Chapter Two
Devil in the Doorway
"Let them hate so long as they fear." -Lucius Accius
Max shot out of bed, sprinting down the hall to the small bathroom across from his parent's bedroom. The sound of the door slamming would probably piss Jim off but he was so overwhelmed with nausea he couldn't care less.
With his head leaning over the toilet he gagged violently and the remains of what little food he had eaten the previous day emptied into the porcelain bowl. His eyes burned and hot tears threatened to spill down his face; his sides ached from the convulsions and his stomach shuddered several times, acid burning his throat. The vomiting soon ceased and all that was left were the painful dry heaves. He felt the waves of nausea start to fade and once he was positive his torment had ended, he spit the bile from his mouth and wiped at his reddened eyes. He knocked the toilet seat over and weakly pulled the handle down, flushing its contents and let his body slowly slide down onto the cold floor. The cool tile felt wonderful against his scorching forehead; he continued to lie there, practically hugging the toilet until he heard the clicking of a doorknob.
Whoever opened the door didn't bother to come in. Max could only guess who it was and after a beat or two, he lifted his head to find Jim Miller standing in the doorway. His father made no motion to help him, nor did Max try to get up off the floor. A strange ringing filled the cramped room and the lights buzzed loudly as Max and his father to stare in the direction of the other but never actually made eye contact. After several very awkward seconds, it was Jim that decided to shatter the silence with the clearing of his throat.
"You done then?" he asked. There was no pity in his eyes as he spoke.
Max opened his mouth to answer but the only sound that came out was a set of barking coughs. Jim raised an eyebrow and waited impatiently for him to finish. Max swallowed the bile rising in his throat and mumbled a small yes, licking at his cracked lips. Jim nodded his head but didn't offer any verbal response. Max sighed and waited for his father to speak up, knowing full well that he would receive nothing more than some half-ass remark or criticism. After what had to be several minutes, Jim cleared his throat again and shuffled his feet uncomfortably.
"So, um...you, uh, didn't get any of it on the floor right?"
Max snorted in disbelief and simply nodded; he wasn't willing to actually verbalize a comeback. His dad made a face and narrowed his eyes.
"Good, because your mother didn't want to get out of bed and clean up your mess again. I didn't feel like dragging my ass out here either, but she figured you might've been pretty sick seeing as you managed to make as much of a racket as possible. But I can see you're fine now, so…" he trailed off.
Max couldn't keep himself from snapping at his father as anger boiled to the surface. He could hear the pounding in his head and the ringing from the lights seemed to grow even louder. He pushed himself off the floor as much as he could and supported his weight by leaning on the bathroom wall.
"Yeah…thanks, Dad. Really, I appreciate you 'dragging you ass out here' to make sure I wasn't dying or blowing chunks all over your precious floor" he retorted sarcastically. Jim stilled and his expression darkened.
"Don't you speak to me like that boy" Jim snarled, his knuckles cracking noisily.
Max knew he was in trouble now, but he couldn't seem to stop what came out of his mouth next.
"What? You gonna hit me now?" Max said darkly, rage sweeping him off his feet. "Go ahead you miserable son of a bitch. Take your best shot. In fact, why don't you go give Uncle Roger a call, have him come over and join in on the fun?" His head ached and the buzzing in his ears grew so loud it was almost painful. The lights flickered briefly before returning to their annoyingly bright selves.
Jim paused only to throw an irritated look at the fixture before turning his attention back the young man who was now shaking with rage, his pale blue eyes nearly blazing. The older man was so angry he was ready to crack the boy's skull open. Max's defiance was something Jim hadn't expected considering he had just beaten the shit out of the kid mere days ago. His suspicions were at last confirmed. His son was a hotheaded, suicidal delinquent.
Jim took a step towards Max, planning to beat his son until he was on the ground begging for mercy. Knowing where to strike first, he raised his fist, only to hear a loud shattering behind him. A searing pain in his hand caused him to yelp in surprise and warm blood slowly seeped from numerous small but deep cuts in his knuckles.
"The hell…?" Jim growled, unsure of what just happened. He knew light bulbs eventually ran out of juice, but he was pretty damn sure he had never seen a bulb literally 'blow out.'
He pulled the small pieces of glass from his hand and let them fall to the floor, clinking as they hit the tile. He brought his bloodied knuckles to his mouth and sucked on them to try and stop the bleeding, which had quickened considerably since wrenching the shards from his wounds. Blood trickled down his arm and Jim hissed as the tiny cuts stung painfully. He flexed them to make sure they could still bend properly and reached to twist the sink handle, avoiding the small splinters of glass littering the counter. The cold running water rinsed the blood from his skin into the sink, relief spreading through Jim's numbing fingers.
He turned the faucet off, flicking the droplets of water off his hands and turned to Max again, who had slithered down the wall back onto the floor. His son had a strange look on his face and beaded perspiration covered his pale forehead. The exploding light bulb pushed from his mind, Jim smirked, knowing full well what the boy had coming to him. Max knew it too. A tiny sadistic smile touched upon his father's lips and Jim turned and walked out the bathroom, leaving a wide-eyed, fearful Max on the ground to await his return.
The broken glass cleaned up and the realization of what had just transpired having settled in, Max trudged down the hall to his room. Jim had left for work so he knew it was safe to take his time; he didn't have to dart across the upstairs like burning coal was under his feet.
He reached the door to his bedroom; it was still as dark and gloomy as he had left it less than a half hour ago and there was an oppressiveness to it that made it hard to breathe. Max strode to the window and ripped the curtains back, letting the gloominess of the rain match the way he felt. A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he looked down to see his step-mother walking out to get the newspaper. Her bright blonde hair whipped around her face as the wind picked up and her dark blue bathrobe billowed around her. He shuddered as he realized why his step-mom's hair left him feeling so anxious. That dream…it had been so terrifying, and yet so incredibly real.
A shudder ran through him and he gripped the windowsill for support; he forced his eyes shut and two yellow orbs appeared in front of his eyes and burned into his sockets. A wave of horror crashed through him and he snapped his eyes back open. He ran his clammy hands through his hair and backed away form the window, rubbing at his aching temples. Much to his misery his headache has returned, this time with a vengeance. The center of his forehead and his temples throbbed painfully.
He tried to forget the images he had seen last night. He tried to forget the feeling of dread that spread through his body when the creature's hand caressed his face, and the horrible pain that followed and penetrated his body. And most of all, he tried to forget his mothers eyes boring into his own.
A shiver ran through him and he realized how uncomfortable he was and he attempted to take his damp shirt off. He reached too fast and a dull ache from his time spent in the bathroom pulled at his sides. He waited for more pain from the damage done to his abdomen, but to his surprise, none came. He looked down to examine his bruises and see if they had healed any. Just wearing a cotton t-shirt had been his own private agony; throwing up was guaranteed to do nothing except cause more damage.
He wiped the sweat from his face and felt his lower ribcage, where Jim had been kind enough to flat out kick him. There should have been nothing but tenderness there and instead, he felt nothing. Confused, Max lightly pressed his fingers into his side and still, there was nothing.
He ran to the mirror on his dresser and gaped in shock at snow white, unscathed flesh. Where there had been an ocean of yellow, green and purple, there was nothing.
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