Snapdragon Book I: My Enemy

by Brandon Berntson

  His tactic was simply to close his eyes. It helped him focus on everything but her. Lately, it hadn’t been working much. He did not reply; he tried to ignore her, and she knew it. His tactic only enraged her.

  She grabbed him by the arms, shaking him hard with both hands. Gavin felt like his skull was coming apart.

  “ANSWER ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU!”

  She stopped shaking him, and Gavin—quite simply—unraveled. He couldn’t take it anymore! Every day for years he’d been putting up with her, and every day she beat him ruthlessly! He was tired of hurting all the time! Tired of crying! Tired of fighting, and for some reason—for whatever reason—he simply lost control.

  Gavin’s fury was a thundercloud. He dropped his books and balled his hands into fists. “NO!” he shrieked, with all the power of his lungs. “NONONONONOOOO!”

  Why did she hate him so much? Wasn’t all this her fault? Was he supposed to be punished for the rest of his life for her mistakes?

  “Don’t you talk back to me, you little sonofabitch,” she said, pointing the cigarette at him.

  He roared, shrieking with all the mightiness he could muster. His ears and face burned with rage. “Shutupshutupshutup! I was just walking home! Is that okay! Can I just walk home without you turning it into a goddamn disaster! What do you care for anyway? You wish I was dead! Why don’t you just beat the shit out of me like you always do! Huh? Why don’t you fucking kill me already? What the hell did I EVER DO TO YOU, YOU...YOU...FUCKING MONSTER!”

  He was breathing heavily, muscles constricting in his chest. Gavin owned the power in his hands to murder his mother in that moment. They twitched and curled into claws. He wanted to rip her face apart, felt he could do it if he could just bring himself to move toward her. Blood pumped with lightning speed through his veins. He was a dragon, breathing fire. His face was hot and flushed.

  She might not be much taller, but she was stronger, drunken, drug-induced torpor or no.

  He would not walk away from this unscathed. God, how he hated her! He hated himself even more when he started to cry. When the pain and rage built to such a crescendo, all he could do was weep.

  She took a drag of the cigarette again and smiled.

  He braced himself, but it came quickly.

  She hit him, and a bolt of lightning rocked the side of his head, sending him to the floor. Sirens wailed between his ears.

  Through the sirens, he could barely make out her screaming. The fog began to clear:

  “—talking to me like that! Who do you think you are? You know whose house this is? I didn’t do anything but ask you a simple question! Is that clear! I am your MOTHER! Don’t you ever talk to me that way!”

  Lying on the ground, waiting for the volley of blows, Gavin was unable to stop himself. Screaming only made the pain worse, but he couldn’t help it:

  “God’s gonna kill you some day!” he said. “The whole town’s gonna know what you do to me! I hope you die! Do you hear me, Mother? I HOPE YOU DIIIEEE!”

  Her reply was quiet, frighteningly calm. “Not if I can help it.” She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him up off the floor.

  Gavin held his arm and blubbered. He knew this part well, practiced it repeatedly. A gift was granted when he willed himself away. The pain would come later; it always did, but for now, at least mentally, he put himself amid the stars.

  Gavin Lolly closed his eyes, thinking about rivers of gold, white marble turrets. He tried to move his legs. He could run downstairs and lock the door, but when he tried to get up, he collapsed again. The ringing in his head brought waves of black.

  Maybe this beating would be the last. She would pulverize him to the brink of death, and that would be the end. He would will himself to the edge and over now. She always beat him where people couldn’t see: his legs, his upper arms, and chest. She’d misjudged and hit him in the neck last week after seeing what he’d done to the clothes she’d bought him. She told him if he ever said anything, she’d kill him, and Gavin believed her.

  She stomped down the hallway. Apparently, there wasn’t anyone else in the house. No one would save him. God did not exist. God did not fucking care.

  He knew where she was going.

  He tried to stand, but the blackness pushed him down again.

  He saw her marching toward him out of the corner of his eye. She had the belt in her hand, the one with the large, silver buckle on the end his father used to own.

  v

  Malcolm Alister pedaled his BMX along Shadowbrook Lane, slowing when the house came into view. It grew tiresome riding up and down the dirt road all the time, but it was better than walking (something he strongly decided against since his last venture into town).

  Malcolm brought the bike to a halt, thinking of an entire school year with Mrs. Dunbar. The idea physically pained him, and he shook his head. It was going to be a long year.

  He tried not to think about it and turned his thoughts to Jamey Argason. He wanted to visit the butcher again, if for no other reason than to talk. Strange, how he didn’t regret telling Jamey the story he had. Relief washed over him, in fact, knowing Jamey—whether he believed him or not—had at least listened to him.

  Leaning the BMX against the porch, Malcolm looked behind him through the canopy of trees. The wind brushed his hair into his eyes. The leaves rustled in the wind. Branches creaked. The sun disappeared behind the clouds. Malcolm’s first thought was of the figure he’d seen on Thursday morning, and his heart beat steadily. Sweat broke out over his face and hands.

  Malcolm grabbed the handle of the bike and slowly pulled it from the porch again.

  The phantom stepped through the front door of the Queen Anne like a ghostly specter, its dull, black boots clomping on the wooden porch.

  Malcolm shut his eyes and whispered to himself, saying a quiet prayer. When he opened his eyes, the figure looked at him smiled. It held a cane in one hand and took a step toward him.

  He’s not death at all, Malcolm thought. He could be. But he’s not. He’s the bogeyman.

  On the porch, the phantom nodded, its grin stretching wide.

  Immortal monster, timeless warrior…

  Another version of himself was suddenly kneeling on the porch in front of the stranger. His head was bowed.

  Malcolm took a step back shaking his head at the sight, eyes widening.

  The phantom pulled its cane apart, revealing a long silver blade. His ‘other self’ looked up and over at him, eyes filling with tears. Malcolm watched as the figure grabbed the boy’s hair, yanked his head back, and dragged the blade across his throat.

  Malcolm threw his leg over the bicycle, wheeling it around in one smooth motion, clenched the handlebars, and pedaled as hard as he could back the way he came.

  As he rode, he looked behind him. The horse was coming after him once more.

  Malcolm pumped hard at the pedals. Sweat poured down his cheeks. School was forgotten, the insipid, Mrs. Dunbar, and a thought went out to his grandfather, hoping the old man was okay.

  But where could he go? His rear came off the seat, and he was bending forward over the handlebars. The bike rocked back and forth as he pedaled. His mouth was dry. Blood rushed in his ears. He was cold with a sudden wind, freezing the back of his skull.

  Why did he have to live so far from town?

  He looked behind him again. The horse and rider were galloping after him.

  Don’t be afraid.

  Was that his voice or the demon’s? It didn’t sound like either, but suddenly, he had an idea. It was suicide, of course, but it was the only way. He’d read about it in a Ray Bradbury novel, Something Wicked This Way Comes. They had laughed, hadn’t they? They had laughed in the face evil.

  Malcolm braked suddenly, the back tire skidding over dirt, making a cloud of dust,, and turned the bike toward the house again.

  “You’re a damn fool,” he muttered to himself.

  The phantom met his challenge. It was still holding the cane while riding
the horse, the blade held out to one side.

  Pedal, Malcolm thought. Pedal with all you’ve got. Pedal as hard as you can.

  Knuckles white on the grips, tongue clenched between his teeth, the bicycle rocked back and forth. Malcolm clenched his eyes shut just seconds before colliding with the phantom. When the impact came, Malcolm let out something like a war cry.

  But something else was aiding him with its magic, as though he were riding on the back of some majestic animal, and not a bicycle at all. For a second, he could feel thick fur where the bicycle seat was.

  Malcolm opened his eyes. The trees were green. The porch was empty. Just like that, the phantom was gone.

  Don’t be afraid.

  He looked around him in every direction. Sweat dripped into his eyes. Gone, he thought. How was that possible?

  Unable to believe it, Malcolm hopped off the bike, letting it fall to the ground, and ran up the porch steps. He opened the front door, letting it bang shut behind him. He ran up the stairs to the second floor, taking them two, three steps at a time to the Forgotten Realm. He twisted the knob and threw open the door.

  The old man turned, startled, when Malcolm barreled into the room. The glass fell from his fingers and onto the floor, but didn’t break. Algernon leaned over in a coughing fit and righted the glass.

  Malcolm hurried to the old man’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re okay,” he said, out of breath. “You’re okay!”

  “Well, I was until you came in!” Algernon said. “Look, I spilled my drink.”

  Malcolm laughed, which only seemed to irritate Algernon.

  “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” He paused and looked at his grandson, the sweat on his brow. “What’s the matter with you? Are you on drugs? What did I tell you about that?”

  Malcolm was delirious, terrified one moment, relieved the next, but all he could do was laugh. “No,” he said. “Nothing’s the matter. I was just excited to tell you about my first day of school.” Malcolm took the glass and refilled it from the bottle on the table.

  Algernon watched him curiously.

  “What?” Malcolm asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me about your day,” Algernon said, out of patience. “The reason you came storming up here like a thundercloud. How come you’re sweating?”

  “Oh.” Malcolm thought for a moment and wiped his face. “I didn’t realize. It’s hot outside, Grandpa. It’s so hot, I think I saw the trees melting.”

  “Blast it boy, you are on drugs!”

  “I am not, Grandpa! I swear!”

  Malcolm stood, looking at his grandfather without saying a word.

  Algernon grunted. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Boy, you are trying my patience! You came up here to tell me about your first day of school. Now tell me, before I throw you off the balcony!”

  Malcolm tried suppressing his laughter, but it was hard. He hated to do this to the old man, but seeing him alive was a relief. Suddenly, he couldn’t think straight. “I…” he stammered. “Ya know something, Grandpa? In all the excitement, I completely forgot.”

  Algernon Alister was not amused. He grabbed his glass and took a sip. “Get out of here, boy. I’m not in the mood.”

  Malcolm nodded, paused for a second, then exited the room. He shut the door behind him. He’d just outwitted the phantom twice, and though he felt like celebrating, Malcolm didn’t think he’d be so lucky a third time.

  vi

  Algernon Percival Alister had come to certain conclusions about life before Malcolm had stormed in, startling him out of the chair, and his drink onto the floor. Everything would work out for the best if he just kept drinking.

  There’s nothing you can do now. You’re too old, and it’s too late.

  After all, why ruin a good thing?

  But he knew now, convinced: he would die if he kept it up.

  Wasn’t that your mission all along?

  Malcolm, though, had changed his mind. Somehow, someway, the boy had performed a miracle without even realizing it. Some said you had to quit drinking for yourself, and he believed that, but there were exceptions to every rule. He could dwell on the loss of his wife, his son, and daughter-in-law, but why should Malcolm be the one to suffer?

  The boy gave him hope, Algernon realized, a new outlook on life. Malcolm represented a second chance.

  Algernon was angry he hadn’t seen it before. And the angrier he got, the more he drank.

  Knowing it was the end, like any alcoholic, Algernon savored every drop that came afterwards. He knew it would be his last. He could feel it.

  Two voices (both fairly reasonable) battled back and forth in his mind. Malcolm didn’t need him anymore, one voice said. Malcolm would be fine without him.

  Remember, too old, too late. Don’t forget it.

  “Alcohol is killing you,” he said to the empty room.

  Algernon stared out the French doors and into the fields beyond the house, the sky warm and blue with bright rolling clouds. The breeze was cool at least, blowing the draperies inward. It was the first time he’d noticed the breeze, the first time he acknowledged it.

  You need to cure this delirium, he thought.

  Old age would take him eventually. Drink only hastened the process.

  It came down to a simple question: Did he want to die sad, lonely, and resentful over what had happened, or did he want to salvage what remained of his life?

  It wouldn’t be easy, he knew. The thought terrified him. Putting down the drink, he believed, would be the most difficult thing he’d ever had to do. Getting out of the chair, moving again, and drying out. He’d have to eat decent meals again.

  To act and think, to feel…

  He’d been glancing at the wine bottle throughout the day. Sometimes, he nipped at the glass, not wanting any at all. He was drinking out of habit now. Sometimes, he stared at the bottle for a long time, as if waiting for it to speak to him.

  You’re a demon, he thought, looking at the wine. You put me in a cold, dark place. You’ve had your way. But you’re nothing more than a demon. And, if it takes me the rest of my life, I’m going to kill you.

  Algernon put his head in hands and wept. He was sorry. He was truly sorry, and in his heart, he wanted to make things right again.

  He wept when he thought about the change it would be, how difficult. He wasn’t proud of himself. He would not be responsible for Malcolm hating him. If the kid grew up bitter and resentful, it wouldn’t be Algernon’s fault.

  Too late for that, a voice said.

  Change would come. Change was inevitable, necessary. He could not live another day without change. Without it, death would come.

  Malcolm had caught him at a bad time, storming in and righting the glass, frazzled, anxious to tell him about his day. Algernon was still irritable. When the boy had left, he looked at the glass and thought: Hmmm. Fresh glass. Maybe we can start this over again. Maybe I’ll try this sober thing tomorrow.

  He hated the alcohol now, despised, loathed it. How it calmed, pacified, soothed, and lied! How it slowly killed while promising salvation! How it betrayed, manipulated, and justified!

  “God,” Algernon said, rubbing his hands across his face. “What in God’s name have I done?”

  You pathetic sonofabitch! Look at you? You make me sick! You could have stopped a long time ago. You could have avoided this.

  Only he was to blame. The disease worked into him, clawing at his soul. It molded, shaped, and manipulated every thought he had. He was a puppet, doing everything it told him.

  Blackness moved like wine across the floor. The day turned to sudden night. Something beckoned beyond the fields. Something dying, calling his name…

  He shook his head. He blamed the drink. What would Eva think? What about Grant and Lucia? What if they were looking down on him right now, watching the way Malcolm fended for himself, not having anyone to guide him?

  That was t
he other part of the question. To guide, to set an example. The role he was supposed to have played.

  “How can you live with yourself?” Algernon asked.

  Malcolm was a smart kid. He was a good kid.

  What can you possibly do? It’s too late. Why bother?

  God, he wanted to write again! How fresh would life feel, laughing with Malcolm and writing a new novel, something without alien invaders? A coming of age story perhaps, something about making new starts, having a second chance?

  What happened to your passion for life, he thought?

  Hate had killed his passion. Drinking had killed it. He hated himself for hating so much. Drinking was a vicious, destructive cycle. He should’ve known better.

  He hated Grant, Lucia, and Eva for dying. He hated himself for drinking. He hated Malcolm for being dependent on him, and he hated the world and God for putting it all on him. Couldn’t they see what he’d been trying to create? What did he know about raising a child at his age?

  You’ve done it before.

  “Not without help,” he said. “Eva was the reason Grant turned into a college professor. Eva was the reason Grant had been successful.”

  His hands trembled.

  To drink, he thought, perchance to forget.

  But he couldn’t forget. He would never forget, and he knew it.

  The haze at the edges was thicker than ever, his thoughts befuddled. He lived in a permanent haze now. Alcohol oozed out of him. He could smell it, an aroma so intense and pungent even Algernon couldn’t stand it. He needed a shower. His head ached. His bones throbbed. He felt as if someone had pulled him apart and put him back together again in all the wrong places. His tongue felt six inches thick, rotten, and matted with fur.

  Yeah, you’re a great example, he thought.

  The thought stayed his hand when he reached for the glass. What did he care? One more glass? It wasn’t as if it would kill him.

  Algernon hesitated. He looked toward another part of the room—Eva’s picture, the painted portrait in the gilded frame on the wall. He had taken the towel off that had covered her face. Her fair skin, long black hair, dark eyes, and her small red mouth seemed accusatory. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Eva seemed to say.