner parties with the grace of a swan. From my father, I noticed that it wasn’t who you were, but how you were perceived. The aptly named sponge was deemed a rock in many of high society’s circles.

  The bottom line was that I could not be anyone without their contribution and expertise; however, at no time should they underestimate my ability to adapt based on numerical age. I valued one’s experiences and opinions, but age was not the basis for their worth. I would be more inclined to ask for educational advice from a recent high school valedictorian than a forty-year-old high school dropout. I’ve seen child therapists become abusive parents as their wild seed turned into early mothers and deadbeat fathers. People that acted like they knew the secrets of the universe but couldn’t make ends meet. Starving dreamers and hypocritical Christians, religious murderers and suicidal motivational speakers. Only people who actually produced the results they lectured to others were worth listening to. Regrettably for Dominic, he wasn’t following this same principle. He was simply calculating my worth on the barbaric, uncivilized concept of age.

  “Explain it to me,” I snapped back at him, ready to counter anything he had to say.

  �
��Vincent, the fact of the matter is that you have the behavior and profile of a criminal intellect. You see, that high school dropout, the gang members, the drug dealers, they’re of no concern to me. Sure, they’re not completely stupid. They have their own mind and great pride in their street intelligence – able to elude capture and devise countless ways to achieve their immoral goals - but they will never know how the world works. Never. They’ve been so entangled in their own world for so long they are blind to everything else. All they can see is their own personal insignificant world and they get angry when no one will conform to it. They can’t see that it’s simply impossible for an entire population to comply in such a manner. So, they lie to themselves and go through life believing they are a master of all when they are really fools that accomplish nothing of substance. They always get caught in the end. They think it’s normal to do jail time or go on welfare. Because they have a nice car and a new pair of Jordans, they are stuck in the illusion that they have accomplished something, when no one praises them but the few friends they have amassed. That type of man, that foolish, prideful and confused man, is a small matter. He will make no impact on the world unless it is of negative value, and even then, his actions will be no more unique than those of the other thugs around him, but you – you are different. You have the potential to be far more damaging to our society.”

  Dominic did not stop to let me reply.

  “An idiot like the one fore-mentioned would’ve reveled in victory over his fallen foe. The average man would be terrified of his deed: broken, in shock over the control he lost, or paranoid that some hand of justice will inevitably bring down the hammer. But strangely enough, you were neither, and by remaining neutral, you made a choice. Maintaining a poker face condemned you. You were calm, and too cold to the mush lying at your feet – as if he didn’t matter at all. Like he was an ant you had just crushed beneath your heel. Am I right?”

  I couldn’t respond. I had to hear more. Because of the way I acted, he had somehow managed to look past my flesh and peer into my very soul. He was describing me in ways I had never known even though I had met him only minutes ago. Who was this man?