Date: Fri, 29 Oct 2004 21:36:26 -0700 (PDT) From: Josh Paomer <liajfsp1212@yahoo.com> Subject: Song of Spirits, Chapter 1 Author's Note: This is a rewrite of the original Song of Spirits. The story will have the same themes and ideas but it'll just take a while longer to get there. Thanks to all my original readers for their patience and support. Disclaimer: This chapter contains violence. If you can't stomach it, it's a good idea for you to stop reading right here. This story will contain sexual relationship references in consideration to two teenagers. If you are under 18 or reside in an area where this kind of thing is illegal, please don't get caught. Any similarities between events and characters to other stories and real life is purely coincidental. Chapter 1: Dance of the Devils The ticking of the ridiculously oversized clock during the last 20 minutes of class had almost reached a complete standstill when my principal walked into class. She was a woman well into her 40s who struck a pose of a successful businesswoman in charge of her life and her job. Today, however, I recognized some signs of weariness around those sharp grey eyes; a softness I'd never observed before. To my surprise she signaled me over after giving a nod of apology to our teacher, Ms. Noram, for the interruption. I followed her out the door, still trying to erase the fuzziness of sleep and boredom from the edges of my brain. However, all musings of how much longer it would be before class got out and how long I could squeegee out of this little excursion before I had to go back in there evaporated as my eyes settled on the two police officers standing by the entrance of the office. The next few minutes were a blur of conversations and rapid unrecognized looks exchanged between my principal and the two officers. As I made my way home, walking under the mercilessly burning sun it seemed finally I began taking in what they had said to me. "Your mother was in a car accident..." "Severe injuries...death was immediate...your father...insurance..." "Why don't you go home early, dear?" "Your mother was in a car accident..." Something wet and salty glided onto my lips as I walked blindly towards my house. Tears. ------------------------------------------- "Are you sure that's what you want to do, Taylor?" The motherly face I stared emotionlessly at was that of my principal. Six months since the accident, I was once again sitting in front of her, discussing another life changing event. On the desk in front of her sat the rest of my life, its fluttering pages blinking with innocence. "Yes." Vaguely I felt my grip tighten around the pen. She slid the papers over to me reluctantly. "I still think you should participate in some counselling before you decide this, Taylor. Your grades may have been slipping but prior to this year, you have been an excellent student." The ink spilled smoothly across the page above the line, slowly spelling out Cerulean Taylor in the harsh strokes that defined the signature. I turned the page and briefly scanned the contents before quickly scribbling along the bottom line. My hand paused mid-stroke as the principal put her fingers over mine in a caring gesture. "I'm always here to listen if you need someone to talk to." "Thanks. I'm sure about this though." Was that my voice? She gave another sigh and finally consented to allow me to finish filling out each form. I felt strangely like I was signing my own execution form; strangling myself with each line and mark I made on those pages. Sixteen years of carefully constructed goals, morals, and future was being torn down almost playfully by these little chicken scratches on paper. Course I knew it had been over long before I ever signed those papers - they were simply the nails in the coffin. I stood up after I finished and picked up my backpack for the last time. "I'm sorry you're dropping out of school, Taylor." The principal said just as my fingers curled around the door handle. Ah, so I disappointed you too? My nonchalant thoughts temporarily masked the feelings of regret, fear, and overall horror of what I had done. A moment's panic flooded my mind. What the hell was I doing? Everything in my life was over now! I was never going to go to college, get a good job...have a normal life again! "Yeah. I'm sorry too." I whispered. The door slammed shut with an echoing finality that matched the grimness in my heart. That afternoon I chucked my backpack and all its contents into the ****** River by the back of my house. It wasn't quite as satisfying as I thought it would be but still, it brought a smile onto my face again. For the first time in years, I had taken control of my life and it felt good. Really good. It wasn't even the accident that made me adopt such a bleak outlook on life. It was the way my Dad handled the whole situation. My parents had been fighting for divorce for over a year so it wasn't even like they got along that well. You'd think my Dad would have gotten over Mom's death with the snap of a finger from the way he'd been treating her but surprisingly he took it harder than I thought he would. Much harder. The first night he came home drunk so many months ago, I told myself it was just his way of dealing with the sadness. The repeated behavior the next night brought about some concern but it wasn't even until the fourth night of the following week that things escalated. He came back from a day spent reviewing wills and other documents that my Mom left with her lawyer. Maybe he was frustrated, sad, or angry but whatever emotions he was battling with he took it out on me for some reason. I was in the kitchen boiling some water for ramen noodles when I heard the sound of a bottle smashed loudly against the wall. A heartbeat later, he stormed into the kitchen and shoved me hard against the stove, muttering curses and half incoherent. The push wasn't all that bad except I lost my balance and hit the handle of the pot with the boiling water. The next thing I know the water had leaped from the pot and splashed angrily against my arm. The pain was excruciating but I was more aware of my Dad storming out of the kitchen in another bout of rage. So that was the first mistake I made that night; making noodles. The second mistake was running after him to ask if he was okay. That earned me a shiner that lasted nearly a week afterwards. He got more and more violent since that first time and I sometimes truly believed he hated me. The glint in his eyes filled with pure anger and bitterness that I often stared at right before he threw some punch at me confirmed my belief over and over again. I know that he probably blamed me for mom's death. That was okay because a part of me blamed me too. By the last month, I was failing five out of seven classes, with my highest grade being a C in gym. I never did my homework anymore and going to class was no longer a top priority either. Nothing was a top priority. Which was the reason why I dropped out of high school at the ripe age of 16. With a sigh, I turned around and headed back for the house. It was noon. The weather reflected the same heat when I walked home that fateful day 6 months ago. This time however, I felt a rise of hope bubbling optimistically inside me. I made my way into the house and headed towards the kitchen. The answering machine light was blinking an undelivered message. I hit the speaker button and listened while rummaging through the refrigerator for food. "Hey Cerulean, this is John ***** with ******* Agency. I'm calling again to remind you that if you don't finish up the album by the specified deadline that we agreed on in our contract, the deal is off. Your frequent absences in the last couple of months during the scheduled studio times cost us a lot of money and we don't plan to waste anymore. Anyway, give me a call back soon and we can discuss where you want to go with all this." The message ended curtly with the loud beep of the answering machine. Without missing a beat I carefully spread the peanut butter onto the bread before quickly deleting the message. The album was definitely unfinished and it'd remain unfinished if I had any say in it. Just as I was about to settle down in front of the TV, I heard the upstairs bedroom door slam open. Shit. "Taylor?! What the hell are you doing at home?!" The man that appeared in the arched entrance of the family room with unshaven face, straggly hair, and hollowed eyes didn't in the least resemble the sharply dressed lawyer that I was used to seeing. I remember a time when I used to admire him and want to be just like him. A wave of nauseated amusement spread through me with those thoughts. "...I'm just getting some lunch." I lied, wincing on the inside while trying to school the expression on my face. "It's past your lunch time, it's one o'clock." I felt a wave of despair laced with fear stab at my heart. Fuck! What the hell was he doing home anyway??? "Answer me, Taylor." A threat lingered on the end of that simple sentence. My hands closed down harshly on the uneaten sandwich. With a dejected voice I finally admitted, "I dropped out of school." The hysterical shriek that came out of the creature in front of me sent a wave of fear lacing down my spine. "You stupid STUPID idiot! How could you be so...FUCKED UP?!" And then to my surprise, he whirled around back towards the bedrooms, muttering obscenities along the way. Even though he was not longer in the room, I remained frozen, trying to calm myself down. By the time he came back downstairs, I was still sitting there clutching my sandwich to me as if it could protect me in some way. He was dressed in jeans and was wearing that same shirt mom bought him for his birthday three years ago. "We're going to the school right now. You're not dropping out." He commanded. I found my voice there and then. "No. I'm not going anywhere and I'm definitely not going back to school." He pivoted around pointing a finger at me. "You're going back to school if I have to beat the shit out of you and drag you there!" He kicked his shoes on and went searching for the keys. "Jesus, they need to send this idiot to a hospital for mental RETARDATION. Fucking dumbass boy..." I put the sandwich slowly back onto the plate, holding my hands together to try to make them stop shaking. Despite the heat I was so cold I felt waves of shivering wrack my body. He's going to kill me. He's really going to kill me. But I can't go back! "Dad, I'm not going back to school." I said steely. He stomped back into the family room, keys clutched tightly in his hand. I barely felt the first blow aimed at my chest because my mind had been so overtaken by fear. It took my breath away for a second. He took that moment to drag me off the couch and slammed me hard against the wall. Momentarily stunned, I felt his a whirlwind of blows land on my stomach. I don't know how long it lasted but by the end of it I was on my knees clutching my stomach trying to assuage the mind-blowing waves of pain while gasping for a good lungful of breath. >From a distance I was aware he was screaming like a maniac when he kicked me in the chest. I fell over, trying to drag my body away from the kicks and stomps against my midsection. His hand closed in around my neck and the next thing I know, he's dragging me outside of the door while half strangling me. His hold slipped and I collapsed on the grass gasping for breath. Without warning, my stomach heaved and I flipped around just in time to cough out blood and vomit onto the ground. I struggled to not pass out. "God, you're fucking pathetic." I swallowed convulsively. It'll be over soon. It'll all be over soon. Then, as if the angels of the heavens were screaming out in protest, I heard police sirens in the distance. I pushed myself up and looked in the distance of the noise with mixed feelings. I wanted them to rescue me from this nightmare, but a part of me knew the consequences if my dad was caught; he'd go to jail, lose his job, and the situation would be even worse than it was when mom first died. Dad was also looking out into the distance, listening to the rapidly increasing volume of the sirens with fists clenched tight by his side. I heard the slam of screen doors loudly to my right and twisted around to find Mr. Osmun, our neighbor running out towards us with arms waving frantically; a gesture for all of us to freeze where we were. "Mind your own goddamn business, Osmun!" Dad called out as he reached down and caught my arm in a painful vice grip, trying to drag me into the car. "It's too late, Dan! I already called the cops. You're not going anywhere!" Dad's grip on me suddenly loosened and I sat up slowly, feeling every ache and pain in my body scream out. My eyes met Dad's and for a moment I saw some fear, some unreadable look in his eyes that made my heart lurch. Why did we have to get to this point in our life? How did all this happen? Shit, no time for questions. Mr. Osmun had puffed his way over to us and a squad car was pulling up to the curb of the street. "Taylor! Are you okay?" Mr. Osmun asked, his tiny beady eyes squinting against the glare of the sun. Am I okay? Am I okay. My heart was pounding, the truth sitting at the tip of my tongue, waiting to spill out like some bitter liquid. "I'm fine. I got in a fight earlier at school today and..." I choked, the lie catching in my throat, "...and he's taking me to the hospital. That's all." He didn't believe me. Instead he glared at dad with an expression of astonishment and disgust. "What the fuck are you looking at, Osmun? I told you already to mind your own goddamn business." Words churned out of Dad's mouth. The police officer was walking towards us. I painfully climbed to my feet, the pain around my midsection nearly buckling my legs again. The lie would probably look more believable if I wasn't laying on the ground. Ow! Owwww! I was bent half way, arms holding my side. It was so fucking painful! It felt like someone stuck a dagger into my left side. "What's the problem here?" The officer asked, his hand lightly touching the gun by his side. "My neighbor has a problem with respecting the privacy-" Dad started. "Are you the caller, George Osmun?" The officer interrupted, directing his question at Mr. Osmun. "Yes. I called because I heard screaming and yelling coming from my neighbor's house. I saw Dan here dragging his son out of the door by the neck! Why, I've lived with them for over fifteen years! Never have I ever imagined..." Mr. Osmun was still talking but the officer's eyes were now resting on me. I wanted to inwardly cringe with every word that was coming out of George's mouth but I kept my expression relaxed. The officer beckoned me over with his hand. I walked slowly towards him, trying not to scrunch up into a foetal position. Nausea was swimming in my stomach again as I half stood next to the cop, listening to the chatter of the radio that was clipped to his belt. "Did your father hit you, son?" The cop asked blatantly. I felt the blood drain from my head. There's nothing harder than telling a lie to a person while staring right into their eyes. "No." "Do you mind if you take off your shirt so I can make sure there really isn't a problem?" Dad cut in, "You don't have a warrant to search him!" I ignored my Dad's outburst and said calmly, "I do mind. Listen, I got in a fight at school today and Dad was just taking me to the hospital, that was all." Mr. Osmun cut in, "I saw Dan dragging him out! I swear it!" "Mr. Osmun, Dad was just trying to help me get outside. You might have seen something different but all he was doing was helping." My voice was strong and sure. Inside I was crumbling slowly with every word. Why was I protecting him? Why?! "What's your name, son?" The cop asked. "Taylor." I replied. "Taylor, who did you get in a fight with this morning?" I felt all the muscles in my body tighten involuntarily as a chill crept down my spine. Fuck. This is when they catch my lie...this is the beginning of the end of the life I've known. If I gave them a name and told them I had a fight with the person, they would surely investigate the situation, which would of course yield untrue because I definitely didn't have a fight with anyone in school that morning. But if I didn't say anything and didn't give a name, the cop would know that I was making the whole thing up. I'm screwed either way. Fuck! "...I...um..." My forehead itched as sweat suddenly beaded there. "...shit." I felt my body sag with defeat and I sat down heavily, pulling my knees to my chest and burying my head down to try to block out the world. I heard footsteps as the cop walked away towards my Dad. He went back to the patrol car with Dad in tow, now in handcuffs. Moments later, an ambulance arrived, its sirens singing out with mournful cries. Paramedics helped me up and despite my objections, they insisted on lugging me to the hospital to take care of a couple of bruises. I only saw Dad briefly as they were strapping me onto the little gurney. His face was pressed against the glass, his eyes glared at me from behind the window - accusation written all over his face. I was suddenly very tired, my heart beating so heavily I felt a crushing pain in my chest. I let the paramedics load me into the ambulance and I was soon on the way to the hospital with the cries of the siren surrounding me like a blanket. The song was painful and morose, plucking on my heartstrings with every pitch. It shouldn't be me in here; it should be my life strapped inside this ambulance about to be taken to its death. To be continued... All emails containing comments or criticisms will be welcomed.