The Grean Household

37: A Place In The Dark

Two days went by without any word from the police department.

Sammy couldn't go to school. He was sick, anxiety urging him to vomit. He'd lay in bed, unwilling to eat. Staring out the window, always asking what kind of person would do this to young children.

Those two days, much like his short time spent outside in the cold, was a hell Sammy didn't know existed.

He spent most of the day sleeping, trying to speed up time, hoping that the longer he slept, the closer the police got to finding his sister. Henrik would have to drag him out of his bed, trying to get his son to eat, but Sammy wouldn't budge. He was purposely keeping his mouth shut, looking out the window as if he'd see the answer there.

Night was when whatever was haunting him came into his vision.

When the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, the lights would shut off, and the monsters would begin to crawl. It seemed that now that his hero was gone, there was nothing to protect him from whatever was lurking in his mind.

It felt like there were leather restraints on his wrists and ankles, pulling him down into his mattress. There was an awkward sensation in his body, it made him jerk. A minimal shift of his organs that he began to feel underneath his skin tickled him into writhing. The epidermis- the shell of his body- felt like a bare layer: his body felt like a bag of sorts- a bag capable of securing organs that now writhed with a mind of their own. Organs that would thrash around in his still body, like there was a living organism- a parasite- right underneath his flesh.

Sammy put his hands on his chest, clenching his jaw, closing his eyes tight. Whatever was in his room was a sudden entity that took pride in watching him writhe underneath his sheets. Hours this went on. He would try to catch the movement of his organs underneath his skin, pressing down to halt their motions as they banged up against his flesh. It seemed that whatever casing that was supposed to hold him together was coming loose.

He felt like tearing the sheets of the bed, but he couldn't move. His body was weak, parts inside him feeling like they wanted to tear through. The night would drain on, Sammy would try not to move too much, noticing that if he could just stay still, the movement inside him would cease.

The days were exhausting, though Sammy noticed that the more active he was, the less he'd experience the feeling of his skin on his bones.

So he went back to school, bags underneath his eyes, patience already thin. The word already spread around, and nobody dared to approach him, except Connor, who was the first to run up to him during lunch. He didn't prod for answers to the burning questions he had, he simply showed his support. Sammy couldn't look at him, he could rarely look at anybody, their faces always contorting with pity as he passed by. But Connor didn't look at him like that, and he was the only one that didn't single Sammy out.

If aggression were a person, Sammy was starting to know her well. Some voices drove him insane, and he'd press his fingers against the chair, cracking his bones before an sharp ache erupted in his hands. He'd keep whatever anger that was begging to get out stored inside his chest. No amount of tears could cry the frustration out, though he seemed to find a substitute. 

The poor misguided children who thought it would be funny if they picked on the new quiet Sammy were quickly reminded that he never changed in that regard. If they pushed him, he pushed back harder. When they believed he was small and weak, Sammy reminded them that they were wrong. He'd throw his entire might into his hits, sometimes his feet leaving the floor, his knuckles bruised and bloody as his opponent dragged him around, hoping to throw him against the lockers. When Sammy had the grip of steel, they tried to kick him. He was slippery, quickly twisting out of their grip, delivering a kick to the back of their knee.

Too many times did Sammy get pulled from the hallway and sent home, his suspensions beginning to build up. Henrik was the one that was constantly punishing him, though Sammy could see that it hurt him to do it. The trickle of his carelessness in the way he simply stared at his father was the thing that hurt him most. It was the coldness in his eyes and the pure anger in his monotone voice that reminded both of his parents what was going through his head.

His body was bruised from hits, his knuckles having bursted skin which would occasionally bleed if he accidentally bumped into something. It was difficult to keep every ounce of anger inside, knowing that he couldn't hit the wall. He could, but he was deathly afraid of causing a dent or a hole. There was still some empathy left in his angry little body.

The nights seemed to get worse. Sammy felt how his skin rubbed up against his bones, feeling his blood flowing through his body, carrying necessary nutrients to his limbs. He could hear the thumping of his heart as he stared up at those swirling shadows on his ceiling. They were in his corners, necks creaking unnaturally, spinning their heads around as they crawled around like spiders in the creases of his wall. 

Nothing existed outside of his room- his chamber of torture.

Then, as if throwing pests on him, Sammy felt bugs crawling around on his skin. Now he could move his limbs, his back glued to his bed. He slapped himself, trying to catch and kill these things crawling around. Soon, they felt like they were crawling underneath his skin. Sammy thrashed, feeling his organs moving with his motions. He wanted to scream, but the bugs felt like they were crawling in his throat.

I need to get them out-! 

Sammy growled to himself, breath hitching, his groans cracking and breaking as the frustration came out in his sobs. He began to dig his nails into his flesh, scratching away layers, trying to get to these bugs that were invading his body. 

He tore at his shoulders, chest, and belly, deciding it'd be better if he could rip everything out of himself so he wouldn't have to feel it anymore. Sammy dug into his belly, each scratch feeling like a lake of fire on his skin. He was able to scratch at his shoulder blades, finally sitting up, crying out finally. Sammy wanted to vomit- wanted to spit everything in his body up and out.

Sammy ripped his clawed hands through his skin, feeling cold and warm at the same time, trying to rid these torturous demons. Before he knew it, his voice was cracking and small groans started to turn into screams of torment. The bed felt like it was trapping him, whatever beast underneath his mattress holding his legs, bruising his flesh.

He writhed and thrashed, clawing at every location he felt a shift in his body.

The door to his room swung open, his father in the doorway, eyes wide with fear. When he laid eyes on his son, there was his very own pain in his chest.

Sammy's dark sheets had smears of blood on it, his skin accumulating like dirt underneath his nails, blood staining his skin. There were strips and strips of open skin all along his body, tears flowing from his face, mixing into the result of his panic. Sammy wanted to scream, still feeling the shadows holding him down despite the lights being on. 

Henrik swooped him up, holding his son tightly, blood smearing on his own hands. It was when he dipped Sammy in water did the bugs stop crawling and his heart stopped beating. The water started to turn red from his wounds, but Sammy finally felt exhaustion taking him. He held onto his father tightly, hoping to never let go, afraid that if he did, Henrik wouldn't be able to save him from drowning in the tub. As his eyes closed, Sammy tried to speak, but all that came out was a squeak and a low groan as his body slipped further into the tub.

His father sat over the tub, staring down at his little boy. The water was still, much like Sammy was now. Clouds of red started to surface from his son's body, up to the facade of the water in the bath. Henrik said nothing. He wiped a greasy strand of hair from his son's face, and clenched his jaw. There was nothing to be done.

Henrik simply sat there, not taking his aging eyes off his son.