The Spectre

Chapter Seven

Eleven Years Earlier

2035

Jez was three years old, and already he was strong. He had several pictures along the hallway of his house of him holding first place trophies, his mother proudly beside him and his father, well, threatening to beat him afterward if he did not try harder. Jez had been used to his father's abusive behavior, and now tried to do his very best to please him. That was the one thing he wanted, above all, his father's love. Right now, his father was teaching him how to fence so he could win the next fencing tournament. Jez held his sword with two hands while his father held his own with one, swiping it through the air as though it were a feather. Jez had been trying to practice with a sword for a week or two, and he was improving with every attempt. However, he was not a match for his father.

His father disarmed him within seconds and, for good measure, let his rage take over as he slashed his sword through the air twice. Jez fell onto one knee and burst into tears, looking up at his father while holding his bleeding face. "Get to the gym. Train. I want you to be fitter, stronger and faster before our next lesson." His father instructed, tossing his sword aside and then leaving the backyard where he decided to train his son. Jez fled as quickly as possible, fully running to the closest gym to his house, the school gym. It was only four in the afternoon, so the school was still unlocked. Jez took the advantage to slip into the large school gym. Punching bags, multi-purpose mats, treadmills and weights were in every corner of the gym, and in the center was a large boxing ring, where people would train against one another.

Jez lifted his hand from his cheek and looked at it, seeing it stained with red. The blood had apparently stopped coming, but he had a feeling there would be a scar. He approached the nearest punching bag and ran a hand over it, feeling the unevenness inside. Instead of rice, or flour, or sand, these punching bags were full of small round pebbles. Jez's father had instructed it to be that way because he believed the harder the surface, the stronger it would make the person training. It seemed like a good theory, but Jez knew it would hurt. A lot. He took a deep breath and then threw a punch the way his father had shown him. He punched with his left fist, quickly followed by his right, and then repeated the process until his hands came away raw.

He trotted tiredly over to the treadmills and set it to a slow speed, slowly walking along. He did that for ten minutes before growing tiresome and then moving onto push-ups. He barely lasted doing four before collapsing onto his face. He was only three years old, why was he being put through this much hell and torment? He barely remembered what happened next. All Jez remembered was leaving the gym and headed back home, passing several other Zodiacs as he went. He barely even remembered approaching his front door, because the next thing he remembered was being in his bed, the sun gleaming brightly through his window. He looked around, and then his bedroom door swung open. Jez flinched slightly, but then realized it was his mother entering his bedroom. "Hey sweetie," she said, a small smile on her face as she approached his bed and leaned against the edge.

"Your father may be hard on you," she began, her voice somehow filling Jez with hope instantly, "But he only wants the very best for you. Do not give up sweetie. It may feel like you're alone in all of this, but I love you very much." Jez even let a small smile appear on his own face as his mother leaned forwards and kissed him on the forehead, then standing and leaving his bedroom. Jez concluded it must have been the next day because the sun was still shining, so he got out of his bed, stretched and then felt his cheek. There were two diagonal lines he could feel, forming a cross on his left cheek, but Jez quickly took his hand away and slipped out the front door. He began running, his feet pounding the ground as he started sprinting.

He ran on and on, feeling as though his lungs were about to explode before he came to a stop in the school gym. His mother had her way with words, and no matter what, she always inspired Jez to be greater and better. So he immediately approached the punching bag closest to him, raising his fists and striking, hard. It swung a little, and Jez struck with his other fist, making the bag swing with more force. He punched again, and again, and again. Every strike pained his knuckles, but he now learned to ignore that pain, taking out all his anger and frustration into each blow. He stopped, catching his breath, and then headed over to the multi-purpose mats, where he began doing push-ups like the day before. He did not stop when his arms grew tired, but he kept pushing up and lowering himself, sweat already dripping from his forehead.