Lies My Parents Told Me
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I thought this would be a nice little look at a different side to a story. R/R.
My parents told me a lot of lies. Most kids think that. Most kids go through times in their lives where they believe that their parents are the personifications of Satan. Most kids try to prove their parents wrong at every chance they get. But in the very end, most kids become their parents or, God willing and they're lucky enough, become better than their parents. It's an age-old cycle, probably goes back to the dawn of time. However, there're always exceptions. That's where I come in. My parents actually did tell me a lot of lies. While they weren't personifications of Him, my parents did perform satanic rituals. I am trying to prove them wrong at every turn. Well, I was until they . . . you know.
I think about it all so much. There's not much else to do here unless you like manual labor or sermons from Father Flanagan. The sermons I wouldn't have minded so much in the past but now . . . I don't know. So much is different now. I've seen what's behind the curtain, you know? I've come to the full realization that my world was a huge house of cards that all came tumbling down. I can't trust so easily anymore if I can at all. So most of the time, I just think about all that's happened and hurt all over again until I go numb. I miss the others so much. They understood. It's so damn cliché for a kid like me to say that no one understands me but my friends. In this case it's true though. I just miss the others so much. I miss not having to explain everything, you know? I miss just being able to look at someone and know for an absolute fact that they understand completely all the insanity that my life has become because their life has become the same exact thing too.
I sit up in my bed and curl my knees up against my chest, thinking about all the others. I got an email from Karolina today. She wants us to meet up tomorrow night. Foster care must've finally gotten to her. Thank God, I thought I was the only one. I just . . . I just don't know if I should. The others, even they don't know my real pain. I have this . . . thing inside me. It hurts me sometimes. It's not a physical hurt. It's a soul-draining weary sort of ache that never seems to go away. I told . . . Alex it was like having a splinter in your soul. I wonder if that's what the Bible means when it talks about taking the plank out of your eye before removing the speck from your neighbor's. I mean your eyes are the windows to your soul, right? Yeah, somehow I doubt that's what it was getting at. That seems to be my new trend lately: doubting things.
I have a splinter in my soul but it's nothing compared to the splintered and shattered heart that still resides in me. Boy, there's a Gothic statement for ya. It's true though. My heart, my soul, my identity, it all hasn't been the same since Alex . . . died. I still can't bring myself to say it aloud. I can barely even think it. It happened though. He died, all because he believed the lies his parents told him and thought he could follow in their footsteps and be their son. Damn him for being such a hypocrite and spouting all that Peter Pan crap about never growing up and being like his parents. Damn his parents too for teaching him to be that way and warping his mind until he couldn't distinguish between what was really right and what was right in their minds. Damn my parents as well for trying to do the same to me but failing somewhere along the way and now causing me all this pain because of it. Damn me most though for wanting all of this back and wanting to be with Alex because, so help me God, I do want it with everything left inside my broken and wretched soul.
I wish there was something sharp around. You see, I have a stupid idea. It's a different stupid idea than the stupid idea I usually have when I wish for a sharp object to be nearby. My usual stupid idea is to cut myself, not to just unleash that stupid staff though. I'm talking about really cutting myself, slashing up my wrists until the cuts crisscross each other like railroad tracks and I bleed myself dry. But like I said, I have the same need now but a different idea. There're no sharp objects in this place though. Putting sharp objects in a place full of Goth kids is like putting up a sign on the blood bank that says "Welcome Vampires". So if I want to remove this plank in my soul, I have to do it the old-fashioned way. My fingernails are nice and long, just sharp enough that if I scrape them hard enough against my arm then I can draw blood.
"When blood is shed, let the Staff of One emerge," I whisper. It's weird to feel the splinter in my soul suddenly come out of the hole created for it when I bleed. It scares the hell out of me quite frankly. I lean the staff against my bed while taking a piece of the sheets and fixing my wound. When blood is shed? How much more blood do you need, you idiotic piece of wood? My parents, my friends, the person I love, me, haven't we all already bled enough for you? I cradle the staff in my arms, staring at the top of it and the fading glow it's emitting. Blood-red, just the right color.
Like I said before, I have a stupid idea. I miss him so much, more than someone theoretically should if they're my age. He deserves a second chance. He wouldn't . . . Alex wouldn't be evil if his parents weren't around. We could teach him. We could help him understand what he was supposed to already know because he taught it to us. We could . . . I could love him again. It's so close, the power just at my fingertips. I have the power to bring him back. I can do it. I can live again. All I have to do is say the magic word. It sticks in my throat though. It congeals in a huge lump that refuses to go up and out of my mouth and also refuses to get pushed down into the pit of my stomach. It just hovers there in my throat, threatening to choke me. It wouldn't . . . it wouldn't be right. Is that me talking or my parents? How can I know what the right thing to do is? I feel my eyes water as I try to futilely will the lump into the word. Revive. C'mon, do it. Make him live again without me having to tell you to, you stupid stick. Please, do it.
My hands shake, my eyes water, and my lips quiver. The lump suddenly descends into my stomach, hitting it like a stone and making me sob into my pillow. I can't do it. I just can't do it. I sob and shudder and heave until I think I'm broken. I've made up my mind. I'm meeting the others tomorrow night. I'm running again. I won't tell them about this though. I'd be ashamed to. Little Nico wants to bring back her boyfriend so he can betray us all again and keep lying to us. They'd never understand. I'll have to tell them that the spell just didn't work. It sounds better. I hate myself for it though. Everyone I've ever loved has lied to me. That's what adults do, they lie. That's what Alex did because he was more mature for his age and he became an adult way too fast. And that's what I'll do when someone asks if I ever tried to bring back the one person I loved from the dead. I will lie and tell the others that the spell didn't work. I will lie just like my parents. I guess in the end I was wrong. I guess in the end I'm one of those kids who inevitably grow up to become their parents.
"When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways." – First Corinthians 13:11, NIV