(Untitled Horror 1) Chapter 1 - The last day

Dusk had just fallen on what was a crisp, but not quite cold, day as it turned into night. Lance sat in a little wooden chair looking out the window on the third floor where he lived, above the rest of the house, so he would be alone, he liked his room there. Looking at him you could see he was deep in thought, not just a lost in the stars sort of gaze, the lost in life type of gaze. One not really fitting for someone that just started his freshmen year in high school and only saw his fourteenth birthday pass days ago, it was a lost in life gaze. It is the gaze that the NASA people have on their faces after a shuttle breaks up on reentry. The type of gaze that a major stock holder had when Black Monday came. The type of the look that was a lost in life look, an it's all over look, a look that you know, no matter what happens tomorrow, today can never be changed, and right now, today is all that matters. An adult knows things will get better, a fourteen year old does not. His look is that one last look of life, as if this, is going to be the final day he ever had to deal with all the hardships that life has placed on his shoulders. The look that an adult might have, not one a child should. An adult, even with that gaze in full flow, you know they are coming back. A child, with that look, is already gone.

His room was that of any boy his age. Stacks of comic books shoved hastily into two of the four shelves he had across from his bed. I few New York Yankee things proudly displayed on the top, and some things his mother wished he cared about, like gifts from her and family pictures, stuffed into a box that he shoved on to the bottom shelf. It was a large room for a child, but it was oddly shaped, and he loved it for that. It was a square room, that, and it looked like they attached another small square to so it would reach the window. He made himself a little room of that alone. Put in a small desk and an old wooden chair he borrowed, or stole might be a better word, from his aunt. That didn't make his office, the walls did. He used milk crates he would find around the neighborhood and stacked them up so they made a wall, two rows stacked on one side, and one on the other, all the way to the ceiling. They were turned into him, so he could use them as shelves and it left just enough room for him to fit through as if it were a door. He took an old curtain rod and put it through the holds in the sides of the crates at the top to make a place were he could hang a bed sheet and make a door, even if he never did add the sheet, he wanted that option. That was his little place, his place away from the world, his office, and he loved it. He would go there to write, to read his comics, to look out the window at the stars and dream the impossible dream, or he would just sit there to relax and forget the events of the day, even more so when the day bothered him as much as this one had.

He sat there thinking the same thing hundreds, thousands, even million upon millions of children thought before he had, and he thought them alone, as if he were the only person that ever thought them. The words over and over echoed in his mind, Why me? over and over again. Why me? ran like a song that over uses the chorus, and this was the chorus. He had horizontal blinds on the window that he usually just opened to see out but he lifted fully this night as he watched the daylight fade and the night fall over it. It was like he were a bird waiting for his cage to be covered and watching as the cover was pulled over and all the light he had seen went away, like the left overs from last week that landed in the trash he took out on his way to school this morning.

He never bothered to say a word to anyone at school about what was bothering, he didn't even say anything to his parents or family. He thought to tell the psychologist that he went to, but he never wanted to be there, his sixth grade teacher said she would not promote him until he was put into care, so he was, since then. He played games with her, mostly Monopoly, sometimes Operation or Candyland. He did anything to keep from talking to her. He had problems, and he knew it, that is why he sat here tonight, but those were his problems not hers. She asked him everything, and he always told the truth. How is your family life? Fine. Are you having any problems at school? Straight A's. How are the older kids treating you, any bullies? Nope, none, I have made a few new friends. Have you ever been hit at home? No. Have you lost anyone close to you? Lost anyone, no, no one has died if that is what you mean. Do you have a girlfriend? No, do you want to play Scrabble? It would always end that way, he would let her have a few questions and then try to advert her attention for the rest of the hour by asking to play a game. At least while they were playing the questions did seem so stupid or straight forward. She asked the same questions every week in different ways. She would even try to tell some story about herself and how it related to him, and it never did, she just thought it did. At 14 years old he realized that he was a million times smarter then she would, or could even if she tried, be. In the many years she asked most likely a few thousand questions, but she never asked the one question that would have given her the answer she needed. He would have told her if she asked, he wouldn't lie, he was taught better then that, and more so he would not lie to an adult, but she never asked, she never asked about what was truly bothering him.

Over the years he had begun to think of her more as a friend, they would play their games and he even got her to play a game one time that carried over for four visits, and she made sure to keep the board exactly as they left it during the week between each visit. It was more of a play date then a visit to a psychologist. He overheard her tell his mother, on more then one occasion, that there was nothing wrong with him, he was a well adjusted child and she saw nothing wrong with him and there was nothing that would cause her reason to worry about him. He was a fine boy, a good boy, one in excellent mental health. At this very moment he was making sure to contradict everything she had ever said. He went into the bottom right hand draw of his desk, the only side he really had, he had three draws on the right hand side and none on the left. He didn't even have a middle draw on his desk like most have. I guess that is what to expect from hand me downs, but he was very happy with it, and never had a reason to complain, it served it's purpose, and it served it extremely well. He dug through the draw pushing old sticker sheets to the side and some plastic frames from where he had taken model parts off or, just incase he needed them again, and pulled out his model knife. This knife was so sharp, he had cut himself numerous times with it while never even touching the blade. But it was perfect for his model making. He placed it on the top of his desk and left his hand on it even if he had let it go to lay on the desk. He hand still lightly covered it as he looked out the window.

Do you wanna play Monopoly? he asked himself mockingly. Sure, he answered himself, I want to play any game, any game but this one. Why me? echoed once again through his head. The curtain of night was just beginning to pull itself the last part over the morning sun as the ball of light settled in for the night. His right hand, over the blade, twitched, and a tear fell from his eye. He had a great life, there was nothing wrong with it. He even just got a love note from his sweetheart today, one where she told him she loved him. That was the first time he ever heard those words from someone that was not family or a close family friend, his heart almost exploded as if he though he would never hear those words, and the excitement of someone writing them to him was just to much. Saying it would be one thing, but writing it, writing it was something totally different. If someone wrote it they couldn't take it back, it was there, it was real, and they could never say they didn't mean it, because you had a piece of paper that said it. His hand twitched a few more times as the tears become a little more often from the corners of his eyes. He lifted his left hand and wiped them from his eyes. He was fine, nothing wrong with this boy, he is a fine boy, that is what the psychologist said isn't it. Why Me?

"Dinners ready sweetie." A voice ran from downstairs.
"I'll be down in a minute mom." He replied and added for humor, not to joke with his mother but to settle himself down some, "If I am not down in five minutes send in the Air Force."
"Okay sweetie." She giggled just loud enough for him to hear.

He whispered goodbye mom, I love you, under his breath as he picked up the model knife, the sharp one he had accidentally cut himself with so many times before. He turned and looked to his computer screen, it was off, and it would stay that way, for now and forever he thought as he placed the knife so lightly on the top of his left wrist.

"Mom" He shouted.
"Yes dear." She answered.
"I love you."
"I love you too sweetie, and I would love you even more if you would wash up and come down for dinner."

She never heard a response, the moment she finished her sentence he ran the blade as hard as he was able to take it, from his wrist to his elbow, not stopping even as the blood started squirting out and even hit him in the eye. He left his world in no time and never even heard his mother walking up the stairs as he faded away.

"Sweetie." His mother said as he placed her foot on the first step and looked up the stairs.
"Honey." She cried out with a different name to no answer.
She started to walk up the stairs, each one made a unique sound, and each one did make a sound, there was no way anyone would sneak up these stairs, ever, the wood was old, and weak. When she got to the top of the stairs she turned and looked into his room, past a storage room that was also on the third floor and saw him with his head back leaning on the chair. One hand was beside him and the other had to be in front of him.

She walked up to his room and said, "Don't tell me you fell asleep mid conversation swe..." Her words died as she got close and noticed, so did he... she let out a loud scream, one that even made it past his fading ears as a light muffled sound, but to everyone else on the block the must have thought someone was screaming bloody murder, and it was, well, blood suicide anyway, so an honest scream it was.

His mother fell to the floor seeing the blood all over him as she got closer, sobbing and screaming for the whole world to hear.

And the whole world did.