Malicious Dreams

Cold mellifluous deep ruby red blood spilled down his face as red tears from his blood shot eyes, staring in petrified fear. The Lachrymal streams of blood dripped from his trembling jaw. His lips were blue and shaped heavy clouds of labored breath. Strained cries of agonizing pain tore from his lungs. His beautiful young innocent features were twisted with terror and pain. His long black hair was slick with blood. He convulsed against a bleak stonewall. Blood dripped down the wall where he clawed the stone until his nails broke from his flesh. Every muscle strained and twitched. His silky black shirt, collar flared, long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, was torn and shredded, exposing bleeding skin beneath. The shirt expanded and collapsed as his deeply heaving chest, partially exposed by the incompletely buttoned shirt, moved frantically. Beneath stylishly ripped dark blue jeans, held up by a thick black belt, his legs shook. Blood splattered over his black leather shoes. He was trying to speak.

"Stop!" he wailed. "I'm sorry Brennan!"

Darkly shadowed Brennan stood glaring maliciously at the boy before him. Light brown chocolate hair, parted in the middle to reveal his sharp widows peak, cast a deep umbrage over his pale skin and deep blue eyes. His stern and handsome face was caught in a moment of pure hatred. Lips curled in disgust, he was lost in a cyclone of dark dreams, imagining what he would do to this boy, who had tormented him for so many years.

"Brennan stop! Please Stop!"

Tearing him to shreds, ripping his vitals, smearing his lungs, breaking his bones, Brennan dismantled the boy in his mind. Immense satisfaction washed through Brennan as he proceeded to bash the boys skull with a sold metal shovel over and over. Internally he was laughing, screaming in ecstasy. Blood covered, he danced over the body of the boy with jubilant hysteria.

"Brennan!"

He took a deep breath, the cry pulled him from his morbid fantasy. Brennan stared in shock as his vision focused on the boy. Frozen with fear Brennan stammered. "Wha . . . what happened?" The boy collapsed on the ground. "Curtis?" Brennan cautiously walked forward.

Curtis turned, reaching for Brennan. His eyes were full of hate and fear, his lips trembled with pain, blood spilled from his flesh. Brennan dashed from the blood covered Curtis. Feet pattering softly on white concrete, Brennan made his way to his sanctuary where no one could harm him.

He entered a forest. The prickly branches of pine trees, adorned with sharp dark green needles, brushed against his white dress shirt and tight light blue jeans. His dark blue backpack jumped up and down on his back, and his brown leather shoes compacted the dirt as he ran frantically through the forest toward the tranquil sound of a trickling stream. He stopped abruptly, having arrived at the stream. Near the stream a large tree grew. Ancient, the pine was thick. Its body twisted and spiraled from the ground to the sky, where it towered over the forest. Brennan stat, where he usual did, on a massive exposed root, reaching towards the waters edge.

He cried into his cupped hands, hiding his face from the purity of the forest. The forest's silent commotion, filled with the signing of birds, the movement of the stream, the scurrying of animals, and the rustling of leaves, became drowned out by Brennan's frightened sobs. He floundered in darkness, confused by what happened. His logic rebelled against the reoccurring thought that he was responsible for what happened to Curtis, that his imaginations became a reality.

"No!" he growled. "I refuse to believe that! It's impossible! Completely impossible! Understand? You're sixteen. Don't succumb to childish imaginations. It was purely coincidence. He was having a seizure the moment you began to imagine, as you always do, tearing the bastard to shreds. He deserves it! Always tormenting me. Calling me names. Constantly bulling me, pushing me around. Damn him! He deserved it."

"But it was too strange to be coincidence . . . he fell the moment I came out of my fantasies . . . it was too strange. It was not like any seizure I have ever seen. The cuts and burses all over his body looked as if someone else had inflicted them. They hadn't been there before I slipped off. And the tears from his eyes . . . how?"

"Damn it! There is no way its possible. I cannot influence my environment directly simply by thinking . . . Let me test it. If I can make this tree change in any way by imagining it than I'll accept it, but if not . . . then it was all just a coincidence."

Brennan stood and turned toward the ancient tree. He concentrated on a single spot. He studied the harsh brown bark intensely. Slipping of into his rich imagination, he pictured the bark starting to burn. First he imagined the bark darkening to a subtle brownish black, then the bark curling back and becoming jet-black, the exposed bark turning black and then bursting with orange sparks, which flare and run along the edges of the curling bark, followed by flames exploding from darkened bark. Taking a deep breath, Brennan refocused his blurred vision. Coldly he stared at the tree. He sighed.

"See nothing happened. The tree isn't burning."

"You weren't convicted, you don't want it to be true."

"Damn it's not true . . . and I'm arguing with myself again. Every time I come here I end up arguing with myself. Sure people talk to themselves but do they argue? Why must I be so damn conflicted? I'm just going to put this thing behind me."

Somberly Brennan walked away from his silent sanctuary. Behind him parted the ancient swaying tree, waiting patiently for Brennan's next visit. He stepped on to a solid black road. Walking along the curb, he purposely took the long way home to avoid the spot where Curtis was. With frantic disarray he wondered what was to happen.

"Will the bastard continue to pick on me? Maybe after this he'll be frightened to come near me, maybe the rest of the damn school will leave me alone. I can use this to get what I want . . . but then . . . someone will call my bluff sooner or later . . . and I'll be worse off than when I started. Why can't they all just leave me alone?"

Brennan approached a decent two-story house, a light apricot pink. He unlocked elegant wood doors and entered. His mother, Diana, walked from a separate room to great Brennan. She was dressed in a nice red shirt and light khaki pants. She was a beautiful woman and older age only seemed to make her richer like wine. She had brown curly hair, and soft blue eyes. She smiled, but was worried by his cold emotionless stare. Granted he always looked like that, but his eyes burned with unusually dark brooding. She tried ever so hard to reach out to him, to get him to open up, but he was frozen shut. He was just like his father, Trevor, who had opened up to her. He was the only one that could get Brennan to talk. Trevor knew how Brennan thought, how he worked and was able to help him to break down his inhibitions. But Trevor died horribly in a car accident. He didn't die at the scene, he died at the hospital. He had been alive long enough for his son to see him one last time alive. But then he really couldn't say much, and he died right in front of Brennan. Diana was glad that Brennan's little brother Josh had not been there to see his father die too. Sine then Brennan didn't talk much to anyone. He concentrated on his studies, but refused to interact with society if he could manage too.

Diana frowned, "your took longer than usual, something happen." She thought to herself, "I sounded too scolding . . . I didn't mean to . . . that won't get him to open up. I'm just worried. I wish he would just realize that. I wish I could get him to open up like Trevor. If he just opened up he would suffer so much."

"No." Brennan walked purposely up stares, apparently taking no notice in his mother, who frowned even more.

He walked into his room and shut the door. Throwing his backpack on the ground he sat in his chair. Bound tears spilled from his eyes. He sneered angrily. His mind was a wailing, twisting, tortured body thrashing at the painful cuts of reality. His internal wails came out as muffled sobs. His face screamed the pain he felt while he fought to conceal his emotions. Anger building, his screams surrounded his soul in a twisting black hurricane. Closing his eyes, he became lost in an emotionally self-cutting dance of depression.

The ground beneath Brennan trembled with his sorrows. Cold biting wind whipped through his room. Pulled by the wind, curtains flailed over his windows. Light spilled in sporadically through the windows. Brennan shook violently in his chair. Eyes tight, he could only feel his boiling emotions burning the insides of his body. The loud noise of rustling roared around him as papers twirled through the air. Dark thunderous clouds, thick with sorrow and shifting amorphously, accumulated at the edges of the room. They moved to congregate over Brennan. Lightening viscously struck the spiraling papers. Brennan let out a silent scream, his face a mess of twisted sadness.

"Brennan?"

The papers fell abruptly, the clouds and winds died instantly. Brennan rushed to wipe the tears from his eyes. He turned away to hide his tear stained features. "What do you want Josh?" Brennan snapped.

"I thought I heard you crying . . ." Josh stared at the mess.

"I'm fine!" Brennan snapped. "Go away!"

Josh frowned. He never understood his older brother. Always sad, always angry, he lashed out at everyone. Even if that person hadn't done anything wrong. It was no wonder Brennan didn't have any friends. Josh shut the door.

Brennan held his face in his hands. He sighed. "Father? Where do I go from here? I'm so lost without you. The world is so cruel. What's the use of living when I can do nothing to make it better, when everyone wants me dead anyway. I hate them all. No one understands. They're all stupid. They don't see the bigger picture. Not like you dad. The problem is I can't either. I see more than them but . . . I'm still lost. Father, how did you do it? How were you able to see so broadly? The way you explained things to me. I don't understand how you could see through everything . . . Dad I'm so lost . . . help me."

Diana listened outside Brennan's door. She was going to tell him dinner was ready. As she was about to knock she heard him start to talk. Remorse filled her heart. She bit her lip to hold back the tears. She felt like such a failure. Unable to reach out to Brennan she let him fester in his own darkness. She knew it wasn't her fault directly. She didn't know how to connect with him. She tried endlessly, but Brennan simply wasn't receptive. Between work and family, she felt like she wasn't devoting enough time to Brennan. The problem was that Brennan required so much attention. It wasn't his fault, that's just the type of person he was, but ironically he rejected it every time it was offered. Diana wasn't like Trevor. She couldn't slip easily into his world. She felt so horrible because all her attention had been divided. Josh had his own needs, the house needed to be kept, her work needed attending. When it came to Brennan she simply didn't have enough attention to devote to his special needs, but then he'd fight it anyway.

"Oh Brennan, I hope you find your way out someday, your father did," Diana whispered to her self. Knocking on the door she called, "Dinner's ready Bren."