In the Midst of Monsters

Chapter 5: From Shadows to Light

     The high-pitched squeal of sneakers on polished hardwood filled the gymnasium. Volleyballs rocketed over the net with ruthless precision, but Lisa was nowhere near the game. Her body was there, the mandatory uniform clinging to her like a second skin, but her mind was consumed by the haunting words she'd read in her previous period.

Her thoughts were clouded with memories: joyful glimpses of her own carefree youth clashing against the dismal backdrop of Jack's life. The joy of sunny park days, the sounds of carefree laughter, stood in stark contrast to the silent screams emanating from the pages she'd consumed. Doubt gnawed at her: could these chilling tales be authentic? Or was this merely a fiction born of a twisted imagination? The thought of such agony being real churned her stomach.

"Lisa!" The shrill call of the coach, Mrs. Donovan, snapped her back to the present. The volleyball had rolled to her feet, forgotten and ignored. Lisa clutched her stomach, the motion instinctual.

"I... I don't feel good," she stammered, the room spinning ever so slightly.

Mrs. Donovan eyed her skeptically, adjusting her whistle. "Do you need to see the school nurse?"

Lisa shook her head, glancing toward the locker room, the siren call of the journal beckoning her into its depths. "No, just the restroom. Please?"

With a dismissive wave, the teacher consents, and Lisa's heart jumps. The weight of the world momentarily lifted; Lisa nearly floated into the locker room. The metallic tang of cold steel, sweat, and disinfectant greeted her. With a quick glance around to confirm she was alone, she darted to her locker, fingers scrambling to retrieve the journal.

She rushed into a stall, slamming the door shut. Seated on the cold porcelain, the world outside melted away. With trembling hands, she opened the journal and dove back into dark depths of Jack's agonizing existence.

The next line hooked Lisa before she even knew what hit her: "My first memory of a smile was the day I was kicked out of hell."

Lisa's fingers pressed into the journal's edge, each word hitting like an arrow, its point digging deeper. It was a puzzling sentiment, one where freedom from torment seemed involuntary, yet its essence was salvation. The thought of Jack smiling, after everything, left her with an oddly comforting warmth.

Her surroundings blur, the locker room's oppressive air replaced by the vibrant imagery Jack paints with words. It's a departure, a fleeing from the haunting dark, a semblance of light piercing through. She finds herself amidst the bustle of an airport, where an eleven-year-old Jack, bathed in unaccustomed light, is teetering on the edge of unknown expectations and fear, a possible escalation of his perpetual torment.

"Jack," the commanding voice of his mother demands his focus.

There's a moment captured in ink where he's watching his mother, her face worn, the burdens of years visible in every line and furrow. She's pushing a stroller, Jack's baby sister inside, her slumber a contrast to the heavy atmosphere.

"Yes, ma'am," I dutifully respond.

"You know why we're here?" she questions, a hint of weariness in her voice.

"Each word she spoke felt like a setup. Every answer, a potential trap. The sight of a plane climbing into the sky drew my attention, my mind spiraled. Maybe she's had enough. Maybe she'll throw me off that plane. At just eleven, the scope of her cruelty was limitless in my eyes."

After what feels like an eternity spent in contemplation, I muster a "No."

"I can't do this anymore," her words cold and empty, "I'm tired of being your mother."