Today, however, was unusual—his mother could tell as soon as the door opened. It would have smashed against the wall had it not slammed against the rubber doorstop, and when it closed she could have sworn even the china in the upstairs rooms rattled. Putting down her accounting paperwork, she hurried to the entryway, where she found Taylor tearing at the laces on his sneakers, almost ripping them out in his hurry to get the shoes off his feet.
“What’s wrong, honey?” she asked, stopping in the doorway. There were few things her son liked less than being coddled when upset.
Taylor looked up and the hatred blazing in his almond eyes frightened her. She had seen him come home crying after being teased, but she had never seen him this angry before. Through his dark pupils, she could almost envision the fire welling up in his stomach, racing through his throat and threatening to erupt of his mouth like a backed-up faucet.
“Michael Starks,” he spat, and she could feel a wave of pure loathing emanate from his body.
She winced. Michael, one of the boys who had hit puberty early, was a football player and at least twice the size of her son. He had made it a daily ritual to torment Taylor about his thin stature and feminine features.
“What did he say this time?”
Taylor shook his head vehemently, as if trying to shake the memories out of his head, and threw his other shoe across the floor as he finally freed his left foot. “He said dad was crazy and everyone knows it. And he said you were a whore who just felt sorry for the town loony. He said it on the bus in front of everyone, and when I tried to say it wasn’t true, the words all came out of my mouth in the wrong order.”
“Oh, honey, it’s okay,” she said, stepping forward as he stood up, but he brushed past her outstretched arms.
“I’m going to do my homework.” And he stomped up the stairs, tattered backpack slung over one shoulder.
His mother sighed, watching the door slam behind him, before returning to the den to call the school and have a word with the principal.
* * *
Fuming, Taylor tossed his backpack in the corner of his room and collapsed in his rickety desk chair, which protested the rough treatment with a loud creak. He was in the middle of making a list of all the horrible things he’d do to Michael, if he only had the means or the courage, when his eye caught the small rosewood box on his desk. Some force inside him prompted his arm to reach out and push back the lid, revealing the three almost-identical golden pens that lay inside. He picked up the nearest one, feeling its smooth weight in his hand and running his fingers across the intricately-carved designs on its body. These pens had been his father’s once, and his mother had entrusted them to Taylor only weeks ago when he had found them in her desk while searching for a postage stamp. Without any conscious motivation, he pulled a blank white sheet of paper from his desk drawer and put the pen to it, watching the purest black ink he had ever seen flow effortlessly onto the page, glistening slightly before it sank into the paper.
He lost track of time as an elaborate drawing began to materialize, starting from the center of the page and spiraling outward. He had never drawn anything more than stick figures in his life, but now Taylor felt himself fall into the perfect ease of sheer creation. His eyes could see only the beautiful contrast of black on white, his fingers feel only the rhythm of manipulating lines and shapes.
When he finally let go of the pen, it was dark outside. The smell of pot roast and mashed potatoes drifted under his door, and he could hear his mother singing along to her favorite radio program, as she always did while washing dishes.
He blinked, squeezing his eyelids together to release the tension in his facial muscles, and looked down at the paper. The intensely realistic drawing he saw there made his stomach turn.
A figure, clearly Michael Starks, stood petrified in the middle of the page, eyes wide and fingers splayed flat on the brick wall behind him. Fallen trash cans and a high chain link fence lay in the background—it was a sight Taylor knew well, as the inner city near the school was littered with such alleys. The cause of Michael’s fear was unmistakable: surrounding the boy were all sorts of snarling animals. Wild dogs, feral cats, and even a rabid pack of rats stood around him in perfect detail, teeth bared and hackles raised, haunches tensed as if ready to pounce.
The picture was more than just disturbing. It was evil.
When his mother called him down for dinner, Taylor showed no signs of his earlier aggression. He took an empty soup bowl up to his room when they were done eating, and if she noticed, she didn’t think to ask why. A few minutes later, a thin trickle of smoke emerged from Taylor’s open window.
On the bus the next day, the other students’ chatter was louder than usual, but Taylor didn’t notice. Though the paper was burned, the image was still etched in his mind. He kept his eyes firmly planted on the passing scenery so he wouldn’t have to look at Michael Starks when he boarded the bus, and as soon as they stopped outside the school, he rushed off the vehicle without a second glance backward.
The classroom whispers hushed immediately as the teacher, Mrs. Larkin, came in. She had a strange look on her face, somewhere between incredulous awe and shocked sadness. She closed the door and sat down at her desk, starting none of her morning routine, and in fact giving no indication at all that she was going to begin teaching.
Half a minute later, a male voice came on over the room’s loudspeaker, booming around the abnormally silent room.
“Students, this is your principal speaking. I know many of you have heard rumors about what has happened, so I thought it best that you hear the truth from me. I am deeply saddened to have to inform you that one of your fellow classmates, Michael Starks, passed away this morning.”
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