Generations

[Peredhil]

Son

He drifted through the door, the sun catching the gleaming highlights on his long flowing hair. It was, of course, clean, as per the Rule. Slender yet muscular, he posed for a moment in the doorway's light, looking at the mirror, thinking he looked like an anime hero. A bubbling laugh - it was a familiar thought and fantasy.

Slinging his backpack onto the couch, he heading into the kitchen and foraged until replete, then played with the dog until her barking echoed off the walls.

 

With a frission of terror, he began steeling himself against the afternoon. He had two and a half hours before his Dad got home, his trusted free time, and he didn't want to waste it. Bounding up the stairs, he unlocked his door and headed into his room, locking the door behind himself.

 

Hours later he emerged, and by the time he was walking into the kitchen, sniffing appreciately at the simmering dinner, he wasn't limping at all.

"Gonna go blade for a while."

"Dinner will be ready in an hour," his Dad reminded. As if he were a child and hadn't heard something similiar every frickin' day of his life. Why these stupid rituals, posturing emptily

"Sure thing Dad. I know, I know!" he replied with a sigh. He looked down and smiled at the giant of his youth, and once again was struck at how much different fourteen inches of growth in the last year made. He was a young lion, powerful and able to overcome anything.

"Don't grind on the playground stuff. It's against the law." A spasm of anger flashed across his face, before he schooled it into a playful grin.

"I know!" he laughed as he made pushing motions toward his Dad, warding off his endless advice. "I won't run with sharp objects or talk to strangers either." He waited the comedic beat, "unless they're babes!" They both laughed in acknowledgement that his gift for easy speech and looks made his 'awkward teenage years' the envy of the other boys - and that he was firmly committed to his internet girlfriend. Much to the chagrin of all the girls in housing, although they wallowed in romantic bliss wishing they had such a faithful boyfriend.

 

Strapping on the blades, he took off through the front door. As he headed off down the driveway, he leapt high, twistingly, into the air and came down backward, bounced, and twisted to skate forward off down the sidewalk.

 

Yeah, he was ninjor studzor cool.

[Peredhil]

Dad

 

As he was folding the towels, he found some of his son's socks clinging to one of the grey ones.

"Ha! A futile attempt to escape," he chided the socks as he picked them off and folded them neatly together.

Later, when he was done with the rest of his laundry, he noticed the socks. Picking them up with a sigh, he headed off toward his son's room, limping slightly.

"There must be a storm approaching," he mused to himself as old familiar aches chased through his body. He'd never failed yet at something he'd committed to do - but he'd spent himself and his health ruthlessly doing it. The old thought chased down well-worn paths in his mind, "if I'd known when I was young that I'd live to be old..."

"I'd probably have done it anyway," he concluded aloud. Shaking his head at his fallability, he reached the door.

It was locked again. Looking at the socks, he thought about it, and shrugged. It only took a moment with the Leatherman to unlock the door.

He looked at the room with a frown, and even checked to ensure he'd opened up this son's room. Stepping in hesitantly, looking around, he made his way to the dresser and put the socks into the top door, next to the neatly arranged other socks and underwear.

Turning, he looked at the bed, the floor, the walls, the desk.

It was all neat as a pin. The clothes were in their hamper. The bed was made. The dresser drawers weren't half open and there was no pile of clean clothes heaped on the closet floor. There weren't any piles of piles of things anywhere. With a shake of his head, he thought, "It's bizarre, but how could a father complain?"

As he began heading out, he thought he smelled something. Standing with his eyes closed, he sniffed a bit. It wasn't that kind of smell. With a frown, he said a quiet prayer, centering himself, and truly looked at the room.

Cold. Angular. No pictures of Jazmin. He didn't bother invading privacy with a search. He accepted what he suddenly knew, knew without any sensory confirmation.

"And the sins of the fathers are visited on the sons, to the third generation. On the other hand, mercy extends to seven generations." His words seemed overloud in the empty empty room.

Carefully removing the socks from the drawer, he considered his charismatic, genius son. He used the socks to wipe off the dresser drawer knobs, and then walked back to the door. Looking around, he carefully realigned the throw rug so its edge was exactly parallel to the bed's edge, then used the sock as a glove to relock the door. Stepping out, he pulled the door just, ensured the latch clicked, and used the sock to carefully wipe the exterior doorknob. He hadn't noticed on the way in that it had been polished, but comparing it to the rest of the doorknobs in the wallway, it was now obvious to his eye.

With his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, he folded the socks and left them at the base of the door.

His limp was much more noticeable as he manuevered down the stairs to take the dog for her walk.

 

That evening, after the dinner and homework rituals, he was up later than usual reading his bible and praying.

[Peredhil]

Son

He skipped the afterschool snack, because he'd almost thrown up yesterday. Heading upstairs, he took a deep breath before he unlocked his door and entered his room.

 

Dad

Given the hours he worked, it was merest formality to ask to leave early. The only questions anyone had were if they could help, which he smilingly denied.

"Not this time, thank you. After all..." he paused and they all chimed in with him, "God's favor and grace are upon me."

While most of the office didn't believe as he did, they all knew his catch phrase. Seeing the disasters in his life time and again, he knew that they'd thought him sarcastic, but over time, seeing how everything always managed to work out somehow, they'd come around. He knew that most of them held different beliefs than he, and while some attributed his good fortunes to the power of positive thinking, or creative visualization, or karma, or such, they'd finally all agreed to discuss and disagree. The office was a much more mellow place than when he'd arrived. With his reputation as a "holy roller", some of them had been hostile and wary at first.

Well, he couldn't change that, no more than he could stop challenges from occuring in his life. No one could. All he could do, he reminded himself, is control how he acted on those challenges.

Free Will. So many people, including himself sometimes, wanted that to mean, 'I get to do whatever I want without consequences', rather than, 'I have the freedom to choose, whatever the consequences'. Very different statements those were; how well he knew.

 

son

The rug was carefully rolled against the wall. All the sigals and designs drawn and sealed. He'd used a protracter to ensure angles, and was proud of himself for having thought of using powdered chalk in heaping lines. He was able to use the dust buster to clean it completely, and even recycle the chalk from the collection bag.

He distantly noted his heart pounding in fear as his intellect continued to gain the icy control he'd forged. Sitting on the bed in his underwear, he used his right leg today. Stabbing the needle into the large muscle on top, welcoming the pain as it bound him firmly back into his body, making him real again; using the pain as a constant to internally push against, whipping anger up with well-worn thoughts. The ritual of mashing his emotional buttons painfully while balancing with physical pain, another self-control exercise of which he was proud.

Soon he was at the fever pitch, shaking slightly and panting. Concentrating until he was steel-hard inside, the tremors in his hands stopped. He felt everything, an inferno of rage, self pity, guilt, contempt for all the others who didn't understand, couldn't understand, the fear, the fear of this time failing and people knowing he wasn't as smart as all the tests, that he was terrified and faking it all, that his constant jokes covered the times he was serious and people laughed, laughed at HIM - it didn't matter, it was all pushed into emotional plasma, a firey core of fuel over which his mind ruled with iron self control and precision. At times like this, he felt godlike.

 

Moving to the center of the room, careful not to disturb the chalk lines, he reached over the center pattern and used the genuine steel commando knife he'd electroplated with silver as a physics experiment ('A+' of course) to prod the sparrow he'd caught on the way home. Its body spasmed around the tip as he effortlessly chanted the throat-wrenching syllables he'd memorized. Keeping a constant rhythmn, he delicatedly tormented it. He was so clever, keeping it entirely in a tupper-ware container, so easy to clean and leaving no evidence.

When the quivering heap began to flame green, in a fire which began licking all but the blood, yet didn't heat the plastic (he'd attached a thermometer after the first occurance to check), he smoothly withdrew himself.

 

He watched dispassionately, distantly noting his stomach clenching in fear and the sudden gut twisting wrench as his body expressed its desire to void contents, to prepare for flight or fight. He was in Control. The sparrow's body was gone too quickly, he might have to find something bigger next time. The sickly green flame explored the chalk boundaries but found them secure. He gloated.

Suddenly, Jazmin was there, naked and lascivious, wanting him, begging him in the heat of her passion. This was an old trick, even his body didn't react this time. On the rare occasions his Dad could make time to drive him to see her, they'd only held hands and kissed gently. Seeing her now, writhing and begging for his touch to release her painful pent up passion was a strange constrast. The last few times they'd met, these images taunted him, his perfect memory making them almost more real than her gentle sweet reality. He'd fought the temptation to make the memories real, to manipulate her as easily as he could anyone, they were all so easy -

No.

This was a new trick, trying to trick himself into distraction. The flame was watching him, having discarded the form of his girlfriend. He laughed at it silently as it raged in frustration and disappointment. It was as stupid as the rest of the world. He was Control. His secret inner name. Control. Power. Jazmin with her wonderful pure intuition seemed to notice whenever he went cold, fighting the memories. She could always see through the Face he showed the world, and loved him anyway. It was a sign of his control, he gloated, that the flame couldn't spoil their relationship.

He focused on the Flame, watching it twist into different shapes. Mouthing words ancient and foreign to the human tongue, in languages he'd decyphered from hidden codeces in library(!) texts, he lashed and tormented it. Soon it was raging around, ice forming over the chalk as it bounced off the scribed walls.

Finally it huddled helplessly in the center, impotent under his will. Each time he controlled himself more quickly. Each time he controlled it more quickly as well. Soon he'd have forged himself to the point where he could enter the chalk and it would have nothing within him to seize. Then he could absorb its powers and carry it to use, an unseen servant, out in the world.

Then they'd all dance to his tune. He'd have to be wary, he'd already begun to sense others out there. He was becoming aware of an invisible heirarchy, a web of those with real power. The ones that really ran things. And they weren't the pathetic goths or satanists or the obvious ones. Like him, the ones with real power didn't show it.

He idly lashed the flame out of its stupor, just to prove he could, gloating in his control over it and its suffering. Its pain didn't matter. It was a demonic creature, and he could do anything to it, knowing it had deserved it all. Some day, he'd force those others to acknowledge him an equal. He wouldn't feel alone any more. He wouldn't be able to trust them, they'd be fools to trust him. But they'd respect each other.

It was hard to stay focused here and now. Was the flame causing him to daydream? He began knicking the knife in shallow razor-cuts through his skin to focus himself.

 

Then his Dad walked in, pocketing his Leatherman, and he lost all control for a moment.

 

Fear, guilt, Oh no oh no I've been caught, and the automatic clench of the will and the comforting numb ice and he was back in control, feeling nothing but rage.

He turned, ignoring the blood tracking down his legs. Boy was he in the here and now!

 

His Dad looked around the room, humming slightly, and looked behind him at what he'd summoned. He sneered in anticipation. No need to wear that vapid happy face now. His Dad could see his power. Teenager or not chronologically, he'd moved into an adult world his father couldn't understand.

 

"Surprised Daddy? You used to be smart, but you just miss so much now days. Maybe if you were a better man, Mom wouldn't have felt the need to find other men. At least she had the sense to try until she found one she could respect."

His Dad looked at him at last.

"Yeah, I guess I could never abuse her the way she needed. I hadn't counted on her emotional response being keyed to the abuse her father gave her when she was young. At the end, she chose the easy path of feelings the past held, instead of the hard way."

"You're so smart, so analytical. so calm. Or is that all the doctors left when they overdosed you time and again, before deciding they'd misdiagnosed you. So smart you're stupid now."

"Well," and he LAUGHED. God what a lame fool. "I'm much nicer now. I was pretty arrogant back then, when I thought intelligence was what defined who I was."

"You twist everything into lame excuses of how it turned out, don't you. What a frickin' Pollyanna."

 

His father shrugged and went back to looking at the floor, with a muttered, "works for me". He mockingly bowed, theater experience (and rave reviews at the simulated depth of emotions he'd been able to portray) showing gracefully, then stepped aside so Daddy-dear could see it all.

His Dad stepped forward and looked it over.

He waited for the horror, the reaction. The pious "oh my son, how could you turn your back on God, didn't I raise you better" so he could spit at his feet. (Even now he didn't quite dare to spit on him. Something inside mewed in fear at the thought. He remembered the one time he'd seen his broken semi-crippled father angry. He'd thrown a couch through the front room window, then calmly turned and apologized to everyone. Went out and brought it back in by himself too. Mom had FREAKED, although she'd been pushing for weeks for some way to break the polite shell. Dad had paid for that one, when he calmed down, with numb legs for nearly a month. Although, of course, he was too stupid to miss work.)

As he jerked back to the present, he realized the reaction hadn't come.

"You malformed the 2nd and 4th Sigals you know. But the chalk instead of scratched lines was clever. And the tupperware to contain messes was pretty smart too. When it'd worked you to squirrels and larger things, that'd've contained the mess nicely."

He stood in shock as he was CRITICIZED on his blasphemy. He didn't even notice when the flame scurried over all the chalk and twined around his leg.

With a sigh, his father turned to look at him, then looked down. Looking down, he saw the flame nuzzling his leg like a leech, and his mind momentarily froze. How could it have gotten out? He seized the ice congealing his thoughts and hid under it. All his thoughts became clear once his passions cooled and he rapidly sifted options.

With a few throat wrenching syllables, he formed an icy dome over the flame to drive it back, surround it, and prepared in quiet desparation to absorb it. It might be a battle, but he just couldn't face his Dad without something.

"You know, that iceshield thing is just a trick. You haven't really thought this through I'd guess. It's making the ice for you based on your words. Great actors, devils. They can't read minds, but they have more years than even you can imagine studying people."

He froze for a moment. His Dad may drop details, his memory was occasional, but when he spoke about something, he was usually right.

"What the hell are you talking about. You're so sold out to a powerless God that even if he did exist, he doesn't do anything. Look at all the crap that goes on in his name. More horrors happen in your God's name than outside it. You don't know anything. I've got real, here and now, power."

His Dad sat down on the bed with a grunt, and crossed his legs. The flame in the icy web flickered between them. He had the sudden urge to grab it before his Dad could spoil this too.

"Well, think about it. If there are devils, then there is God. Personally, I see him work in a thousand small ways every day. But to the first point, 'cause you know I get distracted, if the eternal punishment to come is a lake of fire, either physical or spiritual, I really don't know, but not to drift," He took a breath and continued, "then logically fire is not a devil's friend. Great advertising though, to publish your weakness as a strength. The corillary is that devils are cold. Emotionally cold, phyically cold when they manifest. Their only heat is that of hatred, rage, selfish lust, that sorta thing."

His Dad paused for a moment for questions, having drifted into the familiar lecture mode. He remained silent as realities rearranged themselves within him, quiet simple shattering words. He'd seen this effect so many times when Dad counseled others.

How the hell did Dad do this to people? Reach inside them to the core and just twist?

[Peredhil]

"It's really all simple logic. Although the adversary - remember? Satan means adversary? - is great at twisting things. That," Dad gestured at the flame, "is just a physical manifestation of a spirit. One of the third that fell with an archangel."

Suddenly there was a burst of light, and the flame was gone. In its place was glowing light, purest white with a delicate rose tint. His breath caught in his throat at its purity and beauty. It shifted delicately into a translucent image of his grandmother. He felt tears as he remembered her. She'd always loved and accepted him like no other.

"Honeybear," G'ma said, "It was a devil, but I've been watching over you. I've driven it away now. I love you."

He felt himself sob, and quickly brought it under automatic control. He wished he could cry, release the pressure pushing at his cheeks and making his throat tight, but he'd forgotten how, hours and hours of practicing control of emotions holding his emotions in unwelcome check.

"G'ma?"

"Yes, I'm dead. But I'm in heaven, and I watch over you constantly. I'm here waiting for you."

"Which," his Dad's soft voice interrupted, "is another lie. The dead are dead until the times specified are met -and it says no man knows when that will come. We're to be ready."

He suddenly hated his father. G'ma, his own mother, was standing right fricking in front of him, and he was not only ignoring her, he was saying she wasn't there. What a bastard! Dad would deny him any comfort in his life at all. He felt something again alright. He felt like killing the cold old man. The logical part of him which never slept reminded him of all the consequences, the years in prison, the loss of Jazmin, and everything else, but he was shaking in rage and hatred. He looked at the cold years of his miserable life stretching ahead of him, and felt hopeless. G'ma was waiting. He'd kill his father and them himself and join her.

He looked at the silvered athame in his hand, already stained with his blood. And the sparrow's blood.

"Sorry, but it's my responsibility to let you know the truth. This isn't my mother. It's just another lie." He looked G'ma over carefully, and pursed his lips. "You've gotten better at it," he informed her.

Grandma snarled at him.

"Unnatural son. Shall I tell him all the things you did when you were growing up? How you killed your own horse and blamed your best friend trying to raise spirits? God will never forgive you." She turned back to him, love beaming from her eyes. "He's an unnatural son, cloaking his evil in pretend good. Look how you feel right now. If he loved you, would he do this to you? God hates people like him. You'd be doing God's will if you killed him right now." As he hesitated, she came and put a gentle hand on his arm. He felt her, warm and alive. He knew that touch!

"You've done some bad things lately, but this will wipe them all out, in blood. I can help you. Let me in and I'll steady your hand." His father looked at him steadily as he hesitated still, begining to shake.

"Logic..." Dad said, "I know that sometimes the bible doesn't make sense when you listened in church, but the principles were pretty simple. Consider, what institutions would arise if people had Free Will? If they could gather with likeminded others, and then picked and chose what parts of the truth fit what they believed, instead of believing, however difficult, what it said."

"Shutup. You're making it all confused."

"No, I'm making you think. Painful, isn't it? It's always easier to believe lies. It takes courage to change, having to think."

"Kill him," advised G'ma urgently, "he's just distorting everything."

"Son-beam, would you believe I can relate to you?"

"No! You always are so understanding and don't understand anything. You can't steal this!"

"It's not that I don't understand, just that I often don't agree. And I'm not stealing anything. I could end this any time, but I feel it's important that YOU understand."

"You can't end anything. I know spells. I'm bigger and stronger now. And I've got a knife. Just shut up."

"Kill him," G'ma whispered quietly in his ear, nudging his elbow forward.

His father began speaking quietly, inevitably.

"I was raised in churches," he said, "and began to look at the people. I decided, like you, that God wasn't there because the people still had flaws, were tragically human. They'd get together and talk about God, then screwup all week. So, like you, I began looking around."

"I found the books, they're always around if you look. I did the rituals, I descended into the self-abuse." He was suddenly aware of the pain and the blood on his body. "I felt empty, cold and numb except when I was hurting, raging, hating. I saw people as things to manipulate, objects to use, and knew the satisfaction of making them do what I wanted - and thanking me for it!"

"And yes, the bugs, mice, and birds, turned into animals and finally my own horse. His sacrifice to power was also a sacrifice of my 'weakness', in that I still could love things. After all, you can't be your own god and control spirits if you have weaknesses. Logic... if you really want this power, you're gonna have to sacrifice everything for it."

"Jazmin too. Maybe not physically, but I'll bet you're already getting ice inside yourself, and between you. You'll have to envision more and more perverse things into order to feel with her. And perversion is the antithesis of intimacy."

"You should've killed him," observed Grandma, drawing away slightly and shaking her head sadly. Dad nodded acknowledgement of her point to her as he stopped talking. He watched the byplay blankly, not understanding. He felt like a tornado was spinning inside him, and hoped he wouldn't puke.

"You always were good with the words, weren't you," continued Grandma. Dad continued to watch her without fear, but refusing to reply. She turned back to him, and gestured to the knife.

"Honey, his poison is already making you weak. I can't help you kill him now, you've been tainted too much and lost the moment. But I can give you the strength to end this and come with me. Don't think, don't hesitate. Do you want to live with this? With this constant preaching his version of the truth? With him holding this over you everytime you make a simple mistake? Come to heaven with me..." She held out a bespeeching hand to him, as tears began streaming down her face.

"I - no. No. That is a lie. Dad doesn't throw the past at anyone." Suddenly he had something he knew and held onto it. His legs buckled and he felt cold. He realized he was naked in front of G'ma and dropped the knife to cover himself.

"Well, that's the choice then." His father turned to his mother and continued. "First, truth. In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to appear as you are."

He vomited. Tossed chunks on the floor, and couldn't stop gagging. He thought it had shown him nightmares when he was first summoning it, but this!

The most horrible part was that it was truly beautiful. And he couldn't describe the horror. Dad had been right though, the feeling of cold and hate was making his feet and hands numb. Fire wasn't this devil's only friend; Don McLean had been clueless when he sang that.

"And finally, in the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to be gone." And it was. Just like that. All the words he'd studied for control, all the chalk. Just five words in his Dad's believing mouth and it was all useless.

He felt so incredibly stupid.

 

His Dad stepped around the chalk and vomit mess and used his shirt to wipe his trembling mouth.

"Isn't that just fascinating, the power when appropriate? Back in the old days, when it was just angels, the bible tells us that all Michael could do is defend and say 'the Lord rebukes thee'. Of course, that probably wasn't it, translaters you know." He kept up a steady stream of calm words as he helped him from the room.

"After your shower, you'll have to clean up your room."

"I know I know, I made the mess, I clean it up."

"And then we can talk about my mistakes of this nature, and your grandmother's mistakes of this nature, and how smart people can be so stupid. Try not to interrupt TOO much. You're so smart, you know what I'm going to say two words into the sentence."

He paused in the bathroom door and looked down at his greying father.

"Should you really be teasing me right now?"

"Can you think of a better time? It's done, all that's left are consequences. You clean up a mess, we talk, we move on. Like I always say..." They laughed as he chimed in on the quote.

"There is therefore now no condemnation for those..." He finished the sentence with Dad out of habit as the words took on a whole new meaning.

 

This had been going on for generations in his family? He made the shower hot as hell. It stung wonderfully on his cuts. Generations?

 

His family were, like, pirate spiritzor-ninjas! Too COOL.

 

He began humming as washed.