The Acolytes of Crane "Updated Edition" (4 page)

I
had a coat on that my grandmother bought me from Big-Mart, back when it was
actually a cool place to shop. On the coat, there was a label: Flyboy. I
thought that was so cool.

When
we had finally arrived at the highest cliff, we found ourselves peering out to
the gloomy river, a sheer fifty feet below. Perhaps it was the worsening
weather, combined with the dizzying sight from the cliffs, but when we rested,
the mood among us changed entirely.

‘You
retard! What were you thinking? I can’t believe you kicked me in the nuts!’
Travis shouted, his eyes scrunched. ‘You’re lucky the Bricky was right behind
you, otherwise it would have been your death wish!’

‘Whoa,’
I said, caught off guard. ‘What’s gotten into your beehive now?’

Jason
said, ‘Travis, you have been tough on him, though, picking on him and stuff.’

‘I
don’t care,’ Travis said, and shoved me. Jason jumped in.

‘You
don’t need to push him, Travis!’ Jason said.

I
stood tall, realizing Jason had just stuck up for me.

Trying
to calm Travis down, I desperately tried to figure out what set him off. ‘Is
this about your dad beating you? Because...’

‘What!’
Jason turned to Travis, stunned.

Travis
glowered with a dangerous look in his eyes. ‘No,’ he sneered, ‘it’s all about
you.’ He grabbed my collar and read out loud the label on it. ‘Flyboy, it
should say freak-boy.’

Jason
leaned over and whispered, ‘Don’t take that crap from anyone, Theodore.”

Despite
Jason’s gesture, I just lost my temper. I grabbed Travis’s shoulder, and as he
swung out in defense, I received the point of his elbow cleanly on my nose. My
nostrils were pouring blood, and once the blood hit my hands, my rage knew no
limits. I charged Travis. I was fueled by the hatred of being belittled and
battered for so long.

All
my peripheral vision went black, and at the end of the tunnel was my nemesis.
In the thick of the frenzy, I felt Jason’s presence as his hands split the two
of us, trying desperately to break up the fight.

The
storm delivered a thwack and boom of thunder. My necklace shone bright in the
dark wild terror of the fight, and I feared they would see the amulet. The rain
drenched our altercation in downpour. Drops of water dripped downward off the
edge of my hood, creating a curtain of water that obstructed my sight. I took
in water through my nostrils from my heavy breathing.

Travis
lost his step near the edge of the cliff, and in reaction, grabbed onto Jason
for safety. When Jason also started to stumble toward the precipice, Travis
reached desperately for the tree next to him, grabbing a branch to safety. In
contrast, Jason had nothing to hold on to.

Looking
up from my burning amulet, I reached for Jason’s jacket. I had it in my hand
for a second, but the downpour loosened my grip. Jason slipped from my grasp.

Travis
and I watched in horror, kneeling over the edge, as our best friend fell down
the side of the cliff. Jason’s last act of his life—his blood-curdling
scream—struck terror into our hearts, creating an indelible memory of sheer horror.
The sound of a lifeless body smacked the water, and all that remained was the
rain pattering the stone of the cliffs. Aided by a flash of lightning, Travis
and I see Jason’s body as he floated lifeless with the river’s current.

“Then,
the rumble of the thunder came, and all was engulfed by blackness and eerie
calm. Jason’s life was taken by the rocky sides of the cliff and the murky
waters below it.”

I
glance around at the equally foreboding gloominess of my prison cell. While
shedding a tear at Jason’s memory, I figure I cannot afford to waste a drop
more, because I am at point of severe dehydration. Mustering my courage, I wipe
away the tear. My body sinks slowly to the mat on the hard floor as I am
overcome with exhaustion.

Time
goes by, as I drift in and out of consciousness.

“Roll
him over,” one of the guards says. “You forgot to restrain him, you idiot. Fire
up the cannon and keep it locked on eight-six-seven-five’s signature. Do you
have any idea who this is?”

“He’s
asleep, boss,” the rookie says.

Between
blinks, I see the veteran guard does not look like he wants to be here today.
He says to his colleague, “I will put
you
to sleep, if you screw up
again, rookie. Grab him up under the armpits there. I will slip the
temporalysis over his head.” As the device is placed behind my head, its bands
magically wrap around my skull, and its nodes press hard at my temples. I stir
somewhat.

“Hey,
that temporalysis thing really works. He was as limp as a dead fish, now look
at him! Who is he?”

“He
is Theodore Crane.”

“No
way! I should’ve known!”

“It’s
okay, rookie. It’s your first day. Come, I will tell you a secret. He isn’t the
toughest prisoner in here.”

The
rookie asks, “Really?”

“We
have the Ghost of Sephera here, as well,” the veteran guard says, and the
rookie’s eyes light up. Strategic information about the prison is being blabbed
away, because the two knuckleheads handling me believe I am still unconscious.
The veteran guard sees me recover further, and he promptly shuts up, then says,
“We will have the nurse check on him and then we’re out. Nurse! Get your ass in
here.”

The
nurse rushes in. She pierces my skin painlessly and hooks up a saline feeder
tube. After she injects something into the line, I suddenly become jittery. My
bladder is near explosion; my willpower is nil, and thus I am left with only
the humiliation of unloading.

“Haha!
He pissed himself,” the rookie says.

“Guns
at the ready, rookie,” the guard says.

“Oops,”
said the nurse, looking down at the ground next to me. She turned her head angrily
at the turrets and shouted, “Look what you’ve done! You’ve scared me!”

“Sorry,
missus,” the guard apologizes. Apparently his hardened persona could soften at
the sight of a pretty nurse.

She
kneels down into the ground, searching for an object. “Got it. I dropped a
needle. Alright sirs, I am finished,” the nurse announces out loud. Before
standing up, she leans in close next to my ear. Her lips are but a hair-width
away, and she breathlessly whispers to me, “See you, Theo.” Aroused, I
recognize her voice, but it would not be the first time my ears play a trick on
me.

The
guard removes the temporalysis and I bounce up quickly to identify the woman,
because few ever call me by that name. The rookie perceives my alertness as a
show of strength and yells, “Keep your head down prisoner! Don’t move. The
turret cannon is on you.”

The
veteran looks at the rookie and says, “Good job, kid.”

I
cower at the thought of the formidable weapon trained upon my head. I take off
my clothes to let them dry, becoming stark naked in the chilly damp air. I am
beyond embarrassment.

I
pick up the tablet and continue anything to keep my mind off the current
situation. I cannot cry, because weeping will dehydrate me further. Picking up
the tablet, I begin:

“We
went to Jason’s wake and then his funeral. I never saw such sadness before. The
casket was two-thirds the size of my great grandfather Willard’s.”

Travis
glared at me from across the room where Jason lay. Even though I felt Jason’s
death was an accident, Travis seemed as if he was holding me responsible.

We
left the funeral and while we drove along the road in my mom’s car, I stared
out the window. My mom was in tears. I tried to console her, but she was
saddened by the death of Jason deeply, as if he was her own son. She blamed
herself, moaning that she should’ve never allowed us three to head toward the
cliff. No one could convince her otherwise.

In
the car, I thought about the days of mourning before the funeral. I remembered
wishing that Jason were delivered to heaven. I cried out to God from the
salvation of my covers at night. I prayed that he could hear me and see my
anguish.

I
didn’t know then if God was there. God according to the Bible was omniscient
and omnipotent. When he didn’t respond to my complaint, I lashed out and cursed
his storied existence.

I
found out in one of my encyclopedias that only twenty-five percent of people in
America would see a bluebird once in their lifetime. It made me think what
percentage might see an eagle, or a macaw, or God in their lives.

We
arrived at home, and I was tired. It was time to grab some much-needed sleep,
as Jason’s death had replayed over and over in my mind while I attempted to
sleep the last few nights. I lay down in my parents’ bed for a nap, because the
apartment caretaker was shampooing our carpets, and he started in my room. In
my hand, I gripped my amulet.

The
amulet was my caretaker, and my canary in the mines of danger. I went through a
great deal of trouble to hide it from everyone. Always wearing a shirt outside
in the scorching heat was sometimes annoying.

The
next few weeks I spent a lot of time lying around because my depression and
fatigue were becoming worse. There was something wrong with me, and no one
seemed to care, not even myself. I chose to deal with only the symptoms, not
the cause, because the outcome of a trip to the doctor frightened me. It was
fear-induced denial.

The
beatings were getting worse, and sometimes they were brought on by the
slightest mistake: talking back to my mom, not making my bed, or even not
brushing my teeth was enough to receive a beat-down.

Although
I was resting a lot, emotionally I was strained to the breaking point. Even
with my necklace alerting me to imminent danger every time my father’s anger
was channeled toward me, there was no avoiding his wrath. He had recently been
fired for being late to work too many times. When he lost his job, his temper
teetered toward further abuse, and the frequency increased.

 I
was lying in my bed listening to the radio; a singer was belting out, ‘
It’s
a secret rendez-vous / They won’t discover / That it’s me and it’s you…
’
Classic rock always felt good to the ears and soothed my everyday worries, much
like our laundry machine would discharge the dirty water out with the suds. My
dad had made a trip to the main floor’s laundry room to buy a cola, and my mom
was boiling water for tea over the stove. The sound of the kettle whistling
punctuated the relaxing music from time to time, but I blissfully ignored it.

My
inner peace was about to be brutally shattered. A door in the hallway slammed.
Belligerent, heated accusations rang out, then I heard a long shrill scream
that must have reverberated throughout the entire apartment complex.

My
amulet burned a fiery red color and scorched my chest. I took cover behind my
two down feather pillows in an attempt to barricade my body from the situation.

Startled,
I now heard glass shattering in the kitchen. Then, another scream. Ominous
footsteps, and banging on the walls of the hallways, now racing toward my
bedroom and escalating within precious seconds. Terrified, I braced myself.

Suddenly,
my bedroom door burst open, and I recoiled instantly. In a blur, my mother’s
face materialized in front of me. Her eyes, wide open with panic. On her cheek,
a fat, ugly bruise. Totally degraded, hunted as prey, she stumbled like a wild
animal, falling by my bed. 

Moments
like that happen in a snap of a finger. The way I think about it now, I see my
dad barging into my room in a whirl—as crisply recorded in my deepest
consciousness in slow motion, never to fade away. In his hand, he held a weapon
unfamiliar to his regular antics, a hot teapot.

I
cannot recall my dad in that moment because the sight of the teapot detained my
attention. I remember screaming and burying my face afterwards in the comforter
as my father slammed the steaming steel teapot into my mother’s thigh.

If
something of that heat contacts a body, it smears skin like a searing hot pan
would to the adjacent side of a raw filet mignon.

Really,
the weapon was what separated that battle from all the rest.

Victims
of domestic abuse usually feel helpless to defend themselves, even as the bar
is continually raised. Moreover, the assailant often begs for forgiveness, thus
confusing an already wounded victim. This classic scenario replayed itself
here. After my dad defaced the side of my mother’s leg, he started in with his
manipulative trickery, and she, dazed, was simply incapable of formulating any
thought of her own.

‘What
have I done? Honey, I am so sorry. Please forgive me. All I care about is you.
I am angry and this is how I react. I wish you would not make me this way,’ he
said, busting out every cliché in the book, and infusing them all into one.

He
had a big book of convenient lies, and his lips seeped more sweet-sounding
poison, but I had the antidote. Before another tired cliché-mish-mash broke
from the lips of the tyrant, he was interrupted by a long drawn-out tone from
our phone.

It
was the sound of a phone disconnected after I had completed my call to the
Ferndale police station.