From: "Jom Tones" <publicenemanumberone@hotmail.nospam.com> Subject: [PW!] A bad place... Date: Monday, June 14, 2004 6:33 PM [NS - Little comment. I have a few more background stories to post; unfortunately I have a little typing diarrhoea. I do apologise for the length of my posts. I'm certain that once I get past all the stuff that needs to be said for things to make sense in future I can settle down to some sensible size posts. Maybe I'm compensating for something with length of writing - I'll shut up now] Arren went to bed early that night. Without so much as a word, he took back the sleeping bag from beside the fire and threw it into the open tent, flinging bits of broken glass everywhere. Both Huck and Scyther tried to console him, but there was nothing they could do. As soon as he'd figured out what had transpired between Scyther and Huck, the cold finger of treachery had traced its way down his spine. The blood had pounded in his ears as he'd listened to the only side of the conversation he understood. That is, up until the point where he could stand it no longer. His heart was pounding, his ears were hot and there was a knot of anger, frustration and hurt balled up inside his chest. His eyes and throat ached as he fought back tears. He couldn't believe that this kid from the river could speak to Scyther. His Scyther, his friend. He couldn't hate them, the nice part of him pleaded - it wasn't their fault. But he hated something, something deep within him whispered thoughts of the uttermost intensity. All he wanted to do was scream and cry and be comforted - the only thing he could blame was them. Thoughts of comfort forced Arren to think about his parents and the day that his life had changed. He'd been avoiding it for a year, but now, with this terrible pain he couldn't control, his brain was working overdrive. His mother, her soft, perfumed arms wrapped around him. He saw her face, her warm and kind expression, her golden locks and that special kiss that was reserved for him. Thinking about her broke down the last barrier - he buried his face in the pillow of the sleeping bag and sobbed. Why!? He couldn't understand anything that was going on. None of it made sense. What made it all worse was that he could hear Huck and Scyther talking quietly outside. This boy was stealing his friend and there was nothing he could do about it. Once again he was excluded. It had been bad enough in school, unable to join in with the other kids at play. He 'd got used to his legs holding him back, and he hadn't really noticed the communication barrier. Until now. But what could he do about it? Why would Scyther want to stay with him now that he'd found someone with whom he could truly speak. It was a liberating feeling, finally finding someone with whom you can truly interact. Arren knew all too well, because he had been thinking that Huck would be his friend. Now that had changed. Why would he want to talk to a little disabled kid, when he could talk to the mighty Scyther. In that moment, he hated Huck. Hated him with a passion that burned, hated him so much that the little part of him that still clung to sanity was scared of what he was capable of in that moment. He began to think of all the awfully satisfying things he could do to Huck as he slept. Stab him with a tent peg; pound his head with a flask; roll him into the fire. There came a shuffling at the door. Arren froze - pretended to be asleep. 'Arren?' It was Huck's voice. At least he had the decency to sound ashamed. 'Look, Arren - I don't know why this happened,' Huck was stumbling for things to say - He only wants to make himself feel better, the dark fire inside whispered. Don't listen to him, he's selfish, he wants to steal your friend. Part of Arren loved Huck's inability to express himself; the other silently screamed at him to shut up and go away. 'I know - I mean, I see how much Scyther means to you.' Arren couldn't stop himself from tensing, the anger nearly boiled over - he nearly let loose. The minority nice voice within him used his mother's restraining voice against him. Without that, he may have used all of his strength there and then to beat every last breath out of the boy from the river. The tensing was enough to let Huck know that Arren wasn't asleep. The acknowledgement silenced him, forcing him to turn away with a frustrated sigh. The anger within shouted noiselessly as Huck left - profane nonsense that made him shameful to think of his mother's face again. That disappointed look - he couldn't bear to think of how she'd feel now. Slowly, feverishly, he drifted into sleep. The confused thoughts of hatred mixed with memories he'd rather forget became a blurry dreamscape. He was forced to relive that final day. The way he'd returned home from school at lunchtime for dinner with his parents. The way his trusty wheelchair had hummed in the hallway as he'd gone to answer the door. Maybe the travelling PokéSalesman had returned? There was a blinding flash as he was cast from his wheelchair by the violence of the door as it burst open. His head had bounced along the marble, the wheels of his chair spinning uselessly in the air. Fear became darkness, darkness became pain. His mind stirred with the sound of a chant that rhymed - he was reminded of the playground, the silly games - this was different though. Then he had heard the blood-curdling scream, inhuman, loud and shrill. His eyes opened and he saw the house, burning, his head in the dust. He could feel the heat of the blaze. He was being carried, his eyes opened again and he saw the sky. His body limp and frail, held effortlessly by the robust, green arms of his greatest ally. Scyther. He remembered looking through Scyther's arms, back down the avenue of trees that framed the fire from the distant house. He remembered calling out. 'Mom!!!' - 'Dad!!!' Arren awoke with a shock. Sweat ran down his forehead. He was back in the tent - he was still wearing yesterday's clothes. He looked at his watch, it was already nine o'clock. He felt guilty for staying asleep for so long - then he remembered. With morning's light he felt dreadful about the frenzied anger of the night before. The light made it all seem like utter foolishness and his cheeks burned with shame at his behaviour. All that was left was sadness, blameless sadness. He had to apologise, face up to whatever decision Scyther and Huck had made in the night. He would accept their plans with dignity and grace. Outside, he heard the sound of a fall coupled with the violent rustling of leaves, followed by a yell of horror. He crawled out of the tent to see what was going on. Huck emerged from the woods, his face red with horror. He was holding the A frame that Scyther had made for Arren. The front of his t-shirt and jeans were wet. His mouth was contorted with disgust. Arren smiled. The A frame was a device that Scyther had made to help him answer the call of nature without having to ask for assistance. The top part rested on the side of a tree, while the arms dug into the ground for support. One either sat on the brace in the middle or leaned up against it for support - depending on what type of call. With a vague idea of what Huck had tried, and trying very hard to stop himself from laughing, Arren asked the question. 'What happened?' Huck rubbed the back of his head, squinting, his face burning more than ever. He had to concede a slight chuckle. 'Scyther told me what this was for.so, I thought I'd give it a spin.' He replied, with as much dignity as he could muster. 'So, you didn't fall in the river again?' Arren asked, referring to the big wet patch. He was struggling mightily to hold back the waves of laughter that threatened to explode inside him as Huck shook his head. 'Nope,' he replied, 'This definitely isn't water.' With that, the two new friends let rip and fell around laughing. -- Hem Hem - oiseau bum talent- - JomTones publicenemanumberone@hotmail.nospam.com