This was the seventh time this year
that Louis received an intense beating from the same four guys at school, he
was little, he was kind, and extremely intelligent but being one to always
follow the rules and follow his routine, his refusing to do others schoolwork
didn't sit well with the school bullies who clearly and pointedly shared their
feelings with him in the shape of fists.
He
managed to board the bus for the short ride home, still seeing double through
the one eye that was not swollen shut and sat directly behind the driver,
trying to control his breathing and not bleed on anything. "Again Louis?
Really?" the driver said, "I think I've lost count of how many times
we've had this conversation. I wish you would tell me who it is that is doing
this to you, you really don't deserve it. We can make this stop, I
promise."
Louis
remained silent trying to clear up his vision, focusing on his shoelaces but
failing to see anything straight, he counted the stops as they traveled, to
rise from his seat at the sixth stop, to wobble off the bus to the sidewalk.
Leaning his hands on his knees, he waited until the bus pulled away before
walking across his front yard to his front door, pausing again, hoping that his
mother would not see or hear him enter. But the gasp from her as he pushed open
the front door told him all that he needed to know, still unwilling to reveal
the identity of his abusers, he collapsed on the couch and laid down to be
woken after what seemed mere moments by his mother for dinner.
He
limited himself to mashed potatoes, for the beating he had received rendered
most movement agonizing including that of chewing, even swallowing made him
cough, which racked more pain through his body with its jarring movement. Even
though it was only six thirty, he excused himself from his parent's presence
and laid in a hot bathtub, relishing the relaxing heat and silence. With slow
deliberate movement, he eased himself from the water after it had cooled to an
uncomfortable level, dried off, and gingerly slipped on his pajamas.
Exhausted
and aching, so he sat on top of the closed toilet seat and made a mental note
of each part of his body that hurt, which to his disappointment was just about
everything with the exception of possibly his ears. His mother let herself into
the bathroom to hold an ice pack on his one swollen eye and he slowly lost
feeling, thankful for swelling that would soon reduce, allowing him to see
again. "I'm calling in sick for you tomorrow," she said, "you
cannot go to school in this condition and I'm sure that your teachers will provide
your assignments."
He
gently pushed her hand and the icepack away from his face and stood to shuffle
into his bedroom on the hope that sleep would provide some sort of reprieve
from his suffering. Closing his bedroom door behind him, he glimpsed at himself
in the full-length mirror and became angry at the ridiculous cyclical nature of
these beatings. Easing himself into bed, he began the relaxation techniques
that he had learned, beginning with his toes, and working his way to the top of
his head, relaxing each part of his body until he slipped into sleep, no longer
feeling anything.
He
woke early to the silence of a sleeping household, when a strange high pitched
whistle went off, whether in his ears or his mind he was unsure and he opened
both eyes to see the shape of his feet pointing straight up beneath his quilt,
still somewhat cold, he pulled his quilt over his head and slipped back into
sleep to hear his door open and his mother cross the room. Feeling her hand
grip his knee through the covers, he let out a slight groan as her touch unfortunately
squeezed a particularly deep bruise. "Breakfast is ready whenever you feel
like eating," she said, "hopefully we'll see you downstairs soon."
The
door clicked behind her as she left and he pulled the covers from his head to
realize that he couldn't see his hands, or his arms, or any of himself beneath
the blankets. "My pajamas are there," he thought, "but where is
the me that fills them?" Confused and still aching, he slowly stood up
from the bedside and moved to his mirror to realize that his pajamas merely
hung in the air, he could still feel himself but could see nothing. He
cautiously touched his face, feeling both his face and his hands, when the high-pitched
whistle sounded again and he suddenly appeared beneath his clothing, like
someone turned a switch, making him visible again.
"Phew,
I am glad that is over," he thought, "imagine trying to explain that
to my parents." His digital clock had turned over to nine and he felt
ravenously hungry, reached for the doorknob but paused to put on his slippers
and his robe, still on the cold side and definitely still in agony but thankful
that both eyes now functioned as normal. He managed to eat a reasonable amount
of soft food, somewhat satiating his hunger and he returned to his room to get
dressed, spending the rest of the day on the couch reading and doing his
schoolwork.
Thankful
for the day being Friday, which gave him two more days to heal without missing
more school, he slept a lot, read a lot, and worked on regaining his mobility.
The mysterious whistling continued to sound, fortunately at opportune times,
rendering him invisible and then visible again and he made a mental note of his
mental state, his physical state, his emotional state when this occurred until
he began to learn to control it, finding the idea of making oneself disappear
an extremely helpful ability.
Sunday
night during dinner, now able to eat normal food without pain in his jaw, he
looked up from his plate, cleared his throat and posed an unusual question.
"Do you guys believe in angels or demons?" he asked, "and if you
ever saw one, what would you do?"
"Hmm,
we all hear about stuff like that, and I don't really know what to think,"
his father said, "I cannot say that I've ever seen anything like that, and
I don't know how I would react. Why do you ask?"
"I don't know for
sure," he said, "but you hear stories about guardian angels, and you
see movies about evil spirits. I can appreciate the one but not the other, I've
just been thinking along those lines lately."
Returning
to school on the next day, he was excited to put his new found ability to
practice, in the face of threat from the school bullies, determined to never
suffer from their hands again, and thrilled to see their faces when he would
disappear, watching them flounder with confusion. Weaving through the heavy
traffic of the school hallway, he dropped off his backpack and lunch at his
locker and hurried to class, avoiding all contact with other students.
The
bell rang marking the end of class and he returned to his locker to hear
snickering and laughing as his four abusers walked towards him with the intent
to encircle him to provide another beating, but his response was quicker than
theirs and he ran around the distant corner, into the bathroom, to quickly
remove his clothes and toss them into the trash can. He pressed himself against
the wall, completely invisible and relished their confused looks as they
searched each stall, swearing profusely and uttering threats of even more
severe beatings.
As
they spoke, he could see shadow-like images surrounding them, far too large to
be actual shadows for the fluorescent lighting rendered that an impossibility.
The dark images around them lingered as they four boys left and he could feel
their eyes upon him, so he avoided eye contact uncertain of the intent of these
entities. "You're perfectly fine," he heard a deep voice say,
"I'm always here with you and they do not have permission to touch
you." Turning toward the voice, he saw possibly the largest human he had
ever seen, a man easily seven feet tall, stunningly handsome, and very well
built. "I am Azrael," he said, "I've always been at your side
and am quite curious as to what exactly happened that you can now see me and
them. Use this ability to your advantage, you seem to have crossed over in some
sense."
He
thanked the massive man to his left and turned to retrieve his clothing from
the waste basket, praying that the bullies had moved on to the next class. He
turned himself back on and rushed to his next class, slipping through the door
just as the bell rang to see one of his oppressors staring at him from the back
of the room.
His
daily life became a pattern of refining his skill of avoiding conflict,
interacting with the massive man who apparently had always been with him and
feeling horrified at seeing the black creatures every time he went invisible,
but being careful to avoid their gaze as he feared their certain hostility. Frustrated
and confused at their mere existence, he became bold in his approach and began
to spend more time invisible, watching the shadow creatures in their
involvement with the other students, a lurking, lingering, penetrating sort of
interaction. Seeing an obvious change in the bully's attitude following each
aggressive encounter, he thought back to his ancient history classes and the
deities worshipped by the earliest civilizations. "This must be what was
taking place so long ago," he thought, "clearly these are not gods by
any stretch of the imagination, for they only have the power of influence, not
control, they seem to suggest not demand, sway but not dominate."
He
could see tendril like appendages penetrate wrap around his fellow students, in
awe of and thankful for his protection from such a violation, curious as well
to his seeming solitary protection. Having seen and now understanding the
constant oversight of his enormous and unstoppable guardian, he struggled to
devise some sort of appropriate response or retaliation for this situation,
passionately moved to assist his fellow students in whatever even small way
that he could.
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