The Voice In The Wilderness

     Once there was a little boy. He was different from most other boys his age; while they were outside running about and screaming, he would be reading a book, or drawing something. He had always been this way. He had always been different. At home, this uniqueness was allowed to thrive, to develop and  flourish. His parents were beyond pleased that their son could read at a much higher level than his peers, and they greatly enjoyed how keenly he picked up on things.

     Of course, his only problem did not stem from anything encountered at home; no, little Stan only threw tantrums when his mother tried to drop him off at school each morning. Stan hated school, and with good reason. He was put through so much pain there, for schools are full of the most cruel people in all the world; children. These other children saw this odd boy who was not very good at playing soccer, or running races. At first, it began with some jokes, little barbs and jibes that kids will throw carelessly at one another. As time passed, however, Stan was progressively treated worse. Jokes turned to insults. Insults turned into bullying. Bullying turned to isolation and exclusion. The isolation in turn led to violence.

     Stan endured it for a whole year before he finally gave in, tired of the bruises and the scrapes that he received every day from a particularly vicious boy, bigger and stronger than he. He told his parents, and thought the problem would go away, and for a time, it did! But eventually, Stan's tormentor returned, wicked as ever. Stan started to spend a lot of time alone on the schoolyard, sitting under the shade of the trees at the farthest end of the field. Things seemed simpler there; there was nobody to bother him, no bullies or classmates. Just the occasional sparrow or lone squirrel, searching for food. Stan thought it would be so much easier if he were an animal too. People who hurt animals got locked up, or sent away; nobody paid much mind when children hurt other children, dismissing it as "something we all went through", or "part of being a kid".

     One day, the bully kept following Stan, kicking him down and hitting him every time he tried to get away. He followed Stan all the way to the trees, mocking him all the while. This was wrong, the trees were Stan's place, and nobody else's. Something inside Stan finally snapped. He launched himself at the bully, catching him off-guard with his sudden ferocity. Stan was sent to the office once the teachers broke up the fight, sure, but he was let off with a warning, considering the problems the other student often created in class and in the yard. But word got around, about all the bruises and the bites and the black eye that Stan heaped upon that bully. As the years went by, other tormentors tried to take Stan down a peg, but all of them met similar fates; this time, without the involvement of the staff.

     "Psycho." Stan came to be known as such throughout his elementary years, following him all the way to high school. He even flexed it a few times when he encountered more opportunistic sadists along the way. But while it provided him some measure of armour against assailants and troublemakers, Stan's reputation was also a wall between him and the other students; nobody wanted to be friends with somebody so violent, after all. Stan tried desperately to break down the barriers, to reach out to other people. He met little success. Stan still enjoyed walking in the woods of the nearby creek; there was a sort of peace he found there, a sort of natural rhythm that eluded him when he was amongst all the complex trappings of society.

     Stan became particularly vexed when Rodney starting crossing paths with him. Stan always thought of Rodney as some defect; the boy talked big, and had his little group of friends, but he was dependant on a cane at 17 (and also very proficient at hitting others with that damned metal stick). Stan knew just how easy it would really be to reach out and rip that cane away, but then everybody loved Rodney. Stan couldn't touch him without being completely ostracized. So, he sought solace in the creek, trying to lose his worries in the beat of the natural world around him.

     Stan stayed out long enough to meet the new girl. She didn't know much about Stan's reputation (she had not been at Stan's high school for very long), so she was untainted by any preconceived notions. Stan tried to be more social, making a conscious effort to be friendly and amicable. Of course, Rodney noticed this. And of course, Rodney set a particularly brutish friend of his to harass Stan while she was present. To his credit, Stan endured the harassment for a whole week; then, the thug pushed him, and everything went red. By the time Stan realized what he was doing, the brute was on the ground, bleeding. Stan's "friend" was shocked, horrified by what he'd done.

     Stan stormed back to the woods, cut deeper than he had ever been cut by any knife. He tried to find the beat again, but his mind was so wracked with stormy thoughts that he could not calm down. Nobody cared about his side of the story! Nobody cared that it was those others who'd driven him to this point! Nobody saw that the stupid bastard deserved what he got, that he'd provoked him! They only saw a madman, a wild animal, when all the while he was only the beast they'd made him!

     And that's when Stan heard the beat again. It came from all around him, every leaf and tree and bird and bug and animal around. The wild quickened and awakened, stirred by the rhythm around it. No, not a rhythm anymore; it was clear now, tangible. Audible. A faint melody resonating at once from all around Stan, from the deepest heart of the woods, and from within Stan himself. He followed those haunting pipes into the trees, winding further and further away from the path, until he finally found the voice in the wilderness at a thicket's centre, ambling gnarled, clawed fingers that remembered the soil of ancient lands moving dextrously about a set of pipes. It lifted its head, made up of hundreds of living things, joined and woven together to spill over the thick hide that covered its' body. It spoke in a voice that had first allowed civilized man to define fear, telling Stan of the secrets of the woods--no, not any woods; his woods, Stan's woods.

     Soon, the music grew very loud, setting all the woods into a pulsing turmoil. Soon, Stan's mind had been emptied of all the words, filled instead by the music of inner primal instinct, now unbound, now free.

Silas, Part 5

Typhonia had to punish me. I tried really hard so that she wouldn't have to, but I failed.

Typhonia told me to kill Russell, and I almost did.

I'd repeated the cycle. Followed him. Watched him. Broke things he loved. I left notes. Wrote chalk messages on his house, on his driveway. Washed them all away when he went looking for the vandal, or when he went inside to call the police. They thought he was crazy.

He started failing. Started skipping classes. Started losing sleep. He became paranoid, lashing out at his friends. He was eventually sent to the guidance councillor. She reassured him. She fucking made that horrid, horrid boy, who beats people he deems "lesser" for fun, feel better about himself. She made him calm down. Set him up with a therapist. I was at a loss. He started to improve again, started to get that old, confident swagger back. He even slammed me into a locker, just for fun.

I couldn't just let that stand, could I?

I picked out a mask, a nice one too. Skeleton, full-cowl, latex moulded. I can articulate the mouth when I speak. Pulled on a hoodie, went to Russell's house at night. Put an envelope underneath the door mat. Then I stood outside his window for somewhere close to an hour, tapping the glass. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap.

Taptaptaptaptap.

Tap. Tap-

I couldn't make out everything that went on inside that room; I mostly noticed Russell, sleeping soundly under a pile of dirty sheets. He jolted upright, hair sticking up at odd ends. There just enough moonlight to savour the moment. His sleepy expression melted away, leaving abject terror as it fled his face. He chased me through the neighbourhood; I even let him keep sight of me, for about 10 minutes. Been running this area for a while. Know the ins and outs. He'd left his door open. Fiddled with the bolt for a while, so it wouldn't close properly. Pulled the envelope out further. Then I hid and waited.

He was freaking out. Called the therapist; I guess he really liked my artwork (self-centered prick, it was all about him, after all) because he screamed something and waved it around while on the line. He was going to bring it in. So, I slipped in, took the envelope. Ah, that was a good night.

It all went sour the next evening, because that was when Typhonia told me to kill Russell. 

I actually waited there, for a good three hours, ready to ram a knife in his chest. But each time I did it, I kept remembering all the times he'd beaten me. And this was worse, wasn't it? He wouldn't go quietly. This would be death. You don't come back from that. Dead is dead. Dead is gone. And so I did something really stupid. I thought I'd go back and say no, that I'd ignore Typhonia, even though Typhonia loved me so much and had only ever tried to help me and protect me, so Typhonia had to punish me for being so stupid, for hurting her and for hurting myself. Typhonia was very sad that she had to do it.

After a week, the skin started to grow back, and the bite marks and the tearing looked less bad. I bandaged them up, and I knew what I had to do. 

That jackass still hadn't fixed the bolt. He was out, then, at another therapy session. I grabbed everything he had, laptop, camera, photos, the lot. I left the door wide open. I left a trail of notes, easy enough for him to follow. I stopped at a little clearing in a trail; they'd tried to build a park here, once, and the pavement remained, cracked and overgrown. My gloves smell like gas, but it was worth it when it all went up. By the time he got there, it was dark, and the fire was burning low. 

Russell brought a tire iron. He looked worn, thin, haggard. Some crazed glint of desperation caught the firelight, trapped it in his eyes. He screamed loudly, bellowing and demanding that whoever was messing with him come out and fight. He was a man nearing the end of his rope. He was ready to use that tire iron.

It didn't matter, of course. I was waiting. Hidden amongst the overgrowth, dark and welcoming in the soft, night breeze. The leaves and blades of grass hissed softly as they dragged and scraped against one another, a choir of small, quiet serpents. I knocked him over, slammed his head into the pavement a few times. I drew the knife. Blackened steel, catching none of the stars and their radiant gaze. I held it over him for a few minutes. I hesitated. I still didn't understand what I had to do. I didn't understand why Typhonia wanted me to kill him, I didn't see how this was what was best for me...

And then my teeth clacked, and my brain rattled in my skull. I fell over. Russell had gotten hold of the tire iron again. I raised my arm just in time, stumbled forward just enough to save my face and lessen the blow. Another sunburst of pain blossomed there, raw and pulsating. He raised his arm again to swing, caught up in a frenzy. The same frenzy I'd seen him beat someone almost to death in.

 I panicked.

 I stepped forward.

Russell let out a yelp, gurgled.

I felt something warm running over my glove. 

Russell slumped forward, almost touching me. 

I pulled the knife out.

And at last, Russell was gone.

Typhonia was so happy. Typhonia knew I finally understood that he was truly bad, that he needed to be stopped. Typhonia embraced me again, and all the pain and exhaustion slipped away. I'm going with her now. Typhonia tells me I've earned my reward, as her familiar. I'm going to go with her and I'll be happy and free and safe and loved and I'll fix the other bad people too, so there won't ever be another Russell out there to hurt anyone again. Typhonia knows how to spot them, how to tell them from normal people, so Typhonia will tell me and I'll kill them, I'll kill every one Typhonia shows me need to be killed, and then Typhonia will love me and I will finally be able to say someone cares---

[Silas' journal ends here.]