The Perfect Crime

Chapter 6: A RAGING BEAST

Monsters are real
And ghosts are real too.
They live inside us
And sometimes they win ~Stephen King
★

TWENTY TWO YEARS AGO

ARCHER

The nimbus clouds were annoyed. They had gathered in a pack and obscured the sun. Now they unanimously cried in huge long sheets that pelted against the windows. Strong winds blew against the mansion and the windows slammed closed with a loud bang. The sound of the rain muffled Alea's fervent pleas for help, but for Archer, they echoed around the huge bedroom and into his ears further awakening the beast from it's sleep induced stupor. Now the beast fought for control. It wanted revenge against the man who had flogged it, the man that had formed welts on it's fragile skin, the same man that had called it worthless.

The beast that resided deep inside Archer took control of his scrawny body. His fingers curled tightly around his blade and he stood up. His eyes were red and puffy from crying, the veins in his neck and head popped out like chords and his lanky frame shook with rage. Pure and white hot rage.

Maybe it was true that the apple didn't fall far from the tree. Maybe it was true that Archer was just like his father, a vulgar  and brutish man who thought love was shown through thrashing his kids. Archer, however, believed the contrary. Archer believed that he was a virtuous boy and someday he would grow up into an equally virtuous man. He would most probably join law enforcement and he would help kids just like him to escape from their abusive parents but to do that,  he needed to survive.

Powered by his pent up rage, Archer charged like a bull. Marcos was going to get the shock of his life—

"No!" Alea croaked. She had turned as white as a sheet and she was shaking like a leaf. A mixture of tears and sweat flowed down her face in tiny streams.

Marcos whirled. His eyes widened when he saw the knife and he reacted by connecting his fist with Archer's nose. Archer's nose burst open like a geyser spewing blood every which way. It produced a funny whistling sound that indicated that something was broken. The world spun dangerously and he spat a mixture of blood and mucus. So much for a rescue operation. Marcos added a few expert jabs to Archer's ribs and he was finished. The knife cluttered to the floor and he fell with a muffled thud to the fluffy carpet, clutching his ribs. 

Marcos picked up the dagger and his eyes gained a suspicious spark. Archer helplessly curled himself into a fetal position to protect himself from the blows. Marcos' hairy hand rose and the knife began it's decent. He was going to die. If this was happening about a week ago, he probably would not have flinched or even raised his hands to guard himself against the impact. Back then, Archer anticipated death. Sometimes he lay awake in bed waiting for the icy cold hand of death to come and free him from his suffering but it never came. Now, he had so much to live for. His school counselor, Madam Dianne, a woman who hailed from France had taught him the power of self esteem. Calliope, the house maid, who had been more his mother than Abigail had ever been had taught him to dream. To envision a life where there was no pain. Where fathers didn't beat their kids and where mothers fussed over their children. He had to live for them now because he wasn't unlovable. They loved him and his sister loved him too–

Was he dead? He opened his tear filled eyes to gawk at the opulence of the after life. Was it a land of milk and honey like he had been told in Sunday school? Was it filled with rivers of chocolate and ham sandwiches because Archer really like ham sandwiches. Well, the after life was not as spectacular as he had been made to believe. The after life was just one blindingly monochromatic bedroom with a slightly rumpled king sized bed, a white closet and a stick thin girl hitting a big burly and hairy man multiple times with a curtain rod while white curtains  lay crumpled in a heap in one corner of the room.