Chapter I

First Chapter of what I have hopes of some day publishing...

Chapter I

 

The deafening wheet-wheet of cicadas’ twilight song muffled the steps of a lone teenage boy as he walked down the empty highway. Despite the late summer heat, the boy wore a brown leather jacket and gray cargo pants with tattered ends that were splayed over scuffed black leather boots. Over his right shoulder hung a black messenger bag, and loosely wrapped around his neck was a dark green fleece scarf. Black, semi-curly hair poked out in almost every direction from under a tan cab driver’s hat. Neon lights and signs drew his attention to a small deli, a place that families would stop at to enjoy a quick lunch before continuing on to their destination. The boy’s stomach growled. Tentatively he reached into his pocket and felt for what little money he had. His stomach growled again…

Upon entering the establishment, the soothing beat and relaxing tempo of the cicadas’ song was replaced by the irritating buzz of an air conditioning unit. The walls were yellowing, but the tables and peeling linoleum floor seemed clean enough. A long stretch of counter top and sneeze guard next to the register allowed any customers to watch their food being prepared. The boy walked up to the counter and pulled out a single bill.

In a voice hoarse from lack of use he asked, “I have five dollars sir… what is the most I can get for it?”

The man behind the counter turned around. He wore a patch over his left eye, and for a moment the boy wondered if it was real. The man was in desperate need of a shave. The apron, stretched around his portly girth, was probably at one time white but now had degraded to an odd shade of tan-brown, with irregular stains, as the result of different sauces, dressings, and toppings being spilt onto it over countless years.

In an almost absurd contradiction to his appearance when he spoke his voice was high in pitched and melodic, almost as if he were singing.

“I can get you an eight-inch sandwich or a baked potato with the works, what will it be?”

“A sandwich please… with ham if that’s possible.”

“Possible?”’ the man said, his voice raising half an octave, “of course it’s possible! Look around son, you’re in a deli.”

The boy only looked down and walked to the end of the counter to await his meal and pay. A bell gave off a light chime as three people entered the deli. A mother and father spoke to each other about what to order while their young daughter, who couldn’t have been more than five or six, looked at the boy with stunning blue eyes. The boy looked back at her, and for a moment they made eye contact. In that moment the boy noticed that in addition to her blue eyes, she had shoulder-length blond hair as well as a myriad of freckles on her face. She smiled at the boy, her front two teeth were missing. Turning away from the girl, the boy didn’t smile back… he could not...

 

“Running away from home, son?” the large deli worker asked in a jokingly after observing the boy’s serious demeanor and traveled attire.

A sarcastic bark of laughter escaped the boy before he said “If only I had a home to run from…”

 

The deli worker cocked an eyebrow, but said no more on the subject. Instead he asked, “Chips and a drink?”

 

Six months ago, the boy would have said yes without a moment of hesitation. Six months ago, he could afford to say yes. Six months ago, he was just another spontaneous sixteen-year-old boy, with friends and a family that cared for him. But that was all once upon a time. Once upon that time he had been Mitchell Carter, but not anymore, Mitchell Carter was dead. Mitchell Carter had been too happy-go-lucky to plan for anything…  He never planned for any of this…

“No.” He replied curtly.

“Alright.” the man said. “Four eighty-seven”

The boy handed him his last five dollar bill, and after taking his change, took his sandwich to a table and unwrapped its wax paper covering. He tore the sandwich in half and re-wrapped the larger of the two, not trusting himself with the whole thing. Placing the larger piece in the side pocket of his pants, he walked to the door. As he passed the family, he looked back down at the young girl. She was still staring. The mother looked over at her daughter, then up at the boy.

“Dear,” she said addressing her daughter “it isn’t polite to stare-- I’m sorry young man, was she--” But the boy was gone.

 

Night had fallen; the cicadas had ceased their song for the evening and now the only sounds that could be heard were the rustle of leaves and the movements of nocturnal animals that moved through the bushes off the side of the road the boy currently walked down. He eventually fell into a trance-like state; when he walked, his mind wandered, only to return to him long enough for him to realize where he was. This time his mind returned to him he realized he was at a fork. To the left was an unspecified distance of trees and grass. To the right was a sign welcoming any who cared to read it to the subdivision called Shadow Spring Meadow West.

The boy looked left first. He had been on the road for a long time, best to not stop if he was just going to end up walking down this road anyway. He began to turn left when a breeze that soon turned into a forceful gale blew into his face and down the right road, and then stopped almost as suddenly, leaving the night still and silent, giving a most unnatural quality to it. Mitchell Carter was religious, ready to talk to God about anything and accept virtually everything as a sign. The boy standing in the street, though, was in no way religious… When the absurd notion that this was “God’s” will crossed the boy’s mind he dismissed it as he would a fly... However, as the gale blew past, the boy it felt as though hands were trying to pull him back down the right road. The boy stood firm though, and turned away from it, fully intending to continue his journey into the unknown, but then an odd feeling came over him. It was as if a warm and gentle voice spoke into his mind in words the boy could not understand. Words that seemed as though they were from a dream half forgotten. The boy shook his head, determined to dismiss the matter, when another gust of wind blew into his face, as if urging him down the road into the sleepy subdivision. The voice in his head spoke louder; to the boy standing in the street the voice sounded as if it were the shouts of a person from far away, from behind the curtain that separated the conscious mind and the unconscious. The person there was only a silhouette, shrouded behind the veil of a dream lost ... Maybe it was a sign… Maybe Mitchell Carter wasn't dead... The boy turned and with the wind to his back walked down the road… Into Shadow Spring Meadow West...

 

 

It was nearly dawn before the boy stopped again. Having wandered in his dreamlike state, he awoke to find himself staring at a large, two-story house. The house had both a porch and balcony that wrapped around the front and right side. At one time, the house had been painted white, but now was a shade dull gray. The remaining paint was chipped and cracked from years of neglect. As the boy walked to the door, the overgrown grass and weeds that made up the flora of the front yard brushing his fingertips as he walked. As he neared the steps, the boy noticed the remains of what was once a magnificent flower garden.  Now however, most of the bushes were dead or so severely overgrown that they now were just masses that crept up at the side of the porches warped railings and pillars.

The gray predawn light and the faint mist that covered the ground, gave the house and its surroundings an almost ethereal look. The boy ascended the steps with the reverence of a priest approaching an altar, but then stopped. He saw that the porch was now only a shadow of what it once had been. Standing still, and staring as if through the veils of time, the boy could almost  see all the smiling faces as they laughed and joked on the smooth aged wood that made up the floor. He could almost hear the radio playing through the window as everyone on the block gathered on this very spot to dance and sing along. Now however, the porch stood only as a memento from a time long forgotten.

Now the porch was broken, like a man past his youth. All the rails were warped, from the sun, the wind, the heat of a thousand uncounted summers, and cold of just as many winters. They were once sturdy, strong and able enough to support the rail, but were now as old men, bent and hunched over with age.  The pillars, once as mighty and proud as the trees they were cut from, were now cracked and had begun to bend in places, as if bowing in respect to the god of time. The boy moved on to the door. Its shiny handle had been replaced in recent years and did not match the house. He grasped the handle, and, twisting it gently, felt it turn a quarter of the way before stopping. The boy reached into his bag and pulled out two twisted piece of metal, sliding them into the lock he deftly moved them around for a few seconds before there was a soft click, and the door opened. Silent as a ghost, the boy slipped inside. Somewhere outside, a robin began singing its morning song…

 

Opening the thick wooden door the boy entered into a foyer. The foyer opened into a dining room which had large bay windows that would have let in light if not for the moth-eaten curtains drawn tightly over them. The boy looked around, seeing it not as it appeared, but as it most likely had once looked, with golden light pouring onto a dining table, and a large smiling family gathered around it recounting the events of their day.  Leaving the dining room, he made his way to the living room. A large gray sheet covered two couches that had been pressed up against the wall. Pulling away the sheet and releasing the large pile of dust that had accumulated on it into the air. Caught in the little morning light that filtered in though small holes unseen, the dust took on the hue of gold as it floated lethargically through the air. The couch was covered in patches of dead fungus and mold that had grown during wetter times. Now though, the couch was dry, the boy collapsed onto it and was asleep before his head had even hit the cushion.

 

                Orange flames, searing heat, blinding light, the screams of a little girl. Mitchell Carter stood outside his house. Tears streaming down his face for the last time they ever will, as men in canvas suits held him back from the scorching heat and flames. An animalistic snarl and howl of rage escapes the lips of Mitchell carter as he surges forward, breaking through the grasp of the canvas-clad men, as they shout for him to return. Mitchell Carter plunges into the flames. Mitchell Carter cannot breathe; the heat and flames are suffocating him. He falls to the ground… The screams of the girl have stopped…

 

                The boys’ eyes opened. He had been dreaming. It was the same dream he always had. He had never slept through the entire dream, yet he knew how it ended. Wiping the beads of cold sweat from his brow, the boy continued his exploration of the house. He had slept to noon and now the suburb was alive and awake. Through the thin wooded walls the boy could hear the goings-on of many people, a child played fetch with his dog, a man swore as he burned his hand while working on his car. The boy found the stairs and ascended them silently. Reaching the top floor, the boy found three rooms as well as a bathroom. Two of the three rooms were unlocked and empty; the window in the first of the two rooms had been shattered by a baseball which lay in the center of the room, having never been retrieved.  Descending the stairs the boy retraced his steps through the house and located the front door, opening and closing it quietly. He made his way across the lawn and found the metal plate that covered the valves and pipes that would supply water to the house.  The boy reached down and turned the only lever pointed at “closed” to “open”.  A light rattle and shake from the pipe signified that water was now flowing to the house. Turning to go back into the house the boy stopped his retreat and looked at the quiet suburban street where he had decided to spend the night. There were a variety of trees: live oaks, maples, beeches, as well as a single pine, which was by far the largest and oldest tree. It stood in the yard of the house across the street from the boy.  Looking up into the branches the boy was reminded of arms that climbed ever slowly into the sky. The boy absent-mindedly grabbed his own arm, recalling having broken it once when climbing a similar tree. However, once he touched his arm, the spell of the great pine was broken and the boy tore his gaze away from the tree. He returned into the house, now aware of the ever-present shadow that loomed in the street in front of the house, slowly encroaching on the boy himself.

                 With water now restored to the house, the boy again ascended the worn steps and walked directly to the bathroom. Going to the glowing outline of the window, the boy carefully slid the curtain, brittle with age, out of the way. After uncounted years of darkness, the bathroom was once again filled with light. In the Bathroom there was only a small cabinet that held a sink, an old fashioned bath tub stood against the back wall, and in the corner stood a mirror, partially covered by a moth-eaten sheet. Shutting the door behind him, the boy first took off his messenger bag and placed it gingerly on the ground next to the counter that held the sink. Next the boy removed the leather jacket, which he folded and placed next to his bag. The boy’s hat had had fallen off while he slept. He didn’t bother to retrieve it.  The boy removed his boots, his socks worn thin, the tattered and frayed cargo pants, the black t shirt which was the only thing he wore under the jacket, and finally his underpants.

The boy stood nude in front of the sheet covered-mirror, hands shaking he reached forward and pulled the sheet away… The boy looked into a mirror for the first time in over half a year and saw a stranger looking back at him. The stranger’s body was hard and lean, nothing like the body the boy remembered. The body in the mirror staring back at the boy now, was hard and angled, it had no body fat… and many scars. Numerous shiny-white and dull-red scars covered much of the stranger’s body. The boy and stranger both reached to their right collar bones, halfway between his neck and shoulder, feeling the smooth scar tissue, white as cream, he traced it down. Splitting into two sections, it descended one length of shiny white tissue stretched all the way down his left thigh, the other descended past his navel. Several other patches of scars covered the body of the boy. Most of his right thigh was hairless and pale, pulled taut over the muscle. The boy felt the scars that now covered his once-unmarred body, and watched as the stranger did the same on the other side of the glass. The boy looked up and noticed the face of the stranger. It was the same face, it was his face. A crushing sense of anguish came over the boy, as he fell to the floor. He felt as if he were a shadow of a person, being held together by the stitching that was the scars that now crisscrossed his body. But the boy was real, he knew he was real, he had felt the flames of hell, and they burned just as the flames of earth do. The boy stood up and looked again into the mirror. The face of the stranger was still his. He was the stranger in the mirror, and he accepted this.

                Turning to the bath tub, the boy noticed that it stood upon four legs each of which had been made in the shape of a clawed foot. They were made of a metal that had turned black with age. The boy reached towards the faucet, noticing that it was made of the same metal as the feet. The knobs were in the shape of feathered wings, and the faucet itself was in the shape of the head of an eagle. The boy turned one of the knobs and dark brown water that reeked of rotten things rushed forth. It was a few minutes before the dark brown water became light brown, and a few minutes more before it became tan. Finally, the water turned clear and cold as ice. It lowered the temperature in the room by a few degrees, which was enough to make goose flesh appear on the boy’s arms, legs, and chest. The boy reached over and pulled up on a small lever that opened the way between the pipes of the house. Water ushered forth from a second faucet, higher up that was also larger and would act as a showerhead. It took a few seconds for the pipes leading up to the shower faucet to be cleaned of dirt and rust and for the water to once again turn clear. Once it was, the boy stepped into the water.

                As soon as the water hit the boy’s skin he let out a slight gasp, shivering as the icy liquid flowed down his back. The boy vigorously rubbed his arms and legs, wiping away the dirt and grime that accumulated over several months of travel, as well as several shades of tan with it. The dust that had built up in his hair, giving it a gray tint, was washed away, revealing jet black hair, stretching out the waves and curls, it now fell down to his shoulders. As soon as he was as clean as he was going to get, the boy stepped out of the shower and once again flipped the switch that dictated which faucet the water would pour from. With the water now falling out of the original faucet, the boy looked around for something to plug the drain. Seeing no plug, he took his own underwear and, after running them under the cool water to clean them, wadded them into a small ball and used them to clog the drain. As the icy water slowly filled the tub the boy grabbed his pants, removed everything from the pockets and placed them on the ground.

 As soon as the pockets were empty, the boy turned to watch the water in the bathtub slowly rise. He placed his hand in the water, watching as a few tendrils of dirt were lifted from his skin, and brought a handful to his mouth. The water was clean and clear. He took a sip. Unaccustomed to the bitter taste of chlorinated tap water as it flowed over his teeth and tongue, the boy nearly spat it out in disgust, much like he nearly did six months before when he had first consumed water from a small pool of rain water. After the initial shock from the icy cold water, the boy took another handful to his mouth, then another, and another. The boy continued drinking until he was full. This had been the first time in a long while he had been able to quench his thirst. Sighing contently, he turned and lifted his gray cargo pants. After another quick check of all the pockets, he placed the pants in the water, watching as the brown dirt transferred its color to the surrounding water. Next was his black shirt, which also darkened the once-pristine water.

                Once both articles of clothing were completely wet, the boy began scrubbing the shirt. He rubbed the fabric against itself, clawed at it with his fingernails, and repeatedly wrung out the water, wiped away any grime that remained, and then put the piece of clothing back into the water. Once the boy was satisfied with the amount of dirt he had managed to get off the shirt he moved to the pants. The cicada’s evening song could once again be heard when the boy finished.

Illuminated by what little light remained filtering in through the window, the bot looked at the now muddy brown water. Reaching down to the drain and pulled his underwear out of the water, which now looked exactly as it had when it had first flew out of the dirty rusty pipes of the house… the boy was suddenly struck by a bout of laughter.

Forcing himself to stop laughing but still grinning wildly he smiled and said, “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust…”

Author's Note

so there it is, what do you think?

Reviews

[~Artemis~]

This is really good writing, and I loved the way you told the story. So many questions! But that was good... I loved the way you started your story too, and how you kept going back to the birds...
I just have one little peice of critiquing. You refer to him as "the boy" a lot. I get that your being discrete with details, but you could probably find another noun to use.
He, the teenager, and the traveler are some examples that I think could fit.
Another than that great job!