I once dreamt an ocean of blood.
The sky above was black as night, with fire descending upon the earth like a dark omen. I was surrounded by thick liquid dragging me down into nothing, the taste of copper nauseating as it infiltrated my lungs, preventing the passage of air. Somewhere in the distance, a ship was sailing along the scarlet coast, bland waves pushing it slowly through. I couldn't get a good look at the particulars of it, but the name appeared clearly, etched on the side of its body like a tattoo fixed in skin: Empty Vessel.
The name, symbolically reminiscent of my identity as a vacant space waiting to be filled, spoke to me as I drowned in what I realized from the cuts on my wrists were my own wounds. Drifting upwards, the current fell over me, bathing my body in blood. The constriction of my chest suffocated whatever fight I had left in me, and as the icy grip of death pulled me under, I envisioned a universe where my iniquity was replaced by light, my sin with virtue; where the cares of the world were lost and I could finally breathe again.
To this day, I still can't quite figure that dream out. Was it a premonition of things to come? Was it proof of my descent into madness? Perhaps it was the mirror of my subconscious, a looking glass through which I could see a reflection of the effect my father's psychological abuse had on me. Whatever the reason, I can still recall the way I felt when I woke up the next morning. It was like looking into a black hole in search of answers and finding nothing but white noise. I remember because it was the day after my little freak out in the boy's bathroom, a memory I still find damn near impossible to forget.
The sky was downcast that day, kaleidoscopic shades of blues and grays fighting for dominance amidst the great expanse of cloud cover looming menacingly above my head.
"Great," I muttered, stepping off my front porch, "Nothing to brighten a poor boy's moody disposition like a good thunderstorm."
Walking to school on a day like this one usually served as a welcome respite from the gloom and doom of my deplorable existence. If this were a normal point in time, the feel of the rain pouring down my wilted form would have returned me to the land of the living like forgotten flowers brought back from the dead. It was an amazing feeling, after all, being jolted to life by water. There was nothing more beautiful than crystal-colored droplets flashing their dull shine as a reminder to the beholder that something gorgeous could be created from something as ugly as a rain cloud, that something magnificent could spring from the worst of circumstances. It wasn't a rainbow after the storm, it was the creation of something during the storm, something . . . wonderful.
Too bad this day wasn't like other days.
A low rumble of thunder shook the ground below me, forcing me to quicken my pace. Reaching my school soon became a race against time as I tried to avoid being drenched by the inevitable downpour that was sure to come at any moment. Rounding a corner, I could see the brick building from across the street, its front doors gleaming from the distance. It was calling to me, beckoning me like a siren to treacherous waters. I wanted so badly to heed its call that I ran as fast as I could toward my salvation, adrenaline pumping heavily through my willing veins. It was well within reach, and for a moment, I actually believed I would make it, lost as I was in my own positivity. It wasn't until my shoes touched the first step that everything came crashing down on me as it always did, forcing a sigh from my lips that sounded like the agonized whine of a wounded animal.
When life gives you lemons, you're supposed to make lemonade.
Anyone who truly believes that the lemonade you make won't get tossed in your face is an imbecile.
I stood there for a while afterward, allowing the pelting rain to soak through my clothes as I had my little pity party on school property. I yelled and punched the building repeatedly with my fists, sick and tired of constantly being dealt a shitty deck of cards in the game life forced me to play. I screamed until my lungs felt like they were gonna burst. I screamed until tears ran down my face. I screamed until every single shred of despair fled from my body through my anger, dissipating into the air like a toxic airborne virus. I let it all out the same way I did in the bathroom at school, refusing to cave until I beat the front of my scholastic institution into submission, breaking my skin and cracking my knuckles with each blow. Despite the force, I didn't feel the pain. How could I? No amount of physical trauma could possibly measure up to the raw emotional agony I was experiencing out there, caught up in two storms that I never asked for, two storms that I never wanted.
Why did God despise me so much? Why was I bred for misery? In some subconscious part of my mind, I must have suspected I'd done something to deserve what I'd been given. Perhaps our Lord knew of my inevitable future, absorbed in the clutches of sin as I turned my back on a salvation I'm pretty sure he was going to deny me anyway. Back then, I couldn't have guessed my fate would become entwined with evil. Did the God of my past warn me with a whisper not to be devoured by a darkness even greater than the one I'd lived in since my mother's passing? Was he honestly expecting me to suffer in silence the rest of my life? Did he assume that, since my father made me so reliant upon his words, that I'd heed all warnings and allow myself the displeasure of going through life as his very own punching bag? There were so many souls on earth that he could have chosen for such a distasteful role. Why did it have to be me? What did I do to deserve all of this? All of him? All of Dean?
Being that I was unaware of my future, none of this occurred to me at the time. All I could think of was how unfair life was for me, how detestable, how unliveable. After everything that I'd been through, all I wanted to do was die. I could feel myself giving up on everything, something I swore to myself I'd never do. It was almost like my inability to beat the oncoming storm was a sign: if I couldn't prevent myself from becoming drenched on my way to school, how was I supposed to prevent the downpour of life? Why fight a losing battle when it's so much easier to just give up?
It was at that precise moment that something strange happened to me. During the course of my brush with insanity, I could vaguely feel someone watching me. It was a rather strange sensation, like an emotion held far away at a distance; you know it's there, yet you find yourself unable to mentally process its existence. It isn't until your brain becomes free of obstructions that the apparition becomes closer, its body turning corporeal in the harsh light of our earthly reality. When the anger and the pain brought themselves down to a simmer, I finally managed to look up and gaze into the face of my destiny.
It was him, green eyes burning with an intense curiosity that matched my fire. I growled softly as I shivered from the cold, brows furrowing at the subtle smirk I got in return. My teeth bared; something primal awakening inside of me at the sight of such inappropriate eroticism. Something about this boy brought out the worst in me, and it wasn't until that moment that I realized all the rare moments of my lack of self-control have happened in front of him.
It made me angry.
"WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!" I screamed. "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"
No answer.
Who was this boy, this enigma that served as my shadow? Observable by every sense, he haunted my very heart. Touch, taste, smell, sound, and sight circled simultaneously around me, interwoven, enveloping. The volts of life shocked the air I breathed, electrifying every single gasp of my rapid inhalations. Hazel clashed with gold, gaze to gaze, sin to sin. Glued to the spot, I could do nothing but watch as he approached me, his aura flashing red like a warning sign. The perceived danger was a sight to behold, yet I stood my ground, waiting for the inevitable moment when his face was mere inches from my own, our breaths intermingling in the crippling warmth of the summer storm.
He was silent when he leaned into me and grabbed a fistful of my long bangs, tugging on my hair until my head fell back. He was silent when he used his thick tongue to run a line up my parched lips. He was silent when he slipped past the barrier I tried to maintain, massaging the inside of my mouth with slow, deliberate flicks as he sucked first on the bottom lip, then the top. He was silent when he broke away to trail soft, sensual kisses down my arched neck, tightening his grasp on my thighs at the moan that escaped from my throat. He stayed silent until I couldn't bear it any longer, and with a tortured whine, I wrenched myself away from his arms and furrowed my brows in pain, unsure of how to deal with all the feelings taking hold of me at once.
Dean's face, absent of regret, ran the tip of his tongue across his own lips. "Hmm," he crooned. "Tastes like victory."
His words left me utterly paralyzed, an immovable lust bending me to his will. Slowly but surely, I found myself being gently pushed toward the brick wall. When I was pinned, Dean took my palm and brought it toward his crotch, skin pressed against rough denim. I tried to fight it, but my efforts proved futile. Before I knew it, his tongue was begging once more for entrance into the soft crevices inside my mouth, and as an erotic sigh escaped me, he slid within, penetrating me with a softness that was surprisingly primal in its soothing simplicity. This time, I didn't pull away. I surrendered to the dirty sinfulness of my own demise, abandoning all hopes of an unreachable salvation. I moaned with ease, squeezing Dean's girth with fevered, inexperienced eagerness. His touch, unlike anything I'd ever felt before, scorched my skin and set fire to my soul. My resistance was weakening with every breath I managed to take between fevered kisses and I knew that if I didn't do something soon, my will would dissipate completely. I wanted to stop it. Had to stop it.
"Dean," I gasped against his lips, groaning as he broke away to slide his tongue up my neck. "D-Dean."
"You're so sweet, Sammy. Like an extra dose of sugar on forbidden fruit."
I chuckled humorlessly at the sky. So this was going to be the cause of my demise, was it? The endless parade of saccharine flavors and pernicious passions? Feeling the rhythmic ticking of the clock staining the pages of time red was a slow burn of demonic proportions as cruel as the God that mocked me with his seraphic brilliance. It was as if the Devil controlled the future and my Lord was forcing me to go along with the ride. There were no bathroom breaks, no hotel stops looking to find me a place to lay my head. I was in it for the long haul and both Dean and I knew it.
Bastard.
"I wish my fruit was rotten," I said, breathless from that goddamn lust I couldn't seem to shake. "Then I wouldn't have you pawing at me like a hungry biker at an all you can eat buffet."
"Your fruit will never spoil, Samuel. I won't allow it."
I looked deep into his eyes, frustration folding my brow in on itself. "What do you want from me, Dean? Whatever it is you think I possess, I assure you I have nothing to give."
Dean's face darkened, taking me by surprise. With a determination I'd never seen on anyone, he grabbed my arms and pulled me close to his body, fright and arousal radiating off me in equal measure. "You are mistaken, child." His voice was quiet and deadly, his expanding pupils dripping with dark desire. "You have everything to give, and give it to me, you will . . . whether you want to or not."
When I returned home from school that day, my father informed me he was leaving. I still remember the way I found him, sitting in a chair on the side of the kitchen table with arms crossed and head held high, staring at me as if I'd suddenly sprouted angel wings right before his eyes. "Hello, Samuel."
"Father," I responded dryly.
An uncomfortable silence filled the air. I watched dad try to muster up a half-baked apology like he always did after one of his drunken episodes, fighting the urge to show my contempt. Healing bruises aside, I still found it hard to fathom how often his memory fogged after the last remnants of black and blue faded from my body, almost as if fate didn't want me to remind him of his past sins. So much for evidentiary support.
"LIsten, uh . . . I have to go out of town for a few days. There's just something I've gotta do. You gonna be okay here by yourself?"
Multiple days with no parental abuse? Sign me the fuck up! "Yes."
"I'm going to leave you some money for the time I'm gone. Use it wisely and try not to throw any parties. Not that I really have to worry about any of that. It's not like you have any friends."
Gee, my dad sure did have a way with words, didn't he? Funniest part of that whole encounter was that's exactly how he left things. I never even got that half-baked apology I was waiting for.
After dad's departure, I spent a lot of time doing things he wouldn't normally let me do. I ate whatever I wanted, I showered whenever I wanted. Hell, I even skipped school a couple times, though I'm sure my last encounter with Dean had a lot to do with that one. By the end of the week, I felt like I was born free.
Then I began to worry.
See, when dad disappeared, he was never gone more than two to three days at a time. Usually, I never knew where he went on these runs, but every once in a while I'd find out about some woman he'd spent a few nights with and I'd realize that was my cue to take him to the local clinic so he could get tested for possible STD's. I'd wait, thinking about all I was missing and how much my life sucked. Then he'd come out, we'd go home, and he'd take that opportunity to blame me for his own choices and beat me to within an inch of my life.
The point is, we had a routine. But I was beginning to think that routine was being thrown out the window when two weeks went by and he still hadn't returned home. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days, days into weeks, and I was no closer to finding him than I was to finding God. He may not have been the best father in the world, but he was the only one I'd ever known and I couldn't bear the thought of living in that big, empty house by myself. Try as I might, I was still just a young boy incapable of surviving on the notion that I was about to lose yet another parent, no matter how bad said parent made me feel. I still wanted him in my life, abuse be damned.
I was sitting in the bathroom one evening as the light from the setting sun spilled through the window when I heard footsteps coming from the other side of the hallway. I allowed thoughts of suicide by hanging to vanish with the sound of familiar boots thumping against the bare wooden floors and leaped up, ready to welcome my father with open arms. But what stood before me wasn't my father. It was some . . . thing. Something I'd never forget as long as I lived.
This new man with wet hair and bloodshot eyes peered at me from behind the strands with the most pitiful expression I'd ever seen on anyone. He was disheveled and downtrodden, the picture of a broken man who'd been through some awful shit.
"S-Samuel," he stuttered shakily, fingers clinging to crisscrossed arms.
"Dad?" I gasped.
"Can-can I go to sleep now?"
I was stunned. Father never asked my permission for anything. "Dad, what happened to you?"
He looked at me as if for the first time, curious and confused. "I'd like to sleep now."
"Okay." How could I say no?
I took a towel from the closet and dried dad off, picking out his favorite pair of pajamas as he attempted to haphazardly brush his neglected teeth. After tucking him into his freshly-made bedspread, I was taken aback when he grabbed my arm and lifted his upper torso from the mattress, red eyes popping as prominently as the vein on the left side of his stretched neck. "Be careful, Samuel."
"What?"
"Shh! He'll hear you! Don't you see, Sam? He's here, just like I said he would be."
Shivering with an unknown feeling I couldn't place, I turned my head to face him, feeling his hot breath against my lips. "Who?"
"The devil," he whispered. "He's come to take you away. D-don't let him take you. Don't let him take me."
"Dad, I have no idea what you're talking about. You're being ridi-"
"He knows your name," Dad said. "He knows who you are. He wants . . . he wants . . ."
"Dad, I need you to get some rest," I responded, wrestling myself from his grip. "You're not making any sense now. Just get some rest and we'll talk more in the morning, okay?"
He didn't say anything. I don't think he even registered the words I'd spoken. After kissing him on the cheek, I went into the bedroom and fell on my bed with a plop, exhausted from another one of life's cruel curveballs. The nightmares I had that night were frightening and vivid, dad's warning entering my thoughts as visions of hell splashed into the ink my brain used to write my dreams. But the hellfire and the vicious hounds and even the devil himself weren't enough to scare me into the puddle of sweat I woke up to the next morning. Rather, it was the image of a boy with black wings as he floated above an altar in place of Christ on the cross that did me in, making me wonder why his face was the first to enter my head when my father spoke of evil and damnation.
Dean.
What was he?
Who was he?
What did he want from me?
I didn't know, but I had a feeling I was about to find out.
