Chapter Twenty-Five

Robert Roth was a tall man in his early fifties who's years of working construction had given him muscular arms and a deep tan, however an equal number of years of enjoying a beer or two after getting off work to unwind had also produced a bit of a potbelly. His hair was dark, but not quite black, and was cut in the same military style that the man seemed to boast all of his life. Grey was starting to creep in around the sides, but Robert had always refused coloring it, often saying that he enjoyed the look of sophistication his 'salt-and-pepper' hair gave him. The man sitting across from him matched this description perfectly, yet Andrew still stared at him like a complete stranger.

"Andrew, are you okay? You don't look so good," the man asked with honest concern in his voice.

The boy's legs began to tremble and the gallon of juice he held in one had began to feel like it was gaining hundreds of pounds. He had to force himself to look away from the man just long enough to place the carton back on the counter behind him before he lost his grip on the thing and spilled a full gallon of juice all over the kitchen floor. He turned back not knowing what he would see, or if it would even be the same person looking back at him, but it was.

"Andrew? Son?" Now the man was starting to push himself up from his chair and even his mother had turned to look at what was going on, bacon forgotten. He couldn't begin to imagine what they were thinking. He probably looked like a terrified rabbit that had been trapped in a corner by a pack of wolves.

"Dad, you're-"

The next word he was going to speak, already half formed on his lips and tongue, suddenly vanished, leaving the boy standing silently with his jaw half open like an idiot. He searched for the word, the one that just a fraction of a second ago he knew but now could not find. He suddenly became very aware of the eyes upon him, of the expressions on their faces as they looked at their son who must have appeared to be two steps away from suddenly bursting into convulsions on the floor.

"You're home," he finally finished. "I thought you were working today." It was a lame end to the sentence and gave no excuse to the way he had just acted, more importantly; he still didn't think that was the word he wanted. He knew he was going to say something different and he knew that it was important, but now he just could not remember what it was, and ever time he tried to dig the thought out of his mind he came up with nothing but dull, white nothingness.

Whatever the case, his parents seemed to be satisfied with his answer. His mother turned back to the stove, humming to herself while trying to save the last few strips of bacon from burning to the skillet, and the man, his father, lowered himself back into the chair. Both of them looked calm again.

"Well of course," Robert said, "It's Saturday, after all. You've only been on summer vacation for a week now; don't tell me you're already losing track of the days."

Summer vacation... that sounded right, or he thought it did at least, but there was still something that felt a little off. Andrew would have thought that he would remember being on vacation. When he woke up this morning he neither worried about trying to catch the bus, nor did he bask in the joy of three whole months without school. If he had been a month in, he could understand taking for granted not having to wake up first thing in the morning to spend seven hours a day, five days a week at a place he hated, but if it had only been a week...

If Andrew knew anything about himself, it was that the first few weeks of summer left him feeling ecstatic; no more pencils, no more school books, no more teacher's dirty looks, and all that good stuff Alice Cooper once sang about. Yet when he woke up this morning he didn't think about any of that stuff. In fact, he didn't really think about anything; only started to go through the motions of the day like he had a thousand times before.

Then again, if he did do that morning routine day in and day out, then why did things seem so strange this time? Andrew couldn't quite put his finger on it, but that was the way he felt and every time he tried to reason it out he had the same problem he had trying to remember the word the got away; his mind just drew a blank.

Just like that weird dream, Andrew thought again, but the excuse failed to satisfy.

Once again the boy tried to recall whatever crazy thing it was his mind had created for him during the night. It hadn't been a good dream, he thought he could recall being deafly afraid at times, but that didn't mean the boy was ready to call it a nightmare, either. The dream he had felt somewhere in the middle of the two and there was something about it that felt important. Almost like, if he could just remember one vital thing, then this weird feeling that kept gnawing at the back of his mind would finally make sense.

Now that the numbness had gone from his legs and his hands felt steady once again, Andrew gave pouring himself a glass of juice one more try. He moved more carefully than what was probably necessary, acting more like he was handing high explosives rather than Minute Maid, but his carefulness at least kept him from spilling anything.

The boy made his way over to the table and took his normal seat.

"Are you sure you're okay?" his father asked one more time as the boy settled in.

"Yeah, fine," Andrew answered, sounding a bit more believable now that he was feeling better. "I guess I'm still half asleep, is all."

"It's because you stay up too late," his mother gently scolded as she brought over two plates of food, setting one down in front of her son and the other in front of her husband. "Summer or not, you need to get on an earlier schedule or you're going to keep sleeping half the day away."

"Oh, let the boy enjoy his time off. You're only young once," he father answered, tipping Andrew a wink.

"Exactly," she continued as she brought over her own plate. "He should be outside playing rather then spending all day long in his room sleeping or playing videogames. They'll rot his brain."

"That's why I thought Andrew and I would head down to the park and having a little father-and-son bonding over a game of catch, how's that sounding?" he asked, looking from his wife to his son.

Andrew smiled and said it sounded great, temporarily putting on the hold the search for the memories of his dream as he thought of the park his father had mentioned.

Blackburn Park was within walking distance from their home-or 'biking distance' if Andrew was heading there alone. It was a large area with a bike path, a playground, basketball and tennis courts, and well as tons of open grass that unofficially marked the entrance to their suburb. There used to be a wooden sign that read 'Welcome to Blackburn' and reminded the visitor to keep our park clean. It had stood there proudly until three years ago when someone crashed their car into it. Since then the city had never gotten around to replacing it. Some of the local kids even referred to the place as 'BlackBurned-Rubber' in reference to the accident caused by some teenager or another who was trying to show off his new sports car to his friends. At least, that was how the story went. Andrew had no way to verifying its authenticity.

The food his mother placed before him was the exact spread he had predicted earlier; strips of crispy bacon, toast with strawberry jelly, and a pile of scrambled eggs like how he liked. Andrew picked up his fork and scooped up a big chunk of eggs, brought it up towards his mouth.

Yellow, he thought absently. The eggs are yellow.

Andrew's hand suddenly stopped halfway to his mouth. Of course the eggs were yellow. Eggs were supposed to be yellow, only… only it wasn't the eggs. It was the color, something about that color. Yellow. Something from his dream was yellow, but what? The sun was yellow. Flowers could be yellow, so could teeth if you didn't take care of them. Lemonade was yellow, too. All of these things were right and at the same time, none of them were. Still the color, or at least the idea of that color, somehow stuck.

Something was yellow, that was important, yet that was as far as he could get his mind to go. It was almost like a toll booth had been set up inside of his head and Andrew didn't have the exact change to move his thoughts any further. It was maddening and a little terrifying.

Maybe I'm getting a brain tumor or maybe this is the start of some kind of early Alzheimer's. Not being able to remember one stupid dream might be one thing, but suddenly not being able to recall a sentence you were already half finished with, or how long you've on vacation? Why can't I even remember when my last day of school was? Why can't I remember what I did yesterday, or what I had for dinner? What's going on?

Andrew popped the eggs into his mouth, suddenly not really wanting them even though his stomach was still crying out that it was starving. Still, he didn't want to arise any more suspicion from his parents. Maybe he was still half-asleep or maybe he was going nuts, but he could not shake the feeling that things felt off, but he didn't want his mom and dad looking at him like that again. There was honest concern on their faces; however there was also something else. It only lasted for a moment, but Andrew thought he could see something else hiding just behind there eyes. He couldn't say exactly what it was, but what he did know was that he didn't like the way it made him feel. It was almost as if there was anger hidden just behind the concern, but anger caused by what, exactly?

Something important was yellow, his tired mind said to him one more time before Andrew decided to put the whole mess behind him and just get on with his day. He just didn't want to dwell on it anymore. He just wanted to get back to reality.

O O O

Andrew and his father strolled down the sidewalk of their quiet suburb, each of them wearing a baseball glove on one hand, but Andrew was the one holding the ball. He would lazily turn it over in one hand, feeling the stitches brush against his palm. The air was warm and still as the summer sun-

yellow, but not the right yellow

-beat down from an almost cloudless sky. It was the perfect day for outdoor grills, for street carnivals and swimming in a lake. It was the kind of day that simply could not go wrong. No one could die on a day like this. All the wars were put on hold and the soldiers given the afternoon off. You held doors open for complete strangers on days like this and if you came to a stop sign at the same moment as another guy, you let him go first. You had to smile in this weather, hell, you almost had to skip. It was perfect. Everything was perfect, and ever since he let go of trying to chase down the memories of some stupid dream that meant absolutely nothing, Andrew discovered how happy he was; to be alive, to be young, and to be with his father.

It was the last one that really meant more then the others. Andrew loved his dad, nearly idolized him. Robert Roth was everything the boy wanted to be when he grew up. The man was strong both physically and emotionally. He was easy to get along with no matter who you were, and if he liked you, well, there was nothing in the world he wouldn't do you for. However, he was also a man who stood up against anything that rubbed him wrong. For as friendly as he was, if he didn't like you, he would let you know. And if you were to ever do anything to threaten himself or someone he did like, well, the man wasn't above kicking some ass when the ass needed to be kicked. Clark Kent be damned, his dad was the real Superman.

As they walked into the park and found themselves a nice, open area away from any other visitors where they could toss the ball back and forth for awhile, Andrew couldn't help but think of how elated he was. They were just going to play a simple game of catch just as millions of fathers and sons before them, yet to the boy it felt like Christmas and his birthday all rolled up into one. It felt like forever since they had last hung out. This was silly, of course. They did stuff together every weekend.

Hours slipped by as the two tossed the ball. Andrew was a little rusty at first, his throws either going way off course or bouncing into his father's shoes, but after a few warm-ups he finally go into the rhythm of things. Late morning gave way to late afternoon and their shadows were now trailing along the opposite sides they were on when the two first entered the park.

They had been talking for awhile, just stupid little small talk, nothing important. After some time of chatting and joking and laughing, his father began to announce Andrew's pitches like a baseball announcer, to which he happily took to the roll. The boy, now acting like a major league player, pretended to spit out chewing tobacco he didn't have and looked around to check the bases that weren't really there, all while trying not to bust up laughing at his father, not because he was bad that the impression; but rather because he was really good.

"Bottom of the ninth," Robert called. "Bases loaded, full count. It all comes down to this one last pitch. Can the Wonder Kid, Andrew Roth, throw this last strike and secure the championship. The crowds have gone silent, no one dares to breathe. Here's the windup..."

Andrew lifted up one leg and cocked his arm back in the best mock major league pose he could manage.

"And the pitch!"

The boy let the ball rip with everything he had. The ball sliced trough the air, spinning as it went, all the way right into his father's waiting glove.

"Swing and a miss! Strike three! He's done it! It's over! The crowd goes wild!"

Andrew threw his head back and laughed, even raised up one hand to wave at the invisible crowd of spectators cheering his game-winning pitch. He was so into the illusion that he almost thought he could hear them chant his name. If that had been where the playful joking ended, then Andrew would have gone on happily living this life, but as the boy readied himself for his father's pitch, the man added one more comment in that announcer voice just as he threw the ball that made the boy stop cold.

"That's right ladies and gentlemen," the man said in his pretend over-the-top voice as he readied his pitch. "This hot young rookie can not be stopped!"

Rookie. His mind seized on this word like it was the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.

Rookie. Yellow. She calls me rookie. He had spent all of breakfast and most of the walk up here trying to shove those thoughts out of his head. He didn't like trying to remember these things, and he didn't like the feeling of confusion and desperation when the words wouldn't come. Andrew had thought he was successful in putting those thoughts out of his head, but now he saw that all he had really done was wall them up. Now that one word had caused to wall to collapse.

It was a joke at first, he thought, a joke at my expense, but then I think it changed. I think it became something more like a… a term of endearment.

Who called him 'rookie'? The yellow, of course. Who was the yellow? He didn't know this yet, but it was closer, that much he knew for sure. If he could just dig a little deeper, then maybe-

"Andrew!"

His father's cry snapped the boy out of his daze. Robert would never be a major league pitcher, but the man still had quite the arm on him, and always had good aim. Andrew didn't see his father throw his fastball until it was too late. The boy only had time to turn his head to one side to save his nose as a ball made of cork and rubber traveling at nearly sixty miles-per-hour connected with the boy's cheek, sending him sprawling to the ground.

"Oh shit," he heard his father cry out; surprising since the man rarely swore, as the man raced over to his son's side. "Are you okay? Oh god, lemme look."

Andrew sat up, holding one hand over the cheek where he was hit.

"It's okay, I'm fine." When Andrew spoke, he was only spouting off the same song and dance that everyone did after they had done something stupid and then got hurt because of it. His response had come out automatic, but he realized... it was true. As impossible as it was, he honestly felt fine.

Andrew stood up, his father reached out to steady him, but the boy waved him away. He pressed down on his left cheek, waiting to feel something; some sort of pain or swelling, maybe even find that his cheek bone had been shattered, but there was no pain. Nothing at all.

That feeling of 'wrongness' suddenly fell over the boy once again, only now it was stronger then ever. This wasn't right and he knew it. You weren't hit with anything that hard and traveling that fast and come out unharmed, especially in the face. Yet he had. His head began to swim with thousands of half-formed thoughts and ideas. Now he felt dizzy.

An oak tree standing several feet away caught his eye, and without even thinking about it, Andrew started to walk towards it. He kept his mind blank, trying to think of nothing. If he was really going to do what he believed he was going to do, it was best not to think about it; not because he might chicken out, but because he honestly felt that thinking out it would somehow... change the results. It sounded crazy, but at the same time it also seemed true. If he thought something was going to hurt, it would hurt, but if he didn't…

From behind him Andrew's father began to call his name, asking him where he was going and what he thought he was doing. The man sounded sincere at first, even a little scared, but when his son neither slowed nor even acknowledged him that tone chanced. It became darker, angrier, and maybe even a little fearful; the way some people get when you're about to stumble upon their dirty secrets. He called out again.

Not wanting to be stopped, Andrew changed from a walk to a run. He needed to do this; something in his mind just told him that if he did then everything would make sense. It was insanity, it had to be. No normal person would do what he was about to; especially not expecting what he was, but something his brain told him this needed to be done. He had to remember.

Racing at the tree full charge, hearing his father trying to catch up from behind, Andrew stripped off his glove, balled his right hand into a fisted, pulled it back, and then punched the trunk of the oak tree with all of his might.

When it ended and he allowed his mind to think again, he expected many things: searing pain, pouring blood, maybe even several broken fingers. What he got when he pulled his hand away to inspect the damage... was nothing. No broken bones, no blood, not even a scratch. He was fine.

Alarm bells started to go off in his head. They told him what he already suspected; something was wrong with this, with everything, but now they added something new; he might also be in danger, and when he turned around and saw the expression on the face of the man who stood behind him, Andrew knew these things to be true.

"Why can't I feel it?" Andrew said as he raised his uninjured right hand, which by all accounts should have been a bloody, mangled mess. "Why can't I feel anything?"

That was when he noticed something that made his stomach sink: they were alone here, and they had been all day. It was a warm, beautiful Saturday, and yet the park was completely empty. No children played on the swings, no joggers ran along the path, there wasn't even the sounds of a car driving past the park. They were completely by themselves here. They had been here for hours and yet he had not seen a single soul.

Yet even this was not entirely correct. Andrew thought that it had been hours since he got up that morning, but now that he thought about it, really thought about it, even this felt wrong. He could remember starting to eat breakfast, but not finishing it. Andrew didn't even recall going up to his room to get his ball and glove. One second he was eating and the next... they were walking towards the park; a fifteen minute walk that they made in a few short seconds. Time was jumping around and his brain was just filling in the things that did not happen almost like...

"A dream," Andrew said as he started to realize what was going on. He didn't understand it, but it was coming to him now slowly but surely. "This isn't real. This is the dream. Everything else; that was the real part. But I can't remember it. Why can't I remember it? What did you do to me?"

"You're not well, Andrew," the man said as he started to slowly walk towards the boy. "Everything's okay, son-"

"Don't call me that," Andrew shrieked as he stumbled backwards, wanting to keep the distance between them. "I'm not your son! You're not my father! My dad is... he's... he's..."

Andrew held his head in his hands, looking like someone with the mother of all migraines. He felt no such pain, of course, but there was confusion. The word was right there, right on the tip of his tongue. He could feel it, but there was something blocking it, blocking all of his memories. It really was like a wall, trying to keep his memories locked up, because they were dangerous. Not to him, but to everything else. Because if he could remember, if he could just recall that one vital thing.

Yellow. Everything is yellow. The sun is yellow, eggs are yellow, she is yellow. She calls me rookie, but she's not being mean. Yellow is good, but red is bad. Have to look out for the red. The skies are red. Everything is red. Everything is bleeding. Everything is red. Your father is red. Red, lead, fed, said, bed. Everything is red and your father is-

"Dead," Andrew whispered, and the thing that wore Robert's face jerks back as if struck. "You're not my father. He's... dead." A low moan escaped the boy's lips that the realization.

The face of the man standing before him darkened and twisted into an expression of anger and hate that Andrew had never seen before, but it confirmed what Andrew already knew for sure; this thing is not his father. He would never be capable of looking like that.

"You little shit," he said, vomiting out the words. "You worthless pile of puke. I offered you everything you ever wanted, and dare to spit upon it." The man who was not his father began to advance towards him. "I gave you a way out. Your every dream granted, your every wish fulfilled and all you had to do was accept it."

Andrew turned to run. He had to flee, he had to get away from the beast that wore his father's face, but no sooner did he turn around did he see the man was standing directly in front of him again, eyes boring into him.

"But you wouldn't," the man cried as he brought up his right hand and struck Andrew across the face hard enough to send him sprawling to the ground. This time, the blow did hurt. "You could have died in peace. You could have just been happy and stayed out of my way."

The floodgates holding back Andrew's memories opened as he lay on the ground and his mind filled with all of the places, events, and people he had forgotten. Now that he knew this wasn't real, there wasn't any reason to keep fooling him, it seemed. Whatever power that had kept his mind at bay broke.

He could remember it now: running from the Bakemon, throwing open the church door, then some kind of invisible force striking him in the chest. He's knocked out and then wakes up here.

"Renamon, and LadyDevimon. Where are they, what have you done to them?" Andrew cried as he pushed himself to his feet, trying to ignore the stinging pain stabbing through the side of his face, or the taste of blood in his mouth.

Andrew's Not-Father smiled at this, his grin cruel. "They're dead."

"No. No, you're lying!" he screamed in reply, challenging both the monster and his words with a bold step forward, but neither Andrew's loud voice or threatening stance deterred the imposter.

"They were killed trying to protect you," it mocked. "So, in a way, you killed them. Your only friends in your entire pathetic life and you killed them."

Andrew watched with growing horror as blood began to pour from his Not-Father's head. The left side of his skull suddenly caved in sending splatters of gore and brains flying in all directions. His neck snaps to an unnatural position with an audible pop. His ribcage collapsed inside of his chest, and one arm snapped in seven different places with sickening sounds. The skin on the left side of his body looked to Andrew like raw hamburger.

It was a closed casket at Robert Roth's funeral. Andrew never saw the body, but he once wondered how terrible it must have been for those that did. He had sometimes imagined (always against his will) what he might have looked like. What stood before him now, bloody and mangled and raw, was the embodiment of his deepest, darkest suspensions and nightmares.

"It's it funny how everyone you love ends up leaving you?" The monster cooed in a voice that longer even sounded like his father. It sounded more like gravel and rot. "You've lost. Everyone is dead and you killed them. You were too weak. Too slow. You're no DigiDestined and never were."

The sound of wailing cries hit Andrew's ears. The boy turns his head away from one monstrosity and towards another. He sees his mother walking towards him. She was weeping. Her hair hung wild and unkempt around her head and her makeup ran down her face in great streams.

"Why did you leave me?" she accused. "Why did you just go away? Look at what you made me do to myself!" The woman raised her hands palms out to the boy as if in surrender. There were two deep cuts along her wrists that went all the way down to the bone with crimson blood pouring out of them in what seemed like an endless steam, staining her clothes and wilting the grass it spilled upon. His mother screamed: "Look at what you made me do!"

The boy noticed how dark the day suddenly has become, and despite the horrors closing in around him he allowed his stunned eyes to look upwards at the sky. The beauty and warmth of that day are long gone. Black storm clouds had rolled in blocking out every last bit of light. Above him, a red scar began to open in the heaves and in a few moments he knows it will begin to bleed its thick, black rain; the one that would signal the storm to end all storms.

Andrew opened his mouth and screamed.

To be continued.