Ain't War Hell?
By: Maximillian von Fischgeist 

Chapter Nine
Nightmare

    It was a familiar scene. A dining table, mostly-empty plates. On sixteen-year-old Cooper MacBride's left was his mother, a woman still well within her thirties and possessing the peculiar maternal beauty a son can't help but acknowledge. On his right was the boy's father, slouched in sleep.

    I am a boy again, Lowlight thought. This is only a dream. This is not real.

    But it had once been quite real, and he was no more prepared to stop the scene from unfolding now than he had been when it had occurred in reality, nearly twelve years ago.

    Mother leaned over towards her husband. "Jim," she said to the sleeping man. He didn't stir. He couldn't. The sleeping pills (powderized and mixed in his drink) would not allow him to wake. Mother didn't know, of course. She thought he'd just had a hard day at work. "Jim, wake up." She tried still. After all these years, all the countless times the scene had played out with no change, she tried still to save them all from the outcome.

    "I'll make sure he gets to bed, Mom," Cooper said, his voice haunting in its youth to the man forced again to watch a scene he wanted only to forget.

    How young I am! A boy of sixteen. That stupid, evil boy I was. No. The evil was not in me. It was in him. Was there another way?

    Mother started to rise, holding her plate. "Don't worry about the dishes," the boy told her. "I'll clean up."

    She smiled. "Thank you," she said. She walked to him, kissed the top of his head. Turned. Retreated to the bedroom. Light turned off. Bedroom door shut.

    She had already taken a sleeping pill, as she did most every night (they were hers; she would not notice how many were missing until the next day. And then, it would be too late to stop the boy. Too late to save the boy...). She would not hear anything after she went to sleep. Cooper gave her a few minutes to let sleep take her. He spent the time examining the sleeping father.

    Monster!

    The man he called "father" was as vile as a man could be. Abusive. Cold. Unfeeling. How many times over had he deserved the death Cooper was set now to give him? Could he go through with it? Did he have the nerve?

    Unfortunately, I did. I will...

    Cooper blinked, realizing that the moment must be now. He stood up and circled the long way around the table until he came to stand behind his father.

    Monster!

    He slid his hands underneath the older man's arms and worked him out of the chair. So heavy! The man slumped to the floor, almost bringing the boy down with him. Managing to keep his footing, he took a better hold of the motionless figure and dragged him into the bathroom. It was hard work, but Cooper got him into the tub.

    Don't turn on the light. If you don't examine him in the light, you may not go through with it. You can save us! Lowlight's suggestion would be ignored; it was not in his power to instruct. Only to observe. But you wouldn't forget the light, would you, boy? No, you're much too thorough to miss a small detail like that.

    Cooper hit the lightswitch. Illuminated in the stark fluorescent light, the father's appearance was fully revealed. Every wretched line in his face was magnified by shadow, every bit of evil flesh made blindingly hideous by the light. Cooper looked at the man's hands, now resting in his lap as he lay prone in the tub. Hands so often used against the people he should have cherished. His own suffering by those hands was almost bearable. But how many times had they attacked her, who deserved nothing short of worship for her patience in the terrible life she led? A son to raise, a husband to satisfy. Her own chances for a good life, for happiness, even for simple content, were fated time and again to fade defeatedly into the background. And in the foreground was this man (too kind a word... this DEMON) who rewarded her loyalty with regular physical abuse, incessant emotional torment.

    Monster!

    Cooper held the knife up to inspect it. A nick flawed the otherwise-perfect blade. The imperfection had always been there. He wondered as to its cause, but could not know. The knife had been given to him by his father. No explanation had been made for the nick in the edge. Really, though, did it matter? As long as it would cut. That was all he needed now.

    Oh, it will. Have no doubt of that, boy.

    How fitting it was for a gift from father to son to be the primary instrument during the final gift from son to father. Without any more hesitation, Cooper brought the knife to the man's wrists. He sliced across and then up along the arm. A satisfactory surge of blood told him he'd done it right. The bloody knife then moved to the throat. The wrong throat, though. No Adam's apple. Creamy skin. Feminine.

    What? Lowlight wondered in fear. This isn't right! Fear became blind panic. STOP!

    The hand was not to be arrested, however. A clean cut. More blood. The same color as the red hair spilling over the woman's shoulders.

    No! Scarlett!

    Both Cooper MacBrides, one horrified and helpless observer, one passionate and ruthless participant, watched the blood flow from the wounds they had inflicted. Death was imminent.

    But it is not supposed to be her! It was always him! That monster! Why am I killing her?

    Suddenly, both observer and participant were one. Lowlight, now adult and in that remembered bathroom, reached for Scarlett's wrists, clamped his hands over them in a desperate attempt to hold in the blood. But it came anyway, leaking between his fingers. He moved his hands to her throat, strangled with all his might, but the blood kept coming.

    "Don't die!" he shouted at her unmoving form. "We're so close! Keep moving!"

    She didn't move. The tub filled with her blood.

    "Wake up!" he pleaded. He slapped her face. No response. "You have to help me! It's not too far now. Keep moving! WAKE UP!"

    The scene shattered.

    White.

    Images solidified. Ceiling. Wall to the left. Everything white.

    I'm awake, Lowlight realized. The scene was over.

    He swept his groggy eyes over the room. Hospital. A man in red stood up from his seat in the corner. Lowlight sat up in his bed and blinked at the muck in his eyes. Little help. He brought up his hands to finish the job.

    Lifeline (tunic messed with dried blood) stopped perhaps ten feet from the bed and gave Lowlight a smile. "Awake, I see."

    Lowlight swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched his arms. He was still in his clothes, which were also stained with blood. The same blood. Hers.

    "Scarlett?" Lowlight asked in a husky voice.

    "Alive."

    Lowlight's shoulders slumped as a wash of painful relief stung him.

    "Her condition is still serious," Lifeline continued. "But I think she'll make it. She's under close observation."

    Lowlight reached for his boots, which were beside the bed on the floor. He slipped them on and began lacing them. In silence.

    "It was a great thing you did," Lifeline said. "Six hours ago, when we found you, I thought she was dead already. She would be if not for you."

    Lowlight made no acknowledgment, continuing to fasten his boots.

    "I recommend you stay put," the medic offered sternly. He sounded tired. He also had worked hard to save her. "You could use a lot more sleep."

    Lowlight finished his task and stood up. Every muscle in his body ached with creaking tension. "Last thing I want," he said, walking toward the exit. While it would be nice to sleep off the ache, there was the possibility - no, the surety - of the scene starting all over again. Like every time he slept. The only cure he'd found (less a cure than an avoidance, really) was to simply not sleep. Or at least fill himself with so much liquor that he passed out. Like a minor death, that type of sleep. No dreams. Usually.

    Lifeline stepped aside for Lowlight, knowing he could not keep him there. But he'd already exercised his power over Lowlight. "I've suggested to Duke that you take a few days off."

    Lowlight stopped, threw a cold eye to Lifeline. "I don't want a few days off."

    "Too late," Lifeline said with a weary smile. "Use the time to rest, Lowlight. You need it."

    Lowlight turned and started toward the door again.

    "I'll keep you informed as to her condition," Lifeline said to his back.

    He stopped, turned. He felt the cold resolve of that young boy of sixteen. So sure of himself. So ignorant. "Don't bother. I did my job. It's out of my hands now." Without waiting for a reply, if there was to be one, Lowlight left the hospital. Indeed, he had done his job. Others would take over now. It was no longer up to him.

    Is it worth it? he wondered, walking down the hall toward the living quarters. Toward the arms of Mistress Whiskey. Toward that awful need to not dream. Does her life make up for all the others I've taken? Does it make up for what I did to him?

    He supposed it didn't. But there was no changing the past. There was not even a certain future. There was only now, which was always somewhere between hope and doom. For now, the hope was more prevalent. But there was always doom on the horizon. And the hope never lasted long. Never.

    Was it murder when I killed my father? Or was it justice? Or is it that simple?

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Continued in Part Ten!
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