When Phil was only seven years old, he had his first night scare. He had grown used to the tremors in the night, convulsing violently as his mother held him upright. She would massage his back gently and hum a soft lullaby. The nightmares had come and gone in his toddler years. He was no stranger to the terrors that shot him from his bed to a tangled, sweaty heap on the floor. Suddenly, at seven, his night scares began. He would black out in the middle of his dream. He would begin the day in the middle of the night.
Go to the bathroom, brush teeth, go downstairs for cereal. He would eat with a fork, staring into his bowl even as the metal scraped the porcelain. He wasn't supposed to touch it. That had been a rule, but night scares don't follow the rules. The scraping was what had alerted his mother. She had found him like this, mindlessly chomping on nonexistent food and scraping the bottom of the bowl. She had called his name, only for the bowl to drop and shatter, and her son to cut his tongue with the fork.
He hadn't noticed, though. His mind had been far too preoccupied. He continued to eat. He dug the fork across the wood table and still brought it up to his mouth to chew. Blood had started to spool out of his mouth. His mother had been terrified. She had reached out to help him, but he had leaped away from the contact, as if he would be burned. He had shoved the now bloody fork in his mother's direction.
When she had let out a scream, his had mimicked hers. Suddenly, he began to shake. He stabbed the table with the fork and his eyes had rolled back into his head. He bit down hard on his tongue and his mother had just enough time for it to click into her mind to hold him. She'd cradled him until he had stopped. He had then become unresponsive. Phil had been taken to the hospital and put under watch. It took eight hours for him to become responsive and two more to wake up.
He could still see the demons even after waking. But he had calmed down after only one extra hour. He had seen his mom and stress had evaporated. His heartbeat had returned to normal and he was later sent home. He doesn't have many night scares. He's never really had that many. After seven, his next was at twelve. His father had tracked them down. Phil didn't want anything to do with his father. He'd claimed he had changed, but Phil wasn't buying into it. After dinner the second night he'd come, the man had let his way into Phil's room.
Phil had faked being asleep. He's good at that. He's good at faking. His dad had climbed into bed with him and run a hand over his son's body. Phil resisted the urge to twitch at every stop, especially when the man had gotten lower. Eventually, the man had left him alone. When he had gotten home from school early the next day, he was almost hit by a flying plate. His dad was abusing his mom and Phil was terrified. His dad saw it in his eyes and laughed at him.
A lot of emotions had suddenly found their way surging through Phil's body. He suddenly regained many flashbacks of all the times his father had been abusive in the past. The man that caused all those nightmares in the past when he was so young and couldn't do anything. He was helpless. As quick as those flashes had occurred, they were gone. Phil could only see black. Darkness.
Then he opened his eyes. His father was across the room, alcoholic breath reeking through the area. He raised a hand to hit Phil's mother. She was almost collapsing already. She couldn't handle the full brunt of it, so Phil stepped in. His eyes were unfocused but his stride was strong. He was nowhere near the height of his brawny father, but that didn't matter. No one was allowed to hurt his mother. He loved her.
The man still held his hand raised and brought it raining down on Phil's face. His mother screamed but Phil wasn't paying attention. Scars were formed on his cheeks almost immediately. They would scratch and bleed but Phil couldn't feel it. He asked his father if he'd had enough and if he would leave them alone, but the man had said he wasn't done. That hadn't been a good answer.
Phil had reached up to touch his father's face, as if rekindling an old memory. Suddenly, he roughly snatched his father's hair, yanking him to his level. Phil spat in his face and slammed him against the cold kitchen table. He hit him repeatedly. His mother tried to stop him, but that had been futile. He had kept her at bay while fighting against his father and winning. For once, his father had actually been scared of him and it made Phil happy. He wouldn't know he was happy though. In this state, he didn't smile. There was no emotion. No expression written on his face. But half his expressions are faked anyway, so what is the use?
His father had been barely breathing when Phil had collected the large meat cleaver from beneath the cabinets. His mother had been crying heart-achingly but Phil couldn't be bothered with it. In this state, Phil only knew to be protective towards the ones he loves. At this point, he only loves his mother. There is no one else. That means others will have to be sacrificed. The meat cleaver had been brought down. Twice. Thrice and the man was dead. Phil had been monotonous, still he seeked approval.
"Did I do good, Mommy?"
Seeing her frightened face had done it. It had unraveled him. The meat cleave had stabbed his father once more and Phil's eyes rolled back. His mother hadn't been there to catch him that time. When she had been able to move, she could roll the man in the tablecloth and place him into a bin. She had time. She had set her son on the mattress on the floor and she had gone out to protect him.
When she had returned, it had been hours later. It was dark. He hadn't woken yet. It took a little less time for him to wake up. Instead of ten hours, it took six. It still took a full hour for the demons to disappear. She had told him that he had a gift and the gift sent his father away so he can never harm them again.
They had moved after that. They went to a completely other country. Another continent. He no longer had night terrors or even tremors. He had a slight nightmare every now and then, but it was nothing that couldn't be handled. His grades had risen nicely in his new town. He was accepted into a boys' private school, and as such he no longer lived with his mother. He still cared for her though, and the others would tease and call him a Mommy's Boy. When he was fifteen, he and another boy were caught kissing in the library.
The other boy was older and had played it off like a trick. Phil had become depressed and would lock himself away in the bathroom or up on the roof. He would inflict harm on himself, blaming himself for his actions. Blaming himself for how he felt. Blaming himself for wanting his mommy. Then he got a call. His mother had been in a terrible accident on her way to visit him. She had been in a coma. Despite the worry, the students had still teased him, saying he will never see his mother again.
Before the faculty could put an end to it, flashes had begun to happen. No one had stopped the bullies and now they were off about his mother. When she was injured. He could never see her again. He couldn't have that. He snapped. His eyes became unfocused and he had attacked. He clawed and bit, tearing into skin without a second thought. He fought his classmates, the ones who tortured him. He fought the teachers, the ones who urged him to stay in the school until one told him where to go.
He had left behind a massacre and gone to the hospital. He had walked in with his clothes ripped. Blood had been stained on his clothes and dribbling from his mouth, but he wasn't interested in that. He was fifteen and still in an unresponsive state. If a doctor had been near, they would notice he hadn't got much of a heartbeat. His breath is barely a sliver yet it is clear as day. Bold too. He isn't shaking, he is standing firm. He isn't a child, and he finds his mother's information on a computer that had been left unattended by the front desks. He had gone in restricted areas, not listening to protests.
No one could push him when he found his mother. No one could make him leave. He never ate, drank or even slept. He never sat. He would stand at her bedside, silently urging she would awaken still with no emotion written on his face. He would hiss at anyone who attempted to clean him, but he had allowed a feeding tube into his arm, since he couldn't be bothered to eat. A catheter at one point had to be attached, but Phil didn't mind. His only thoughts had been on his mother.
She finally woke eight days later. She could barely move but Phil could tell she was there. His mother was okay. She would be alive. He tried to smile, but he wasn't allowed. Not in this state. She had gasped seeing his face, seeing the dried blood stains and tattered clothes. She had tried to talk to him but there had been too many tubes in her mouth, so she only cried.
"Did I do good, Mommy?"
She tried to reach over to him and that was all he needed. He clamped his hand onto her bed, hard enough to nearly bend the metal. His eyes had rolled back and he had fallen. There had been no one to help him. His wrist had been severely broken in the fall, due to clamping it hard. His legs had broken as well and a scalpel had landed in his eye. A week and a half later, he was able to leave.
His mother too. She could walk but she would have to take it easy. He couldn't. With so many broken limbs, he would be confined to a wheelchair for a while. They didn't have any identification on them and they were Jane Doe and John Doe. At the school, they had known him as Michael Luster. They hadn't trusted the private school. Not one to keep him away. The school massacre made news and they were out. At eighteen, Phil was living with his mother again, now in yet another city. They were back in England, but not the same region.
He started YouTube. He started vlogging and lying to millions of people about himself. He knew he could fake it. He could even fake a lie. It isn't lying. It's faking a lie. When you fake a lie, you pretend to be rubbish at lying so others will believe that the lie you tell is untrue, when in actuality your lie is the truth. He is good at it. Making other believe what he wants them to believe. It works. They think he is a happy, bubbly personality.
He keeps lying to the others and soon he manipulates himself into thinking it too. He forgets about the doctors. He forgets about the massacre, about his father. He attends University and keeps with the Internet videos. He is no longer so attached to his mother. He forgets his gift. The nightmares stop. He can breathe. He can live again. He finds a troubled boy four years younger than him. He reaches out and soon, he meets the boy. Dan. Dan meets Phil's mother and the boys move in together.
After only two years of living together, Phil's priorities shift. Dan now comes first. Dan is first, he has decided and nothing can persuade him from the fact. Dan comes first in Phil's life. In Phil's love. Phil realizes the familiar feeling. He is falling for Dan. This is more than the boy at the library. Phil remembers the massacre. Phil remembers the doctors. Phil remembers his father. Phil remembers the darkness.
.
- more will come from this. I love these people right now. And I love you all for reading. -