Silent Warrior, Final Chapter

“Good morning to you…good morning to you…good morning, dear Alan…”

“G…g…good morning to you!”

“Alan, why are you so sad?”

“Why wouldn’t I be sad? This isn’t good morning. It’s fucking dark in here, Ally! I don’t see any sunshine! I don’t hear any cock-a-doodle-doos! Instead all I hear are screams. It could be another prisoner screaming in pain. It could be a guard screaming bullshit instructions. Or it could be me screaming ‘cause I’m constantly in fucking pain! Why, Ally? Why all the worms and maggots?”

“I’m a biologist. I deal with such creatures on a daily basis. I’m not going to just sacrifice my life’s work because you find earth’s critters disgusting. Everything in this world has its own special place. It could be a bat eating mosquitoes. It could be a pack of wolves hunting down deer. It could even be something as natural as a mother bird regurgitating worms into her babies’ beaks.”

“Cut the bullshit! You know how disgusting you really are! Scott had it right all along and I didn’t listen to him! He’s got more common sense than the two of us put together!”

“Don’t you talk to me that way, little boy! If I wasn’t a hallucination, I’d wash your chubby mouth out with soap! I left Scott George on his own for the same reason I left his father Carter. They rejected me, just like you’re rejecting me now. I tried to keep the peace between you and Scott. I even showed up at his trial to put in the best possible word for you. But you threw that all away when you tried to stab him in your cell. Now you’re in the darkest part of jail and you’ve no one to blame but yourself!”

“It should be Scott in this room, not me!”

“Then prove it, Alan! Scott became the man he is today because he fought for everything he believed in whether it was right or wrong. Now’s your time to fight. You may be under lock and key, but your war with Scott is far from over. As long as your mind continues to destroy you from the inside, you have all the reason in the world to fight. You don’t want these images and words, do you? Forget the worms and maggots for a minute. Your real enemy isn’t anything that can be found in the animal kingdom. It’s your own weakness!”

“Weakness? I’ve been beating ass since the day I was born and you have the gall to call me weak? What about all the crybabies on the playground who threw a fit because they couldn’t hang with me? What about all the teachers who care more about precious self-esteem than they do about the real world? Why aren’t you calling them weak?”

“Because they’re not weak, Alan. They have the kind of strength you could only dream of having: strength in numbers. You’re only one man trying to fight an entire world. But if Mr. Simpson has taught you anything, it’s to pick apart the army one soldier at a time. Mr. Simpson may have softened over this long exhausting semester, but that doesn’t mean you have to. I want you to take every ounce of your insanity and use it as a weapon. Fists alone have achieved nothing.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in solitary confinement! You even said yourself you’re a fucking hallucination! Who am I supposed to use this weapon on? There’s nobody here with me! Even the guards have tuned me out, for Christ’s sake!”

“You can’t stay in solitary confinement forever, Alan. Even the strictest prosecutors know this to be true. For what you did, you won’t even be in jail forever. You may be a destructive bastard, but you’ve never once murdered another human being. Implanting suicidal thoughts in someone else doesn’t count. I’m talking about the worst kind of murder there is. I’m talking about animalistic rage that can only be forged in darkness like this. Channel that rage and don’t let the world get away with locking you up like this!”

“…You want me to survive this place…by beating the shit out of everyone here? You want me to find my exit by pushing around people more powerful than me?”

“This isn’t the sandbox, Alan. This is jail. If you don’t stand up for yourself here, nobody else will. The guards aren’t here for your protection. They’re here to make sure you conform. They’re here to use you as a punching bag whenever they damn well feel like it. You’re not going to let that happen, are you?”

“…Never…I never wanted to be a part of society…I never wanted to follow anyone’s rules…Why should these assholes in uniform be any different? Is it because they have keys? Is it because they have so-called training? Is it because they’re tougher than me?! I don’t fucking think so!”

“Good! That’s what I want to hear from you! That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear from you since I married your father! Nobody pushes my baby around! And when I say baby, I’m not talking about that ungrateful snake Scott! I’m talking about by one true baby. The one I’ll forever cherish. The one I’ll forever spoil and love. Alan…this is your time. Don’t screw it up!”

Alan Young awoke in his solitary confinement cell with rough stubble on his chin, razor sharp hairs poking out of his bald head, and his heart beating a combination of fire and nitro glycerin. He breathed heavily like a wounded animal. He lusted for violence and aggression with bloodshot eyes. He smiled so hideously that he could smell his own sour breath.

Only a small patch of light illuminated the room through the barred window to the outside. Even though the sun was barely rising over the landscape, Alan still had lost track of how much time he spent cooped up in here. No clocks, no indication from the guards, only the occasional shitty meal which was inconsistent with the rest of the feedings.

Alan stood his clumsy body up and grabbed hold of the bars while staring out into the horizon. He held his stepmother’s words deep inside him until his very core was hot enough to melt away the last of his sanity. What once was a heart was now a heap of ashes. What once was a racing mind was now a zombie’s rage. The urge to kill had taken over his entire body. Just one taste of blood…anybody’s blood…

Surely another prisoner would satisfy his violent appetite just fine. He even believed some of the guards deserved a few undead thrashings. But the ultimate dessert at the end of this blood-soaked meal would be none other than Scott Marcus George. All Alan needed was one opening to strike. One tiny mistake made by another occupant of this hellhole. The rest would come as naturally as breathing.

“Scotty-Boy…I’m coming for you…and not even your marsh-dwelling girlfriend will be able to save your skinny ass this time!” Alan ranted as he shook the bars like a steroid-pumped professional wrestler. “I’m coming for you, motherfucker!”

THE END?

Silent Warrior, Chapter 23

“Mother…please forgive me…I just had to get out all my pain and suffering…remember I will always love you…I’m your…son….”

“That’s very sweet of you, Mr. George, but I’m not your mother,” said a nameless jail guard as his words jolted Scott awake.

The battered prisoner’s body ached and pulsated while his eyes stung as they adjusted to the florescent lights of an infirmary. He had patches and bandages all over his wounds and even had some cotton pressed against his gums, though his speech was clear enough to decipher. As soon as Scott’s eyes adjusted to the light, he stared up at the prison guard trying to get a good read of him. The bright lights gave him an angelic aura, but Scott knew this was far from heaven.

The guard reached up and pulled the wire out of the only camera in the room, thus making their interactions completely private. Scott’s body jittered at the thought of what might happen to him next. But when he gave a wide-eyed look at the guard, the latter said, “Doctor-patient privacy.” Scott’s confusion and anxiety grew even more rampant when the guard knocked on the door and said, “You can come in now, Dr. Archer.”

“Wait a minute, who’s Dr. Archer?” asked Scott in weak tone.

“Your girlfriend’s therapist,” answered the guard, who allowed a slender black lady in business attire to enter the room with a clipboard, a pen, and a sympathetic smile for her patient. “I’ll leave the two of you alone for a while.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the therapist. Once the guard vacated the room, she engaged Scott with a gentle handshake and a warm attitude. “My name is Dr. Simone Archer. Your girlfriend sent me here to see how you’re doing.”

“It’s amazing anybody cares about me at all,” said Scott with a saggy frown.

Simone took a seat on the edge of Scott’s bed and began taking notes on her clipboard. “Adrienne cares a lot about you, Mr. George. This isn’t just some one-time fling for her. She’s committed to your happiness. She hopes you feel the same way about her. Do you, Scott?”

Scott closed his heavy eyelids and sighed, “I’ve never loved anybody that much in my life. Too bad it’s illegal.”

“Just because something is illegal, doesn’t mean it’s wrong, The reverse is true as well. The laws that are built on commonsense are the ones that mean the most to nonconformists such as yourself. But not everybody has the commonsense you do and that’s why you’re here, not because you did anything morally corrupt.”

Scott’s eyes slowly opened into pseudo-wideness when he said, “I’ve been waiting far too long for somebody to say that to me.”

“Adrienne told me of your struggles with your history teacher. And before you ask, she has granted me permission to divulge this information to you. Otherwise, I wouldn’t do it. Just like I won’t divulge anything you say to me in this session without your own permission. What happens in this room stays in this room. It was my idea for the guard to unplug the camera.”

Deep sighs and waves of relaxation washed over Scott’s exhausted and burdensome body. “As long as this conversation is private and I’m talking to someone who doesn’t think I have my head in my ass…there’s something I’ve wanted to get off my chest. I’ve told Adrienne about it, but not many other people.”

With clipboard and pen ready to go, Simone said, “I’m listening. Go ahead whenever you’re ready.”

Another deep relaxing sigh later, Scott said, “As you can tell from how fucking skinny I am…I’ve been having problems eating lately. It’s like…every time I take a bite of something, it’s covered in these slimy little worms. I know they’re not really there, but I can’t get my mind to shut the fuck up about it.” Tears welled up in his eyes and Simone gently patted his ankle. “I miss eating the good shit. I used to love eating steaks, cheeseburgers, pizza, Oreos…now all I can eat are worms and more worms. Everything around me is just a worm den.”

“And why do you suppose this is?”

Scott shrugged and said, “That’s what’s been giving me nightmares lately: I don’t know why. It’s like…every time I close my eyes, there she is again. This puppet teacher named Aloysius Striker. And then when I go to court, I find out she’s a living, breathing human being. She’s my bully’s step-mother. I don’t know what the hell any of this has to do with my worms. But every time the worms crawl around, her hideous face is always there to mock me.”

Simone allowed her new patient to shed a few silent tears before she patted his ankle again and said, “I want to try something with you, Scott. You seem to be in a relaxed state of mind, but I think you can go deeper than that. I want you to close your eyes for a moment. Breathe gently in and out. I want you to get to the root of these issues. The answer is locked up somewhere in there. You just have to be the one who unlocks it.”

“But…but…what if I find something that fucks me up?”

“Whatever you find locked up in there, it will no doubt be painful. You’re showing classic signs of PTSD. And as a coping mechanism, those who suffer from PTSD push their worst memories to a neutral corner of their brains. That may work in the short term, but now you’re at a point where it’s eating you up inside. I know you’re scared, Scott. But if you don’t’ confront your demons now, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Scott gave a sad flat tire noise and said, “However long that is.”

“Have you given up already, Scott? Even if you have, don’t you at least owe it to yourself to find the answers you’re looking for?”

Taking more deep breaths, Scott closed his eyes and said, “Okay, I’ll play ball with you. Let’s do this.”

Holding Scott’s hand in a soothing grip, Simone spoke to him in an ethereal new age voice in hopes of triggering a hypnotic effect. “Think back to your earliest memory of Mrs. Striker. When did this happen? Who is she to tell you what to think about? Why does her presence mean so much to you?”

Scott’s mind swirled with colors while his body sank deeper into his hospital bed. His arms went limp as did his legs. He could breathe deeply while ignoring the agony in his nearly broken torso. Any stress point in his body, he breathed into and dissolved the tension. No judgment. No condescension. Just Scott and his mind, one-on-one.

As he traveled through his imagination, he could feel himself getting smaller. His babyish voice echoed throughout the halls of what appeared to be another hospital room. He tensed up slightly when the worms flooded his imagination, but he brushed them away like mere annoyances since they blocked the path to his answers. And then he felt a motherly pair of hands cradling him and soothing his baby screams. A woman gently sang to him, “Good morning to you. Good morning to you. Good morning, dear Scotty. Good morning to you!”

Scott sat up in his bed and triggered the pain in his stomach, his heart and brain beating at a blistering speed. Adrenaline poured through his system as tears flooded from his eyes. When Simone asked him what he saw, he caught his breath long enough to say, “Aloysius is my mother!...That fucking bitch is my mother!” Scott plopped backwards in his bed and allowed the tears to burst over his face. “That’s not possible. How could my dad marry a woman like that? Damn you, Dad!”

Simone pulled a handkerchief from her suit pocket and wiped the wetness from her patient’s face. But alas, not even the best janitors in the world had that kind of cleaning power. The tears kept coming and so did the snot. Simone held the rag to his nose and allowed him to blow his nose until his sinuses were dry. She tossed the rag in the garbage can, but the tears kept coming.

“Listen to me, Scott. Your past doesn’t define you. I know that sounds cliché, but quite frankly it doesn’t get said enough. This woman obviously had a tremendous effect on your psyche. But she’s neither here nor there. She has no control over your life anymore. She made the decision to leave you and mother your nemesis. That’s all on her. As far as you go, Scott, you must now use this story as a launching pad for your future, not as a barricade. Be the change you want in this world.”

Wiping his tears away with the back of his hand, Scott wept, “Future? What future? I’m in prison, for god’s sake! There’s no such thing as a future in prison!”

Taking Scott’s hand in hers yet again, Simone looked deep into his dewy eyes and confessed, “I wanted to wait to tell you this until you’ve calmed down a bit. But I can see you need to know it now. It’s the only thing that can convince you to stay strong and push for a better day. You see, Scott…your principal Miss Williams set up a Go Fund Me page to get you out of jail…she met her goal. Your bail’s been paid. It’s all a matter of waiting for the paperwork to go through. Scott…you’re free!”

That news should have brought a permanent smile to Scott’s face, but instead more tears poured from his bright red pupils. “I don’t deserve this….I didn’t do anything to earn this…this is some Deus Ex Machina shit right here!”

“You’re wrong, Scott,” said Simone. “While it’s true you’ve made a few enemies during your high school years, you’ve also inspired many. The parents of Perkins High paid close attention to what happened to you. They were shocked not at your actions, but at your results. They looked at you and asked themselves…What if that was my child in the defendant’s chair? This is your story now, Scott. While you didn’t come up with the money yourself, you win this war by virtue of your survival. The world needs to hear what you have to say. They need your individuality. They need your strength. They need your empathy. That’s why you’re free from prison. And yes, you do deserve your freedom and so much more.”

After a while of letting his new therapist’s words hang in the air, Scott hugged her tightly without caring how awkward it would seem. He soaked the shoulder of her business suit in tears, but Simone didn’t mind at all. In fact, she returned the hug and allowed him this moment of newfound happiness. Scott knew he still had a long road ahead of him in terms of recovery, but this was a huge first step. “Thank you, Dr. Archer. Thank you!” he said softly.

“Please, call me Simone. You have my permission. This isn’t school, my friend. This is just you and me.” As soon as the embrace ended, she said, “Speaking of school, you have finals to prepare for, including a US history test, though Mr. Simpson has been replaced by someone else. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Wiping away the last of his ocular fluids, Scott nodded and said, “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life!”

Silent Warrior, Chapter 20

With the sun’s gentle rays caressing their skins and the ocean’s waves to lull them into comfort, Scott and Adrienne strolled along the beach together hand in hand without a care in the world. Scott’s tan cargo shorts clung to his hips like he actually had the body of an athlete. Adrienne’s purple bikini revealed her best physical features, though none could match the beauty of her smile as she pecked her boyfriend on the cheek.

Somewhere in one of the straw huts, a portable stereo played the underrated Sting classic “When We Dance”. And by god, the couple was going to do just that. Scott spun his girlfriend around and leaned her backwards while she lifted one of her gorgeous bare feet in the air. The two lovers shared another kiss together, this one much longer and more passionate than the first.

The two hugged each other and slow-danced to Sting’s lyrics. When Adrienne asked him why his face grew serious all of the sudden, Scott said, “Can we never leave this beach? Do we have to go back to Perkins City?”

“Trust me, babe, I’d love nothing more than to spend forever with you on this beach. We have everything we’ll ever need here: good food, gentle waves, and enough sunshine to keep us warm until the end of time,” said Adrienne in a seductive voice. Her face also grew serious when she finished her sentiment with, “Unfortunately, we have to go back soon. Vacations are only temporary as we both know from going to school all the time. It seems like time is just flying by and we can’t catch up with it.”

Scott embraced his girlfriend tightly and begged, “No, I’m not going back! Please don’t make me go back. I fucking hate that place. It’s like a reverse fucking Disneyland!”

Adrienne pushed him to a close distance and said, “I know, Scott. Trust me, I know. If I go back to Perkins City, my dad is just going to make my life a living hell, just like he did yours. Reality sucks, but that’s what life is.”

“I don’t want this life anymore,” confessed Scott. “I’ve waited all this time to be free and I’m not going to just have it snatched up from underneath me.”

“But then who’s going to pay the bills, honey? What will we do for money? This beach isn’t paying our rent. It’s just an escape from our responsibilities. Whether we like it or not, we’re part of a community.”

“No, don’t say that word! Don’t say the C-word!” snapped Scott as he dropped to his knees and covered his ears. “Don’t say that fucking word! I hate that word! Oh god, oh god, oh god, I hate that word!”

“Scott, please! You’re scaring me! I didn’t mean to trigger you!” said a frightened Adrienne as he gently rested her palm on her boyfriend’s shoulder. The minute Scott’s tears splashed on the soft sand, she hugged him around the head and comforted him with, “I’m sorry. I’ll never say that word again. We can stay here if you’d like. It’s not like this island is in short supply of jobs or anything like that.”

“Jobs?” wept Scott. “Who’s going to hire me? What boss in his right mind wants to hire a guy who falls to pieces after every little thing?”

Placing both hands on her boyfriend’s shoulders and giving him a stern look, Adrienne said, “You have to take responsibility to wake up from your nightmares. You can’t live this way forever, my dear. I can only do so much for you. Now it’s your turn to fight back against the world. You can’t let these people beat you so easily. Fight for me, Scott. Fight for us. Fight for our child!”

The two of them stood up slowly together and Scott’s watery eyes were now staring lovingly into his girlfriend’s sweet face. “You’re right, babe. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry I acted the way I did. Can you do me one last favor before we leave here? Kiss me. Kiss me as hard as you can. If I’m going to fight for what’s right, then I’m going to need all the strength I can get.”

“Of course I’ll kiss you, silly. Come here.” Just as promised, the two of them locked lips and swirled their tongues in each other’s mouths. Adrienne’s lips became much more aggressive as Scott held her closer.

Scott closed his eyes and enjoyed the passionate kiss…until he felt some strange presences crawling around on his tongue. He forcefully pulled away and his eyes shot open in horror at the face he was now gazing into. The visage of Aloysius Striker sang her operatic “Good Morning” song while Scott desperately spit out worm after worm, maggot after maggot. He stuck his index finger in his mouth and barfed the last of the worms onto the sand below, turning his body nearly inside out from the deadly force.

“Good morning to you! Good morning to you! Good morning, dear Scotty! Good morning to you!” Mrs. Striker’s voice became progressively deeper and more demonic as she sang her whimsical tune. Her teeth looked more dangerous than those of a great white shark. Her evilly-slanted eyes glowed with orange neon. The worms in the back of her throat slithered down her jaw and all Scott could do about it was scream his head off.

“Order! Order in the courtroom!” commanded the judge as he smashed his gavel and awakened Scott from his nightmare. Drenched in sweat and still wearing his hospital scrubs, he found himself back in the defendant’s chair with his lawyer by his side. Scott’s breathing grew deeper and deeper while his lawyer tried to calm him down with shoulder pats.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” asked the judge.

“We have, your honor,” said the lead juror. Scott’s hazy vision was now laser focused as his heart beat quickly and adrenaline flooded his nervous system. Even though his “vacation” with Adrienne was only temporary, he had to take that lesson to heart: fight for what you believe in. Fight for what’s right. Never give up. This internal monologue steeled his raw nerves to where he could focus on the verdict. No matter what the jury decided, this fight wouldn’t be over by a long shot and Scott showed that with his eyebrows furrowed.

“In the case of The People vs. Scott George, on one count statutory rape, we find the defendant Mr. Scott George…guilty as charged.”

“No!” cried Adrienne from a far corner of the courtroom while the judge’s gavel banging restored order to a chaotic situation. No amount of mallet whacking could drain the tears from Adrienne Simpson’s eyes as she hugged her mother tightly.

“Bail set at five thousand dollars. Thank you, members of the jury. Bailiff, please take the defendant away. I’ll hand down his sentence soon enough. Case dismissed,” said the judge before banging the gavel one last time.

The bailiff grabbed Scott’s arm and brought him to his feet before cuffing his hands behind his back and pulling him away. The defendant’s eyes watered as his lawyer mouthed the words, “I’m sorry for everything.” Scott nodded at him as he was being half-dragged down the aisle.

“Scott!” shouted Adrienne as she rushed to the center, stopping the bailiff and his charge in their tracks. She placed a hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder and whisper-sobbed, “Promise me this isn’t over! Promise me you’ll fight through the pain!”

“I promise you, Adrienne. We will see each other again.” He tried to kiss her, but was immediately pulled away by the scruff of his neck. He never took his eyes off of his beautiful, yet sorrowful Adrienne Simpson, even when she turned away to hug her mother once more.

Before Scott could cross the threshold leading to the outside world, he distinctly heard his girlfriend shout, “I’m not a goddamn victim, you assholes!” The uncaring judge banged the gavel even louder in order to shut her up.

The one thing that raced through Scott’s mind as he was being hauled away into the police car was anxiety over whether or not he made a promise he couldn’t keep. Maybe the two of them would see each other again…in the next life. Maybe there could finally be justice in a political climate where there was none…in the next life. Maybe the world would finally pull its head out of its ass…in the next life.

Such a funny phrase for someone as atheistic as Scott George: the next life. He had only heard about its beauty through the Pop Evil song of the same name. Even without his trusty MP3 player, he could still hear Leigh Kakaty’s golden voice crooning that lovely rock tune to him. Scott was surprised that his mind was cooperative for a change instead of trying to force-feed him worms, or worse yet, the philosophy of a conformist community.

In many ways, the prison system was a “community” of its own. Everybody wore the same clothing. Everybody did the same activities. Ate the same disgusting food. Lived with the same disgusting people. Lived by the rules of the same disgusting prison guards. Lived under the thumb of a warden who could only be described as Aloysius Striker on steroids. And to think, that woman was actually a real person instead of a traumatic Floydian ghost.

That reminded Scott of something that brought out even more wormy feelings in his stomach: would he see Alan Young in prison too? What kind of person would he become after such a short time of captivity? Alan was already a nasty son of a bitch. What would he look like in an orange jumpsuit? Would he be covered in prison tattoos? Would he look twice as ugly as when he went in? Would he actually be good at fighting this time around? Scott somehow took solace in the idea that the other prisoners wouldn’t put up with his rotten attitude. But even that modicum of solace wasn’t enough to shut up the worms in Scott’s belly and brain. Where was a gavel when he needed one?

Silent Warrior, Chapter 18

“In the case of The People vs. Scott George, how does the defendant plead?”

“Not guilty, your honor.”

Every eyeball in that courtroom gazed upon Scott with judgment and scorn. Dressed in a suit and tie passed down from his father, Scott could feel their hatred radiating off of his soul. His defense lawyer said not guilty, but his mind said otherwise. His face was more readable than Mr. Simpson’s desecrated chalkboard and the message written on it over and over again. So this was what defiance was like, Scott thought to himself. This was what happened to anybody who dared to be more than mediocre and ordinary. He could feel his dreams being crushed like poison pills under the weight of this courtroom’s table knife. His face drooped with depression and self-loathing.

The judge banged his gavel and said, “We will now hear the opening arguments from both sides. Mr. Prosecutor, you have the floor.”

A lanky gentleman who towered over the rest of the courtroom personnel took the center stage and held his hands in front of him, eyeballing everyone with seething persecution. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he started. “The defense will have you believe that this is just a simple case of a vengeful teacher lording it over his pupils. But I now ask you, who is the vengeful one here? A man who gives out C-minuses like it’s Christmas or an even younger man who plays mind games of his own by having sex with that man’s daughter? That’s really all this is: mind games.

“And guess what? Judging from Miss Adrienne Simpson’s absence from this courtroom, I’d say those mind games are working. Don’t forget that she is the victim in all of this, not Mr. Scott George. She is the one who will live with this mistake for the rest of her life. Fifteen years old is not an age for losing one’s virginity. It is an age in which she should be exploring the world around her. It’s an age in which she learns from greater sources of wisdom than an 18-year-old boy posing as a grown man.

“Members of the jury, don’t let the defense minimize this incident as some kind of BS technicality. This is a serious offense Mr. George committed and he must pay for all of the damage he’s done. Thank you, your honor.”

As the prosecutor took his seat and straightened his tie, Scott absorbed his harsh words like a sponge soaking up toxic chemicals. His posture grew worse, his saggy face became less defined, and it wouldn’t be long before the floodgates underneath his eyes opened for the final time. Final seemed like an appropriate word to him, whether that meant getting stabbed in prison or doing the job himself. The not guilty plea sounded less and less genuine with every second that passed.

The defense lawyer, a stocky man who would measure up to his opponent’s chest easily, took his turn at center stage and engaged his audience with a stern tone. “And why shouldn’t I minimize it?” he asked. “Is it because the status quo needs to be satisfied? Is it because technicalities are more important to us than the real issues of today’s justice system? Let’s not forget the real reason Adrienne Simpson isn’t here today. It’s not Scott George she’s afraid to face. It’s her own father, the one who made this 9-1-1 call to begin with.

“This is HIS war. All is fair in love and war, right? No tactic is too underhanded. No victory is too minor. As a history teacher who specializes in the art of war, Mr. Simpson lives by these mantras. But let’s be honest: if Scott George was only seventeen years old and Adrienne Simpson was fourteen, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. What is Mr. George supposed to do: break up with her and then start their relationship over again once she’s of age?

I know that this argument gets thrown around a lot in legitimate rape cases and for the most part it’s a valid statement. So let’s keep that statement valid by giving Mr. George a fair shake. Save your judgment and vitriol for someone who truly deserves it. Thank you, your honor.”

Scott picked his head up and wiped the sadness out of his eyes, if only for a minute. His lawyer patted him on the shoulder and assured him it would be okay. Would Scott believe such a thing was possible? Would anything be okay ever again? Would the damage continue even after the not guilty plea became an undisputed reality?

“Mr. Prosecutor, you may call your first witness to the stand,” ordered the judge.

The skyscraper of a human being took center stage once more and said in a commanding voice, “I’d like to call Ms. Aloysius Striker to the stand, please.”

Scott mouthed the words, “What the fuck?” as the living presence of his most brutal nightmares skulked to the witness box. Sure enough, there she was: no puppet strings, no puppet body, no worms, yet she still gave Scott violent shivers throughout his system. He could feel the maggots swarming in his intestines like villagers running away from a fire-breathing titan.

“Ms. Striker, I’ll start off by asking how you’re related to the defendant,” said the prosecutor.

“I’m Alan Young’s step mother,” she said in a trembling sob. The maggots grew even more restless inside Scott’s bowels. He didn’t know whether to shit himself or projectile vomit across the room.

“And who is this Alan Young you speak of?”

“He knew Scott George ever since they were in elementary school together. My step-son never got the education he wanted and it was all because of Scott’s vindictiveness. Alan never stood a chance. He was always sent to the principal’s office over minor occurrences. Scott used the system to his advantage and made sure my baby boy suffered for as long as humanly possible.” She wiped a singular tear from her eye and asked, “How is my step-son supposed to learn anything when he’s being held down?”

Scott whispered the word, “Bullshit!” and his lawyer patted him on the back to calm him down.

The prosecutor leaned on the edge of the witness box and said, “So what you’re trying to tell the jury here is that Scott George is a powerful man. He has so much power that he can use it for anything he wants, whether it’s for good grades or for making sure those he deems unworthy feel his wrath.”

“Objection, your honor.”

“Overruled. Please, Mr. Prosecutor, continue.”

“Before I was so rudely interrupted, I was going to ask you, Ms. Striker: based on your interactions with the defendant as well as your step-son’s interactions, do you believe it’s possible for Mr. Scott George to be manipulative enough to take a young girl’s virginity out of spite?”

“Objection, your honor!”

The rest of this conversation became a cluster-fuck of gibberish to Scott as he paid more attention to what his intestinal worms were going on about. They slithered around like spitting cobras and hurled their venom about. Scott’s head felt like a balloon ready to pop. His mind was also crawling with these toxic worms. And cockroaches. And faceless cheerleaders who proudly proclaimed they wanted to, “Bring out the gimp!” Sweat drizzled down his forehead and into his eyeballs, which were already going blacker than the lungs of a coal miner, an appropriate analogy for someone who could barely breathe.

And then it happened. Scott George plopped onto the floor limp as a noodle. The cacophonic rage swirled around him some more as he overheard his lawyer shouting, “Get some paramedics! He needs help!” Scott believed no amount of medical attention could give him the help he needed. An oxygen mask was only a fashion accessory. An IV needle was more of a weapon than a bastard sword. The paramedics could flood the courtroom with all of the equipment they wanted, but he made no mistake about it: nobody was coming to save him.

If there really were maggots and worms in his system, they would cannibalize him and leave him on the side of the road as a gigantic turd. How appropriate considering he felt like the lowest form of human shit imaginable. He didn’t know whether the judge wanted to send him to prison or a bottomless toilet. Either way, the future was dead, just like the democracy Mr. Simpson always rallied against.

He could hear Adrienne’s voice in the back of his head comforting him with soft, unintelligible words. How he wished for the feel of her silky hands against his cold skin. Fuck the legality of it all: love was love. But the judges and juries didn’t care about love in the first place. To them, it was just as expendable as democracy and the future themselves. Scott wanted to awaken from his blackness and check to see if Adrienne was really there, but what was the point?

Silent Warrior, Chapter 9

Out of one dark abyss, into another. The George household bathed in blackness while Beth’s snoring rattled the walls. She didn’t even wake up when Scott walked through the door. He never had to be light on his toes when he entered the kitchen looking for a bite to eat. Through all of the fury, tears, and insanity, Scott just now realized he had only eaten one meal that day. His ribs were sore for more reasons than the constant use of his diaphragm.

Every Tupperware meal in the refrigerator was crawling with worms and maggots, at least in Scott’s mind. He shook his head to try and free his mind of that image, but the little bastards slithered even more and grew as big as snakes. He slammed the refrigerator door shoot and there was a slight disturbance in his mother’s obtrusive snoring. And then the tiny motor in her closed throat wailed once again. Scott breathed a sigh of relief and reopened the fridge door.

Still they crawled with worms. Slime and shit covered the mashed potatoes and gravy. The macaroni and cheese moved by itself, as if the little pasta bites were necrovores themselves. The milk jug had more worms at the bottom than a bottle of tequila. Scott knew this was just an illusion and took a deep breath to calm himself. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what Adrienne told him: replace the worms with something more pleasant. Something delicious. Something that made eating enjoyable again.

With his eyelids still clamped shut, Scott pulled out a Tupperware container of meatloaf and ate it cold. As he slowly chewed and suppressed his gag reflex, he could feel something moving around between his maulers. The thought of worms moving around wouldn’t be allowed to surface and instead the little creatures were replaced with gummy worms. Meatloaf and gummy worms: the dinner of champions. He took another bite. And another. His eating speed became so rapid that he bit down on his tongue and suppressed a scream.

For the first time since having those Aloysius Striker dreams, Scott finished a meal without getting the urge to vomit himself inside out. He breathed heavily after taking the last bite of meatloaf, his appetite satisfied only until he realized it was bedtime. The thought of going back into his subconscious theater made Scott lightly bang his head against the fridge door repeatedly. If biology was truly up to him, he’d drink Red Bull until the end of time and never fall asleep again.

But reality was always worse than the dream world. Scott’s day had been an exhausting one where he dealt with all sorts of jerk-off characters: Aloysius Striker, Alan Young, Tom Simpson, Beth George, and an undertaker and football jock who both went unnamed  None of these people deserved names in Scott’s mind; they were all just part of a community of worms.

But Adrienne was different from all of those conformists. She was beautiful in more ways than just her physical appearance. She too was hurting badly. She too loved creativity. She too resisted any attempts at breaking her spirit and bending her to the will of the corporate overlords. Those things made her the most beautiful woman on the planet. And yet, Scott wondered what she even saw in a man like him anyways. It wasn’t as though he had the dashing looks of a Hollywood actor or the charisma of a rock star. He was just Scott George. Plain old Scott George. Even his own name was boring to him.

All of these racing thoughts in his head blinded him to the fact that his mother’s footsteps were pitter-pattering across the wooden floor. He quickly closed the fridge door, dropped the meatloaf container in the sink, and bolted upstairs to his bedroom. One stupid fight was one too many for Scott, so he took the role of diplomat and tucked himself in bed, not even bothering to change into more suitable sleepwear.

Scott’s ribs ached like a motherfucker. His head exploded with pain and trauma. His blood was lukewarm. His eyes still burned hotly enough to make closing them a painful experience. Scott didn’t stand a chance when it came to fighting the forces of sleep. His eyelids burned like shooting stars, but his lids were heavier than a grand piano. He could have used such a gentle instrument to sooth his battered soul. Laziness took over to where he didn’t want to press play on his stereo. One slip and down the rabbit hole he fell…

Just a few moments of uninterrupted darkness was what Scott needed. His tortured mind rebuilt itself from a rock bottom foundation. His pain was numbed to the very last nerve. He forgot that a world of a shit existed outside of his aching brain. And it felt good. It felt more heavenly than an hour-long chair massage. It felt more soothing than a harp concert serenading his pounding ears. The nothing consumed every last bit of his body.

And then his temporary peace was shattered as he found himself on a football field with lightning and grayness in the sky. The rain poured down and smacked his skin like bamboo canes. Then the rain thickened into dreaded fucking worms and Scott danced around shivering in disgust. Rows of puppet cheerleaders, so flawless, yet so ugly by virtue of their perfection, twirled and flipped in the air with worm infested pom-poms. Scott swore he heard their chant somewhere before.

“Bring out the gimp! Bring out the gimp! Come on, everybody, let’s bring out the gimp!”

Scott tried to shout back at them, but his mouth was obstructed by a rubber object. He touched his face and scalp and sensed a leather presence covering his Sideshow Bob hair. He also felt a heavy dog chain digging deeply into his neck. He could panic, kick, and scream all he wanted, but it didn’t change the fact that Aloysius Striker owned him and was dragging him to the top of an Olympic-style platform. The puppets formed a semi-circle around the enslaved Scott and listened intently to Mrs. Striker’s oratory.

“You see this, everyone?!” she shouted in her signature ham voice. “This young man is an example of someone who doesn’t want to be part of our community! He wants to go his own way and leave his neighbors to drown in the worms! Well, if he must leave this community, it’s only fair that we give him a going away present!”

Mrs. Striker lifted up her own dress and pulled out a handful of the slimiest, nastiest worms she could, much to the cheerleaders’ giddy delights. The worms oozed with black oil, red blood, and white…whatever the fuck it was. The teacher unzipped the mouth on Scott’s gimp hood and prepared to shove the filthy fuckers down his throat.

“Stop!” shouted a female voice for a prolonged period of time. The cheerleaders and teacher alike stared down the one member of their “community” who dared defy them. The lone cheerleader threw down her pom-poms and ripped off her own head to reveal she was Adrienne Simpson underneath. The puppets and Mrs. Striker gasped in unison like good little conformists when Adrienne sprouted metal angel wings that shot flames in either direction.

“Don’t just stand there, you dolts! Get her!” shouted Mrs. Striker, to which the cheerleaders threw their pom-poms down and attempted to cannibalize the metal angel with shark-like teeth. Adrienne was one step ahead of them when she pointed the tips of her wings at her assailants and shot streams of fire at them. The cheerleaders squealed in agony as their wooden, worm-infested bodies warped and twisted into piles of ashes.

“What the…what have you done to my community? My poor, poor community!” cried Mrs. Striker while holding her dimply cheeks. Scott used this distraction to rip off his gimp hood and shove his “teacher” into the gigantic football field fire, barbecuing the bitch nice and crispy. Her screams were more music to his ears than anything he listened to on his MP3 player that day.

Adrienne flew over to Scott and scooped him up in her arms before floating into the heavenly sunrise of a newly pink morning. The rain had stopped, but the thunder remained, sending crashes of lightning onto the burning field of dead puppets. Scott didn’t want to relish on this recent war and instead relaxed in the arms of his beautiful angel. She sang to him lyrics that were once familiar in his dead father’s music collection.

“I bless the wings that bring you back across the shore. If I could touch you now, my darling, I’d love you just once more. If I could hold you…hold you…hold you…I know you’d understand…I know you’d understand…”

Her soothing soprano tones would have made the Moody Blues proud, but they made Scott relax even further in his girlfriend’s arms. She leaned her face down and kissed his mouth, no taste of worms, no embarrassing boner on Scott’s part, no awkwardness or disgust at all, just a moment of love that would last longer than any haunting trauma. Too bad Scott had to eventually wake up to go to school the next day. But if it meant Adrienne would be there and walk him home again, it would be worth all the heartache.

What would she think of the You Tube video that Alan Young posted in the graveyard? Would she see him as a weakling? Would she take pity on him? Would she break up with him before their relationship even got started? Scott tried not to think too hard about these circling questions and just enjoyed a moment in the pink and orange sunshine with his angelic girlfriend…while he still could.

Silent Warrior, Chapter 1

With the third grade classroom dimly lit in shades of purple, puppet children on strings danced and twirled their way through the door. The girls wore pretty red dresses and had their blond hair in pigtails. The boys wore elegant blue tuxedos and were shaven completely bald. This waltz of perfect conformity was accompanied by the PA system’s glorious soundtrack of the Moonlight Sonata. The rhythm carried the puppet children to their desks one row at a time so as not to cause unnecessary disorder. Once they had taken their seats, the puppets slouched over with their pale white faces and rosy cheeks touching their desks.

Their strings jerked them to the upright position while another puppet descended at the chalkboard in a heap. With another tug of the strings, the clown lady with rainbow hair, a distorted face, and a frilly white dress reassembled and proceeded to write her name on the chalkboard. As she wrote, she sang a “happy birthday” style rendition of her class greeting in a condescending, Shakespearean voice. “Good morning to you. Good morning to you. Good morning dear children…”

She signaled for her students to speak up with a wave of her hand. And true to form, they completed the song in perfect unison with, “Good morning to you!”

“Very good, dear children!” said the teacher while curtseying, still using her hammy stage voice. “My name is Aloysius Striker, but you may all call me Mrs. Striker. And my, don’t you all look lovely today! All smiles, tight strings, and not a single misstep in the morning song. No disorder among you all. Do you know why? Because we are all part of something much greater than ourselves. We have the same dreams. The same desires. We are all part of…a community!”

Mrs. Striker quickly erased her name from the board and wrote in its place the word of the day, community. “Now class, would any of you like to tell me what a community is? Don’t be too shy to speak up. Your grade depends on it!” The last sentence was punctuated with a mock whip strike with her piece of chalk.

All at once, the puppets rotated their heads three hundred sixty degrees and said, “A community is a gathering of people who have something in common!”

“Excellent, children! You’ve made me very proud already! But what are some examples of communities? Oh, do please speak up. We’re all part of a community, after all!” sang Mrs. Striker.

“Churches!” said the puppets, to which Mrs. Striker gave a celebratory, “Yes!” and quickly chalked it on the board. Other examples the children gave were shopping centers, police departments, congress, and yes, even school. That last answer sent an orgasmic chill throughout Mrs. Striker’s puppet body. She even gave a sing-songy laugh.

And then the teacher’s demonic smile turned to a saggy frown when she saw one student in the back corner of the class with his head tucked firmly in his hands. No puppet strings, no puppet face, no handsome tuxedo, just a shadow silhouette and glowing green eyes. Mrs. Striker tiptoed towards this lonely student like a ballerina and towered over him with a vengeful sneer.

“Look who decided to join us today, class. Mr. Scott George, the so-called introvert! The so-called shy guy! The little boy who hasn’t crackled a smile since the day he was born! Let me show you how it’s done, Mr. George!” The children’s heads turned one hundred eighty degrees and their puppet strings morphed their faces into insane grins with monstrous teeth and worms in the backs of their throats. “See? It’s not so hard, little Scotty! But in all seriousness, why haven’t you spoke up with the rest of the class? Don’t you want to be part of a community?”

Surveying the ghastly smiles around him, Scott brushed his teacher off with his hand and said, “Not really.”

Mrs. Striker’s elongated nose touched with Scott’s forehead before she chirped, “Well, that’s tough cookies, Mr. George! Your grade depends on your participation! Your ability to get a job depends on your sociability! You are indeed part of this society whether you want to be or not!”

The teacher clutched Scott’s wrist with a death grip as she dragged the shadowy student kicking and screaming towards the chalkboard, all while the puppet students pointed and laughed at him. By the time Scott made it to the chalkboard, Mrs. Striker grabbed him by the scruff of his neck to pull him up and placed the piece of chalk in his hand. “Now then! This is your next assignment, Mr. George, and you shall not screw this up for your fellow students, but most of all, for me! I want you to write on this blackboard another example of a community! Post-haste! Chop-chop!”

Scott George shivered and cowered, barely able to keep the chalk in his hands while the students giggled at him through their noses and closed mouths. Sweat poured off of him like rain while the purple lighting turned to a single bright halogen spotlight on him. He swallowed hard and stared at the chalkboard like a monkey doing a math problem. All of these examples of a community and he couldn’t come up with one…until he piggybacked off of the shopping center answer.

With slow precision and squeakiness that made the puppet children squint and hold their ears, Scott wrote something on the chalkboard without actually seeing what it was. It seemed as though hours went by and a whole tidal wave of sweat poured off of his body. But then he finished writing what he was going to write and breathed an anxiety-crushing sigh of relief. The pregnancy-sized knot reformed in his stomach when Scott saw the children laughing their asses off as well as Mrs. Striker staring at the blackboard in wide-eyed horror. “Shopping carts?!” she cried in disbelief. “Shopping carts?!”

As the laughter got louder and Mrs. Striker’s dramatic sighs grew more obvious, Scott’s crippling anxiety morphed into white hot rage. His boiling blood gave third degree burns on his tender flesh. His neon green eyes bulged out of their sockets. Every vein in his arms and forehead looked like a stick of dynamite ready to blow. His fists were clenched tightly enough to turn even the strongest metals into powder.

In one volcanic scream, he belted, “Shut up!” before picking up a text book off of a student’s desk and smashing him over the head with it. The teacher and students alike gasped in horror as the unfortunate student’s head exploded into a pile of worms and maggots, his body limp and lifeless. The puppet strings had no choice but to pull him into the heavens while Scott watched in horror at his own sins. Students cried maggots out of their eyeballs while Mrs. Striker sobbed blood.

“Oh, Scott! How could you do such a thing to your own community?!” asked the teacher. “Now the whole system is going to crash down upon us! Why, oh, why! WHY?!” With his head hung and his voice sheepishly low, Scott muttered a nearly incoherent apology before Mrs. Striker burst into flames and clutched his wrist with purpling tightness yet again. “Oh, I’m afraid an apology’s not going to be enough, Mr. George! You’ve been causing grief to my class for far too long! Your refusal to obey even the simplest commands makes me sick to my stomach! I’m afraid there’s only one thing left to do!”

The puppet strings yanked every child back into the heavens while the classroom burst into a fiery hell all around Mrs. Striker and the convulsing Scott George. The teacher smashed every desk into splinters with one punch and in their place ascended a torture chair with leather straps and a ball gag.

“No, Mrs. Striker! Have mercy on me! I’ll be a good boy! I promise!” pleaded Scott, who was bound and gagged to the chair with constricting tightness. He tried to thrash around and break free, but with a ball gag cutting off his air supply, he quickly became exhausted. It became even harder to breathe when Mrs. Striker shoved a funnel up one of his nostrils and held it in place with duct tape.

“You’re going to conform, Mr. George, whether you want to or not!” warned Mrs. Striker in a deep, devilish voice. She tore open the flesh on her own wrist and pulled out a handful of worms with razor sharp fangs and hooks. Scott tried once again to squirm and thrash in his bindings, but they only cut deeper into his skin. With a sick smile and Scott’s gagged pleas, Mrs. Striker shoved the razorblade worms into the funnel and watched them fest up his nose and into his brain. The children descended back down into the hellfire scene and repeatedly chanted along with the teacher, “One of us!”

After an eternity of having his skull feasted on, the present day eighteen-year-old Scott George awoke from his nightmare with a deep gasp of air and pulsating nausea. As soon as he caught his breath, the teenager looked around the room for his digital clock, which read five-thirty in the morning. Relieved that this was a dream and that he still had hours before he had to get up for school, Scott plopped backwards into his bed and burped his nausea away.

“Why does this keep happening?” Scott whispered to himself. “I hate falling asleep.” Tears formed in his eyes when he realized that the only thing fake about his nightmare was the psychedelic backdrop in which it took place. He never dropped acid or smoked marijuana a day in his life. Why was he being punished for it? And most of all, why did he have to take a United States history class with a teacher who was basically Mrs. Striker with a penis?

Knowing that class was his first period of the day caused Scott to skyrocket out of his bed and dry heave in his garbage bucket. No matter how hard he puked, all that came out of his mouth was tiny streams of snot and orange stuff he couldn’t identify. Once he had finished, he sat next to his desk and breathed heavily while fighting the urge to go back to sleep. “Goddamn you, Mr. Simpson,” whispered Scott. “Why doesn’t somebody go Columbine on his ass already?”