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Frigid pre-winter air. One of the more refreshing things that nature has to offer—right behind crystal clear, fresh mountain spring water, or maybe a fresh blanket of snow on a sunny day. Regardless, fall is here. The glacial autumn atmosphere is hard to run in, especially with the wind coming into nip at exposed skin, numbing reddened ears and fingers. The low temperatures that plague the outside world crystalize in the air, nearly preventing deep breaths. The rain is biting, violent and painful. Each drop of the freezing liquid that lands on the boy sinks its teeth into his skin, making the deep feeling of being torn apart by a million different razors a reality.
December 19th; it’s not quite winter, but too cold to feel like real autumn, stuck between the ugly middle of Christmas and Thanksgiving. For many people, this time is pleasurable, maybe even healing for the soul. One could practically feel the tail-end of the flames, gingerly protected by the brick-and-mortar fireplace, and hear the murmurs of loved ones soothing the over-active teenage brain, and maybe even taste the tart apple cider that only the gentlest of hands had ever touched.
These are all things Mark can not enjoy. Especially not now—maybe not even ever.
Not ever since she invaded.
The she-devil in disguise. The one who saw Bryon Douglas—who was still in mourning from his recent break-up with Angela Shepard—clutched onto him with her long, talion-like nails and sank her disgusting, parasitic teeth into him. She had him wrapped around her slender finger. It was pathetic really. His best friend—no, brother—was usually so independent, always down for some good spontaneous fun, like when they would trudge through the creeks of Tulsa, searching for a new adventure, or hell, go mess with the Shepard kid just to be chased off by his older, way scarier brother. But now, everything was different.
She had dug her way into their lives, seeking the warmth of Bryon’s skin, scratching out his thick, dark hair and using it to weave her massive nest. She seeped into his pores, laying her eggs into his warmth, and keeping him pliant and docile. Nobody else saw this, nobody else saw the impending doom that her presence brought. She cut her so-called “boyfriends’s” lifespan in half, carving him to be her perfect prey. It was disgusting that no one else called her out on this. No one saw Cathy Carlson for who she was underneath all that false kindness.
No one saw her like Mark saw her.
He can’t explain why he left. The warmth of a home that’s no longer his—and in some way, it never really was his, to begin with, but he made it his own. That was of course until the mind-numbing succubus came waltzing into his life. Her shrill harpy-like screech echoed in his brain, tormenting him, like she was sent to earth just to off-set his life—and god did she ever. He had a good set-up going, a home, basically a brother, and a loving mother, but that wasn’t enough for the world. They just had to send more his way.
”You’ll understand when you finally fall in love”
That was a bold statement, especially coming from her when they both knew she was just keeping him around to satiate her never-ending hunger. Maybe Mark was special enough to see the real monster behind those soft grey eyes and long dark hair, but honestly, he wished he could be as oblivious as anyone else. This is a curse, one that tears gaping, painful, chasms in his relationships, she turned Bryon against him, and she’s worming her way into the head of that Curtis kid.
This drives Mark insane, but not even a straight jacket and padded walls could keep her from ruining his life. Cathy Carlson has a personal vendetta against him. The real question is: Why? He hadn’t done anything to her, not at the point of their first meeting anyway. He saved her brother from getting jumped by a couple of hippie-hating hoods, other than that they never interacted, but immediately she was cold and snide to him. He’s not normally one to want everyone to like him, but this girl can’t just put aside their differences for one evening. He’s going insane just being around her.
The way his heart thumped inside his chest felt as if a band of monkeys was personally hired to bang on it like a drum, erratic and chaotic, creating a nauseating feeling in his stomach. Air couldn’t penetrate his lungs, it was as if his body was allergic to it. His vision blurs and he tries to pick up the pace. His worn-down sneakers scrape against the thick ice lining the concrete sidewalk of Tulsa’s infamous east side.
His legs are numb, he can barely feel when his feet touch the ground, which makes it all the more surprising when he’s falling through the air. His hands and knees take most of the damage, the flesh torn and scraped, full of blood and granite.
“Fuck,” He hisses into the deserted night. It’s that pain that finally brings him to reality and allows him to think about what he did.
God, they must think he’s crazy, storming out of that quiet little house so full of joy and laughter before he ruined it. Penny will finally realize who he is, and what he is. She’s going to toss him onto the street and never look back. Honestly, it’s the best thing for her to do. Mark has never been good at anything, his grades are a mess, and nobody wants to hire him. Taking him in is the worst decision she’s ever made, and it’s time she knows it.
Mark has to pull himself up, his knees are throbbing, and the blood dripping down his leg is warm but unnerving. This grey, fuzzy cloud obscures his vision, and this shrill, repetitive sound is playing in his ears, the frequency makes him wince. His throat burns, and he shuffles around, ducks in a slightly warmer place, where the wind isn’t as strong. He’s leaning on what feels like a brick wall, the grit irritating the scrapes on his palm, causing them to throb in protest.
There’s a brief panic in his mind where he feels that he’s going to be sick. He pleads silently, “Please don’t let me throw up. I’ll take everything else, I just don’t want to throw up.” He’s never believed in god before, and it seems like such a silly time to finally turn to him, but he can’t do it. He thinks about bashing his head against the wall in front of him, hoping that he could bleed out before the contents of his stomach arise, but it doesn’t happen because the muscles in his stomach are flexing and his throat tingles with a dry sensation.
He’s throwing up in a foreign place, his vision blurry and undistinguishable, all he can see is the deep red mark of his own vomit lying in the snow bank. Tears are streaming down his face, his body wracking and aching with the anxious anticipation of more, but as he keels over, dropping to his knees and resting his head against the wall, it doesn’t come. Finally, his vision fades to black, and he feels warm for the first time in a while. There are voices in the distance, but he can’t bring himself to worry about it.
He’s at the Douglas’, it’s Christmas Eve, and he’s twelve. Penny had just scolded them about tracking snow through the house, but Bryon and him weren’t mad at her, they knew what they did. The air is warm and comforting, a stark, yet welcoming, contrast from the distant memories of his own home a few years ago. Mark and Bryon are helping her by setting the table. She’s a real good cook, and he’s never not been grateful for a meal that she’s provided him.
There’s an abstract feeling of content that washes through Mark as they sit down to eat. Penny tells them to pray, and Bryon scoffs, but Mark doesn’t say a word, he just follows her instructions and listens to her words. They’re soft, and nice, even if they’re talking about the heavenly father and praying. He feels warm, and he knows that everything will be alright.