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Searching For My Shadow – Part V
His footfalls became increasing faster and faster, accelerating to a quick sprint down the street. For a rare moment, Dr. Crane didn't care what the other people on the street were thinking about his behaviour. He was past caring about such insignificant things, which he had tried so hard to make them seem more significant than the troubles in his heart.
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Jonathan Crane was 13 years old. It had been 13 years of darkness, but today was different. Today, he was confident; infinitely sure of what he was going to do. Today, he knew he would be going to taste something he'd never tried before: revenge.
There was a bladder of gas hidden in the sleeve of his sweater. It was all he would need, or so he thought.
It was after school. He knew their haunts, where they thought they could waylay him in the dark. Not anymore. He walked calmly behind one of them. In the dark, all is hidden. They were all too busy roughing up another kid. He raised his hand, finger poised over the crucial button, ready to attack.
Suddenly someone grabbed his arm from behind. He pushed the button, releasing the gas in his face. Coughing, choking, a cloud of dust before his eyes...
Please! I don't want to remember!
He falls back against the wall with a cry, arms over his head, as if to ward off an unseen attacker. The other youngsters crowded around him, curious. Jonathan had started to sob, gasping...
He sees his life being played in front of him, like a tape rewinding. Flickers of the past, bringing him closer to the present. He hears his ears ringing and he knows he is again in that bathtub, with his mother standing over him, his sister lying close at his side. Julien's eyes, staring blankly at him, coming closer toward him, the distance between them narrowing by degrees. He feels cornered, and tries to escape, but crashes into a torso that morphs into fists. Shadows tower above him, leaving the entire place in darkness, and he experiences the beatings all over again. His face is contorted by pain, he hears the voices in the background chanting, "Scarecrow...scarecrow...scarecrow..."
His body was curled into a foetal position, arms still covering his head, whimpering. Fearing that he was having a fit, the bullies didn't dare to touch him.
One of them was about to approach Jonathan, "So little Jonny really conked off, huh?" The gang leader stopped him, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder, "Hey. Don't. If he's dead or anything, we'll really get into trouble." He didn't dare to step beyond what was accepted as the boundaries of bullying. The teachers didn't bother if a kid was roughed about a bit, but if it was too drastic...
He received a kick in the rear, but was barely aware of it; much less think clearly enough to retaliate. The youngsters left, afraid to be held responsible for anything that happened to the boy. Jonathan was left alone in the shadows, fear overpowering his mind and body...
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Dr. Crane stumbled. Mumbling a careless apology to the person he had knocked into, he stopped short, leaning heavily against the wall, his breathing ragged. He passed a hand over his eyes, counted silently to ten and forced his breathing to slow down. In and out, in and out, he hears himself inhaling and exhaling, the rhythms of life that he had wanted to deny long ago. He managed to return home, a false sense of calm camouflaging the waves of emotion that hit the shores again and again and again.
He should never have followed the boy into the apartment. Now, the dreams would return to torment him. But it's not like you don't have those dreams every other day, his inner self argues. He fell onto the sofa, the weariness creeping through his blood, working its way deep into his bones. His eyelids started to droop, succumbing to sleep before he could even stage any protest.
You're always so careless, Julianne Crane, he scolds.
She winces as he washes the abrasion with antiseptic solution and retorts, indignantly, Don't call me that!
Maybe if I start calling you that, you'll finally start behaving like a girl. Not running around with the boys and getting hurt so often...
She stares at him kneeling before her, shaking his head as he cleans the wound. It's as if someone had reached up to her and squeezed her heart. She rests her cheek against his head, lips brushing against his hair.
He stiffens at the touch, but reassures himself that it is only his sister. Nevertheless, it is he who breaks the contact by moving away. There, he says, you're all set.
She puts her arms around him, holding him tight, as though any time the wind would whisk him away from her. He contemplates, and returns the embrace.
But now, even in his dreams, he knows that this is impossible. It is merely the voice of a ghost he hears and the arms of a ghost he feels around his neck.
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Raphael became even more determined after he pondered over what the doctor had said. It's impossible. This concentration that works on mice may not have the same effect on humans. He was ready to make the impossible possible.
He decided to increase the usual concentration by ten times, smiling to himself as he ground the flowers into dust. He had done this so many times before that he could even repeat the procedure blindfolded. Pouring the solvent and the powder into the flask, he swirled it around slowly and set it on the heating plate. He switched it on and waited.
The flask exploded.
To be continued...