An Experiment In Red

The Witch

Memories were flooding him by the pound.  All of the emotions- they made Luke want to vomit.  Even worse, his mother- the damn traitor- was forcing him to go to therapy today.  She claimed she was concerned, but Luke was aware that she was merely out to get him.  His mother was a hag, a nasty old witch who should have died years ago.  She was worth nothing to him- and quite honestly- he would prefer to do without her. 

Despite her chronic witch-ness, his mother seemed quite youthful- to the eye, anyways.  She had long, blond hair that was naturally golden and curly.  It hung down to her back, but was usually styled into a bun.  Her green eyes had no lack of life- they twinkled with passion at the sight of her beloved boyfriend and step children.  But they showed no affection for himself.  No, those eyes were rock hard at the sight of Luke.  She held no regard, no sympathy for him.  She didn't even care- although she seemed to enjoy pretending she did.

That boyfriend, that guy, he needed to leave soon, as well.  He was just like his mother.  Truthfully, he was quite handsome.  But on the inside, he was as evil and as wicked as his mother, with a vanity unlike her own.  He was selfish.  He was a rich, snob headed pig whom liked to use his mother for the most sinful of acts.  They were bizarre and greedy in nature.  Sadly, the noises they made during such acts were often Luke's lullabies at night.  Oh yes, the screaming and screeching and moaning in the dead of the night was quite relaxing.  Terrifying and exhilarating, but relaxing to the boy.

The step children, however, they were okay.  Innocent and pure in nature, so far.  He knew they would grow up corrupt if they didn't get far, far away as quickly as possible.  But until then, he would let the two beautiful children revere him and look up to him.  Luke needed their trust in order to save them from a life of damnation.  They couldn't turn out like their father or his own mother.  No,  that wasn't an option.  His perfect step siblings were the only thing he was alive for.  They were the only thing that kept him seeking a safe shelter in the world for themselves.  But there was no safe shelter.  Not until he could weed out the undesirables and the sinners.  

But he supposed that was why his mother wanted him to seek therapy.  No- she didn't want him to seek it- she forced him to seek it.  Witch.  He would burn her at the stake if he could- just like the witch she was.  Luke sneered at the thought, regretfully approaching his house for the first time since yesterday afternoon.  Sadly, he had failed his attempt at running away, and now had two police officers on either side.

They were also corrupt.

"Luke, your mother and stepfather are inside.  They're waiting for you."  Spoke the negro cop.  He was dark skinned, yes.  But that's not why Luke hated him.  Luke hated him because it was clear he was evil.  It was clear he was selfish and took lives away on the job without taking a single moment to think.

Thou shalt not murder.

Corrupt.

"I know they are." He grumbled, tossing his blond hair- which was quite messy and dry- to the side.  "I'm no fool, sir." The last statement was spoken with no lack of sarcasm, of course.  He quickly broke free from the pair's grasp and waltzed into the house, finding himself in Hell immediately. 

Of course, the only person in the world who cared about anyone else- who cared about all the sin- was sent to damnation.  He would be their savior, why couldn't they see that?

"Luke! Haven't you any clue what you've done?  May and Mica were terrified you were dead!  Or worse!" His mother cried out, flying down the stairs.  

"Death is no punishment, mother.  It is the inevitable fate of all of us.  I waltz towards it without despair, you should know.  It is your punishment and mine as well- for we are all impure in our very name."  He responded, finding himself quickly struck in the face by his stepfather.  

"Oh, hello, mister March.  The man whose name I was forced to take because my mother seemed to enjoy banging him loudly on the table while drunk at night.  How are you today?" Another slap across the face.  This one harder.  Then some screaming.  But it would all soon go black.  Soon he would forget it all.  That's all he would look forward to, indeed.

--

Bruises.  His skin was sore.  That's all he could realize an hour or two after the incident.  He was unsure what happened, he remembered it in bits and pieces.  He remembered running away the night before, trying to find the little corner of the world to bring his stepbrothers.  But he only found the police, instead.  The brink of all corruption.  He remembered being slapped more than seventeen times, beaten with a steel rod in the rib cage.  Stomped on, hit with a beer bottle.  

Mister March was never particularly nice when he got mad.  Apparently informing your mother that her acts are immoral was wrong.  He didn't enjoy hearing their mating calls every night; it was as simple as that.  Of course, he wouldn't have to if his mother wasn't such a whore.  His father was no fool.  His father knew his mother was sleeping around but three months after his sister died.  

Bruises.  His father had bruises, too.  After confronting her, he had taken a beating by the bitch.  By the whore whose damnation was inevitable.  He had no sympathy for her.  She would soon suffer his own wrath; when the time came.

But that wasn't important now.  All he wanted now was release.  More pain to distract from the pain.  It was the only thing that could help his mind so he could be cured for the moment.  The boy didn't hesitate to stick the needle in his arm.  Instead, he willingly thrust it in, not feeling the jar of pain that would have been excruciating to any human.  After all, it isn't quite natural to force a needle into one of your most important veins.  But then again, it wasn't very healthy for that needle to contain contraband substances that were viewed by Americans as filthy and intoxicating.

Like they should talk about filthy and intoxicating.  Hypocrites.

Heroin was his only escape on this solemn day.  Heroin was his only outlet to live on without pain, even if just for a little while.  His mother would find him stoned, laying in a pile of his own vomit, sure.  But that meant nothing to him.  Her respect meant nothing to him.  He had no dignity.  Not for her.