The Gothic Portrait

Memories Like Bullets. ☹

WARNING: This chapter contains a little bit of violence. It isn't too harsh but, if you get butt hurt easily I suggest you skip that section.

     Ever since that encounter, Simon and Steve hadn't locked gazes for a while. He didn't care, he didn't know the boy and it seemed he finally stopped being a creep he looked into other people's bedrooms. Though, Every morning for a few days, he'd lean across his window frame and peer into the neighboring home. His eyes were met with thick, white curtains instead of the usual paint mess. He also begun to think how strange he was for doing so— but it was an urge he had. A simple itch, that the more he scratched the worse it seemed to get. There he laid, sunken in his mattress with tired eyes staring at the ceiling. His elbow was bent, wrist flicking from side to side as he held a cigarette. His favorite brand was Marlboro, the red box and the black horse silhouette intrigued him because he liked things that were fast, like race cars and motorcycles. Smoke emanated from his rosy, chapped lips. He watched it dance against the glare of the sunshine that poked in, before breaking it with the dented baseball that had been curled between his fingertips. He easily bounced it up and down a couple of times, catching it with his big hands before pitching it towards the ceiling above. The space between him and it seemed prolonged for that moment he stared at it. It got narrower, and he couldn't help but stand up on the bed. The mattress squeaked and dipped under his weight, and he attempted to reach the ceiling but it was no use, not matter how high up he bounced. His thoughts were interrupted though, by the sound of a loud crash followed by incoherent voices. Simon stared at his closed door, thick brows furrowing down before he looked back up at his hand. It was pressed flat against the ceiling. He hopped off, his bare feet pricked against the carpeted floor for a split second, because he broke out the door like it wasn't his business. Smoke rose from the end of the cigarette he had dropped, rolling under his nightstand. "Mom?" He yelled, pressing his stomach and hunching over the wooden railing of their home. His fingers wrapped around, feet climbing up, allowing him to bend down more and have a clear view into the dining room. No response. Simon's jaw clenched, ripping his grip away he quietly marched down the stairs. The voices became louder, and they were coming from the kitchen. Standing at the end of the stairway, he poked in and watched three pairs of feet standing alongside each other. His father, mother, and brother. Tears glistening against the dim light of the living room caught his attention. They belonged to Elijah, and he looked at his ugly little face weeping softly. Hands were brought up to his eyes, and his head dipped. And although, his face was covered he could see the tears streaming out between his fingers and down his red cheeks. He didn't care for why his father was upset, but the words 'Whore' and 'Ugly slut' were easily made out to be his. He grabbed her neck. Fat, rusty fingers wrapped around her throats and squeezed her larynx as hard as he could. His eyes watched as she turned a deep blue and purple, pressing her back against the sharp edge of the counter. Small hands quickly tried scratching away at his but that only made him angrier. He opened the cabinet, threatening to swing it at her head until it was bloody and bashed in if she didn't shut up. At this point, her eyes began to roll back and choking noises left her throat, a few tears leaving her eyes as well. All while their ten year old son watched. Elijah didn't say anything, he didn't call for his mother, only kept his small face between his fingers. The man in the kitchen, because he didn't feel right addressing him with a name, he didn't deserve that kind of validation from him, left his mother go. She gasped for air, clutching her neck and massaging it softly as she began coughing abruptly, no doubt going to acquire a sore throats for a few days. Simon wasn't angry, he couldn't be. All he ever did was feel angry, that it just became a numbing sense. His eyes were ripped away from the panic voice of his younger sibling. "Daddy! Pl- I didn't mean to!" He cried out. His hands were away from his face now, snot blew out of his nose and his sobs became far more intense. "Charles," the timid, quivering voice of his other came into play. "I'll buy you a new one, I promise." She told her husband. This caused the arm that he had lifted to dangle by his side. The two conversed with each other, she tried calming him down and promised him a nice back massage for all the trouble they had caused him. They disregarded their upset child. "Elijah, Elijah.." he whispered loudly, hoping only the smaller boy would hear him. And he did. "Come here." Simon told him, waving his hand and motioning for him to come over. He heard the shuffling of small feet dart across the living room, and he was met with the face of a frightened blonde boy. "Stop crying, you look disgusting." He snarled sternly. Simon brought an arm to wrap around his neck, pushing his face against him. And there he sat, up on the steps, cradling the crying boy between his arms and shushing him lightly so that he wouldn't get hit.
     It began raining later that afternoon. A loud whipping crack, followed by a flashing light to signify it'd be thundering. Simon was out on the porch, smoking a different cigarette. The smoke got lost in the air, or perhaps the rain got to it and dissolved it. He didn't know physics. He decided it wasn't worth over thinking, and hung his head. His green eyes stared at the wooden steps under his feet, and began fidgeting a little. The sounds of footsteps caused his ears to perk up, and he turned his head in the direction of the source. Who'd be walking outside in such a weather? — of course, it was none other than Steve Michaels. What kind of a last name was Michaels? That was a first name. . Everything about this boy was suspicious, he thought to himself. Simon raised his chin, eyeing the boy as he walked across his patio in the pouring rain while he inhaled on his bud. Chalk rolled around the wet asphalt, it laid right next to large drawn lines that washed away with the rain. Steve had been out there drawing. He was on his knees, getting in details before the first drops began. His damp, orange hair whipped across his eyes as he hurriedly ran back and forth to his garage. He was searching for something that'd save his creation. Upon realizing this, Simon chuckled to himself. "You're being stupid." He called out, biting down on his lip and snorting before throwing the cigarette towards the drive way. Upon hearing this, Steve poked his head out from the dark abyss of his garage. He stared in surprise at him, hand curling around the door frame. "Not stupid, just innovative!" He replied. "Yeah, sure." Simon mumbled, picking himself up and leaning against his house. He remained dry, only needing to take a few steps out before completely soaking himself. He watched with crossed arms at his delusional neighbor with a small smile. Steve wasn't successful in saving his drawing, and defeated he slid down the wall of his home. The boy seemed genuinely upset, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed as he stared at the ground. "What a pussy." Simon mumbled. Who'd get like a baby and weep over a stupid drawing? He reminded him of Elijah. Always getting worked up for the smallest little things.
The rain seemed to calm down after awhile. Drops continued to fall, but Simon made the brave adventure across his lawn to where the boy sat. "Hey." He grumbled, kicking the ends of his shoe lightly against the male's knee. Steve looked up, squinting his eyes as the glare from the sun darted into his eyes from behind Simon. "What?" He asked, "Oh. Hey." — Olsson didn't know what to say, he usually didn't go past the introduction since his mother would usually step in when he talked to relatives. "Why are you crying?" He asked, sitting down against the wall just as he did. "I'm not crying." Steve stated, raising a long finger up as his elbows rested against his bent knees. "I'm simply expressing my sadness through my body language, and not words."
- "So, you're crying?"
- "I'm not crying!"
- "You're crying." Simon stated, matter of factly. "My brother cries, and he's ten. What's your excuse?" He judged, poking his finger directly into the older male's side. He felt his ribcage, which caused him to jab it around. "Ow! Hey, lay off me!" Steve argued, shoving the hands back to his owner. This began a dispute of slapping around between the two. They grabbed hair, and tugged clothes before running out of breath and deciding to call it truces. "What's your name?" Steve asked. "Simon Olsson." He replied.

"What kind of a last name is Olsson?"