Turpentine & Vetiver

2. Baptism -they muddy the water, to make it seem deep- Nietzsche

The water was cold, and Thorn imagined that he was going to die. The glassy green surface of the lake was deceptively calm, and it was murky underneath, the suffocating lakewater surrounding him. This is it, this is the end...maybe I do deserve this after all, he thought in despair. It was something dark, worse than what was in his head. Though he knew that his mind was filled with dark thoughts, Thorn wasn't sure if he actually did deserve this torture disguised as religious intervention. Worst of all, it wasn't the first time- being involuntarily subjected to this sick ritual drowning disguised as baptism.
How he hated his parents- his father for the traumatic experiences, abuse, and blame- he often wished that he'd never been born. He hated his mother for being neglectful, complacent, idly standing by- a silent witness to his pain- "I'll pray for him," she always said, allowing this torment to continue. Anything wrong his younger siblings did had always been blamed on him because he was the oldest, and therefore supposedly responsible for watching them.
I would feel betrayed, if only I could feel anything, Thorn thought, feeling the cold water enter his lungs like an unwanted guest. This is how I die, I suppose- it's been a miserable existence anyway- who can I truly blame except for myself? Then, everything was cold, cold and black, the darkness he felt rivaling the darkness in his own mind. I don't want to die- he thought in panic, the self-preservation taking hold even through the icy waters that surrounded him, infused his being. I'm going to kill you if I don't die here, Father, Thorn thought before losing consciousness. Well, 13 years of hell might finally be over now...
He woke up on the rocky shore of the lake to the sound of ambulance sirens. What's going on? Am I dead? he thought, slowly opening his eyes and staring around, the edges of his peripheral vision fuzzy, out of focus. However- the medical team was not here for him- typical. He heard the angry voice of his father, his mother crying inconsolably, and his younger brother- 10 year old Colin- asking "Is she going to Heaven, mommy?" Thorn was confused- he sat up, coughing up murky lakewater, removing several large leeches that were stuck to his cold skin. Disgusting... He noticed a black coroner's van in the parking lot, a small shrouded figure on the cart they were wheeling into the back.
Due to the negligence of his parents, while Thorn was being subjected to the false baptism and his brother was off playing in the shallow end of the lake with friends, nobody had noticed when 3 year old Amelia had fallen into the water- the body in the back of the coroner's van was Thorn's younger sister, who had drowned instead. "I don't know what happened," his mother kept repeating, crying into her hands. Of course you know- liar- you were too busy watching for onlookers while I was being drowned on purpose. Now more than ever, Thorn felt a deep hatred for both of his parents for allowing his sister to die. She hadn't deserved it, but at least she would be spared the endless torment of being a part of this family.
A week later was Amelia's memorial service, Thorn stood solemnly in the back of the church, wearing all black. Everyone was crying except for him, and he stared down at the ground, both hands in his pockets, a strange emptiness in his mind. His sister was gone, dead, her small casket a terrible sight to behold- yet he felt an odd emotion- the lack of grief processing. The priest spoke to the people gathered there, mostly distant relatives that Thorn had never met. Part of the service was in German, as this was the land from whence his ancestors originated. The air in the church was stifling hot, filled with a musty incense smell, and Thorn rubbed at his dry eyes, hoping that it would pass for a semblance of grief instead of a mild allergic reaction.
After the service, the remnants of his family went back to their house, all of them silent, not looking at each other. Thorn stared out the window in the backseat of the car, it had started to rain, as if the earth was mourning the loss of his sister in his place. The police never questioned his parents- although Thorn knew that they could be charged with negligent homicide- if anyone would even believe his story. He knew enough to shut up- keep this dark secret locked inside of his head.
That night, he dreamed of cold, dark waters, faces floating just underneath the surface, staring up at him with dead, empty eyes. They reached their drowned, lifeless hands towards him, calling him to join them in the abyss. Thorn woke up in terror, unable to move, paralyzed by fear. He felt cold sweat running down his face, and he stared vacantly at the ceiling of his room, hoping that this would pass. His sleep paralysis episodes were getting progressively worse, it was almost a nightly occurrence now, and he was scared that one day he would be trapped in his own fear- this horrible comatose state which he could not escape. He knew that he had to avenge his sister's death- but did not know the means to the dark end.
After Amelia had died, Thorn continued wearing all black- sometimes shades of grey, white- the somber, monochrome attire reflecting the empty, colorless void in his mind. It was different from the terrible Red Void he'd seen in dreams, but equally as dark and depraved. Most people just thought that he was an angsty teenager, though he rarely showed his true rage, keeping it carefully hidden away like a bad habit. Thorn mostly stayed in his room when he was forced to be at the house, working on dark paintings that he usually ended up destroying in rare fits of rage. He poured the thick oil paints onto the canvas, the expensive pigments smearing the surface. The turpentine he used had a relaxing scent, the harsh juniper-alcohol chemical odor permeating the air of his room.
Thorn did exceptionally well in school- despite his various mental disorders and emotional shortcomings, he was smart, precise- able to think quickly and rationally when presented with a problem. His grades were the best in the class, and his peers- though they thought he was strange, had an odd respect for him, though they avoided him in the hallways and wouldn't meet his eyes. Thorn didn't exactly blame them- his black eyes always held a cold, dark expression- as if the darkness inside was slightly visible in his intense stare. He didn't have any friends, though this did not bother him- as he was used to living in isolation.
I don't feel happy, sad, it's not depression, or really anger- it's frustration, the projection of other people's feelings, an ersatz emotion, he thought, trying to rationalize the emptiness. He sat alone in the back of the classroom, meticulously taking notes in his precise handwriting in sepia pen. His father no longer had to worry about him writing with the 'Devil's hand', as Thorn had grown accustomed to being right-handed by now. His favorite subjects were anatomy, medical terminology, and science- although he enjoyed writing, philosophy, and art- he found most of the teachers pretentious, and knew that they would not be supportive of any of his own creative ventures- as his artwork and writing were always deemed 'too dark, too disturbing'.
He'd taken to writing dark poetry in a small black Moleskine notebook, which he had titled 'MURDER POEMS'. He wrote about all of the dark thoughts he had, spilling them out onto the blank white pages. It was almost similar to an exorcism of sorts- as he always felt calmer, the murderous urges suppressed for the time being. Thorn prayed that nobody would ever find his dark writing, because then they would truly see the kind of monster he secretly was. He stared down at the notebook in his hand, repeating the dark words he'd written to himself.