Redeem, Revive, Revolt

By Lucius Seneca and Stillmatic

Chapter Eleven: The Art of Repercussions

The town car was silvery grey, sleek and professional. It's mirrors flashed as it exited the last of Astoria's main streets and continued onwards and onto the highway, flanked by trees and an overwhelming amount of green foliage. It was summer, or maybe late spring. Rain was falling and it pattered playfully on the windshield and roof of the expensive car.

Ulysses sat in the back, dressed in a simple black turtleneck sweater and denim jeans. His eyes wandered out the window which seemed to be embracing the small droplets of water. Every so often, one would stretch and a slither over the glass, vanishing out of sight. Green eyes watched the scene repeated again and again.

Heather Beck, Ulysses mother, sat in front of him. She was rigid and dressed as if she had just come out from a board meeting. Her hair, a light auburn, was straightened and combed to perfection, reflecting an equally refined face which was covered with a light layer of makeup. She had been beautiful once, when she was younger. Now, Ulysses saw the difference between the photographs and the woman who sat in front of him, unspeaking.

There was a clap of thunder overhead and Ulysses snapped his attention away from his mother. He began to twist at the watch around his wrist. He had not grown into it yet and the silver matched the car which he sat inside. Ulysses blinked tiredly. A fifteen year old should not have had to move schools so early in the year. He didn't understand why no group would accept him.

Maybe he was different. Ulysses shrugged the thought off. Astoria was but one of the many cities he had lived in. He found it difficult to fit in anywhere and sometimes, when he was alone, he considered dropping school altogether and becoming a runaway. Surely he would see then if someone cared enough to come after him.

Black leather squeaked precariously as Ulysses shifted, considering the situation. He had been expelled from his high school, but this time it was different. His parents would not be moving with him. Ulysses had been sent to a private school, one where he would be "...set straight and no longer an unpredictable variable." as his father had so kindly put it.

His father. Ulysses looked over at the man who sat in the driver's seat, hands gripping the wheel as he continued down the road. George Beck was a quiet man, not given to fits of rage or yells, but he was a cold man nonetheless; a perfect pairing with Ulysses' mother. It was quite obvious that the relationship between father and son was tense to say the least. One, still attempting to understand himself and the world around him, was often pitted against an older, wiser man who apparently understood everything.

As if reading his mind, Ulysses' father spoke up, shattering the silence "Ulysses, when we reach the school, please be respectful. If I hear of any trouble with you..."

The threat died off as quickly as it had come, leaving Ulysses to ponder the punishments. He muttered his reply "Yeah."

Heather broke into the conversation "You've been quite a problem for the past two years, Ulysses. It cannot go on any longer. You've forced us to do this."

Ulysses hated that voice, that educated, well-formed, opinionated voice which screamed silent volumes at the boy. She wasn't even worth the reply. Ulysses could hear his luggage shifting in the trunk. His violin, clothing, guitar. He loved music. More than any other kid he had met, and despite his hatred for the violin, Ulysses played it incredibly well. He would never openly admit it, but he enjoyed the music which came from the instrument.

Forests now flanked Ulysses and he sighed as he watched the rain grow weak, deflected by a canopy of trees. There was movement in the rearview mirror and Ulysses looked up at it, spotting a big rig behind him. It was carrying oil no doubt, but Ulysses put it out of his mind. The town car cruised speedily down the road, eventually slowing behind a small compact.

George sighed at the sudden decrease in speed, but he cursed loudly as the compact let out a loud bang and swerved uncontrollably. It had popped a tire. The driver was obviously attempting to get to the side of the road, but the slippery asphalt was more of a hindrance than expected. George slammed on the brakes as the compact smacked into a guardrail and was sent back into the midst of the road, straight towards the Beck family.

There was a loud crunch of metal as the compact slammed into the side of the town car. George slammed on the brakes, only to be launched forward as something slammed into the back of the car. Ulysses saw his mother's pale face, heard the screams, and then his head flew forward and into the seat.

It took a moment to regain full consciousness and Ulysses let out a startled breath as he attempted to righten himself. It seemed darker now, almost black inside the car. Ulysses grasped at his head, feeling the swelling which throbbed angrily. His parents were slumped forward in their seats, airbags pushing on them fruitlessly. Ulysses shook them worriedly and let out a sigh of relief as his father came to.

"Jesus Christ...Ulysses, Heather? Are you two alright?"

Heather coughed, probably from a broken rib, and awoke with a start, looking around in fright. Everyone seemed cut up, thanks a cracked windshield. Ulysses wiped at his face, feeling something warm trickle down his cheek. His finger came away with a black smear and he looked upwards in surprise. Oil was soaking into the car.

The windshield was covered in tiny streams, steady drippings flowed from every nook and cranny. George let out a loud breath and went to start the car, perhaps not even seeing the oil or noticing the smell. He muttered something about holding other people up on the road and then he turned the key.

The car exploded into flames. White hot, orange flames shot into existence and Ulysses watched in horror as his parents vanished into an abyss of heat. He could hear their screams and see their writhing, their fruitless kicks. Ulysses yelled out in total horror and scrabbled for the door, but suddenly he felt the heat, as if it had been held back the entire time.

He was cloaked in it and he let out a yell of complete and utter fear as he discovered that he was, in fact, on fire. His skin was peeling, his hair smoking, and he could feel the destructive licking of the flames. His hands, still untouched, grasped at the handle, but it was jammed, stuck shut.

Someone was yelling from outside "Someone help them! Someone help!"

And then Ulysses felt a new pain, a fresh series of cuts on his face as the window nearest to him exploded inwards. The car was an inferno and Ulysses' seatbelt melted away, snapping from the heat. Something was grabbing him, something strong. He could feel breath on his neck and suddenly the scene was changed and Ulysses was pulled from death's grip.

There was screaming, yelling, sirens. But Ulysses couldn't hear anything. He was staring up into the sky, watching as the rain fell over him again and again.

Steam poured out from the bathroom door and flooded the small room. Inside, the faint sound of lathering could be heard, revealing Ulysses' presence within the curtained area. His room was small, merely broken into two parts. One, the larger of the two, contained a small cot, bedside table, a wooden dresser, and a single locker which lay off to the far corner of the room.

The other area was a simple bathroom, a toilet, shower, and sink all included. There was a metallic whisk as the shower curtain slid aside. Ulysses stepped out, pulled a towel from a hook in the wall, and began to dry himself, eventually wrapping the white cotton around his waist. His hair was cut short once again, the coarse black strands hanging just above his eyebrows.

He preferred it that way. Despite appearing quite reserved, even distant at times, Ulysses took pride in his appearance, perhaps more so than the majority of individuals he knew. He shook his head to clear the thought and went to dressing himself, pulling on a simple pair of black khakis and a plain teeshirt.

The cot squeaked quietly as Ulysses took a seat, running his hands over his face. He had been visited by nightmares the past two nights. Dreams of fire, screams, grasping hands, and a child grasping her tiny, shrunken face. He let his mind wander back to his childhood. His eyes flashed as he saw the image of Roger Sursy. So the bully was back, pushing at Ulysses, knocking his notes from the desk.

Then the picture twisted. Roger was clawing at his own face, blood streaming from his hands and tears from his eyes. A bright orange pencil stuck out from his tanned cheek and suddenly the memory was gone as if sucked away by a powerful wind. Ulysses shuddered and let out a sigh. He stood up suddenly, as if hoping to put his personal horrors behind him, at least for the moment.

Crossing over to the bedside table, Ulysses started up a small CD player, letting the disk within spin with a soft whir. Classical music began to play and the string section could be heard, soon followed by the light beating of a drum. Ulysses tossed himself onto the bed and let his hair sprawl out wildly, eyes bleary. He felt sick and, feeling the dull ache of guilt, Ulysses let out a choked whisper.

"Will God ever forgive me for what i've done?"

Whatever answer Ulysses was searching for in the stained walls remained hidden and he slammed an angry fist against cot, tears welling up in his eyes. What was the point of it all? How many dreams and memories had he wiped away with jealously in his heart? What kind of man was he? He knew as well as any other.

"You are a monster."

"A freak."

"An anomaly of human nature."

A cold sweat broke out and Ulysses clutched his stomach. He was going to be sick. So very, very sick. And soon he was, clutching the toilet seat, vomiting his last meal. It felt like forever and still the heaves came, the choking sound which he knew so well. Time spun into meaninglessness. Colors mixed with images, perforated faces, screaming babies.

The walls swirled and coughed blood and Ulysses stumbled around the abyss like a drunken dancer. The floor embraced him as he collapsed, cello screaming from the heavens. Tears flowing from his eyes, Ulysses felt the world's loathing and the universe collapsed around him. Gasping, he stumbled towards the locker which stood like an unmoving sentry.

It laughed at him, grille grinning like a mad clown. The door opened with a spray of blood and organs, Ulysses feeling the warm, putrid internals immediately. He grasped inside the space, ripping through long, slimy coils of intestines and still the locker grinned. And suddenly there was a the cold, reassuring feel of metal. Ulysses seized blindly at the object, the entire world collapsing around him, and still the cello screamed.

And then the pistol was in his hands. Ulysses let out a choked sob and shoved it against his skull, face distorting into a determined grimace.

*click*

Nothing. The cello died away and the walls returned to being as bland as ever. Ulysses was seated on the floor, G17 held tightly to his temple. He let out a breath of disbelief. Slowly, ever so slowly, the pistol made its way down from his head until he was holding it in his lap. He pulled the slide back, watching as a bullet was ejected, landing on the floor.

Ulysses felt at the smooth bullet. He could see the small dimple on the primer, the dent made by the firing pin. It should have fired. It should have sent it through his skull. He let his pistol fall to the ground and he wiped the sweat from his face. He was drenched, both in sweat and tears. It wasn't to be unexpected though. He should have died right there, on that cold, cold tile.

Stumbling back to his feet, Ulysses clutched the bullet tightly and fell onto the cot limply, looking even more pale than usual. He reached over gently and slid the bullet onto his table, accidentally bumping the 'PLAY' button on the CD player and the sounds of a distant, yet beautiful cello reached the ears of a breaking man once again

Sleep began to slip over Ulysses and his breathing slowed, finding a strange solace in the sound of faraway music. Oh, how he loved that cello.