Something Else

He stood no more than fourteen years old, carrying with him the expression of one who was at the very least ancient. His eyes were slanted and withheld between his love and his other. The eyes somehow managed to hide themselves while being completely visible, in a feeble attempt to discourage suspicion. A thick wrinkle marked the spot where the eyes felt their strain, and several more signified the latter effects. His eyes were a light blue, but were somehow gray. They were not gray, but they were. A gray, lifeless fix hazed the boy. The boy who was less than that and beyond such capacities.

He followed the path until there was no more path to follow. He had been running for a very long time and could no longer keep up pace. He was more than sure that he had lost his chaser, but the fear he had been driven by still held his proverbial reigns. He was safe, then, he had been sure of it.

He found a small gap between a tree stump and the moist, sloppy soil that had been consuming his footsteps for what had felt like more than a while. He pushed himself down and into the dark and unwelcome place. He had to make sure that he was in no way showing himself. When this task was complete, he shut his eyes and attempted to rest. It had taken quite sometime for the boy to overcome the uncomfortable crawling of insects, but, after several hours, the boy was fast asleep.

He lay unnoticed for almost an entire day. He had been considerably fatigued from his previous encounters, and had not gotten a good and long sleep in over a month. His stealth was blown, though, when he awoke from his nightmare. He released a scream that is best associated with the howl of a wolf. The outburst was not one of fear but one of torment; that of a consuming anguish. The release held with it a sense of disbelief and slight anger. One would be chilled to listen. When the boy was finished with his cry, he was found out.

The man grabbed his left arm and yanked the boy out of his hiding place. The boy looked upon the man and came close to tears. He was the man who was the most horrible and brutal of all men. He was the man who the boy was not supposed to embitter. He was the man who created fear and supplied it to the boy. The man’s rage glowed with every blow. The boy’s screams were heard by no other. They were deep in the woods, far away from the boy’s parents and the boy’s family and anyone who would be able to help. The boy feared then, not for himself, but for those who would miss him, who would woe at the wrongdoings he had been presented. He knew what the night would bring and could not take another touch, another glance, or another pain. The boy was no longer willing to fear.

The boy refused to look at the man; this was a constant that had remained true the entire time the two were together. The boy could not look upon the creature. The boy refused to look upon the thing for fear that he would resemble a human being. The boy found it very difficult to view the man as human, for that would have to mean that humanity was capable of what the man was capable. So the boy shut his eyes tight. The man dragged the boy the several miles back to the cabin. Soon that musty, copper smell returned to the boy’s nostrils and they neared the rusty generator. The small shed behind the cabin was now visible, and the tools and gadgets the man would use came into focus. Now the rough scent of decay prevailed. The boy winced at the thought of next. The boy shut his eyes tight.

The boy felt the tight chains around his wrists and ankles. He had been unconscious for a long time, and was unsure as to how much time had passed. That had not mattered, what mattered was buried within his index finger. Slowly he used his left hand to jab at his right index finger, feeling for the point of the thing. When he found the needle’s eye, he began to pull. Painfully he extracted the object that would hopefully relieve him of his hell. He had seen a movie once, long ago, about a policeman who had used a pin to unlock his handcuffs. He liked that memory. It was one of the many he would focus on when the man would come. He had been lying serenely on his living room floor, feet away from the television. His mother had called from the other room, asking what he would like for lunch. The boy turned his head and smiled at this. Not at the prospect of lunch, but at the mere sound of his mother’s voice. He very much liked that memory. But then he had done it; the handcuffs fell away.

Never has anyone worked as fast and as slow as the boy did this evening. After removing the tight chains that had bound his ankles, he furtively entered into the shed that he had been confined to. He immediately went for the axe. It had been recently sharpened; the man had planned on using it on the boy the next morning. The boy then moved into the cabin where the man was fast asleep. Slowly the boy crept into the man’s bedroom. Slowly the boy raised the axe high above the man’s lower torso. Quickly the boy struck and struck and struck. Now the man howled in torment. Yet none heard the man’s screams, and no sympathy was evoked.

He stood no more than fourteen years old. He stood faltered at the concept of life, and aware of its spine. He stood older than he was and younger than he knew. He stood. He had not known why, and he only knew how. The how was what had frightened him most of all. The how was exactly what he had been afraid of. And this how would haunt him forever. Humanity is the how, and there is no why. The why is a fable, a fable for little boys. He certainly was no boy anymore. No, he was something else. And he did not much care to see it at all.

A guy