Author's Note: This fanfic incorporates story elements from the PE games, including 3rd Birthday. However, it was written to accommodate new and old PE fans. :) With that in mind, it contains spoilers so enter at your risk. In addition, it has: sex, drugs, violence, disturbing scenes, controversial topics, and harsh language. Lastly, for all you Kyle-Madigan-haters: please push the back button. This story involves his journey to find 'eternity' (Aya). Having said that, if you ain't fond of him then spare me the 'I-hate-Kyle-wah-wah-waaaaah' comments and read another PE story. :P Thanks.
WHITE QUEEN
PROLOGUE: Friends for Life – Fire and Ice
June 15, 1976 |Arlington,Texas
Outside in a vast open land, a five-year-old boy sat on a patch of dead grass. A worn-down trailer was stationed several feet behind him. Huddled beneath a large oak tree that offered plenty of shade, the boy entertained himself with his airplane toys. The southern warmth of Texas bore down on his skin and caused the puffiness of his cheeks to slightly redden. Summertime was usually brutal and scorching hot but, thankfully, today's weather was exceptional. It was definitely sunny, yes, but the sky had also brought with it many clouds that provided a cool, gentle breeze. The tire-swing, hung by a thick branch, cracked and moaned against the wind while the mosquitoes quietly buzzed about.
Specks of sunlight bathed the boy and highlighted bits of his auburn-colored hair. Barefoot and donning ragged clothes, the Southern-made boy squealed and deliberately crashed a plane against the base of the oak tree. He had been playing with his toys for roughly two hours straight. The airplanes once belonged to his grandpa, a former aerial navigator who had brought the toys over from Germany during World War I. Large and made of metal, the toys were heavy and unsuitable for his tender age. Twice, he pricked his finger and produced droplets of blood. Yet, he loved these antique toys and didn't intend to stop playing with them any time soon.
"Lunch 's gonna be ready soon," his mother yelled from the kitchen of the trailer. Her Texan accent was thick and husky. "Wash up an' be at the table, 'kay?"
"Five mo' minutes, momma," the boy replied back.
"No, sir, I want you to wash up now. Ya hear me right, boy?"
"…Yes, ma'am."
The boy rolled his eyes and reluctantly stood on his feet. He patted off the dust and dead grass that had collected on his pants. As he made his way to the entrance of the trailer he heard a familiar sound out from the distant. Turning his head, the child spotted a rust-red, pick-up truck drive up the hill. It left behind a long trail of dust and black smoke. From where he stood, he could smell the heavy whiff of gas spew from its old pipes. Wrinkling his nose, the child marched straight into the kitchen.
"Daddy's here," the boy announced to his mom, scratching his arm where a mosquito had bitten him.
His mother turned away from the fried chicken she was cooking and peered outside through a nearby window. She watched the pick-up truck come to a full stop in front of the trailer. Her face stiffened when she saw a tall man stumble out of the truck. Cursing beneath her breath, she eventually looked down at her son and frowned.
"Look at you, son. All full of dirt and twigs and bites and lord knows what else. Damn, ya ruined your pants too. Now I's gotta sew 'em together again. What in God's name was I thinkin' when I brought you into this world." She exhaled loudly and focused on her chicken again. "Go wash up, boy, 'fore yo' daddy comes and gives you a good whippin'."
His head sunk low, the child put his airplane toys on the kitchen table and made his way to the bathroom. By the time he turned on the faucet he heard the door of their trailer slam open. He froze in place.
Daddy was sad again.
Washing his hands now, the boy ignored the screaming that went on in the kitchen. It was a common event at their home so this wasn't anything new. However, he often found himself confused during times like this. For instance, he couldn't quite understand why daddy liked to yell and hit people a lot. Momma tried to explain it to him once before. The Vietnam War, she said, had made him a very, very sad man.
"God damn it, Daryl, you promised me you'd stop!" he overheard his mother yell from the kitchen. "You told me you were goin' to your cousin's last night! You went to that damn bar an' got yo'self plastered all over again, didn't you? Look at you, you stupid-half-assed drunk!"
"Woman, get outta my face 'fore I break it!" barked daddy back.
The child kept washing his hands and applied extra soap on them. He took his time to rinse off the dirt that was stuck underneath his nails. During moments like this, it was best to stay out of the way and keep quiet. Daddy had a habit of hitting him whenever he stepped into the picture. He'd call him terrible names and punch him until he passed out. No, the boy didn't want any of that today.
Fire…
The child frowned. He looked up at the mirror and immediately wondered who had said that. It sounded close by yet, other than him, there was no one else in the bathroom. He waited until he heard the voice again, but it never came. Meanwhile, the yelling ensued for nearly twenty minutes. He couldn't make out half of his parents' words anymore nor did he care to. He just wanted the shouting to stop. When he heard the sound of glass shatter the boy finally turned off the faucet.
There was silence.
He halfway opened the bathroom door and took a peek outside. "Momma?"
No reply.
Taking a few steps forward, the boy stopped right outside the kitchen space. His bare feet quietly tapped the ground. He clenched his tiny fists together when he noticed mommy on the floor, a large gash across her forehead. Meanwhile, his father stood over her; a half-broken beer bottle in his hand. His eyes were glassy and red.
"Get outta here," his father ordered, "This is between me an' yo' momma, boy. Understand?"
The child took a step back but he didn't leave as instructed. Frightened, he looked at his mother again. "Momma? You awright?"
There was movement now. She stirred to her side and slowly covered the wound on her forehead.
"Go to yo'… room…" she quietly urged.
Aggravated by his son's reluctance to leave, his father advanced toward him. He noticed the airplane toys on the table and snatched them all.
"I warned you 'fore, boy, to stop leavin' yo' shit on the kitchen table! Now get the hell outta here, ya stupid ass!"
The father flung one of the metal-made toys straight at his son's face.
The sharp edges of the airplane inflicted enough damage to cause heavy bleeding on the boy's cheek. He cried. With both hands, he tried to protect his face while his father tossed the other large metal objects at him. One struck the boy at the side of his head and, immediately, he fell to his knees. There was a terrible ringing in his ears.
Fire…
The voice emerged again. It was calm. Gentle. For a moment, the boy was able to concentrate on it and ignore the pain that burned on the side of his head.
"Leave him alone!" screamed his mom up ahead. "You ain't right in the head, Daryl! That's yo' boy!"
"What? That little faggot? He ain't no son of mines, woman. A fucking pussy 's what he is. And you made him that way."
Through a blurry vision, the boy saw his mother rise to her feet. She pounded his father's back with both her fists to make him stop. In response, his father spun around and smacked her across the face with the metal toy in his hand. Closing his eyes, the boy heard the sick, muffled sounds of cracked bones. It was soon followed by a heavy metallic-like smell of spilt blood. His father was very sad today.
But so was the boy now.
Fire… Fire…
When his mother became silent again, the child finally opened his eyes. Slowly, the boy turned his attention to his father who now muttered incoherently to himself and cried. Dropping the bloody airplane in his hand, the father looked at his wife's motionless body. He turned to his son with a mouth halfway opened.
"We… We's gotta get yo' momma to the hospital…" his dad quietly murmured, "She… She ain't feeling so right, son…"
The boy stood. His skin was flushed hot.
Fire… Fire… Fire…
"Help me get your momma to the car…" his dad added and took his wife's legs.
The tall man dragged her body halfway across the kitchen. Then he stopped when he noticed his son hadn't moved.
"We ain't got no time for this now, son," urged his father again, "You go be a good little boy and help yo' momma. She be needin' us. Come on, now, grab her hands."
With dead eyes, the son stared at him.
Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire…
"Boy, didn't you hear what I said?" His father's face turned red. "God damn it, you little shit - !"
The father lunged at his son but stopped midway. Something forced him back. He immediately clutched his heart.
Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire…
"Oh, god…" the father groaned, "Heart… attack…? Am I… having a…?"
In silence, the boy watched his father writher in pain. He saw his daddy fall; observed him toss and turn and beg for his help. Yet, the boy remained motionless.
"Cold…" his father moaned loudly now, "I feel… s-so cold… My body… it's… so c-cold!"
Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire…
Crumbling to the ground, his father clutched his body. His eyes widened in terror when he noticed a sheet of ice form over his skin. Raising his left hand up to eye-level, he witnessed a few of his fingers turn ice-blue and harden before eventually breaking off.
"W-what… what's happening… to m-me…?"
He couldn't understand it. The temperature was still warm outside. Nevertheless, an unexplained cold draft had abruptly appeared out of nowhere and taken over his body, freezing him. The father shuddered uncontrollably as the ice continued to expand across the rest of his body. Each drop of his sweat turned into beads of ice. When he looked up at his son, he was surprised by how calm he appeared. His son didn't move; didn't blink. He stood like a statue.
"H-help me, boy…"
Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire…
At last, his son spoke: "Fire."
His father blinked.
"Fire… Fire… Fire…" his son whispered over and over again. His voice sounded neutral and strange.
As if stuck in a trance, his father nodded to his son. "Fire…"
Yes. He needed fire. He needed to feel warm again. The father rose to his feet. Even as parts of his frozen skin cracked and broke off, he headed outside the trailer and walked towards his truck. The boy followed him. By the trailer's doorway, he stood and watched his father remove a tank of gasoline from the truck's bed, then pour it all over his body.
Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire… Fire…
"F-fire…" his father said once more and hysterically laughed, as if he found the answer to all of his life's problems.
With his unfrozen right hand, his father removed a match from his back pocket. Then he lit himself up.
In a matter of seconds, his father's laughter turned into terrifying screams. The sudden realization of what he had just done came too late. Staring up at the sky, the man's face twisted in agonizing pain while his entire frozen body erupted into a burst of flames. Meanwhile, the boy continued to watch.
Mah name's Ely K… the voice spoke again, childlike. Let's be friends…
The boy smiled. He watched his father's body melt away against the fire. To him, the event was beautiful. As the liquid fire danced around his crystallized body, his father glowed like an angel.
I'll protect you, 'kay?
The boy felt the sting on his face suddenly subside. Running a hand over his bloody cheek, he realized his wounds had mysteriously healed themselves.
"You'll protect me…?" the boy slowly asked.
Even if you forget me, I'll always be with you.
"We're friends now, Ely, I won't ever forget you."
One day, you will. You'll deny me an', eventually, you'll forget me. But I'll be with you in the end. I exist inside you an' will never leave your side. Never.
At last, the fire subsided and the smell of ash now consumed the air. In silence, the boy checked the final remains of his father. There was only a tiny puddle of water left. Already, it began to evaporate. A part of him wanted to cry.
I want to play now.
"But…"
Forget 'bout daddy. Play wit' me instead.
"Okay, Ely…" the child finally agreed.
The boy blinked once before taking a slow step back. He re-entered the trailer. It was dead silent. Spotting one of his airplanes, still splattered with blood, he grabbed it and sat on the ground next to his motionless mother. Giggling, he started to play with his newfound friend.