by Jon Athan
Stanley gritted his teeth, then he rushed forward. He jabbed at Mark's chest, landing a swift punch. To his utter dismay, the jab was useless against Mark's sturdy chest. He didn't have the strength or the form to injure him. The attack was like someone hitting a tree with a twig – worthless, foolish, humiliating.
Mark hit Stanley with a quick hook. Caught by surprise, Stanley tumbled to the floor. In an instinctive movement, he immediately wrapped his arms around his head and warped himself into the fetal position. He knew he could not fight back without an advantage. He could kill with Ed's help and he could beat children, but he could not confront a hulking bully.
Mark and his friend did not waste time. The pair pummeled Stanley. The feeble teenager was clobbered with punches to the head and kicks to the gut. He grunted and groaned from the beating, counting each slow and dreadful second – a minute felt like an hour. Mark stomped on Stanley's stomach, then he spat on his face.
As Stanley wiped the gooey saliva from his nose, Mark shouted, “Don't ever try to fuck with me again, you little bitch! I'll fucking kill you! Punk...”
Burying his face in his knees, Stanley couldn't help but chuckle at the threat. Mark had the potential to kill, sure, but he didn't have the heart. Although his bullying was ruthless and obnoxious, he made a foolish mistake – he let Stanley live. Stanley endured years of beatings and name-callings, but he never reached the doorstep of death. He can't kill me, he thought.
Stanley watched as his bullies straggled away, shouting vulgar insults with each step. As they turned the corner, Stanley retrieved his wooden pencil. He smirked and groaned as he staggered to his feet. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, vengeance echoed through his mind. He ran up behind Mark, then he thrust the pencil into the bully's lower back. With the weight of his entire body, the sharp pencil penetrated the skin.
As he retracted the pencil, the puncture oozed blood like lava flowing from a volcano. Mark screamed as he lurched forward. Startled, his friend staggered in reverse and watched the commotion with wide eyes. He was willing to beat on the helpless as long as Mark led the way. Without his leader, he was lost and baffled. Stanley glared at the unscathed bully, demanding cooperation without uttering a word – don't get involved.
Stanley rushed towards Mark, then he stabbed him again. The pencil punctured Mark's stomach. He twisted the writing utensil inside of his flesh, like if he were sharpening his pencil – amplifying the pain with each turn of his wrist. The bully's white t-shirt was painted red by the gushing blood. Before Stanley could stab him again, the pencil snapped in his hand. Mark sighed in relief, then he tumbled to the floor.
Teary-eyed, Stanley shouted, “I warned you! I told you to leave me alone! Fuck you! Fuck you!”
Stanley couldn't throw a strong punch since he did not have the training, but he could certainly land a decent kick. Like if he were playing soccer, Stanley kicked at Mark's face. Mark was dazed by the brutal stomping. A laceration formed on his cheek and his nose was broken from the beating. His face was swelling, like if he were having an allergic reaction.
Breathing heavily, Stanley smirked as a basketball rolled towards him. He grabbed the basketball, then he held it over his head. With all of his might, he flung the basketball down at Mark's face. The thud echoed through the court as the pouring blood splattered on the concrete. Before he could strike again, Stanley was pulled back. He glanced over his shoulder and scowled as he spotted the intruding security officer.
Over his rustling navy windbreaker, the officer shouted, “Stop it! Stop!”
Stanley tried to yank away from the officer's grip, but to no avail. Faculty members ran into the basketball court, rushing to aid Mark and restrain Stanley. During his savage attack, he did not notice the crowd of classmates surrounding him. To his utter surprise, his peers appeared appalled. He expected them to cheer for his victorious retaliation – hold him up on their shoulders and parade him through campus. Apparently, fighting back was frowned upon by the group.
Stanley glowered at his classmates and shouted, “Fuck all of you! I hate you!”
Chapter Nine
Consequences
The afternoon sunshine pierced through the fluffy white clouds, beaming down onto the small town. After spending several hours at the high school offices, talking to faculty and police, the King family finally arrived home. The front door rattled as it clashed with the neighboring wall.
With bloodshot eyes, Stanley marched into the home and shouted, “I don't care!”
The young teenager rushed towards the stairs to his left. Before he could escape, Michael grabbed Stanley's backpack and pulled him back into the living room. Stanley tried to squirm away from his father's grip, but to no avail. Even if he could escape from the clutches of his backpack, his father wouldn't allow him to leave without a fight.
Michael sternly said, “Sit down. We're not done talking.”
Stanley clenched his jaw as he glared at his father. He wanted to strike the man down, topple his dictatorial lead and run free. He knew he wouldn't be able to match his father's strength, though. Without a weapon, he barely put a dent on Mark – he didn't stand a chance against his father. Stanley huffed and crossed his arms, then he flumped into the neighboring sofa.
Michael said, “I don't know what got into you at school, but don't you dare bring it with you here at home. You understand me? I want you to talk to me. I want you to explain yourself. Tell me: why did you attack that boy? What possessed you to act like a damn animal at school?”
Julia entered the home, whimpering and shuddering. She had not stopped weeping since she received the news. Daniel followed closely behind, shutting the door with his foot. He rubbed his mother's shoulder, trying to soothe her emotional pain. Stanley watched the pair with a grimace of disgust. He was revolted by Daniel's compassionate behavior.
Michael snapped his fingers and said, “I asked you a question, young man. Answer me.”
Stanley responded, “I did it because he was bullying me. He beat me up behind the handball court, so I fought back. There's nothing wrong with that.”
“There's nothing wrong with that? You could go to juvie, Stanley! You're suspended and you could get expelled! That will stick with you for the rest of your life! You were dead wrong. Why would you do something like this?”
Jugulars bulging on his throat, Stanley shouted, “I just told you! He was bullying me! He always bullies me and you never care! None of you care!” He sniffled and shook his head, trying to compose himself. He said, “There's nothing wrong with defending myself. I... I didn't do anything wrong. You can't make me feel bad for this. You can't...”
Michael stepped in reverse, baffled by his son's explanation. He glanced towards his wife and oldest son. Julia leaned on the wall as she wept. She felt her son's anguish through his cracking voice. Daniel simply shrugged at his father. He wasn't aware of Stanley's torment.
Michael turned towards Stanley and said, “You... You can't do something like that because a boy is bullying you. I don't know who told you otherwise, but it's wrong. It is wrong, Stanley. You should have told someone.”
With a cracking voice, Julia said, “You should have told us, sweetheart. Why didn't you tell us?”
Stanley huffed and rolled his eyes. He said, “I told you before, I told the teachers, I told everyone. I come home with bruises and... and cuts, but you always ignore it. I stood up for myself today. You think it's wrong like everyone else, but I know I did the right thing.”
Michael said, “You didn't do the right thing. You can fight back, sure, but not like that. If someone hits you with a rock, you don't shoot back with a gun. No, son, you were wrong here. You stabbed one of your classmates. You broke his nose. He's in the emergency room right now. How many times has this boy sent you to the ER? Huh? You took this too far.”
“No. You're wrong. It's my right to fight back. And, if... if you don't like it, you can fuck off.”
Michael tilted his head and glared at Stanley,
astonished by his vulgar vocabulary. He clenched his jaw and his fists as his anger grew. Julia gasped upon hearing her child's demand – fuck off – as if the words were as shocking as the violence depicted in the media.
As he stared at his younger brother, baffled and amazed, Daniel whispered, “Oh, shit...”
Michael sighed, then he said, “Go to your room, Stanley. I don't want to see you now. I'll be there in a minute to take away your games, your movies, your TV... everything. Get out of my sight, boy. Go.”
Stanley remained seated and defiant. He said, “You can't control me anymore. I'm free. I'm free to make my own choices. If I want to do something, I can do it. There is no good or bad. It's all fake. It's all bullshit. Everything I do is only–”
Tired of his son's rambling, Michael pointed at the stairs and barked, “Go to your room, goddammit! Go!”
Michael trembled from the fury he harbored within. He would never admit it, but he had to fight the urge to strike his son. He was never a father of corporal punishment, but his boy's disobedience and insolence irked him to the point of no return. Julia and Daniel had never seen him in such a frustrated state. The pair watched from afar, like if they were watching a live soap opera playing out in their living room – the show was fascinating.
Stanley stood from his seat and said, “I hate you. I hate all of you. I don't care if you hate me, too. Even if you say you don't, I know you do. You're going to pay for this. I'm done being bullied, I'm done being a 'little bitch.' You'll see...”
Stanley sniffled as he walked away. He glanced at his father, his mother, then towards his brother. His family was unnerved by his speech – anger, fear, and confusion reigned supreme. Mission accomplished, he thought. He strolled up the stairs without another glance, proudly marching towards his bedroom.
Michael sighed, then he muttered, “Damn it...”
Julia asked, “What... What are we going to do, Michael? He could go to jail for this.”
“I don't know. Let's give him a minute to cool off. He didn't mean any of it. I know it hurts, but he didn't mean it. He's just confused. We'll get to the bottom of this. Don't worry.”
As he rubbed his mother's shoulders, Daniel said, “Come on, mom. You know he loves you. He's just pissed. Let's get you some tea or some coffee. Come on.”
Julia sniffled as she followed her son's lead. She stuttered, “Th–Thank you, honey.”
***
Stanley locked his bedroom door. He planted his forehead on the door and whimpered. He was enfeebled by a mishmash of emotions. He meant every word he uttered in his ferocious rant. At the same time, he wanted to retract his statement. The sinister truth was revealed and he would eventually have to face the music.
Stanley muttered, “I hate them... I really hate them. I know they hate me, too. Everyone hates me, except... except Ed and Kat. They understand me. They understand everything.” He smiled tenderly as a tear streamed down his cheek. He whispered, “She likes me. She understands me and she really likes me. I know it.”
Stanley shambled towards his bed, dragging his feet like if he were trudging through mud. He sat at the corner of his bed and stared at a baseball bat leaning on the dresser. He was never good at sports. He couldn't even hit or catch a baseball. The blue and silver aluminum bat was a symbol of disappointment – a gift from his father. He knew his dad disliked him due to his shortcomings.
As he stared at the bat, blood started to stream from the knob. The blood dribbled down the grip, then the red liquid flowed down the barrel. The rivers of blood dripped down to the end cap of the baseball bat, staining the floor beneath it. Stanley stared at the bloodied bat with a furrowed brow. He wondered, whose blood is it?
From over his shoulder, a raspy male voice said, “Your family's blood...”
Stanley gasped as he looked over his shoulder. He stared down at his bed, then he glanced at the sealed window. There was no one in sight. With narrowed eyes, he turned towards the baseball bat. To his utter surprise, the bat was wiped clean. A regular, everyday baseball bat leaned on the dresser.
Stanley stuttered, “Wha–What... What happened to the blood?”
The young teenager shook his head, astonished by the instant change. His breathing intensified as he started to ponder the possibilities. The event seemed surreal, like if he had stumbled into a nightmare. He remembered the argument with his parents, but he couldn't remember if he fell asleep. A voice and blood, he thought, is it me or them?
The raspy male voice said, “It's us...”
Stanley stumbled to the floor. He glanced at every dim corner of the room, searching for the source of the gravelly voice to no avail. The room was empty. The voice was distinct, but the room was desolate. There were no intruders in sight. Stanley stood on all-fours, then he crawled towards his bed. He leaned towards the ground with his eyes shut.
Like a child scared of the boogeyman, he was afraid to check under the bed. In his search for absolute certainty, the teenager mustered the courage to move forward. He pulled the dangling bed sheets up, then he glanced under the bed. Clumps of dust and a skittering spider harbored the area – nothing more, nothing less.
Stanley stared at the blank ceiling and asked, “Is anyone here? Can you hear me?” There was no response. Stanley stared down at the floor and whispered, “What the hell is happening to me? What's going on here?”
He twirled in place, spinning in the center of his bedroom. He delved into his most wicked thoughts. The blood, the baseball bat, and the voice meant something to him. He simply had to decipher the visuals, he had to decode his thoughts.
As the world spun around him, Stanley asked, “Do you want me to kill them? You want me to kill my mom, my dad, and my brother? Is that what you want?” Although there was no audible response, the teenager nodded as if he were listening to someone. He said, “No, no, I can't do that... I killed my best friend, but I can't kill my family. I'm not strong enough. Not yet...”
Stanley nervously chuckled as he stopped spinning. He staggered to his knees and stared at the floor. His chuckle amplified to a delirious guffaw. The unusual laughter was muddled as he started to sob. He wheezed and groaned as he wept. He tugged on his hair and shook his head. He was breaking down, falling apart like a rocky relationship.
Stanley said, “I want to kill them, I really do, but I don't know how. I need help. I need someone to help me.” Trembling like a frightened pup, he wiped the mucus streaming down his lips and moaned. He said, “If I want it, I take it, but I can't do that now. No, I need help. How do I kill them? Huh? With the bat? I'm weak, though. I'm not strong enough to... to crush their stupid skulls with it. I have to use a–”
The shrill creak of a floorboard echoed into the room. The floorboards groaned with the slow and heavy steps – someone was approaching. Eyes wide with fear, Stanley stared at the door. Without taking his eyes off the door, he stumbled towards his bed. The ruckus stopped directly outside of his bedroom.
He pushed the blinds aside, then he jumped out of the window. He landed on the shingle roof of the garage. He slowly slid down to the edge of the roof. Like if his fears were whisked away, he inhaled deeply, then he jumped down without a second thought. The two-and-a-half meter fall was surprisingly simple.
Stanley staggered to his feet, wiping the dirt from his jeans, then he sprinted down the sidewalk. He sobbed as he sprinted towards the woodland. The noise around him was muffled, the world was darkened. He didn't see his neighbors' houses, he didn't hear any shouting. He could only see the small house in the forest.
Chapter Ten
A Bond
Stanley stumbled towards the house in the woods, slipping between two trees. His wheezing and coughing echoed through the dreary woodland. From his home to the abandoned house, five miles apart, he didn't stop for a single break. He was exhausted, but he found some relief in the dilapidated house. He stumbled forward, weaving and bobbing his head for a better view of the porch.
Between breaths, Stanley sai
d, “Ed... Ed... Are you guys home? Kat... Kat, I'm here now.” There was no response. He inhaled deeply, trying his damnedest to recompose himself, then he said, “Please, I need your help. I need... I need someone to talk to. I can't keep running.”
Once again, there was no response. Trees groaned, bushes rustled, twigs snapped, and crows cawed through the woodland. The natural noise was unusually disquieting. Stanley walked up the rickety porch steps, then he stopped in front of the door. He held his clenched fist over the door, waiting for the opportunity to strike.
Stanley whispered, “What if they're not here? What if they were–”
Before he could finish, the door swung open. Kat stood at the doorway, intrigued by Stanley's unexpected visit. She tilted her head and licked her lips as she examined the teenager's perturbed demeanor. Through his appearance, she could see the young teenager was on the edge.
Kat smirked and said, “Look who we've got here.” She glanced over her shoulder and shouted, “Ed, bring a few extra beers! Our boy is back for another visit. He looks like he's got some stories to tell. This should be good.”
From the kitchen, Ed yelled, “Alright! Sounds good to me!”
Kat held Stanley's hand and said, “Come on and have a seat with us. We were just about to watch the sunset and chug a few beers.”
Kat led Stanley to a green sofa on the porch. Stanley couldn't help but smile as he watched her swinging hips and breasts. The woman wore denim short-shorts and a tight white tank top. She had some rosy patches on her skin, but the possible rashes did not bother him. In all her free-spirited glory, the woman was hypnotizing to the boy.
Sitting on the far left, Kat patted the center seat and said, “Come on. Sit down with me, hun.”
Stanley took his seat and said, “Thank you. I have to tell you about–”