“Anthony Boyer”.

“English Literature Period 3”.

“October 4th, 1955”.

The pencil scratched against the paper as his eyes wandered off, almost immediately trying to get away from doing his essay. He had been putting it off for weeks, Wesley had already gotten his done, which said a lot considering Wesley rarely had his work in on time. Anthony could get essays done like no other, especially when it was an academic topic. But a personal essay? He erased his name.

“English Literature Period 3”.

“October 4th, 1955”.

“The Role of Family in Shaping Identity by Anthony Boyer”.

And his pencil stopped once more, right before the red line on the left side. He lifted and put his pencil back down against the smooth, creamy feeling of paper the pencil lead snapped. A yell from across the house echoed through the empty halls. Yet all Anthony could do was stare at the broken piece of lead, unattached to the rest of the small, wood-cracked pencil he gripped in his hand. Another yell. And then a meek female voice. And then a screaming match. His hand gripped tighter against the wood before it fractured into splinters, scratching the skin of his fingertips. “Jesus Christ.”

The teenager stood up, opening the door gently, watching through what felt like an eternal hallway and seeing his mother and father spitting at each other, screaming, one significantly louder than the other yet no matter how loud the other was, neither of them were listening.

“Robbie, please-”

“Don’t you fucking call me that, you whore, I would kill you if I had the chance.”

Anthony tensed slightly at the words. He knew his father wasn’t a murderer, nor did he have intentions but sometimes Anthony believed he was close to snapping.

“Tony can probably hear you, quiet down, you’ll scare him!”

“The boy needs to learn what the real world is like, I’ll hit him harder on the back of the head if it means getting some sense into him!”

“He’s sixteen, he doesn’t deserve this, you need to stop hurting him-”

“If he’d listen and start acting like a real man, maybe I wouldn’t have to!”

Anthony watched. That's all he could do. He didn’t want to interfere. He didn’t want to yell back at them. And at this point, the voices were meshing together and he couldn’t decipher which one of them was which. His body felt numb, felt weak. He wanted to lie down but he needed to listen. His parents were arguing because of him. They were screaming at each other because he couldn’t be a person properly. Because he can’t listen to his father or “be a man”. It was his fault.

“Robbie, please, you can’t keep doing this, it’s hurting him,” Susan cried, grabbing Robert’s arm before being slammed into the stove behind her, the skin against her wrist sizzling against the burning grill. She yelped, her tears flowing more as she held it, Robert not having a care anymore. With one hand grabbing her wrist and the other grabbing her hair down to her scalp, he slammed her back into the running stove, the red grates and burners scorching against his wife’s soft flesh. A scream emitted from the kitchen, with her flesh boiling and hissing against the heat. Robert didn’t have anything in his expression other than anger. He had no sympathetic reaction to his wife’s burns and scars forming. Her cries for help only fueled him more, clutching her hair and impacting her face into the burners. She could feel her vocal cords strain, almost rip as she attempted to cry out, with how much agony she was experiencing. Susan’s eyes were wide, shutting her eyes almost instantly as soon as her eye touched it.

Her lips were scarred with the grill imprint on her face.

And all Anthony did was tighten, stiff in his place in front of his bedroom. His mother’s screams went into his ear but never went out the other, instead settling inside his head and crowding it, not being able to hear anything else. His voice was quiet, it felt childish as he called out for her. “Momma…?”

His voice wasn’t heard, his mother and father yelling overpowering it as Susan was yanked and thrown to the wooden floorboards, her flesh bubbling and almost melting and dripping with blood. Grabbing the back of her head and her jaw tightly, Robert split her jaw, dislocating her jaw and kicking her head back down. “Fucking bitch.”

She couldn’t speak, her throat, her head, her scalp, her eyes, her lips, her arms, burned and bleeding rapidly. She was crying and it was unimaginable how much pain she was in. Every tear burned like molten lava dripping down her face. Robert stared down at her, disgusted, uncaring, pissed.

Anthony watched him hit her, watched him rip out her hair, punch her teeth in, dislocate her body parts just to make her pain last longer. She fell to the floor, not getting up, not crying anymore, not breathing anymore, laying inanimate underneath the man she had once loved. As Robert stomped his wife’s head, a loud crack rang around Anthony like a wind, the boy felt his air get sucked out of him, his lungs out of breath and his eyes glassy, his body aching, and his intrusive thoughts replacing the cries of help his now silent mother once screamed. Police sirens were heard outside, loud, so loud that his father covered his ears a bit. Neighbors chattered outside, worried and watching as the police stormed into the Boyer house and tackled Robert. Anthony was still, as still as his mother. His mother was dead. His mother was dead. And all he did was stand there. He didn’t help her, didn’t reply to her pleading for someone to help and fight for her. He didn’t call the police. He didn’t fight his father off. He didn’t run out for help. He didn’t help her.

“Kid, you okay? What happened?”

“I think he’s in shock.”

“What’s your name, bud?”

Anthony finally glanced away from the horror of his mother’s dead body, his green eyes now looking at the faces of the police officers. “Anthony.”

“Anthony? Hey, Anthony, my name is Officer Johnson, we’re going to bring you to the station, okay?” The police officer said softly, blocking Anthony’s sight to the kitchen.

Officer Johnson was tall, taller than him, taller than his father. He didn’t quite remember how tall his father was. Officer Johnson brushed his blonde hair out of his face, and his kind and warm eyes gave Anthony a smile. Anthony didn’t smile back.

“Johnson, I’ll get the mother, you get the boy?” The other officer clarified. Officer Johnson nodded, turning back to Anthony almost as quickly as possible. Anthony nodded slightly. He followed him to his front door and his gaze landed back on his mother. His dead mother. She laid there, her face almost unrecognizable with her jaw too far to the left, her nose crooked, her left eyeball almost falling out of its socket with dripping red burned tissue barely holding it in. Her lip was curled upwards a bit, stuck like that with the wounds intacting it.

“Momma.” Anthony muttered, the officer leading him grabbing his jaw and turning it back forwards to not look at her. The other officer covered his mother in a white sheet, and for some reason, Anthony’s mind immediately went to peace. She wasn’t just dead, she was at peace.

✧—---------------------------------------------✧-------------------------------------------------✧

“Can you tell me what you saw?”

“My momma’s dead.”

“I know, Anthony, I’m sorry. Can you tell me how she died?”

Officer Johnson looked at Anthony with gentle eyes, he’s only ever seen those eyes with one other person. A notepad was on the metal table, a pen in hand.

“Anthony Robert Boyer”.

“Robert Boyer, Susan Boyer”.

“16, birthday 03/19/1938”.

“Family essay??”

Anthony had read over those notes multiple times, and each time he felt like he couldn’t remember past his parents’ names. He stopped reading the notes.“I don’t want to talk anymore.”

“Can we talk about something else at least? Maybe about the essay?” Officer Johnson asked, tilting his head again. Anthony stared.

“The essay is ridiculous,” Anthony started, fidgeting with his fingers, his thumb rubbing the palm of his hand to calm his cramping. He never knew why his palm was cramping, it had been cramping a lot recently. And it was only his right one. Officer Johnson gave him a look to continue, his pen clicking with the tip of it ready to write at any moment. “It’s Honors English Literature 3, I should be learning analysis, how to look at the little things in writings, not write an essay on personal experience, what good does that do? I want to think deeper about english, not be a fucking writer.”

“I get that, writing is difficult,” Officer Johnson replied, his hands intertwining with each other as he listened. Anthony had never been listened to this long by an adult except for teachers, but they only listened when he had something academic to say. Officer Johnson’s brown eyes were gentle, not judging, not yelling at him to knock off the cussing. They just listened.

“And Wesley’s already finished his essay which is absurd because he literally never finishes his work but the one time he does, I’m behind and I don’t even know if I’ll have time to come up with something to write before tomorrow,” the boy responded, thumb digging into his palm like a coal miner. The pressing hurt, but it was either the cramping or the pain.

“Who’s Wesley?” Johnson asked, trying to get Anthony to open up more about his personal life. Hoping, praying that the boy would open up about something.

“McCormick, he’s my best friend. He’s going to be an actor, you know? Stars in every school play and he always does great.” Anthony leaned back, chuckling a bit. “Every time after one of his shows, we go to the diner a couple blocks away and we talk about how everyone else did wrong in the play and how he did fantastic. We’ve been doing that since grade school.” Anthony paused for a moment, his hands stopping as he took a deep breath in. “Shit, I’m missing his show..”

“You’re missing his show? Is it today?” Officer Johnson scribbled more on his notepad.

“Wesley McCormick: best friend, actor, school play, diner”.

“It’s right now, he’s Riff in West Side Story, and he really wanted me to come see it, he bought me the tickets,” Anthony said, guilt eating at his flesh like a piranha. His palm hurt again. “I told him I wouldn’t miss it-”

He didn’t know why he was hit with such sudden anxiety, hit with such sudden fear. His leg bounced, the fabric of the slacks rubbing against the metal leg of the table, the shifting noise filling the room besides the heavier breaths. Tears brimmed from his eyes, hands in fists, and body trembling. Touch was the last thing he expected right now.

Officer Johnson laid a hand down against Anthony’s fist, prying it open gently and gripping it. “You are okay. I promise you.”

“I’m missing his show-”

“You are not going to be in trouble for missing his show. Why are you panicking? What’s going on?” His voice was calm, there was no mocking or judging or annoyance, it was just gentle.

“Wesley will hate me.”

“No, he won’t. He’s your best friend.” Officer Johnson wrote in his notepad again, keeping it out of view of Anthony, who was calming his breathing and grinding his right palm into the corner of the table. Officer Johnson wrote more.

“Talk to Martha about counseling”.

Anthony just nodded, he knew he was being irrational, but suddenly he had a constant fear. A fear that he knew wasn’t going to go away, at least not tonight. He wanted to see Wesley, call him on the telephone outside, but he knew he wouldn’t answer. He was performing, expressing his happiness on the stage. And Anthony was stuck here, chained to the invisible ball of his trauma.

“Wesley does acting, you said? Do you have any hobbies? A girlfriend? Hanging out with friends?” Officer Johnson urged, finally putting his pencil down and tilting his head as Anthony began.

“I have a girlfriend. Her name’s Valerie, she’s super pretty. And smart, and fun. She parties a lot and that’s pretty cool because I get dragged along to them. Have you ever, like, touched the petal of a rose? And there’s that softness and smooth feeling? That’s what her touch feels like. If I could marry her now, I would.” Anthony said. He loved Valerie, and she knew that. But he couldn’t help the constant feeling that Valerie didn’t love him, that she was so much farther ahead of him. Her spotlight shone only on her, and with every light there was a shadow.

“She sounds like a delight, do you hang out with her a lot?”

“I do. But it’s usually with friends. My parents never really let me hang out with her because they caught her smoking. Which is hypocritical of them because I saw them smoke all the time.” Anthony said, his voice getting quieter and quieter as he continued. His parents hated Valerie, thinking she was a horrible influence with her smoking, yet Anthony grew up in a house surrounded by gray clouds of nicotine. His parents were just as, if not more addicted. His parents. There was a pause. “Do you think they hated me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you think they hated me? My parents?”

“Kid-”

“They wouldn’t hurt me if they loved me, right? Wesley’s parents didn’t hurt him or Jim’s, or Val’s, or Lizzie’s, or anybody’s but mine. Why did I have to have parents that hated me?”

“It wasn’t your fault, kid. Some people aren’t made to be parents and you certainly did nothing wrong. Not even a little bit.”

“Then, why would they want to hurt me? I was four. How could they have already hated me before I was even able to give them a reason?”

Officer Johnson took a deep breath. “..Because your parents were horrible people. They treated you like you were a worthless mutt on the side of the road. They didn’t give you the love you deserved and by the looks of how they treated each other, their own spouses, it looks like they didn't have much love to give in the first place. You were four. None of what they said or did was ever your fault. None of it.”

“I tried to be good.”

“I know you did. All you wanted was to be loved, I know. And I promise you I will make sure that you will get the comfort and love you deserve.”

Anthony could feel tears brimming at his eyes. His hands clenched against the hard wooden top of the table, the cold touch sending a shiver through his body. The room was cold, like ghosts were surrounding the area. Anthony rarely cried in front of people, and it was often that he would shut himself down completely instead of letting the tears spill. But he wasn’t this time. A salty droplet landed on the table, before breaking the molecules and splattering. And it happened again. And again. And again. Until Anthony began to tug at his sleeve and rapidly wipe his eyes, the rivers stopping only for a brief moment before flowing down his cheeks once more. “I hate my parents.”

“And you have every right to. You have every right to feel how you do. They failed you as parents and they failed me as people. You are safe now. I promise.”

His legs curled up against his chest in the chair, the soles of his shoes barely on the edge of the seat as he closed himself off. The pencil met the paper again.

✧—--------------------------------------------✧--------------------------------------------------✧

“English Literature Period 3”.

“October 11th, 1955”.

“The Role of Family in Shaping Identity by Anthony Boyer”.

“I am sixteen years old. I turn seventeen next March. For the sixteen years I’ve lived, my identity felt as if it was set in stone. Us as humans develop ourselves through our environment, our likes, our dislikes, and most importantly: the people we grow with. Our first look at life is seeing the faces of our parents glimmering down at us, and our first interactions and displays of how people act are through our parents, carrying on and moving just with their day to day life. Family defines a name, defines safety, defines love. And us children mimic ourselves after them, attempting to just simply fit in with society. If we see love, we mimic love. If we see stress, we mimic stress. If we see violence, we mimic violence. Family, as a first sight, defines our first identity, making a stepping stone for children to grow and find themselves.

“My identity was carved through fear and violence. The people holding the knives were my parents. My parents started fighting early on in my childhood, screaming or hitting or hiding from each other. I watched my mother cower in fear because my father broke the glass of our gun case. He had threatened to shoot both my mother and I if we wouldn’t stop crying about stupid things. I was six and the stupid thing was being slammed into a wall by him five minutes previous. He had held the gun with one hand, my mother’s hair in the other, and he mocked her as he nudged her temple with the tip of the gun and his pointer finger on the trigger, acting as if he would push it. That was the day that I had first thought I was useless. That I had defined myself as nothing but pathetic and useless. The concept that I believe I am pathetic and weak only creates chains around me and prevents me from keeping myself from ever asking anyone for help because I believe I am not strong enough to deserve that attention.

“When I was younger, I used to believe I deserved what I had gotten, what cards I had been dealt. And it pains me to say that sometimes I still do. My memories of my home are only devoured by my anxiety by the fact that I even have to step foot into that place again. I can never say that I didn’t learn stuff from my parents, even though I still don’t know how to tie a tie or drive a car or order food for myself at a restaurant; instead, I learned what to say when walking on eggshells, what footsteps belonged to whom, how to identify moods depending on mannerisms. I learned survival, not safety.

“Last week, I watched my father brutally hurt and kill my mother. My name had been brought up in the conversation previous of it. My mother was not my mother when my father was done, she was barely even recognizable, but that was my mother. And to have some of her last words being my name screamed, to hear some of the words that I last heard from my father be my name with such an angry tone, only added to how I see myself. The guilt has eaten at me. I am a horrible son. I am a horrible friend. I am burdening. I am pathetic. I am unlovable. And I am a disgrace to my family’s name. The way that my father defined me, how he saw me, only made me see it in myself more because he was my blood, and the person I was supposed to look up to the most and the person that I was supposed to think did no wrong. And if he thought that I was a horrible son, a horrible friend, burdening, pathetic, and unlovable? Then, so be it. Robert Boyer had shaped my thinking about myself more than I had even thought. Because my parents were who I was supposed to look up to, and who they taught me to be, who they were, had already created the traumatic identity shaped into my very body.

“Family, as a first sight, defines our first identity, making a stepping stone for children to grow and find themselves. My parents are gone, and my stepping stone is twenty feet below the surface level, the level most children start. My biological family created who I am now and with my own actions, my found family will create who I will be. I am not the case of ‘the boy whose father killed his mother’, but I am the boy who survived it. My identity lasts every day but everyday I get to pinch off their effects little by little.”

A moth fluttered across Jameson’s face with its wings grazing the tip of his nose. With a swat, he stepped back and looked around frantically for it, in case it were to come back. It wasn’t even moth season, it felt ridiculous seeing one at this hour.

Being late at night, Jameson didn’t think his father would be anywhere else but his office; he wasn’t going to go to his parents’ room in fear that his mother would still be awake, and Geoff wasn’t in the living room. He knew he wasn’t particularly allowed into his office, no one was, but Jameson didn’t like being alone in his room late at night. Anxiety would start creeping in and infect the walls, would feel as though he was suffocated. Jameson hadn’t even been down this hallway in years, it felt more like a storage hallway than anything else.

An odor caught his attention, it was faint, musty and metallic. Jameson’s face contorted as he stepped closer towards the door of the room.

“God, what died..” he murmured, making a face of disgust. The moth flew into Jameson’s phone backing, slamming itself into the light that emitted from it, falling to the ground, and then flying back away into the neverending dark of the hallway corners.

There was no light besides the flashlight on Jameson’s phone and the line of light across the carpet from underneath the office door. With every step the teenager took, dust flew up and filled the light with particles.

His shaky, pale hands gripped the door handle before slowly opening, a creak emitting from it and echoing in the silence of the ugly and tattered room. The room was dark, darker than the hallway, but with an antique-looking, tinted yellow lamp on the desk. The lampshade was dusty, very dull and barely any light peeked through from it. The shingles gently rattled with the wind from the door before going back to their original, unanimated position. The walls, although hard to see, were a worn-down, faded green, the floral and vines wallpaper tearing at parts and lumpy in others. Jameson had never seen the office, or at least he didn’t remember it being so disheveled.

His eyes wandered the office, scanning until he looked down to the matted carpet. A deep red and developing brown were stained into the rug strands, and the familiar metallic and now rotting smell was much more defined. Geoff laid, his now white-as-snow flesh laying limp. His muscles were stiff, chest not rising or falling or moving. His mouth agape, drool pouring out underneath him but not as much as the blood that dripped from the side of his head. An impact was made near the temple and his right eye, it being bruised and bloodied with a puddle splattered on the floor. There was discoloration on his legs with magenta and purple starting to fill the gaps of where the paleness wasn’t. A beer bottle laid on the floor next to him, Geoff’s hand looking as if it were reaching for it, but he was more still than the bottle itself. There were multiple beer bottles, surrounding the area like a pack of wolves, empty or with only drips left. His eyes were wide, open and the pupils looked directly at Jameson as if he knew he would find him, but there was barely any color to his soft green eyes. The soft green eyes that used to watch Jameson, the soft green eyes with pupils that used to enlarge in happiness at the thought of spending time with his son. He just wanted to spend time with his son. And now it wasn’t possible. He wasn’t okay. His father wasn’t okay. Jameson knew he was dead but he hadn’t checked. He didn’t have the courage to. He didn’t have the courage to lay next to him, check his stoic pulse, or call for help. Geoff Smith was dead. And he had been dead for hours.

The moth fluttered into the room, not going near the lamp light but instead investigating the body, gently soaring around before retreating back to the dull and lifeless lamp, attaching itself to the bulb.

Jameson stared, his eyes getting dry with no blinking done. He couldn’t pull his eyes away without feeling guilty, without feeling scared? His phone dropped to the floor, the loud thud from the sound of it hitting the floor, filling Jamesons’ ears with a ring. The deafening silence afterward burned into his ears. His legs were still, not even shaking, but just staring. His eyes mimicked his father’s, losing color and expression.

It took almost 20 minutes to walk away from the body, to make his own body move and go to bed. He might’ve been delusional, imagining his father’s lifeless body laying in his office. Surely it was a delusion, no real scenario would make him feel like this. He would be sobbing, wailing and on his knees, trying to wake his father up like a child on Christmas in the early morning. He would be calling the police, telling Jessica or Misty. He would be angry, or sad, or upset, or depressed, he would be feeling something. Wouldn’t he? Was he heartless for not showing this much emotion at the sight of his father dead? Ungrateful, that’s what he felt he was. Ungrateful for all his father did in the times that he did step up. Ungrateful for all that he gave them. That he raised him. Or maybe Jameson should be angry, angry at his father for not stepping up enough. Angry at his father for dying. Angry at his father for not being a father. Sad that his father is dead. Denial that he was even dead. Guilt that he wasn’t there to be with his father when he was close to his last moments. Lonely that his father was gone and that was his only source of comfort. Confused on how his father died and why, if there even was a being, God would ever let Jameson suffer like this. Anxious that he would be screamed at for not telling anyone. He needed to tell someone.

Silas' body shriveled, feeling his bones, his skin, melt off of him. He would love to stay a human, but there's no survival in the Land of the Dead. He was bound to see his demise at one point while walking the diminishing grounds. He was a traveller. A bard, explaining stories to everyone he came across, none of them being true tales. Until he heard about the Grove. The Grove where he could be free, no rules, no one to berate him, no one chasing him. He would be independent...for once.

The creature's quills stabbed deeper into Silas' flesh. The poison, the venom, crawled through his blood stream, crawled through each red blood cell. The creature was tall. Almost 9 foot (only a guess of Silas'). It was the Teladamyr, the protector of the Land of the Dead.

The Teladamyr is a protector made of barely any skin, most of its body being seen as bones. Even though a flesh-like substance surrounds its body, it is thin and has the consistency of paper, causing the protector's bones to be seen very obviously. The Teladamyr's quills are deadly, which causes the person's or creature's skin to slowly melt off until they are nothing but bones. The protector is loud, not caring how quiet it needs to be. It's one of the most powerful protectors, it doesn't have any mercy or care for anything but its area. No one survived him. For your soul to survive, you must accept it. Accept your fate and your soul will survive to be just a follower of the Teladamyr. That's what Silas was doing.

His heart pounded, his head creating a migraine. He watched chunks of flesh, his flesh falling off his legs and arms, his clothes becoming looser and looser. His bones grew looser and his screams created echos throughout the trees. No one would save him. And he wasn't going to save himself. For his struggles weren't going to help keep his soul bounded to his body.

The halls were long, eerie. The carpet was a dusted red, the pattern of diamonds and swirls in the shape of snakes crawling along the entirety of it. The smell was not as lavender scented but rather a more stale smell, even if the bright smell lingered. Doors were placed on both sides, perfectly spaced and parallel to the opposite door. Adam couldn’t even count them all; how long did this hallway go for? There were no windows, and in the places of possible glassware were pictures of the family, well, Adam expected to be the family.

Giggles filled the halls, loud and high pitched. Three children, two girls and a boy, dashed down the halls from behind Adam, their small bodies running faster than rabbits.

“Mama! Mama!” the young boy said, running to a room not far from where Adam was standing. A woman emerged from the room, only her torso being seen. Her hand found the boy’s carob-colored hair, running her nails against his scalp which caused the boy to lean into the touch. “Junie jumped the water! The big one! The..uh..the gi-lantic one!”

A chuckle came from the woman. “Gigantic, Rune.” The boy just nodded at the word, as if saying that was the word he wanted to use. One of the girls bounced on her toes as the other just stood, her shoes and the bottom of her pants soaked. “You finally jumped the lake, June? Is that why you’re all wet?”

The blonde girl nodded vigorously and jumped on her feet with excitement; her shoes squished underneath her. “I jumped it! I jumped! And I only fell two times!”

The woman looked surprised, and although it was obviously an exaggerated expression to Adam, the kids seemed to get even more excited. She stepped out of the room, Adam catching an eye sight of her. She was gorgeous, red-almost orange hair fell down to her mid-back, her eyes kind, looking as if she’s never cried, her lips thin and bright. Her flaws were seen: pimple scars, slightly bigger front teeth, and darker eyebrows, but she pulled them off perfectly, embracing every single imperfection. Everything about her was beautiful, and it overwhelmed the orphan boy.

The woman’s eyes gently looked over to Adam, her sky blue eyes finally being fully visible to him. Her lips turned to a smile. Adam’s heart fluttered.

“Hi, hun. Are you okay? Are you the new adoptee? I heard we’re adopting a child, you’re quite tall for a child,” the woman rambled. The three children glanced up towards who the woman was talking to, the two girls hiding into the room the woman came from. Adam just stared at the woman.

“Uh..yeah, I’m seventeen. I got here like almost an hour ago, I’m Adam,” he said, extending a hand. Some sort of stain could be seen peeking out from the side of his sleeve, making Scarlett hesitate. Her soft skin touched his and blood rushed to Adam’s face. Her nails grazed his skin in such a way that the butterflies in his stomach duplicated. The scent of vanilla emanated from the gorgeous woman, she was just…stunning.

“Scarlett Eusford. This is Rune-. Rune, come on, don’t be shy,” said the woman. Her hand gestured for the boy to come out from behind the two girls he was hiding behind. Her sweet voice was so soft towards the children and even to Adam, even if he was almost an adult. The voices would make anyone feel calmer.

The young child, uncertain, stumbled his way towards his mother, grabbing her pant leg immediately when he came close enough to her. His large eyes stared up at Adam and his lip curled in such a way that he seemed disgusted. Adam wasn’t very clean, it was more than obvious. His clothes were raggedy and either too loose or too fitting, stains were seen on every piece of clothing, mud glued to the bottoms and sides of his shoes, his black hair looking more greasy than it should. Nothing about him said “washed”.

“Mama, why is he dirty? No shower?” the boy asked, his grip on his mom’s leg growing stronger. His blue eyes stared daggers into Adam, eyeing him as if he were a piece of trash. Scarlett gave a little gasp and knelt down to her child. A man’s voice, along with the two young girls’ voices echoed in the hallway.

“Rune, we don’t talk about people like that, it’s rude.”

“Mama, but he’s yucky.”

“We don’t judge people before we know them.”

Rune sighed. A sigh only a child would do when they know they are losing an argument but have no comeback. His foot kicked a bit, small dust particles being brought up from the carpet. Scarlett simply smiled, ruffled his hair, and stood back up.

“I’m so sorry about him, he’s still getting used to new people, doesn’t usually get out much,” she said. Adam scratched at the dry fabric with the unlabelled, red stain; even he didn’t know what it was, and he probably created the mess. The specks of unknown stuck under his fingernails, the jaggedness of them digging into his skin.

“Oh, no, it’s okay. I get it a lot. I mean, I didn’t really go outside either but when I did, people would be confused, yeah..” Adam replied, his stomach churning with anxiety. He remembers a time when he wasn’t even allowed outside, as it would create either too much attention, or not enough. After the fire, he looked like a normal orphan child, matching with the other kids and always had his head down. There were always two possibilities: they either recognized him and the boy was bombarded with questions, statements, apologies (although, Adam never knew what they were apologizing for), and even small gifts, or they didn’t recognize him at all and his caretaker would get frustrated that her orphanage wasn’t getting enough attention as she wanted. Adam, to her, was an advertisement.

A man, tall yet slouched, emerged from the room where apparently multiple people resided. His hand snaked around Scarlett’s waist and a sly smile found its way onto the woman’s face. Her head rested on his shoulder, even if she was almost a foot shorter, and her eyes showed nothing but love, desire. There was so much tension between the two that Adam swore he saw an actual electric connection between the two bodies.

The man looked at Adam, the blood leaving his body a bit. “James Bentley.”

Adam took a deep breath. He’d been mistaken for his father multiple times in his life, and everytime, they had the same reaction as the man.

“That was my dad. I’m Adam,” Adam said, his fingers wrapping around the fabric of his sweatshirt. With how clean the older man was, he didn’t think he would want a handshake from an orphan boy. The man just nodded, his breathing getting slightly caught in his throat.

“A very intelligent man. Very kind, I’ve heard,” he said, staring Adam up and down. “Icez Eusford. This is my wife, Scarlett, but knowing her, she’s probably already introduced herself.”

Scarlett giggled and looked up at her husband, her body relaxed against him as she allowed her mind to run wild with admiration and passion. Adam attempted to not show his confusion. Was Scarlett not a single mother? Icez wasn’t in the family picture, no blond hair to be seen amongst the black and brown. There was no sweater with the letter “I” sewn on it. Yet, Icez had the same last name as Aaron, meaning they must be related in some way. Even the children were in the picture, and they were barely toddlers.

“You look uncertain,” Icez interrupted Adam’s thoughts. His eyes glanced at the couple.

“I just didn’t know Scarlett was married,” he replied. Confusion spread to every part of his brain.

“Oh, yes, four years! Of course, that’s only marriage, we’ve known each other since middle school,” Scarlett chimed in, her smile never faltering, in fact, it grew as she talked about her relationship. “He was so nerdy, so awkward. Zits everywhere on his face. When I first saw him, I thought ‘that’s the man I’m going to marry!’ and I did.”

Icez blushed at the middle and high school description on him. With that description, Adam didn’t even think he saw pictures of Icez when he was younger. Were there any pictures of him? It’s not that Icez was ugly because he was quite the attractive man, definitely had a glow up from his previous years from his wife’s explanation, so what pictures could be displayed of him?

“Rune is our boy, aren’t you, bud?” Icez said, turning back towards the room where Rune had dashed into once more. His small head peaked out and went back in, barely making an entrance. “He’s not much of a talker. Pretty shy for his age, barely gets along with the other boys at school.”

Adam nodded. He knew what that was like. The caretaker of the orphanage taught all the children herself, Adam never understanding most of what she had said. Throughout that homemade school, he would sit alone, watching as other kids interacted with one another and have fun with their young lives that had begun with trauma. He was the outcast, he was the one that people believed was cursed. Some individuals even went so far as to start a rumor that he started the fire himself and killed his own family at the young age of four. He was shunned, pushed to the corner, and ignored by the young boys and girls he assumed would understand the situation he was shoved into the most. He didn’t grasp his position until he was much older, his late teens. Adam assumed it was normal, or he was in strong denial; he would watch other kids start brand new lives with friends and genuine adoration for their bravery. Adam wasn’t given that, at least not to the extent of the other children. He was given cameras, journalists, and questions about his opinion when the only opinion he should have been having was about his favorite sandwich.

“Are you looking for somewhere in particular?” Scarlett said. Her smile widened; she certainly loved to meet new people. “I know this place like the back of my hand!”

“You’ve gotten lost multiple times this week, my love.”

“Ice, this place is big, okay?” Scarlett defended herself, laughing a bit. Her hands grabbed the crook of Adam’s arm, her nails scraping at the crusty fabric. However, she didn’t care. She didn’t care about the muck that lied between the folds of his hoodie. It was something that stood out compared to everyone else Adam has met today…or even in his life.

_ _ _

The corridors seemed endless, as if the floorboards were generating with every step he took. There was no way you could turn and not find another void of the same walls and carpets (although, one of the carpets had a large stain and the color couldn’t be determined by neither Adam nor Scarlett). Steps upon steps, floors upon floors, the rooms just kept appearing, there was no end. One floor was strictly just different libraries. Another was bedrooms, there were thousands of rooms on the floors.

“Are you enjoying your first day here?” Scarlett said, leading him down yet another endless hallway of similarity. She didn’t look at him, her head turning at each door to make sure she didn’t miss an important room. Adam looked with her, but he really had no idea what they were looking for.

“Yeah, it’s okay..a little overwhelming,” he chuckled, his eyes feeling as if they were going cross eyed from the ceaseless pattern along the carpets and walls. His legs were cramping and the soles of his feet were feeling as if they were stepping on barbed wire. He had walked so many steps, so many floors, that there was nothing he wanted more than to rest; Scarlett looked perfectly fine, a small pep in her step as they traveled down. She must have been used to the pain because Adam didn’t know how long it was going to be until he melted into a pile of soreness.

They stopped walking, more Scarlett stopped them walking. Adam felt his knees go weak immediately and just wanted to fall over and lay onto the floor. But he refused to let himself look that vulnerable in front of a stunning woman.

“This is your room! I know, I know, it’s high up but I promise, you’ll get used to the steps,” Scarlett said, basically reading Adam’s mind. Her smile was contagious though, making the orphan just want to smile with her, no matter how much aching he was in.

“Thank you, Mrs. Eusford,” Adam stated, grinning back at her. Her kind eyes watched as he stumbled into his new found room. A room designed just for him. Maybe the family was going to like him, maybe he will belong. Maybe he will be able to have a home.

“Adam Bentley. My, how you have grown.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Adam carefully walked onto the hardwood floor, his unfitting shoes crunching underneath him. The sound made the greeter wince in disgust. Adam could smell the strong scent of lavender, as if the room were drenched in essential oils, giving a greasy feeling. There was practically no noise besides Adam’s breathing; even the greeter suspired silently. The checkered, diamond pattern of the spruce wood floors crawled along most of the first floor, shiny and obviously recently waxed, making Adam feel bad for walking on it.

He glanced to the side table almost directly next to the door. A family picture could be seen, a green frame enclosing the evocative image. All the people were smiling. Well, most of them. Each of the people wore sweaters, a red, sewn letter on every front.

“I’m Aaron Eusford, a pleasure to meet you,” the greeter said, hesitantly extending out a hand for a shake. Adam took it.

“Nice to meet you, too, sir. You have a very nice house. I like the family picture, a very big family you have,” Adam responded, attempting to make eye contact with Aaron but quickly withdrawing. Aaron seemed to have a very intimidating presence to the boy.

“Some would say too big,” he muttered. Aaron sourly smiled and stopped contact with the orphan’s hand, overly and rapidly hand-sanitizing. The strong almost-tequila scent was still overpowered by the lavender.

Aaron puts his hand-sanitizer away into his pocket. His shoes clacked gently against the floor as he took a closer look at the boy; Adam took a step back. Aaron flashed a small smile (it was very obviously fake). His teeth for a brief moment were shown and his canines were seen. Vampires.

“Are you a vampire?” Adam asked, his grip on his backpack tightened. Aaron stood up straight, his frame much taller than Adam which now makes him intimidated. Aaron nodded, his tongue grazing the tips of his teeth, his eyes burning holes into Adam. “Like Dracula?”

“Do not compare me to Dracula.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“He is a myth based off of Vlad the Impaler in the 15th century. He would dine with the bodies of his enemies and taste their blood as if it were fresh wine. I am real, where blood and wine both have the same effect: they both make me drunk, both delicacies,” Aaron said, his face never changing throughout any word but rather his mouth just moving ever so slightly. Adam just nodded, he didn’t know what else to do. His eyes were drawn again towards the salient family picture. Aaron couldn’t be seen easily in the picture, his black hair blending in with several other people. How mysterious.

Aaron turned around and began to walk to the kitchen; he moved so swiftly and gently yet so fast and unsettlingly. Adam followed, his back slouched because of the weight of his backpack. His eyes glazed over every part of the kitchen, the cupboards, the marble counters, the kitchen island, everything was so..clean. Nothing like Adam was used to.

“I knew your father, did you know that?” Aaron said, his back turned to the orphan as he grabbed a mug from the top shelf. The words “The World’s Best Dad” were painted on it, but “world’s” and “best” were scribbled on in Sharpie.

“You knew my dad? I mean, he was big and all but I didn’t think his name would cross over this far,” Adam responded. Aaron nodded and began to brew coffee in the fanciest coffee pot Adam had ever seen. The taller man nodded and watched as the liquid began to form. The awkward silence made the room feel pressurized.

“He was the CEO that died in the fire, right? Who doesn’t know him?” the man said, Adam’s lips became a thin line. Aaron was blunt, and Adam didn’t know how much he liked that. “His name was everywhere in the paper for a long time, I mean, the rest of your family was there too, but it was obvious they only cared about you and your father.”

Adam’s back straightened as his body tensed even more. What could this guy know about his family? Although Adam had no room to talk, all he remembered was what was in the paper about the Bentleys, no memories actually being with them. All he remembered was fire and blood, and that’s not the best representation of a family. Still, borderline insulting his family made him feel uncomfortable and underhanded.

“My dad was cool,” was all Adam could say, louder than his regular speaking voice. Aaron’s eyebrow raised. His coffee was now poured into the humorous mug as steam emitted from it.

“Thank you for sharing. I asked if you wanted something to drink.”

“Oh, no, thank you.”

“Good, I wasn’t going to get anything.”

The orphan stared in embarrassment, his face showing nothing but uncomfortableness. He was starting to question how much he wanted to actually be in a family if this was what it was like; him wanting to be back at the orphanage until he became an adult really gave him a feel of unfamiliarity. He’s never wanted to stay at the orphanage but does he really want to spend his life with Aaron as an adopted dad?

The wind blew outside so hard it made a whistle against the window. There was an uncannily off feeling in the structure. “Here are the basic rules. There are..definitely more..but they aren’t as important. Breakfast is served at 8:00 AM. Lunch is served at 12:30 PM. Dinner is served at 6:00 PM. If you are not present at the exact time, you are not eating the meal. Without warning that you will not be on time, I repeat: you will not eat the meal,” Aaron explained, never looking at Adam. His crimson eyes instead inspected a large shelf of books. His pale finger ran along the spine of each of the dusty novels. They looked as if they hadn’t been read in years yet the shelf looked recently dusted. The colors on the books were faded: grayish-blue supposed to be royal, burgundy supposed to be red, it was unsettling. The smell of must filled Adam’s nose. His eyes wandered around the small area Aaron was in. It seemed disgustingly decayed. Things were freshly cleaned before he came, Adam could tell, but everything was still moldered in a way. Old furniture, not up to modern standards. Even the walls felt contaminated with 1920s trauma.

“Abel.”

“Adam.”

“Whichever. Do you have any questions for me?” stated Aaron. Adam’s eyes looked up at the vampire and stared back down at his hands, which were fiddling anxiously.

“Well, I’d like to learn more about the family, the people living here. Do you have a wife and children? You look young to me,” Adam responded. He was hoping flattery will get him somewhere, or at least make Aaron loosen up. However, Aaron wasn’t fazed, rather he found it humorous that the boy was even trying to have a relationship with him the first day. Even if Aaron found it entertaining, his face showed nothing but cloudy somberness. His ghost-like skin made his face stand out in the dim room more.

“There’s 14 of us living in this one home. We all collectively pay for necessities here. I want to assume there are four children living here, possibly more but at this point, I lose track of them myself. They aren’t my children though, so I don’t have to worry about them. I don’t plan on having kids with my wife. I wouldn’t want the stupidity to rub off on our offspring.”

Adam tensed uncomfortably at the word offspring. He didn’t like Aaron’s choice of words when talking about the vampire’s own family. It didn’t even sound like he cared about them. He’s almost glad his greeter isn’t having children; Adam didn’t think he would be the best of fathers.

“Kid, listen, I’d love to sit and chat but I also have no intention of spending my afternoon talking with you. I have business to attend to. Explore what you would like. Take in your new journey. Meet the people. Don’t go below the basement. That will be all from me, I will hopefully see you at dinner.” Aaron said, his last words echoing in the room as he walked off and up the flight of stairs. One of the flights of stairs. Adam let out a breath and studied the rooms. To the right of the kitchen was an entrance, its window displaying the beautiful and luscious green garden outdoors. The coffee table, although small, carried numerous things: a half-drunk coffee mug with the words “Blow Me, I’m Hot” printed against it, the cursive letters not matching the atmosphere in any way, shape, or form. Next to the mug had loads of debts and warrants unpaid, left to sit in its own pitiful shame. Pencils and crayons could be seen of all different kinds of colors yet none were ever just regular lead. Colored pictures of snakes, bugs, cars, all poorly drawn were splattered against the glass bordered with wood. There was even a snake carved into the coffee table.

“Must have an infatuation with snakes..” Adam thought. His eyes looked at the television propped above the large fireplace. He could hear the wood crackling and ash diminishing amongst the flames. He could hear the footsteps of other house members above him, very above him. He could hear his heavy breathing, still anxious about being adopted in a house of vampires. He could smell smokey wood, the dust surrounding the outer edge of the border flying around in the air. He could smell the lavender that still exposes how clean the place is. He could smell the unique aroma of wax from the pile of crayons. This was his new home.

The boy walked around to the first staircase, one of many. A fear of heights must not be accepted in this home because flights upon flights flew up to the roof. Every stair waiting to be another reason your legs cramp when you jog up them. With his head turned upwards, he gulped. Who needs a track team at school when you have hundreds of stairs just to come down and eat dinner?

Next to the stairs was a door, a bronze plate presented the words “Storage Closet”. Adam turned the doorknob, and with awe he stared in the room. Much larger than any other room he’s seen, it was like a walk-in closet. Shelves with neatly organized and titled bottles and containers were bolted tightly along the wall. There was a scent of washing materials and disinfecting wipes, mop water being added into the mix. Three brooms. Did they really need that many? Two vacuums, one looking much older and rougher than the other, which was its newly-bought hue. Six, seven, eight unlabeled white liquids in spray bottles. And too many other products to count. This wasn’t a storage closet, this was an entire shopping section.

The door closed, the Clorox smell still radiating around the entrance. Another deep breath was taken, his heart beating faster the more he explored. The Bentley mansion was very similar to this, although, definitely not as large, inside and out. For one, they had normal storage closets.

The Bentley mansion was a sight to see, another landmark in Australia to catch the glimpse of tourists. Its white walls stood tall and grand, the gate opening to any visitor that may come. James and Emma Bentley never once turned down a reason to invite their town over. They loved their town; they loved people. The accents were odd and the locals had a hard time relating to them as they were American but they still stood out as the kindest couple. And Adam couldn’t remember any of that. He couldn’t remember their voices, their laughter, their behaviors, anything. The only thing he could remember was their screams. However, in 2025, the mood completely changed, leaving everyone to wonder how Adam, the boy who survived a tragedy, came to popularity once more.

Perfection is a game of tug-of-war,

that every pull is another step towards the temporary shower of praise and self-worth.

Tugging on the rope again and again,

hoping to make progress

but the person, the thing, the thought, the something

is on the other end, holding the rope as if it is nothing between its fingers.

Enduring through the rough straw along your skin

as you grip harder till your knuckles go white,

you watch as you pull, closer and closer the rope slips through

the fingers of “the something” until “the something” pinches at it, stopping it, making sure you know you haven’t won yet.

Logical thinking would say

“the something” is stronger than you,

as it is holding the rope you are so desperately trying to pull back to win between its fingers,

but you’ve won this game before, for you have played many times.

Occasionally, you find yourself at the point of losing one of these games,

where “the something” cheats and snaps the rope,

making sure it gets more of it than you do. The cut ropes next to you as you play are just reminders of

all your losses and failures.

Playing tug-of-war with “the something” is never enjoyable, for you get berated and mocked.

“The something” uses its other hand to pull words from the mud underneath your feet and throws it at you.

Now, you are a mess.

The smell of mud and dirt fills your nose; you feel disgusting.

“How are you so bad at this?”

the something mocks as it tugs, giving you hope but destroying it the second later. You’re distraught, what can you do?

You need to calm yourself down, give yourself tranquility.

Once the object is in your hand,

you cut the rope,

just a sliver.

This calms you down as soon as you do it; it gives you the feeling that you are in control.

You calm down and get back into the game,

“the something” still laughing and pulling at the rope.

But doing this makes you feel guilty.

How are you any better than “the something”?

You just cut the rope just as

“the something” would do.

It’s not the time to feel guilty, but you can’t help but have it added to your back of responsibilities.

You grab the rope, fingers tightened around the straw, pulling as hard as you can.

Now that you’ve calmed down, you have gained strength.

“The something” feels threatened. You pull one last time and the rope is yours, the knot in the middle stuck in the mud as it fell from “the something”’s grasp.

"The something” gives you a slow clap,

as you smile from your achievement.

You did it.

You struggled but you finished.

No one saw the struggle of getting the rope to your side but they got to see the achievement.

That’s all that matters.

Right?

“The something” steps back up and swings another end of a rope to your side of the mud.

The routine starts again, for there is more perfection to perform.