Defy the Dark (21 page)

“It really happened. You have to believe me! I—”

“Now, Sabe—”

“You think I'm some stupid, crazy kid, lying to get attention—”

“You better quiet yourself down—”

“You have to listen to me! I'm not making it up—”

“Sebastian! Enough!”

“No, Mom! You're never here and when you are, you never listen!!”

“SHUT UP!” And she threw her wine cooler on the floor. It smashed into tiny, sharp pieces that slid all over the place. Then she reached out and grabbed my chin with her thumb and forefinger. “You listen to me,” she said, a snarl on her face. “There's no such thing as wizards or dragons or magic lands or any of that shit. There's nowhere else out there. This is all there is. Do you hear me?”

She still had my chin and she pinched it hard.

“Do. You. Hear. Me,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She let go and leaned back in her seat. “Now, go up to your room and do your homework. And mind the broken glass. I don't want you cutting yourself.”

I nodded and walked across the kitchen, trying to tiptoe around the glittering shards. I climbed the stairs two at a time, that feeling of needing to be alone in my room like a craving in my gut. I closed the door and dropped down on my bed. I felt so stupid, so embarrassed. I curled up in a ball so hard I felt like I'd turn myself inside out. Of course I wasn't magically possessing other people's bodies. That was just idiotic.

I wanted to pull the covers over my head and sleep until the sun was up. Maybe tomorrow I wouldn't feel like the stupidest person in the world anymore. Maybe. But I couldn't even keep my eyes closed, much less go to sleep. I picked up my book and almost started reading. But then I thought,
What if these books are the problem?
Filling my head with wishes that couldn't come true. I threw it across the room.

It lay there on the carpet, the sword on the cover glinting in the light. Maybe that was too harsh. Maybe I didn't mean it. . . .

To distract myself, I decided to write in this journal. I thought maybe it would clear my head. Help me see what's really going on. But it still doesn't make sense, and now I want to pick up my book again.

Screw it. I'm going to go read. At least it'll stop me thinking about what a jackass I am.

 

Wednesday, February 3, Butt-Ass Early

I
think I really messed up. I don't know how, exactly, but here's what happened.

Last night I read so late that I fell asleep on top of my covers with my clothes still on. Then I had one of my dreams. If that's even still what I'm calling them. And this one was the weirdest yet. I was inside this old black guy. He was dressed all in white and had lots of jewelry. Like necklaces, bracelets, and rings. Except it wasn't jewels and gold. It was all made of bones and fabric and a few weird crystals here and there. He was sitting in a chair in a motel room. You know, the kind that all look the same. He was reading some book, but it was in another language. French, I think. But I don't read French so I couldn't say for sure.

I watched the foreign words in the book as his rough, dry hands turned pages. And I got that crazy impulse again. To assert myself. What did it matter, anyway, since none of this was real? So I grabbed the book and tossed it across the room just like I'd thrown my own book earlier in my room.

“Interesting . . . ,” said the man. He had a French accent, but not a heavy one.

He stood up slowly. I expected him to walk over and pick up the book, but he went the opposite way to the dresser. There was a mirror above the dresser, and he looked at himself in it. He had long gray dreadlocks and his face was wrinkly and scarred. But his expression was curious. Playful, almost. He touched the mirror and whispered something quietly in French. The mirror shimmered. Then, instead of looking at his reflection, I was looking at my own.

“Hello, little nightwalker,” he said. “You should be more careful where you go. No telling what sort of attention you'll get.”

I snapped awake in my own room, on my bed. But I was breathing hard like I'd just been running, and in my ears I could still hear his quiet, dry chuckle.

I didn't sleep the rest of the night. I didn't want to, because I was afraid I'd go back to that guy. But even if I wanted to sleep, I couldn't because my mind was racing. Nothing but questions without answers and no one to ask. All I've got is this stupid journal that just stares back at me with my own thoughts.

 

Wednesday or Thursday, Hell If I Know What Time It Is

I
t was hard to get through school that next day after only three hours of sleep. I kept nodding off in class and then jerking back awake, afraid I'd slip off to somewhere else. Or I guess, someone else. I never did, though. Not sure why. The old guy had called me “nightwalker,” so maybe it's something I can only do at night.

Max wasn't at school. And neither was Ms. Randall. I heard they were both in the hospital, Max with appendicitis. They didn't say what Ms. Randall had, only that she'd be out at least a few days. Did the old guy do this to them? Curse them or something? He hadn't seemed evil, exactly. But he had jewelry made from bones. That was like witch-doctor stuff. I thought about going to check in on Max at the hospital, but then I thought if the old guy did it, maybe that was exactly what he wanted me to do. No, if I did that, I might be putting Max and Ms. Randall in more danger. Not to mention myself.

After school, I tried to do some homework. It was kind of nice to do math, something that was predictable. But eventually Bill came home and he turned the TV up extra loud again and it was getting late and I was so tired by then that I started to nod off over my homework. And if I was right that I could only go places at night, I definitely didn't want to fall asleep right then. I thought about reading for a while to keep myself awake. But I was still half convinced that all this was some crazy paranoia from reading too much of that crap. So instead I did something drastic. I went downstairs and watched TV with Bill.

“Well, goddamn, if it ain't Sabe,” he said as I walked into the den. He was sprawled out on the plaid wool couch, his big belly sticking up, a can of Natty Light in his hand. “Didn't even know you still lived here.”

“Hey, Bill,” I said, and sat down in the easy chair across from him.

“Get too sore to jerk off anymore?” he said, then laughed. But the laugh turned into a nasty, hacking cough that went on for about a minute and ended with him spitting some big glob of something into his handkerchief.

“What are you watching?” I asked.

“One of those reality shows,” he said, his eyes still watery from coughing so much. “'Bout this guy who makes stuff out of junk.” He took a gulp of beer. “I shoulda done somethin' like that. Makin' stuff, instead of destroyin' stuff for a living.” He chugged the rest of his beer. “Well, too late now.” He put the empty can with the rest of the empties on the coffee table, then picked a fresh one from the case on the floor next to him.

The guy on the show wandered around a junkyard, picking up stuff that you would have thought would be totally useless. Then he put all these useless things together and came up with this cool tractor-car thing. But even though the show was kind of interesting, my eyes started to get heavy, and before I'd realized what was happening, I fell asleep.

When I woke up a little later, I was looking at myself. It took me a second to figure that out because it was hard to think for some reason. First I stared stupidly at myself snoring in the easy chair. Then I noticed I had a beer can in my hand. Well, that explained why I was having trouble thinking. I was drunk. I looked down at myself and I was sprawled out on the plaid couch with my big belly sticking up in the air. I was inside Bill.

I was thinking to myself that this was about the worst thing that could happen, when my mom came home. She walked in without looking at us and slowly put her bag on the kitchen counter. Bill stood up, stumbling a little. I'd had a few beers here and there with Max, but I'd never felt drunk like this. It was weird how slow his body was. It felt kind of numb, too. As he walked over to the kitchen, he banged his shin on the coffee table and it barely felt like anything.

“What you doin' home so early?” he said. He didn't sound happy about it.

“They sent me home because of my face,” she said. Then she turned toward us. Toward
him
I mean. And what had been a small bruise before now covered half her face. It had a weird purple shine to it, except around the eye, which was leaking some kind of fluid.

“What the hell happened to you?!” he said, stepping back.

“
You
happened, Bill,” she said quietly.

“Bullshit. I didn't do that. Yesterday, that was an accident. I said I was sorry. But this? No way in hell I did this.”

“I'm telling you,” she said. “Nothing else happened. It just keeps getting worse and worse. It's what
you
did.”

“You better shut the hell up, woman, or I
will
make it worse.”

“Not with Sabe over there sleeping!”

“Who gives a rat's ass about that whiny little bitch?”

“Don't you talk like that about my son!”

“Or what?”

“Or . . . ,” she said, her one good eye wide, angry, and desperate. “Or I'll leave you.”

“That's it,” Bill said. I could feel the blood pounding through his drunk brain, feel him make a fist, feel his shoulder tense as he hauled off to hit her. For a split second I felt and watched it all start to happen, and I was so scared I wanted to scream.

Then I thought,
I can stop this
.

His fist was halfway to the good side of her face when I stopped it in midair. Mom stared at me. I mean
him
. Us. Stared at us, looking scared and surprised. I wasn't sure if I could talk to her, or what I'd say.
Hey, Mom, don't worry. It's just me, Sabe, possessing Bill's body
. Yeah, I knew that probably wouldn't work, so I just didn't say anything.

I made him walk to the front door. It wasn't easy. Controlling someone else's body was already pretty awkward, and being drunk made it even harder. After stumbling back and forth a little, I made it to the door. It was hard to turn the knob and open the door, too. Finally we made it out onto our rickety old front porch. Thankfully, Mom didn't follow.

I wasn't sure what I was going to do with him at first. I just knew I had to get him away from Mom before I lost control of him. But once I got outside into the cold night air, I started to think maybe I could solve this problem forever. We lived real close to the freeway. Everybody in the neighborhood knew Bill was a useless drunk, and it wouldn't surprise any of them to find out tomorrow that he'd walked out in front of a semi truck going seventy miles an hour.

It took a little while to stumble up the steep grassy hill to the short metal guardrail that ran along the side of the freeway. But finally we were there, right on the shoulder. It was still way before midnight, so there was plenty of traffic zipping by. The wind hit our face every time a car or truck blew past. If I stepped us out now, it would happen in seconds.

But I hesitated. Because now that I was here, now that I was feeling less drunk and a little more calm, this looked a lot like murder.

“Do it,” said a voice like rock scraping tar.

I turned toward the voice. It looked like a man, big and muscular, with gold armor that shone in the fluorescent freeway lights. He sat on a white horse with a sword sheathed at his side and a long wooden spear in his hand. But even weirder than all that, he had a lion head. His mouth was open slightly and I could see his big canines. His cat eyes flashed as he stared down at me.

“What the hell . . . ,” I whispered with Bill's voice.

“An amusing choice of words,” he said. “I am Sabnack, and I am here to take you away from this banal and tedious existence to a place better suited for you. But first, destroy this useless meat sack. I want to make sure you can follow orders.”

“I don't think he's going to do that,” said another voice. That one I recognized. I turned to my other side and saw the old black guy with the gray dreadlocks.

“You!” I said.

“Hello, little nightwalker,” he said with a tired smile. “It looks like you've picked up some unwanted company.”

“
You
are the unwanted company,
bokur
!” said the lion-headed guy on the horse. “I have been watching this one for weeks, working in the background, waiting until his abilities had acceptably matured. Your sudden appearance has forced my hand.” Then he turned to me. “This old fool is weak and poor. What can he possibly give you? I am strong. I am powerful. I have lived for five centuries and have forgotten more than he will ever know.”

“You said you'll take me away from here?” I asked. “What, like some magic land?”

“More strange and magical than you can imagine,” he said. “A world of heroes and beasts, beautiful maidens and cruel, villainous foes. Kill this mortal whom you hate so much and prove your loyalty to me. Then I will take you there.”

“It's true,” said the old man. “I'm old and weak. Sabnack is far more powerful than me. He can take you to a world so unlike this one, you'd scarcely believe your own eyes. A world that contains both breathtaking beauty and horrifying destruction. But think about what he asks of you. To kill, even a man as wretched as this one?”

“I deal out life and death without hesitation,” said Sabnack. “And if I tell him to kill this mortal, that is the only justification he needs.”

The old man's eyes narrowed. “It's true you deal in death. I've heard that the sword and spear you carry are only symbols. That your real weapon is sickness and decay.” He turned to me then. To Bill and me. “How's your friend? Your teacher? Sick, aren't they? Very suddenly?”