watched them go, the pain in his stomach mixed with the pain in his heart. He let the blood drip into his eye, reveling in the sting. Ferrell wanted to be hot stuff and get in Serah's pants with his sports injuries? Caleb could do the same. But he didn't want to use her body like the other athletes. They traded the girls lined up to please them and took them any way they wanted. It was their right they said. Caleb didn't think so. He wanted to love only one–Serah–and make her love him back. He wanted it to be special, not like the grunting animal sex he'd hear late in the night. His mother was always silent, as if an unwilling accomplice to his father's rhythmic thumping and feral groans. It drove Caleb to stuff his head under a pillow and try to forget about his own aching sexual desires.
He pushed those ugly thoughts away and thought of the nice bruises he'd be sure to have tomorrow. He'd see Serah at school then. Maybe get a second chance. He hoped she'd see him hurt and take pity. He grew hard thinking about taking Serah, soft and naked beneath him but forced his hardness away, angry at his urges. He didn't desire her for just that. He hoped Ferrell didn't get far with her tonight.
The mist turned to rain. He shivered now, his sweat cooled. He walked slowly down the wooded path toward home. Murkiness enveloped him under the gray sky that held a dying sun. Ever since their world grew darker Caleb felt the blackness seeping into people's souls. They were angry and full of despair. It permeated everything, and now hung thick and suffocating around him.
He moved off the path toward his hideaway and looked around. Alone. As usual. He pulled branches away then climbed down into the dried-up well he had found years ago. It was flush with the ground and easy to disguise. Shadowy depth welcomed him. It's where he went to think, and daydream, and write. He kept it covered because it was the only thing that was all his. Here he could escape the overwhelming sensory world around him and his own violent sexual desires. He would never be like his father.
The only thing that marred his secret world was the images that flashed in his mind when he touched the rock walls. They held memories of a boy who had stood in this well, back when it had been filled with water. It covered the boy to his waist. His face still haunted Caleb: looking up to the sky with terror, hoping for freedom. In the moonlight the boy's face, framed in short white hair glowed against the dark of the well. In some visions the boy cried softly. In some he pulled at the chain bound to his wrist shouting "Father!" over and over. His voice was flat and echoless. Oddly, Caleb always heard these words in his own voice.
Caleb would then pull his fingers away from the cold stone wanting to shut out the visions. It was his well now. He didn't want to think of the sad boy imprisoned here long ago. Who was he? And what kind of father would do such a terrible thing to his son? He couldn't believe that even his own austere father would do that.
He sat at the bottom, his eyes adjusting to the dark, trying to forget about the boy. He wanted to think of Serah. He pulled his shirt back on, took out his pen and paper, and wrote so hard he broke through the page more than once. He could barely see the paper in the dim light, but it didn't matter. When the rain stopped his tears wet his words. His rage faded. His poem for Serah may never be read by her, but he could hope. He leaned back on his bag, hands behind his head, and watched the mist blow over his cave. He was cocooned deep in the earth, comforted by rock and silence.
The sky boiled with black clouds, and he knew he had to get home or his mother would worry. He covered the well again and trudged back down the path. He felt better already. The candlelit window ahead called to him. His mom said she loved the yellow glow over real lights, as it reminded her of the glorious sun that once made their world golden. It was her
He pushed those ugly thoughts away and thought of the nice bruises he'd be sure to have tomorrow. He'd see Serah at school then. Maybe get a second chance. He hoped she'd see him hurt and take pity. He grew hard thinking about taking Serah, soft and naked beneath him but forced his hardness away, angry at his urges. He didn't desire her for just that. He hoped Ferrell didn't get far with her tonight.
The mist turned to rain. He shivered now, his sweat cooled. He walked slowly down the wooded path toward home. Murkiness enveloped him under the gray sky that held a dying sun. Ever since their world grew darker Caleb felt the blackness seeping into people's souls. They were angry and full of despair. It permeated everything, and now hung thick and suffocating around him.
He moved off the path toward his hideaway and looked around. Alone. As usual. He pulled branches away then climbed down into the dried-up well he had found years ago. It was flush with the ground and easy to disguise. Shadowy depth welcomed him. It's where he went to think, and daydream, and write. He kept it covered because it was the only thing that was all his. Here he could escape the overwhelming sensory world around him and his own violent sexual desires. He would never be like his father.
The only thing that marred his secret world was the images that flashed in his mind when he touched the rock walls. They held memories of a boy who had stood in this well, back when it had been filled with water. It covered the boy to his waist. His face still haunted Caleb: looking up to the sky with terror, hoping for freedom. In the moonlight the boy's face, framed in short white hair glowed against the dark of the well. In some visions the boy cried softly. In some he pulled at the chain bound to his wrist shouting "Father!" over and over. His voice was flat and echoless. Oddly, Caleb always heard these words in his own voice.
Caleb would then pull his fingers away from the cold stone wanting to shut out the visions. It was his well now. He didn't want to think of the sad boy imprisoned here long ago. Who was he? And what kind of father would do such a terrible thing to his son? He couldn't believe that even his own austere father would do that.
He sat at the bottom, his eyes adjusting to the dark, trying to forget about the boy. He wanted to think of Serah. He pulled his shirt back on, took out his pen and paper, and wrote so hard he broke through the page more than once. He could barely see the paper in the dim light, but it didn't matter. When the rain stopped his tears wet his words. His rage faded. His poem for Serah may never be read by her, but he could hope. He leaned back on his bag, hands behind his head, and watched the mist blow over his cave. He was cocooned deep in the earth, comforted by rock and silence.
The sky boiled with black clouds, and he knew he had to get home or his mother would worry. He covered the well again and trudged back down the path. He felt better already. The candlelit window ahead called to him. His mom said she loved the yellow glow over real lights, as it reminded her of the glorious sun that once made their world golden. It was her
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