Punching Bag

 

            The house was eerily quiet as Margaret sat reading on the living room couch working through "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe," possibly the tenth time through her favorite series. The only sound she could hear was that of her brother breathing and occasionally shifting in his seat by the fireplace, which for some reason preferring the stone bench across its front instead of the couch or a chair. She loved her brother dearly, as he was by far the kindest and most thoughtful person she had ever known. But for some reason unknown to her, the little boy, small even for his age, was the brunt of much verbal and occasional physical abuse at school.

              She had confronted him about this on many occasions and his answer was always the same, "They don't understand, they probably have something bad going on at home, I don't let it bother me," which always stirred up anger within her, knowing that there was no legitimate excuse for such cruelty upon such a wonderful little person. After hearing this response too many times, she finally gave up and did her best to intervene on his behalf without making him appear weak.

              She, her brother, and her parents sat in relative silence during dinner that evening, and Margaret made every effort to stimulate conversation among the four of them, an effort that bore fruit every few minutes, to be replaced by more silence until she tried again and again. With little Walter in her peripheral vision, she watched him choosing very small portions to delicately nibble at them, deliberately timing the finishing of his meal with the rest of his family, and they, as a singular unit rose from their seats to place their dirty dishes in the sink.

              The following morning after a ridiculously small breakfast on Walter's part, he and Margaret stood at the bus stop, she under the ample plexiglass shelter, while Walter stood in the rain, seemingly undeterred by the fact that he was becoming more and more damp by the moment. As the bus stopped in front of them, Margaret hurried in first to pause and direct Walter to the empty seat directly behind the driver, knowing full well that any attempt by him to blend in with the other students would only result in additional bullying.

              Halfway through the day as the period just preceding lunch ended, Margaret entered the hallway to see Walter surrounded by three very large older children as he tried to access his locker, to only have it slammed time and again with each attempted opening. Silently approaching from behind, she drove her knee into the groin of the closest bully, dropping him to his knees, giving Walter a moment to finish his locker transition and escape to the lunchroom. She and her closest friends surrounded the small boy sitting alone in a corner table, with the goal of providing a barrier of protection.

              The knot in her stomach slowly dissipated as lunch continued on without incident, allowing her to finish the highly processed and rather bland meal, something remotely like spaghetti but more like noodles and ketchup. As a group, the six girls and one little boy left the cafeteria and went their separate ways, but Margaret kept one eye on Walter until the bell rang moving them to different classes. Fourth, then fifth then sixth periods passed, and she hurried down the hall with the hope of walking him to his locker and finally to the bus. But the distance was too great, and she watched with horror as a fellow classmate punched Walter so hard that he folded in half, forcing him to sit down, and lean against the wall.

              Sliding to the floor next to him, she pulled his head onto her shoulder and eventually helped him to his feet, to reach the just closing bus door for a hopefully uneventful ride home. Once again, she directed him to the seat directly behind the bus driver, providing a direct line of vision from her seat about halfway back, sad as she watched him slowly lean against the window to remain motionless for the remainder of the ride.

              As the bus stopped, Walter and Margaret glided onto the sidewalk and across the threshold into the warm bliss of their home. She dropped her bag next to her shoes and Walter immediately crossed the living room to sit upon the stone ledge facing the fireplace, an unsurprising routine that always left her baffled, wondering why someone would choose discomfort over ease, or like his meals, choosing want over plenty.

              As dinner was called, Walter remained in his place, slowly rocking himself, explaining in as few words as possible his lack of desire for sustenance. "Did something happen as school today?" their mother asked, and Margaret quickly spoke up with the usual answer. "Yes, something happened at school today like it always does. I don't know why the kids are so mean to him." True to form, Margaret scoured her mind for topics to discuss as they sat in near silence, her mind constantly returning to the terrible blow that Walter received earlier, an image she could not erase from her mind.

              After clearing her cup and plate she returned her gaze to the fireplace to see only an empty room, curious how Walter had moved so quickly and silently. She hurried up the stairs and could hear the muffled voice of Walter coming from his room, to pause at the door, feeling a little self-conscious at eavesdropping but terribly interested in what he was saying. Most of the words were unintelligible but she was able to pick up the names of many of her classmates. Sitting on the floor immediately in front of his door, she pressed her ear close and realized that he was praying for those who were constantly and only mean to him.

              The following three days were a depressing repetition of the former, as little Walter lived on the receiving end of punches, shoves, trips, and name calling but each event was a non-event to him, his response always the same, indifference and forgiveness. The last day of the week finally arrived and Margaret entered the cafeteria with her friends to see Walter sitting at a table in the center of the room surrounded by five older classmates with whom he traded each item of his lunch, a cookie for an apple, a juice box for an apple, a piece of pizza for an apple, until he sat with six apples on his tray, clearly content with his culinary exchanges.

              Having interacted with Walter for everyday of his life, Margaret was not surprised to see this next step in his development, which she suspected was part of a carefully crafted plan and approach for dealing with his opponents, though he didn't speak of them in this way. Entirely unnoticed, she watched him fill is pockets with the apples, rise from the table and leave the cafeteria, undisturbed by anyone and seemingly oblivious anything that went on around him. She and her friends followed him to his locker, agreeing among themselves to acknowledge what had just taken place.

              As the day drew to an end, Margaret watched him drift through the hallway, eating an apple, untouched and unhindered by anyone, to follow him to the bus, which upon entering alone, he descended to the far back to take an entire row to himself with a look of absolute peace and contentment across his face.

              At dinner that evening, Margaret, Walter, and their parents sat together in their usual semi-silence. As Walter finished his meal, surprisingly earlier than everyone else, to stand from his seat, clear his throat, and say, "It was only a matter of time. Good always wins."

A Conundrum of Sorts

 

            Waking from a dream he could not remember, Otis wondered why everything was so bright. He felt as if he'd been run over by a truck, to use a common metaphor, feeling achy but stiff all at the same time, finding himself strangely awkward and clumsy, still struggling to remember what had taken place just prior to his bright awakening. He opened two eyes to a blurry reality in a room painted in an uncomfortable pale pink with one window very high up and no doors.

              Stark naked and slightly cold, he shifted himself around, working to gain control of his limbs, managing to work himself up onto one elbow, as his head bobbled around, still struggling to focus on something but the only thing of distinction was the singular window. Everything else was smooth and featureless, even the table he laid upon sported the same color and texturelessness. Eventually getting a second elbow beneath him, he watched himself wiggle his toes, overjoyed at the small step toward self-control and clarity of vision.

              Feeling winded but uncertain why, making the logical presumption that he had previously been doing some sort of physical exertion but sadly oblivious to any former memories. He vigorously rubbed his face and swung his feet over the edge of the table, struggling to balance himself between his butt and his two arms, both feeling wobbly. An abrupt growl escaped from his stomach to be immediately followed by the appearance of a small opening directly across from him slide open.

              Curious but at the same time fearful of trying to walk across this open space with no means of support, he realized that the small opening presented two containers emitting a pleasant and smooth odor, which prompted him to overcome his fears and slowly walk across the space, eventually balancing himself with one hand on the lip of the opening and the other to extract the two containers. One contained a warm, while liquid and the other a brown, pasty substance that smelled wonderful. He placed them on the floor near his feet, to join them in a sitting position, satiating his hunger without hesitation. The small window quickly closed, and Otis sat alone in the silence relishing the warm and tasty food, all the time wondering what would be the next thing to observe and hopefully do, for he feared that boredom would quickly set in.

              Though the ground was soft beneath him, instead of again rising to his feet, he crawled, hands and knees back to the table to pull himself into a standing position, using the table as a source of balance and protection, walking around it to improve his mobility. As the time passed, he realized that his vision became more and more clear, giving him the ability to see the outline of the small window that provided him food and another slightly larger outline, which he hoped would provide something of value.

              Feeling more and more certain of his abilities, he ultimately let go of the table and began walking the room, exploring every inch, hoping to learn and understand the nature of his existence and hoping to recall something from his time before his arrival here, if there was such a thing. With a sudden swoosh, he turned to see the larger opening now open, offering up some articles of clothing, which he promptly put on, feeling much better about being somewhat covered.

              The self-imposed exercise brought with it, unsurprisingly, a level of fatigue, prompting him to return to the table and fall asleep, to awaken after an unknown amount of time to the swoosh of the first opening open a second time with another offering of food. He sat up, swung his feet over the edge and retrieved his next meal, this time without the need to sit on the floor, slowly strolling the room as he ate. He returned the two containers and looked up at the window, through which bled a warm white light, prompting his curiosity. With a slight jump, he caught the lip of the window and pulled himself up, seeing what he thought to be another room, this one, hopefully with other people, for he had begun to struggle with the solitude.

              Letting go and dropping to the floor, he felt across the wall that contained the window in hopes of finding another opening, hopefully larger than the other two that provided him food and clothing. With a leap of excitement, he sensed a long thin line from floor to just beyond face height that continued to the left and then paralleled the first just a bit over and returned to the floor. "This is definitely an opening," he thought, "but why so large?"

              He paced the space directly in front of his latest discovery and waited for it to open but finally growing bored with the lack of activity, he began to push on the space between the lines, but feared he may have been too weak to make a change to its current immobile state. He made the decision to push with both hands, directly in the center and was thrilled to hear the familiar swoosh as the opening slid slightly back and out of view to the right.

              This new space into which he stepped contained a few other individuals somewhat like himself but busy with millions of pieces that had been scattered across the floor. This room was much, much larger, brightly lit, and colorful, with a scent of something sweet and pleasant filling the air, the surrounding walls filled with pictures of people. The look of confusion must have been clearly evident upon his face as an older woman with a gentle smile approached him and gave him a hug. "Hello, Otis," she said, "we are all so glad that you've joined us. Take a seat and see what you can do with the puzzle before us."

              Uncertain of her words, he smiled back and looked around the room to see some of the other occupants seated, shuffling through the many tiny pieces all across the floor but others merely sat with their faces to the fall, doing nothing, having it seemed to either removed their clothing or never put them on in the first place. He walked from person to person, seeking direction and advice, to finally learn that the chore before them all was to contribute in any way they could to finish the puzzle, with none of them absolutely certain what the image on the puzzle would reveal.

              Now with a sliver of understanding, he sat nearest the most helpful other and began shifting through the pieces making the occasional connection, to realize that the image before him was a thing of beauty, stirring within him a new level of excitement as he made more and more connections. He would become occasionally distracted by the others who sat naked, doing nothing, and wondered why they did not contribute to the massive responsibility before them all. As time continued on, he found great joy in the progress he had made, seeing others making progress as well, he offered words of encouragement, to come to the understanding that this had been going on for a very long time, the puzzle slowly coming together.

              Occasionally, others would enter the room with the same befuddled look as himself, some to interact, to learn, and to contribute, but others were merely naked and sat facing the wall like the others, doing nothing, and offering nothing. He found that the more he interacted with fellow contributors, the more progress he made, learning from the wisdom and experience of others.

              Taking the occasional break, he would stroll around the room, marveling at the progress others had made, putting in an effort in different locations and finding great success in whatever he did. After a particularly long stretch of work, he leaned back on his hands and watched one of his older, fellow contributors stand and leave the space, the door swooshing closed behind him as he exited. Feeling somewhat confused, he approached the older woman to inquire of what had just taken place. "You too will do the same thing at some point," she said, "you'll know when it is your time. No one stays here forever. You are to contribute to the best of your ability and then you move on. From what I have been told, the next room is even more glorious and comforting. I look forward to making the transition myself."

              Otis returned to his first space of work and continued adding more value, making the decision to create connections on each side of the room, and to interact with as many as he could. It was when he began to feel sleepy that he rose from his knelt position and approached the door through which the other man had passed. As he stepped into the next room, he was greeted by a very large, kind eyed man who handed him a single piece of a puzzle, inviting him in, congratulating him on the great work that he had completed. "This is your last work," he said, "enter into the next space, enjoy the beauty and grace and find the one space that will accept this final piece."

              Otis walked into the room to see a small puzzle on the floor, to see many, many others standing about, laughing, talking, and interacting, with a feeling of rest and comfort. He knelt on the floor, slid the final piece into place and joined a small group of other men, who warmly welcomed him, offering him a steaming cup of pale brown liquid, warm to the touch.

Retrospection

 

            Daryl stood on the boardwalk alone, out beyond lay the ocean, its ebbing and pulsing created a hypnotical feel and he stared into nothingness, albeit far from absentmindedness, he thought of everything, every word, and every action, regretting so many things he had done and not done. The air was cool but not cold, his overcoat, with collar upturned kept him warm, yet he was content. The sounds of Mozart’s funeral requiem played in his mind, drawn from a memory of tens of thousands of hours of music, like a radio station with no knobs, no control, an incessant flow through his ever-active mind.

              The occasional passerby would momentarily block his vision and then move on, like everyone else in his life, these momentary blips that he appreciated but did not understand, of the multitude of smiling faces that may or may not have genuine feeling behind it. He had no way of knowing. He had learned to think the best of people but far too often that gesture of presumed kindness would be eradicated by a comment made about someone else’s comment.

              He turned his gaze from the ocean and looked far off to his left, an endless vision of hardwood walkway punctuated by seemingly happy people. But again, he possessed no way of knowing, for social interaction had always been a mystery to him, something that seemed to come so naturally to everyone else he knew. He could only look in from the outside, like a strange voyeur trapped in isolation but only wanting to understand. He knew all of the theories of human nature, he knew all of the expert opinions and analyzes but these were only guesses as mankind existed as individuals, not theories or averages.

              Looking up, his attention captured by a flock of seagulls moving together with an unseen connection, a mutual need or desire at least, for food. “They have it so easy,” he thought. “The curse of introspective thought is a burden when there is no one with whom to retrospect.” Shoving his hands back into his pockets, he turned to the right and started walking, alone with no specific destination in mind.

              Reaching the edge of town, he joined a sparse collection of people on the sidewalk, glancing at storefronts as he passed each one, enjoying the variety of items on display but disgusted at the same time with the obscene focus on wealth, comfort, beauty, and distraction. He crossed over an alleyway between stores and paused as he heard the thick, phlegmy cough of an old man sitting next to a dumpster, wearing no shoes, no coat, no hat, looking at him holding a small cup.

              Daryl dug into his pocket, looking for loose change but only found bills, stuffing one into the man's cup but also extended his hand to help him to his feet. The old man groaned, slowly straightening his back until he stood at full height, not much more than five feet tall, to release another racking cough, followed by a yellowish blob of expectorant spat onto the ground to his right. He removed his jacket, draping it around the man's shoulders and introduced himself, to learn that the man had been homeless for six months, dreading the onset of winter and commenting that both of his feet had gone numb.

              "Don't go anywhere, sir," he said, taking a quick look at the man's socked feet. "I'll be right back." He quickly cut across the middle of the street to enter a clothing store, giving a brief, friendly wave to the salesclerk, motioning for him to approach. Exiting the store with a new coat, a pair of shoes, a stocking cap, and a three pack of handkerchiefs, he used the crosswalk this time to rejoin the man at the mouth of the alley. The pair stepped behind the bright blue dumpster to unpackage and properly dress the old man, and doing so, he could see him relax and sigh, the sound of thankfulness in appreciation for the meeting of his most basic of needs.

              "I've not eaten dinner yet," he shared with the old man, "would you care to join me in a meal? It is always much nicer to dine with someone rather than alone." The two of them walked a block in the opposite direction to enter a diner and take a seat, as the small chalkboard instructed them to do so. Lifting the plastic-coated menus from the aluminum rack at the back edge of the table, Daryl decided on the mac and cheese dinner with a side of broccoli and the old man, whose name Daryl just then learned was Abraham, ordered the spaghetti dinner with garlic bread.

              While their meals were being prepared and while they ate, Daryl listened to a long and devastating story about Abraham's return from the war in the Middle East, the death of his wife, the destruction of his home and all of his belongings in an attack upon him via arson, having only his truck to sleep in and the eventual sale of it in order to buy food for himself which resulted in him living in an alley, having his shoes and jacket stolen, the state in which Daryl found him.

              He listened in silence, occasionally nodding, and offering his condolence without sounding condescending, all the while with a racing mind trying to fabricate a solution for the man's deplorable and distressing state. Having few actual friends and few connections, Daryl offered to pay for a motel room for a night to give the man the opportunity to sleep well and seek out further help from others in the community. As they finished their meals, the two men embraced, walked to the nearest motel and then walked separate ways, Daryl leaving a phone number for Abraham call if he needed anything and feeling happy that he was able to help someone in need but at the same time wishing he could have done more, the tiny house that he called home offering no extra room for a second occupant.

              He returned to the boardwalk on the edge of the shoreline to re-immerse himself into his introspection again, vacillating between grief for the old man and thankfulness for his own secure and stable situation, even if alone. "The evil that men do," he thought, replaying Abraham's story in his mind, his heart aching, while at the same time praying for him, trusting that someone else could provide some means of aid to rescue him from the street and deprivation, having literally nothing to his name other than the clothes on his back.

              The chill of the winter wind biting through his coat prompted him to begin the long walk back to his home, less than a mile down the boardwalk, all the while providing a beautiful view of the ocean and the moon floating just above the sky and waterline, an opulent, swollen, whitish orb, easily ninety percent full, casting its ominous light that kept his path adequately lit. He approached the wrought iron gate with brick pillars, following it to a similar wrought iron man gate accompanied by a keypad into which he punched his code, to walk past the massive mansions that filled every lot with the exception of his and his tiny house. Having been the first to buy a lot, his small home was grandfather-claused in, allowing him to stay comfortable and guiltlessly humble even while surrounded by opulence and wealth.

              As the evening was still bearably comfortable, he added extra layers of clothing and sat on his small deck attached to the back of his home, a speck of living space in a vast sea of manicured lawn surrounded by mansions of epic brilliance, beauty, and size, most housing middle aged or older couples with a handful of servants, most of whom Daryl knew by name. At this late hour, he enjoyed the darkness of his surroundings having positioned himself free from neighboring porchlights and streetlights, glorying in the vast black sky speckled with countless stars.

              In the darkness and silence, he thought back over each step of his life, each event, each decision, in awe of the hand of God directing him, even when painful and difficult, to bring him to this place where he could assist others, while addressing only his own actual needs, befriending those alone, those empty and hurting, thankful for the grace given to him by his parents, his grandparents, his extended family, and those of his parish community. "Without love and compassion, we are nothing," he thought.

They Who Wished to Be Gods

 

            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.