The Sixth Blood

Chapter 2

I don't sleep at all throughout the cold night, the hours before sunrise seem to pass by quickly as thoughts swim through my head in the darkness. Even as the morning light streams into the cellar through the slit in the metal doors, my eyes stay fixed on the place the orb of light had appeared in disbelief. More than anything, fear courses through my entire body, believing  deep down that the nightmarish episodes of "mental instability" I had as a child have returned. After the cellar doors are opened and Harold allows me to step from the darkness, I don't speak to him as I walk stiffly to the front and inside of the house, ignoring the tyrannical gibberish he spits after me . I suppose it's around seven in the morning based on the amount of sunlight that is peaking over the horizon, Declan has already left for school most likely. Of course neither Harold or Claretta would care at all if I miss the school bus, it wouldn't be the first time that they've put my education and well-being at the bottom of the priority list. After walking up the creaking stairs, I wash my mud covered legs and feet in the small sink of the upstairs bathroom before returning to my chilled attic room. Through each crack in the wooden walls, dull morning light streams in, creating streaks as they cut through the dusty atmosphere. I fall face first onto my lumpy mattress, breathing out deeply.
"I'll just forget" I say to myself. The same way I buried the strange memories of my early childhood. It's the only way to preserve the false sense of normality that my life revolves around. "Just try to forget"

My eyes snatch open as I realize I dozed off, perhaps for quite some time. The alarm clock reads two p.m. I sink my face back into my pillow, pulling the quilt tight over my shoulders. Sleep offers me an escape from everything just for a moment, an emptiness that I can just immerse myself in until I have to return to reality. A gentle breeze sways the trees outside of my small window, tossing the autumn leaves like a warm colored sea. I always found the fall comforting somehow, not quite as bitter cold as the winter yet not blazing with the heat of the summer. A perfect balance. Pulling myself out of bed, I throw on my grey hoodie and sweatpants and slip on my worn tennis shoes. I can see from the window that the Darson's rickety blue truck is removed from the driveway. I'm surprised they made the decision to leave me in the house alone. Leaving the attic, I tread down the flight of stairs and into the kitchen. From the pantry I removed a pack of crackers which I'm sure won't be missed by the glutinous people in the house. Part of me wants to go right back into the refrigerator and remove the steak once again, but I pull myself from the kitchen and out of the front door.  The warm glow of the sun comes to meet me the moment I step outside. I breathe in deeply, absorbing in the green smell from all around. The Darson's house is essentially in the middle of nowhere, the nearest neighbor being well down the warn road away from the property. Surrounding the house are close-knit trees that span a few acres, giving a sense of life to the depressing area. Jumping down the porch steps, I stride across the grass and into the nearby bunch of trees, pulling myself up into one of their limbs. I climb higher until I grow nervous about the thin branches. Sitting on one close to the trunk of the tree, I place half of cracker in my mouth. In the tree near to me a red robin flutters to an unfinished nest, fitting a twig into the tangle of others before flying off again quickly. In a way, I envy the simple sense of purpose that guides it's life. A drive to construct and provide for it's future family. An aspiration that honestly proves to be a challenge for many humans. It's funny how we view animals as primitive and simple, yet we fail to duplicate their fluid organization that comes from only instinct. In some odd way I feel connected to everything when I'm up here, clear minded. Another escape that tends to make situations more bearable. I close my eyes and listen to all of the sounds that cut through the wind, an array of bird chirps and squirrel scurries that I imagine into my "happy birthday song". Unfortunately, joining their sounds is the roar of an old engine coming down the path. Looking a ways downward, I can see the Darson's blue truck heading towards the house while trailing a cloud of dust. Quickly but carefully, I descend down the branches and jump to the ground, running as fast as I can to the back door of the house. Just as I hear car doors closing, I scale the two flights of stair to the attic. Soon after, the house is filled with the Darson's obnoxious voices and laughter. Once again, I crash onto the bed after kicking off my shoes, slipping out my notepad that lies underneath the head of the mattress. Switching on the small lamp on the floor, I untie the thin string that binds the book together. On the pages are either journal entries or pencil drawings, depending on whatever mood had taken me that day. Yesterday I had drawn a detailed forest near a towering cliff, the silhouette of a woman standing near the edge under a fading mood. Usually, I draw whatever image comes to my head, not realizing what my hand is creating until the entire picture is finished. I take the small stub of a drawing pencil wedged in between the pages and begin drawing a curved line. As my hand moves, around the paper, my mind can't help but flash back to the fantastic light in the cellar. I hadn't imagined it, at least I hope I didn't. No amount of imagination could have made it as real as it was. But if it had actually been there, I feel as though I should be more scared than anything, even more so than questioning my own sanity. Maybe I breathed in too many fumes of the old gasoline that lay around the old cellar, or maybe Harold pulled a few of my screws loose by yanking on my ear. Both explanations sound far fetched as they run through my head, but they're all I have to hold on to.
The sun has nearly set by the time my hand makes a final pencil stroke. On the paper is a detailed sketch of a long haired girl, standing closely to a marble statue of a large horse. Her face wears a worried expression as she stares blankly from the page and into my own eyes, surrounded by an array of other statutes and paintings against the wall behind her. Strangely enough, I recognize the display as one in the Pottstown Museum in the busier part of town that I've seen on television, although I've never visited once. There's an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach as I look into her shaded face, one of familiarity almost. I close my notebook slowly, wrapping the thin string back around it. Just as I slide the book under the head of my bed, I hear the loud throaty voice of Mr. Darson yelling my name from downstairs. I groan loudly, knowing that he only calls my name in this way when he's furious over something that I supposedly did. I move slowly down from the attic to the second floor hallway. From what sounds like the family room below, I can hear Harold ranting angrily to Mrs. Darson about something that I can't understand. All three of the family's eyes burn in my direction when I walk timidly into the room. From the corner of my eye, I can read a clearly mischievous expression on Declan's face from his place on the armchair in the back of the room. Claretta sits arms crossed and legs folded on the worn couch, her husband leaning on the back of it with his cheeks flushed in anger.
"Where is it boy." He growls, teeth clench firmly together.

My eyes move nervously from his face to Claretta's.
"W-what are you looking for exactly?" I stutter, hands sweating.

Harold lurches forward to grip me by the collar of my sweatshirt.
"Don't play games with me brat, the whoopin' Imma give you will just be ten times worse."

"Please, honestly," I gasp out, "I have no idea of what you're talking about!"

From the corner of the room, Declan's yellow teeth curl into a crooked grin.
"Why don't you check his bookbag dad, I think I may have seen him slip somethin' in there yesterday."

I honestly wish the look I shoot to the boy would kill. Unfortunately it doesn't, so my eyes look back up to Harold to anticipate his next move. His glare moves to my backpack that's sitting beside the front door. He releases me only to move swiftly to the bag, unzipping the front pouch quickly, he removes the item wedged in between my school books. A tall bottle of scotch liquor. My heart stops, knowing that I hadn't ever taken something of theirs, let alone something so "sacred" to them in particular. Somehow, the outrage on Harold's face becomes even more explosive. Anger boils in my own chest towards Declan, knowing that he planted the bottle on me for his revenge from last night. Before I'm even able to turn to glare at him, the room begins to spin under me as Mr. Darson's large rough hand collides against my face with vision shattering force. I'm on the ground, stars forming in front of my eyes. I can just make out something long and cylindrical in his hand as he pounds towards me, the wooden rod he keeps in the umbrella holder near the front door. The thick wood strikes first into my shoulder, then my ribcage, knocking the wind from my lungs. With each blow to my body, a large lump forms in my throat. Not because I want to cry, but because I'm suppressing  the massive fury building inside. Both Claretta and Declan sit in their places, unmoved as Harold savagely throws his swings. It is the final agonizing blow to my collar bone that triggers the unthinkable.
Just as he pulls back his arm for another wallop, the unimaginable fury inside of me appears to rip from my body in a burst of blinding light, hurling the three-hundred pound man from his feet and into a glass coffee table behind, shattering it completely. He hollers animalistically in pain, clasping onto the right hand that held the rod. As my vision steadies, I now see the reason for his agonizing pain. All that is left of the exposed skin from his hand up to the right side of his chest is a charred layer of flesh, the wooden rod seemingly fused to the melted surface of his palm. Claretta's high pitched wailing pierces my ears, springing to the side of her writhing husband. She orders a bewildered Declan to call the police, attempting to peel Harold's shirt from the melted flesh to assess further damage. The ground underneath me still tosses as my head spins. Any of the injuries caused by the rod are numbed completely by adrenaline as I attempted to gather my thoughts. Mr. Darson's arm wasn't the only thing damaged in the flash, as I see smoking charred streaks stretching outwards from me on the carpet and wallpaper nearby. I hear Declan in the kitchen phoning the police, realizing that he's' explaining to them how this "crazy foster kid" burned his father's skin off somehow. I can't stay here, there's no way I can explain what happened to the authorities without winding up in a psych ward.
I have to leave.
Darting from the ground as fast as my unsteady head allows, I run from the family room and upstairs to the attic as fast as I can. After pulling on my sneakers, I speedily grab up whatever items I can think of, my notebook, a flashlight, a small swiss army knife, and the quilt. The items in my arms, I abandon the attic without looking back, skipping steps to the front door. Dumping the objects in my bookbag, I look back at the Darsons in the family room, Harold clinging to his singed arm while a teary eyed Claretta tends to him, shooting a look full of hate and fear at me as I swing open the door. Declan stands in the hallway a short distance from me with the phone in hand, a look of terror plastered on his face as we make eye contact. In a different situation, I would have reveled in my ability to strike this much fear into him. In this moment however, time allows only for me to leave this house of abuse while I have the chance. I turn my back and step into the night, closing the door behind me. The moon is just setting itself in the sky as the sun sinks over the horizon in a blanket of warm pink and orange streaks. Taking one deep breath in, I jump from the porch steps, and begin to run. I run the fastest that my legs will carry me through the thick trees, dodging their branches as they become obscured under the moonlight. Pumping through my veins is a rush of excitement accompanying undeniable fear. Something unexplainable is giving me the chance to escape from the prison that's surrounded me my entire life. Now, the uncertainty now is if I have the strength inside to reach out and grasp the opportunity.