Dale's Secret part 1-2

A Story by Lesley

A short story incorporating characters from my longer novel project An American Legend. This text may eventually be partially incorporated into the story itself, in a modified form.

Dale Reinsburg.

The middle of Charles and Sophia's three sons, and just old enough at the time of the disaster to suffer the brunt of losing his father. Unlike Conner, who lashed out at others to save himself from his hurt, Dale turned the pain he felt inward in a way none of the people who cared about him would see until it was nearly too late.

From the beginning he was the one most exceptionally like Charles, with his mousey hair and thick build; he was also endearingly loyal and compassionate, if sometimes blinded by idealisms. And as he grew older, he also began to pick up some of his father's passions and idiosyncrasies- occasionally by coincidence, but mostly due to a burning desire to make up for what was lost. Of all of these, the one that became closest to his heart was hunting.

Conner and Sheridan where largely ambivalent about the collection of big game rifles Charles had left behind, and as he had not left a will it was unknown who they would have been intended for. As such, they fell directly into Dale's hands, and it was here his macabre fascination for those dangerous little things that made him feel so alive began.

The year he turned twelve, his grandfather Alastair indulged the boy and took him deer hunting, a trip during which the seemingly gifted young sharpshooter downed his first buck. His love was then and there solidified, and they continued to make many such trips each season. But Alastair in his detached manner couldn't see that what was intended as an innocent bonding activity was feeding in Dale an unhealthy obsession with pain and suffering- he couldn't see that his grandson was not of a stable enough mind to be trusted with such things. For because his hurt was invisible to his family, they could have no idea just how fragile he really was.

It had all been building to that day in the kitchen, in the year he turned fourteen.

Because Sophia worked long hours to support her boys, it was often Conner and Dale who were left to babysit Sheridan. Dale in particular made himself responsible for cooking meals, yet another special passion that had once been his father's. This day had been a bad one, and he was still annoyed from arguing with his older brother about what to prepare for dinner. But as always he was reserved about his feelings, passively having decided to go with Conner's idea of cooked vegetables and rotisserie chicken.

He had taken out a cutting board and started to chop up a stick of celery, when quite suddenly the knife became stuck in the thick stalk. He tried to remove it with one hand but didn't notice he was yanking it towards his other hand, which he was using to hold the celery down. The blade to popped out of the celery and slashed him across the knuckles. He yowled, dropped the knife on the floor and grabbed the injury as blood dripped onto the counter.

Then for a minute or two he stood there in silence, staring at his wound as it bled out over the back of his hand. They were only shallow cuts, nothing to be terribly concerned about; but for some reason he was in shock, gaping at what he'd done. He'd seen more blood then this many times in his life, and this wasn't the first time he'd gotten hurt working in the kitchen, but something this time was different.

Maybe it was because he was still angry about his fight with Conner, or maybe it was a culmination of many years being blindly fed spoonfuls of morbidity by his grandfather, but in that moment something deep within Dale's mind changed. For the first time he was consciously aware of how in awe he was of his own seemingly inevitable suffering, and gradually the dangerous thoughts crept up and seduced him into making a decision from which there was no turning back.

He reached to pick the knife up from the floor.

At first he only looked it over and stared at his foggy reflection in the steel, as if something inside him was yelling at him not to do what he was about to do. There was yet another, briefer pause as he rolled up his sleeves and placed the blade against his arm.

And then within the same moment he was over the edge, having made that first long, diagonal scar on his body. And then another, deeper this time, so that he would bleed better. It hurt like all hell. But it felt incredible, exhilarating. He couldn't stop; he cut himself again and again with his knife, now an object of endearment for the pleasure it gave.

He sounded like a madman, laughing softly to himself as he inflicted more wounds on his body.

By the time his arms and shoulders where covered in cuts, his head had cleared once again, and he knew what he had to do. He tucked the knife in his pocket and pulled down his shirt sleeves to hide the evidence of the crime he'd committed. Digging in a junk drawer, he found a thermometer and ran it under hot water from the tap. Then he walked out into the living room, looking as inconspicuous as possible. There was Conner, watching TV with Sheridan. They looked calm, oblivious to their brother's ever silent suffering.

"Conner, I feel like s**t. I think I have a fever." He showed his brother the manually heated thermometer, and was rewarded with nods of agreement.

"Look, I'll cook supper; you should go to bed. I can even make that pasta you wanted before. I'll bring it up to your room when it's done." Conner smiled warmly. He had fallen for the trap hook line and sinker.

Dale forced a fake smile back at him and quickly headed up the stairs and went into his room. He shut the lights off and then took out the knife again, throwing himself down on his bed. He admired it. Here was the answer to all his troubles; since his family couldn't help him, he had found a way to help himself. This time there was barely any hesitation, with great enthusiasm he tore off his shirt and continued where he had left off, sustaining himself on the thrill of drawing blood from his own body.

And it went on for about fifteen minutes, until he collapsed and buried his face in the pillow, drifting off into sleep. He couldn't tell how long he'd been out when he finally heard Conner's footsteps outside in the hallway. He quickly hid the knife and covered up in the blankets as he did not have enough time to redress. His brother opened the door and flipped on the light, carrying a big plate of fettuccine alfredo, Dale's favorite food.

"I'm just going to set this on your nightstand so you can get it when you feel better. Is everything okay with you?" Conner seemed to sense the tense air in the room.

Dale grinned faintly at him.

"It's all good, just a flu bug."