Contents
Disclaimer
Copyright
Title
Chapter 1: Fight to Stay Home
Chapter 2: School (aka Hell)
Chapter 3: Slow Disintergration
Chapter 4: School Worse
Part 2: A Little Underground Secret: Chapter 5: Introspective
Part 3: Adam and the Girl: A Change for the Better
Chapter 7: A Day to be Remembered
Part 4: Damaged: Dark Transition
Chapter 9: Adam's First Victim
Chapter 10: Adam's Second Victim
Chapter 11: Save the Worst for Last
Chapter 12: A Beloved Casualty
Chapter 13: Realizations and Preparations
Chapter 14: Out with a Bang
About the Author
This book is for those who've been bullied, teased, and shut out by the world. It is for ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY. I will NOT be held responsible for any part of this book being acted upon in real life. Reader's discretion IS advised. Enjoy… the most brutal novel ever written!
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Troy Ray McCombs
Licensing Notes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
Damaged
by
Troy McCombs
“Society creates its own monsters”
Chapter 1
Fight to Stay Home
“Adam!” his mother cried out.
—Every day it was this loud and annoying, like a broken submarine alarm set on high. Adam rolled onto his side and ignored her, but he knew it would not work for much longer. One more minute sleep, two tops. Then that cock would crow again.
"Adam, get up! Time for school!”
"I'm getting up," he mumbled into his pillow.
"Adam! Adam, come on, get up. You need to get ready. It's almost seven."
Adam sighed. I'm not going to prison today, he told himself. Prison, damnation, school—same difference.
"Adam, dammit, come on now. I packed your lunch. Adam!"
"Go away...”
"Get up!"
"I'm coming!" he screamed. It used to work... telling her he was getting out of bed, ready to take a shower and head to the place of supreme punishment, when his real intention was to drift back into darkness, hoping to escape the harsh reality of the world through endless slumber.
“Adam, get up now!"
But that was not going to work. His mother had a job to do besides her physical nine to five: get her sixteen-year-old son to school, a task easier said than done. Getting Adam to willingly go to school three times a week was probably harder than fitting a camel through the eye of a needle.
"Adam, you're going whether you like it or not. Don't make me come up there."
He sat upright and looked toward the door. "I ain't going to school, goddammit! Just leave me alone! Jesus Christ!" Again, he collided with the mattress. He knew she was probably ticked off now, for he could hear her feet pounding up the steps like two giant bongos.
Want a fight, mother? I don't wanna, but we will if you make me go to school.
Her footfalls fell closer and louder.
Yep, definitely mad. Oh well, what's new?
He knew a fight with the nagging woman warrior, who seemingly had no other goal than to piss him off, was about to begin. Like clockwork on another average weekday morning.
The door flew open. She thudded into the room. "You are going to school, Adam, whether you like it or not. Now here's your socks. The other stuff is downstairs in the bathroom, already—"
Adam began before she could finish: "No, I'm not taking a shower, and no, I'm not going to school!"
"Yes," she said, very strongly.
“No, I'm not," he countered, equally as strong.
"Fine," she said, throwing the socks at him, "then don't go. Stay home. Fail. Do nothing. Don't go. I can't do this anymore."
"Can't do fucking what? It's me that has to do it, and I just can't. You don't have to go to fucking school. You work. You got it easy!"
She threw her head back and laughed, scratching her scalp roughly. Adam was hurting her, upsetting her, frustrating her. It hurt him tenfold worse. It infuriated him even more than that.
"I—no—fuck school! Fuck all that bullshit. I shouldn't have to do it!"
"You're going! If I have to drag you out of that bed, then I will. You got it?" she said, eyes gleaming.
Adam felt a lump of fire burning deep within his throat. The fight was just getting warmed up. "Nope, not going," he said very casually, as if he did not care one ounce.
"Every day, Adam. Every day you do this. You won't wake up, you won't take a shower half the time, and you refuse to go to school. No more!"
The lump burned hotter. "No!" he said, tensing his neck muscles. "I don't give a shit about what you want me to do. You're not me. It's my life. You and—and—David—"
His father.
"—want to tell me what to do. You can't control me. You can't make me do shit. All right?!"
She was so angry she began to tremble. Both of their faces turned peach red. The air was an exploding mine-field.
"Don't you yell at me like that! I'm your mother. I—"
Adam interrupted once more, "You are nothing to me. You don't care anything about me. So you know what, Angela? Fuck you!"
She stepped back, stumbled back. She had heard him say it before, but that was one phrase that could have bruised her on even the millionth time. His words were deadly sincere.
"I hate you for everything!"
"Fine, then you hate me," she cried. Some of her anger had subsided, but the pain was worse. It was the opposite for the young teenager, who looked as though he could strangle her at any moment. He was, for the most part, nonviolent; however, he was prone to breaking things. He had busted some major holes in his bedroom walls with his fists, had shattered two windows in the living room with a baseball bat, had caused significant emotional pain to his parents, but had never once laid a hand on her or his father... or even a fly.
Angela looked confused. She always did when her adrenaline began flowing. Tears bloomed in Adam's eyes as he stared her down.
She stormed over to him and clutched hold of his wrist. "Come on! You'll be late!"
"Fuuuuuuck!" he screamed, pushing his voice box to the limit and yanking his arm away from her grip. "Leave me alone!"
They were both crying, both semiconscious of the situation.
She tried again to grab his wrist, unsuccessfully, then grabbed his shirt, but Adam was too elusive. He fought to stay put.
"Leave me alone!"
"Adam, let's go! You're going!" she said, trying to clutch onto something, anything.
He slapped her hands away without causing bodily harm. And when she finally managed to grab onto his leg, he quickly latched onto the bed post, screaming: "Goddamn son of a fucking bitch! Noooo!"
Adam looked like he was being dragged unwillingly to his inevitable demise in an Iron Maiden. His voice did not let up. His poor mother, who only wanted the best for him, kept pulling him, wondering why her son was, and had been for the past four months, giving her such a tedious time.
"Leeeet meee gooo!" he said, throat burning.
She pulled him off the bed, where he again squirmed out of her grasp. Her will was faltering. His was already gone. Angela had endured this inexplicable s
cene every day since the beginning of September, when school had started back up. However, she was completely ignorant to her son's emotional problems. He, himself, wasn't fully aware of them, either. She was only beginning to realize that they were growing worse. Deep down inside, she thought it was just a temporary phase of teenage adolescence. But this was a cancer that could not be cured from the surface.
"Adam," she said, a little calmer now, "stay the hell home then, but you're going tomorrow. No ifs ands or buts about it. Understand?"
He just stared, wanting her sorry ass to leave so he could release the tears. "I guess I will if I have to." But he already knew he wouldn't. School scared him... scared the shit out of him.
Angela, less tense but still shaky, sighed and walked to the door. "Come hell or high water, school tomorrow morning. If you don't go, I will drag you there."
He nodded.
She left the room.
He covered up and bawled.
A cancer that cannot be cured from the surface...
The problem had always been there, hiding like a stalker in the night, slowly eating away at Adam's soul like acid on a nail. It was not just one single problem but a slew of moderate-sized ones that had been triggered by adolescence, his parents' recent divorce, and a new school. Little did anyone know how monstrous it was growing, how quickly. Adam was too confused to understand it, and his parents barely acknowledged its existence at all. The problems seemed to have no cure, no treatment, and they could not be classified specifically. Adam knew how he felt, but not why he felt the horrible way he did. While the formidable opponent inside him snowballed, he continued living, writing increasingly more violent and disturbing horror stories in his spare time, intent on becoming the next Stephen King or Clive Barker.
Adam wrote a lot. About demons, devils, murderers. Some dark poetry and philosophy... to spontaneous thoughts and beliefs.
Adam watched four times as much television.
For the rest of that Monday, Adam's most loathed day of the week, he watched a mini-marathon of Full House, his favorite television show, and began handwriting an outline for his new horror story entitled, Damaged. It was about a sixteen-year-old boy who goes crazy and blows up the world with a nuclear bomb.
But, like everything, the day did not last—
Chapter 2
School (aka Hell)
"Adam! Adam!" the long-haired beast bellowed from downstairs.
Tuesday already?
School was closing in. He hung on dearly to the dream world.
"Wake up! Chop, chop! Time to go to school. Come on!"–louder, adequate enough to jar him from his glorious slumber.
He opened his eyes; the sunlight blazed through the blinds like a retina-burning laser beam.
"You awake?" she hollered.
He wanted to tape her mouth shut. "Oh, no," he grunted, closing his eyes. He breathed deeply, drifting, floating, free—
"Tiiiiime tooooo geeeeet uuuup!"
Annoyed, sleepy, confined.
"Mom," he mumbled, "let me sleep for five more minutes."
She couldn't hear him. He barely heard himself.
"Aaaaadam!"
His eyelids opened, shut, opened, shut. That harsh sun was bugging the shit out of him.
The darkness soon welcomed him back, drew him away from the looming light, tempting him.
"Wake up!" she yelled, louder and edgier.
Adam jolted upright and threw the covers aside, as if prodded by a taser. "All right!" he screamed. For a brief second, he looked homicidal.
He rubbed his crusty eyes, contemplating a way to skip school today. Fake sick? She wouldn't buy it. It had worked once, but not the second or the third time. Climb out the window, shimmy down a gutter, and then hide out at the playground until three when school let out?
Hmm.
Wouldn't work. Too risky. Firstly, the gutters weren't structurally strong, and secondly, a second-story fall to the pavement below would guarantee him a hospital visit, a place even worse than school.
Ummm...
Or he could do it the usual way: fight, bitch, and complain. Start a feud with the mother who might as well have sent him directly to Afghanistan.
He finally decided to charm his way out of it. Worth a shot.
Nervous of the outcome, Adam stood, exited his room, and peered over the banister. The heavy aroma of bacon hit his sense of smell like a Godsend. He could hear it sizzling, popping and whining.
"Mom? Mom?"
Thudding footfalls. His mother stepped into view, greasy spatula in hand. She tilted her head back to look up at him through the small gap between the staircase and the banister. "You want some bacon and eggs before you go? You know, you better take a shower."
Oh, what do I say?
“Mom, uh, about school—" He wondered if she could sense his intentions already. "I don't—I don't know if, well—"
She sighed. It was not a big exhale, but one of those, I can't believe you, you are ridiculous, ones.
"Adam," she said sternly, "you get your shower and you go to school. You're not pulling this stunt today. You gave me your word yesterday. I will call your dad to come and get you, if I have to. You know how mad he will be, getting a call at work that you played hooky again. Now, go!" She raised the spatula like it was a magical wand and shook it at him.
"Mom," he began, "I'm not going to—" He stopped.
Her eyes turned hellish. She could have melted the icecaps with that gaze.
It was not that Adam was afraid of his father; Adam's main concern was David's follow-through. He usually took further action than his mother did. Once last month when Adam had had a temper tantrum, unwilling to leave for school, David had called the truant officer, who, in turn, called and explained to Adam the repercussions of being absent too many times in a row. The verdict was grimmer than merely ditching Blake High: he would be sent to a juvenile delinquent facility until he complied with the laws of society.
School was bad, but prison, an actual adolescent prison—this little threat forced Adam's butt down in class for a full three weeks straight.
I cannot go there.
"Jesus Christ," Adam said, stomach churning, "I'll go. Fucking bullshit."
She watched him with concern as he approached the bathroom.
"I ain't learning anything," he told her. "I ain't going to try. No use for school. It's for a bunch of stupid idiots."
He showered (making sure to boost the cold and use the hot sparingly—the latter, on its own, produced a spray of water hot enough to melt plastic, and he had the melted container to prove it), brushed his chipped, yellow-stained teeth, and pissed about a quart of urine before he was finally ready to go. The part leading up to leaving the house for the bus was excruciating. His heart raced erratically as he lastly brushed his light brown hair, which was parted exactly in the middle. It was his favorite feature, his hair. His eyes, brown and deep, came in close second. His nose, long and crooked, came in last place. He looked like a completely normal kid, neither fat nor skinny but right in-between.
But he did not feel that way at all. Sure, he could smile in front of the mirror at home and enjoy some of his features, but when he saw his reflection in public, amongst people, he looked different—like an ugly teenage son of a bitch who did not belong in the world. A reject. A nobody. Inside, he was dying, struggling to hold onto something that was quickly fading away.
Adam wanted to cry. He wanted to rip his brain out and throw it across the room. Too many negative emotions gnawed at his self-esteem like maggots gnawing on meat.
Sleep helped, but didn't really treat it.
Writing was the glue that kept him together. Without a way to vent, what would I do? He couldn't tell his parents what was wrong; he honestly didn't think they would believe him or accept him for it.
Adam looked at himself once more in the mirror and groaned like a dying animal. Without allowing himself to eat his favorite breakfast meal, he left for school.
**
*
The air was especially cold, and the sky was especially gloomy. Particles of snow dwindled down from above in scattered flakes. Armed with a book-bag, Adam hiked up Charles Street with his head so low he looked as if he had a neck injury. Cars whizzed past him as he turned a corner and walked up the sidewalk toward the bus stop. He looked up only now and then to make sure he was headed in the right direction.
Less than a block away, two teenage girls—sophomores—stood together on the corner, waiting for the Number 22 as well. Neither were lookers; one had an eye so lazy it may have been on a permanent vacation, and the other was so heavyset she could have rivaled the New Year’s blimp.
As soon as Adam spotted them, he wondered how they would treat him today and what crude comments they'd whisper about him under their breath. They weren't unlike anyone else. In fact, they were quite typical. They were already gawking and giggling at the greenhorn. That’s what they did every day… at the least.
A black Hummer, shiny and showroom-new, beeped as it rumbled past the girls. The lazy-eyed one waved and said, "Hey, baby!" It didn’t matter to her what the driver may have looked like behind those tinted windows; if he owned that vehicle, he was game and fuckable.
With desperate eyes, Adam glanced at the passing Hummer. He’d always wished he’d had a car. Then he wouldn't have to deal with those unattractive bitches standing by the STOP sign anymore. They hadn't liked him in grade school, they had made fun of him in junior high, and they still thought he was a piece of shit.
Six blocks away, the long yellow bus shot into view. To Adam, it was not a bus but a paddy wagon, a transportation to eternal Hell. A vehicle carrying a load of demonic teenagers.
His legs felt weak as he hiked those last two blocks, yearning to turn around and run back home.
Almost there, he told himself. You will survive today.
I hope.
The bus came closer, speeding up, then slowing down at the corner by Barb's Tanning Salon. Adam envisioned the Blake County bus sharpening its claws inside its cabin, waiting to slice and saute him until he was no more. School buses were not a sign of education in his mind but a sign of extreme distress, like an ambulance and patrol car rolled into one. He did not even like walking down the street when one was rolling by with kids inside.
Damaged Page 1