Redeeming Rhys (6 page)

“I’m not a bad boy, Wren,” his trembling voice pleaded as he looked into her eyes. He wished he had the courage to reach out to cure the injury on her forehead, but something stopped him.

The words spilled off of his tongue like he was in a confessional booth before a priest that loved and adored him for who he was. Flaws and all. Past scars. Her brown eyes gave him promise, and at just ten-years-old, Rhys held on to goodness when he was so close to losing it all.

Her face, which was streaked with tears, was so beautiful, it hurt him. His heart stopped and it was hard for him to breathe. Was that what love felt like? He had looked at her so many times before, but nothing like what happened that afternoon. They were witness to how bad things could get. In that second, despite what they saw near that creaking swing-set, Rhys thought that Wren believed he wasn’t bad.

The heavy footsteps endangered their paradise, threatening to combust through the door, Rhys had to taste one more time before the goodness was covered back up with dirty sins. He was nothing but a dirty sin. No, no. He couldn’t believe it. She didn’t think he was. Without thinking more, Rhys leaned in and pressed his lips flat onto hers. The wetness from her face marked his, and all Rhys could think about was how amazing it was that he was being baptized by something so agile and unadulterated. Something worthy, because he wasn’t commendable. He was bad.

But she didn’t think so.

The door to their shared bedroom flung open with hurricane force, and Wren’s lips parted from Rhys’. She assumed her previous position with her small knees drawn up to her chest, the tears starting to stream down her mottled, innocent face.

“What are you doing? Don’t you touch her! Don’t you fucking touch her!” Charlie screamed, running over to Rhys, rage coursing through his veins with utter abhorrence. His hard features had cracked, his dark eyes as black as night. He had murder on his mind, though a sin, the bad boy had touched his little girl and he was going to pay.

Charlie grabbed Rhys by the collar of his shirt, yanking him up to his feet with little effort. Rhys was jousted up in the air, his worn tennis shoes leaving the creaking oak floors of his bedroom. The force made the wind from his lungs leave, and his eyes tried to stay on Wren, but they became hazy as the situation was too much for his little ten-year-old body.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

“You are a bad fucking boy, Rhys! Bad!” Charlie shouted, pushing him down onto the hard floor.

The air left Rhys’ chest another time. It was a futile fight, his sixty-pound frame against a two-hundred pound grown man. He could handle the pain. He could even deal with the harsh comments, but not in front of Wren. He almost had her convinced. He could see it in her eyes that she nearly believed that he wasn’t bad.

“You are going to find out what hell feels like for a while, bad boy. Think about your sins and pray to God that penance will find you.”

Rhys didn’t expect to find his mother behind Charlie. She was probably already passed out from her church-smelling wine in her bed. That’s how it always went for him, things were always worse when she was asleep, rather, passed out.

Charlie grabbed onto Rhys’ upper arm, too tight, and drug him along like a useless doll until they reached the door that Rhys hated. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t have any fears. That he was an invincible boy.

But that was a lie.

The cellar was were bad dreams came to life.

The cellar was where you paid for your sins.

The cellar was where he would understand the hurt. Remember it. And realize that God was a fucking mockery.

“Think about what you did today, Rhys. You think about it down there. Realize what a bad boy you’ve been.”

Charlie’s large hand made its way to the ivory doorknob, turning it slowly, opening the door to pitch black darkness. Rhys knew better than to fight. It would only make it worse, and Charlie would leave him down there for much longer if he flung around like a butterfly against a beast. So, he took it, but the memories would be his teacher. One day he would get back and the butterfly’s beauty would win against the beast’s brutality.

“Think about your sins down there. Maybe God will forgive you tomorrow, but not today. Not today, Rhys. Today you are still a bad boy that has sinned.”

Charlie pushed Rhys into the darkness. Rhys wanted to cry, after all, he was just a boy, but he wouldn’t let himself. Pride meant too much to him. He felt around for the railing, the musty smell overwhelming, instantly making him feel dirty. The jiggling railing was unsafe, but better than attempting to walk down a flight of stairs with no light. Rhys had done it enough times to remember that there was fourteen steps until his feet reached the concrete of hell below.

Twelve more, he thought.

Rhys missed a step and went tumbling down, hitting his head on a step and rolling down until his body went limp onto the hardness below.

He had met his hell and blackness hugged him. It was both frightening and comforting all in one. He succumbed to it, realizing he was right where he needed to be.

PECK, PECK PECK.
Tickle, tickle, tickle.

Rhys felt little touches on his head. He was much too tired to attempt to stop it. Instead, he let the soft movements and scratches tap over his forehead until there was biting. Little nibbles bit at his skin, trying to take its dinner, and Rhys allowed it because his arms were too exhausted from the fall. He opened his eyes, the light from the half-window across the basement shining in, giving way to the glorious morning sunshine. The pecking teeth stopped briefly, and fur rubbed against his skin. Rhys opened his eyes completely to see a rat. A useless animal before his eyes.

But how useless was it? Was he that different than the animal? He had been thrown into the same kind of hell to survive. The rat was fighting more than he was. He was just lying there to rot. To die. To wait to burn in a hell that he believed to be true, rather than heaven. Because the heaven that he had been witness to was short-lived.

The rat stilled when Rhys’ eyes bared themselves into its black ones. They shared a moment of understanding. A second of clarity where Rhys realized instead of being like others where bad things happen, he would remember. He would wake up every single day and listen to be the good boy they wanted.

He would plan for vengeance.

Because they deserved their hell too. He needed to get what he needed first. It may take a year, or five, but he would take it before he took them. Rhys knew that the rat understood him, and he appreciated that. He hadn’t had that before. Maybe it was because he was badly concussed, or perhaps he had never came to such a conclusion before.

Rhys wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he laid there staring at that rat. It could have been minutes, hours, or days. Time means nothing when you mean nothing. The once cold concrete was lukewarm from his skin. Rhys slowly began to feel strength as his friend stayed by his side, never attempting to take a bite from his head again. His blonde hair was littered with blood. His clothes amuck with dirt and grime and he smelled strongly of urine and feces, as he had defecated and urinated on himself.

Rhys reached a moment as his heart began beating faster. He heard the screams from Wren. Maybe it was his brain playing tricks on him, maybe not. It was the solidifying factor to his maddening plan. It was final. He couldn’t let his only advisor and friend get away with the secrets that he shared. No. He had to keep them locked away in his head. He had to make sure that no one else had the key.

With one swift movement, he grabbed the rat. Its squeals insignificant and unrecognizable. Rhys turned onto his back, still weak from the fall, and brought the rat to his face to say a final farewell.

“No one will know my secrets now, Mr. Rat. Farewell.”

Rhys petted his rough fur with his free hand once, then wrapped it around his neck, twisting it in an awkward way. But it wasn’t so uncomfortable for him. When he heard a crunch and the squealing stopped, he knew that the rat had died and his secrets were safe. He had to wear them too.

He threw the rat on the ground, the thump on the concrete bringing him out of his concussed stupor. He took a moment to sit up, gathering his wits. He was dizzy, but his vision had regained itself as he eyed the white bucket he used to defecate and urinate in on the normal occasions he was thrown in the cellar to repent for his sins.

He clutched the rat in one hand, crawled over to the bucket, his small joints crying out in pain, and turned around to face the exposed brick wall. The roughness of it making him realize it was a wicked reality he was living it. There wasn’t a place on his little body that didn’t hurt, but he promised himself he would remember it. All of it. He would follow through with his plan, no matter what it took.

He took the rat’s throat into his mouth and bit until its fur was ripped free. The blood started to ooze from its neck. He sat over the bucket, squeezing the rat over his face as he baptized himself with his secrets and made a deal with the devil. Vengeance never seemed sweeter.

Regression into the fire never felt sweeter.

A NIGHTMARE IS CLASSIFIED
as something disturbing, affecting one while they sleep. Rhys didn’t find a peaceful slumber often, and when he did, he was frightened by the remembrances of his past. He hated that he wasn’t able to dream of the dark haired princess that played with his heart. Instead, he dreamt of rats, damp basements, and hard fists.

“Glory be to The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit!” Rhys shouted, sitting up, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding from his chest.

For mere moments, he forgot that he was lying next to a blood-stained dead girl. In those few seconds of panic between a nightmare and wake, the unknowing wraps itself around you. Rhys thought he was ten-years-old again, having a meaningless conversation with Mr. Rat while thinking about the ways he could get back at the world while still thinking of her, because she had seen him do something terrible. Something so bad, he didn’t even understand it. But she didn’t condemn him to a dirty basement to wash him from his sins.

Instead, she looked at him with such innocence, all Rhys could think about was how glorious it would be to steal that. To suck it away. To taste her blood. To wear it. To feel the warmth tickle his bruised skin and make him feel harmless. Loved. Worthy.

But that was a façade. It wasn’t real. He wasn’t even sure what the difference was anymore, between reality and his dreams. Rhys ran his long fingers through his hair, greasy and unkempt. He couldn’t recall the last time he had showered. He was used to living a lifestyle where showers and clean clothing were a luxury, especially when you relied heavily on taking from others. Life. Money. Everything.

The smell of caked-on blood made his senses peak, his tired demeanor disappearing almost as quickly as he woke from the tormented incubi from his past. He looked around the room and noticed the shade of red had started to change. He had memorized the various colors, the states in which they dried as well as the time it took. Bright red blood, almost rose-like crimson, is fresh, so new you could nearly smell the life swimming around in it. As hours pass, brick-red blood pools as the life begs to stay while death pulls it away, turning it to a thicker substance than the liquid that originally leaves the body. As more time passes, a day or so, the blood turns dark, an almost blackish-red. The once liquefied substance that seeped from the body is dried, hardened little canvases splattered about, confirmation of a life that once existed in a fucked up world that made no sense.

Based on what Rhys knew about blood and time, she had been gone only hours. The brick-red blood was dashed everywhere throughout the beat-down motel, creating a macabre tragedy. It was significant for a life gone. Evil pervading, but make no mistake. Evil is cyclic. Sometimes good doesn’t always win. Many times, people lie and say it does. But at that second as Rhys looked over at the girl’s naked, mutilated and cold, dead body, it was proof that evil had won. He wished for sadness to find him, to feel pieces of his black heart break, but it never came.