A/N: So, hi. After a few kind comments (on Sampson, Barbara, and, most recently, Life in Flame) and one particular author here, I decided to bite the bullet and write Haze, the first story in a series of books--novels, anthologies of short stories, and perhaps a few novellas. There's a basic iron skeleton of an idea and the characters are so, so vivid to me, but, again, like Mythos I'm going out on a limb posting this. I proof-read and used spell-check so maybe I caught all/most issues, but if I didn't feel free to point them out and I'm sorry about that, but this is in first draft mode.
This chapter is a short opening, otherwise, and the second chapter should be longer. There should be about twenty-five chapters to Haze, all this length or slightly longer, how I have it plotted.
As a whole this book will veer from roughly 12+ to 18+, though that's pretty relative. I mean, I use them for their purpose, but depending on how mature you are--yeah. Basically? 16+ is for chapters with some heavy implications (such as this one) and weak language; 12+ is for lighter stuff; 18+ is for scenes involving high violence, coarse language, and implications/vague portrayal of personalized violence--such as emotional, physical, and sexual abuse. So, check out the ratings, guys. This chapter isn't too dark, but the HAZE series is creepy. Hence me taking so long to write something that was so stark in my brain. Basically, though, if you enjoyed A Clockwork Orange and/or The Hunger Games you should be generally okay. I'll try to list any potential triggers as I notice them, but if you guys do before me--I'm terribly sorry and I will add a warning.
This is sort of literary fiction in third person from the character Jacksin's POV (usually?). It sort of drifts from past to present tense in a sort of planned way--but tell me if anything looks particularly weird. The reason I'm using third person will steadily become more apparent (or so I hope). If this thing has a genre, it's horror. Pretty straight-up, too.
Triggers: implications of illness, bio-terror, mentioned regular terrorism via explosions, cheap shot by Jacksin about the fact he's not harming himself (he isn't, I try to keep this from going emo-cliche), and various other things that aren't quite as harsh but may need warnings (I'll leave that up to the readers, but, yeah--mentions of psychopathy and sort-of-abandonment-via divorce).
Hope you all enjoy (not too much) and take the time to leave a review?
Note: The Sampson in this is probably not the Sampson in Sampson. Just FYI.
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CHAPTER ONE
Indistinct
NOW
The bathroom was in between 70s horror and modern chic. In reality, that just meant it looked like someone had taken a hammer to the salmon pink tile, misplaced a slab of granite, and the mirror was crooked. White plaster dust and cobwebs collected in the corners and a few dead bugs and paint drips littered the floor along with shredded carpet, the only reminder about what had been the flooring previous to his uncle and aunt’s take on restoration. All in all, the bathroom reminded Jacksin of himself. Someone was trying to fix it, but they kept forgetting about the fact it existed for long stints of time. He wasn’t usually so dramatic, maybe, but analyzing was one of his hobbies. Trying to make sense of things better left ignored kept your brain from having blank time where bad things, easily comparable to the bugs, could creep in, really. Thinking about stuff that didn’t matter to anyone else sort of kept you busy, basically. Jacksin sort of craved being busy. He almost loved the fact he was seven or so months behind on school because he had to work hard most days just trying to not have to retake the same grade more than twice. The only problem was everyone at school thought he was a fruitloop and on crazy pills, but, hey, what’s done is done. Made him sort of want to graduate quicker, but how fast could he really go?
Today, however, he didn’t have that option, the option of focusing on schoolwork, because it was the weekend, which lead him to be sitting in this bathroom. It wasn’t one commonly used and it might take his aunt a little bit of time to find him, which would be good. It wasn’t like she was horrible, but Gianna didn’t know when to quit. She would pester him until he developed ulcers, really. She was better than his mother, though; Gianna had emotions, his mother did not. She did cold well and nothing else.
However, his uncle, Sampson, made up for things. He was a fun guy. He was always breaking out his old Nintendo 64 so they could play something like Golden Eye, dragging him and his cousins (not Sampson’s children) to art museums, or randomly bringing Jacksin home a pint of ice cream. He supposed Sampson felt a little sorry for him since his parents had sort of kicked him out during their divorce. The paperwork was all done now, but they still didn’t want him back. He couldn’t really blame them. His father was married to his job, but had to have someone to clean the house, and his mother hated human interaction but had to have a husband or she got hit on or considered weird, two things she sincerely hated. Their split didn’t make sense to him in that regard, but they’d kept having fights and neither liked confrontation that wasn’t in their favor. He was pretty sure they were now dating a pair of door mats, ignoring their old wish to have someone as business-minded as them. In relation to him, though: Neither of them had intended to have Jacksin in the first place and after what happened--well, neither of them wanted him back. They figured, like Gianna, he must have messed up badly; maybe killed someone, or gotten mixed up with the wrong people, or something to do with drugs or perhaps the assassination of some bigwig politician. Neither his parents or Gianna seemed to realize that not everything had a cause, that sometimes bad things just happened. They liked thinking that there was more order to the world than there really was. That if something bad happened to someone, they were being punished; and if you did something bad to someone, you would be punished. It was a never ending cycle then, one where no one could tell where began and ended other than a vague idea of Heaven and Hell and it annoyed him.
He much preferred how his uncle, Sampson, thought of things. He didn’t blame bad weather on God or the devil, which was good by him.
Not everything had to be so complicated.
He did wonder, though, what force got Sampson and Gianna together, because that destiny seemed a bit hokey.
“Jacksin?” a voice asked.
He tipped his head and let his gaze, once lingering on a spot on the wall, go towards the door. He knew it was Gianna; her scratchy yet rich voice could be held apart anytime. “Yes?” he asked finally. He knew he sounded like a ghoul; all croak and deep intonation. He partially hated it, but he still hadn’t fallen back into the habit of talking to normal people and he couldn’t quite decide how it was meant to be done.
“Marisol and her husband are here, Jacksin,” Gianna said, sounding perturbed, “and you’re hiding in the bathroom.”
“Sounds like the best time to hide in a bathroom to me,” Jacksin mumbled, “you have each other all entertained.”
He picked at the sleeve of his shirt, unsure of what to do. He didn’t want to be the pouting, sulky teenager everyone hated; he didn’t want that attached to his name. Yet, he didn’t particularly like human interaction. It felt like his seven months or so had been seven decades. He had no idea what was considered hip or whatever, or what was even appropriate now. He knew he could curse like a sailor and he knew he could completely silent, even in pain. Yet, the basics of small talk flew right over his head. He didn’t get it. Why talk if there was nothing to talk about? Wouldn’t you be more likely to say something to offend the other?
Perhaps everyone had been replaced by robots in his time away. Or maybe he just had something wrong with him, now. He bet it was the latter, but he tried to avoid that line of questioning.
“Jacksin,” Gianna said, firmly, “you need to come out and visit.”
“Why? I’m the token young adult guy. You adults can have fun and their kids and dogs can play and everyone is happy.”
“Jacksin.”
He sighed to himself quietly. He didn’t like making them mad. It felt like some sort of betrayal. They just never seemed to understand how uncomfortable he was now. He was so ugly and dirty and he was sure everyone could tell. He knew it was all in his head, but it didn’t change the fact he was ruined. Once you were ruined, you stayed ruined. Everybody knew that. So why did Gianna keep trying to drag him into happy situations? He’d be in the doorway and see Marisol and her husband, Thomas (Sampson’s younger brother), having a bright conversation with Sampson himself; the dogs would be asleep at their feet and their two children, a boy and girl, would be playing Barbies in the floor. Then he’d cross the threshold and everything went awry. The dogs would wake and growl low, the kids would excitedly come and jump at his legs, and Marisol’s smile would go fake and Thomas would look awkward. Sampson, excited as ever, would try and keep talking and only feel hurt when he realized that Marisol and Thomas didn’t care for what he was saying anymore.
Jacksin closed his eyes, hands grasping at the extra material of his sweatshirt, even as he stood. He had to wonder how much Marisol and Thomas knew. Surely not much. No one really did. He hadn’t squealed. He’d wanted to avoid them knowing as long as possible. He hadn’t even talked to the therapist they were sending him to, paid for by his uppity parents, to try and get him help. Maybe he would have if Sampson were spending his money on it, but as long as it was paid by people who could truly care less and just felt like tossing money at him, their trick pony, he didn’t care.
So, he never really understood Marisol and Thomas’s fear. He’d never hurt their kids, always was gentle with them even if he was about five times their sizes; he was nice to the dogs, even if they barely tolerated him, and he was respectful (even to Gianna most of the time). Yet, like most people, they seemed wary--like he was about to snap. They had questions in their minds and until they had answers, they didn’t want him around.
Score one for The Monster, not that he’d ever let him know he’d been right.
It all just seemed weird to him. Sure, he wasn’t exactly the same person he’d been when he left, but he hadn’t seemed particularly dangerous when he came back, did he? He’d come home drenched in snow melt, bruised, scarred, and bloody--that was pretty scary--but he had barely been strong enough to stand up, he’d needed support.
He didn’t understand why anyone thought he was the monster and not the victim. The Monster was certainly the monster. Of course, Thomas and Marisol hadn’t been exposed to anything much worse than perhaps the retelling of that story told by Gianna or maybe a flailing, frantic Samspon; the kids probably didn’t even know why their parents were so frosty to him. Marisol and Thomas lived in suburbia. The worst thing they heard on the television was about ghetto crime and more on the children that a certain terrorism sect had unleashed on the world, armed with explosives, that caused the schools to be even more prison-like than before. Maybe they were right to fear young people, be suspicious about him being involved in that, but he’d made sure that Sampson and everyone know that, no, he hadn’t joined a cult or something like that. I mean, he sort of did--but not willingly and not that sort of terrorist cult.
He assumed that The Monster would prefer bio-terror to explosions, really.
Gianna knocked again. “If you don’t come out, I’m getting Sampson.”
“It’s not like I’m cutting myself or puking my guts up,” Jacksin said, in a monotone. He opened his eyes to see the scratched wood of the old door and he leaned against the counter, hip against cool marble, and opened the door.
Gianna checked his wrists and the toilet after that. He just stood for inspection. He had been minutely expecting that.
***
If there was one thing Jacksin particularly hated, it was the fact everyone seemed to be depressed these days. He wasn’t even depressed. Shell-shocked, maybe. Depressed? No. He had a handle on himself. Yet, everyone kept expecting all Hell to break loose, which was--weird. Well, okay. Not too weird. He could understand where they were coming from, but he could handle what had happened. He had to handle it. If he couldn’t, he didn’t know where he would be.
Of course, he probably shouldn’t be so judgmental. He probably was just emotionally stunted from growing up living with the ice queen and her king, the sort who gave him things if he made straight A’s but always had someone else cook their food or microwave it and never had a normal conversation at dinner even though their long wooden table, centerpiece, and general homey-feeling dining room seemed perfect for it. They might talk business, or ask him a simple question, but talking out of turn got him scandalized expressions thrown at him.
Clearly, someone growing up around non-psychopathic people might be more emotional. Plus, some of them were sick. He could understand that. Something you couldn’t control. And he hated sounding like those weed-smokers that went on and on about ‘posers’ behind his high school.
All in all, the latest fiasco ended with him sitting on the carpeted floor of the living room, sun blazing in through the windows even though the house was cool.
The living room was one of his favorite rooms. There were ferns and some white-flowering house plants in the corners, a giant army green sofa, creamy-tan walls, soft shag carpet, and a big, old TV which tended to have some sort of game on if Sampson had anything to do with it. Now it had baseball. Jacksin tipped his head, wondering whether or not it was a recorded game or not depending on the time of year, and then realized he didn’t remember how that all worked.
He’d never much liked sports.
Jacksin then looked over at Marisol’s two darlings. They were sweet kids; not too rowdy and not prone to hiding edible things under the couch’s pillows. Currently Derby and Sara were crashed out, curled up in a puppy-pile with a few stuffed animals and their tri-color beagle, Sage, who glared at Jacksin.
Jacksin turned his head slightly when he felt another pair of eyes on him--Marisol’s. He met her icy blue gaze for an instant and then swallowed hard and shifted back against the couch. Their chocolate-and-tan dachshund made a disgruntled noise and then shoved its nose into Jacksin’s mop of blond hair.
“You know I’m not Freddie Krueger, right?” he asked quietly.
Marisol didn’t respond, she just turned her nose and focused on the game playing. Some dude ran around the bases and made a home run. Sampson whooped from where he was on the couch.
“Don’t spill your drink, honey,” Gianna said quickly, glancing over at Sampson from where she sat on one of the two chairs in the room; plush, fake-leather things.
“Don’t worry, I won’t. No need to drench Jack, right?” Sampson said, putting his beer down on the side table. He then ruffled Jacksin’s hair, something Jacksin patiently ignored. He didn’t particularly like being touched, not anymore--but Sampson was different, he wouldn’t hurt him. So, feeling like a cat with its tail being tugged on by a toddler, he asked Thomas what they were doing up here.
Thomas frowned thoughtfully in response. “Uh, well, Mikey’s coming through, isn’t he, Sammy?”
Sampson nodded. “Yeah,” he said, nodding curtly. He brushed some of his dark wavy hair out of his face, leaving Jacksin free to move a bit.
“He bringing Laura with him?” Jacksin asked politely, meekly. He hoped not, though--which was horrible. The tall brunette was nice. But if Laura came, that meant their dogs would come. Two giant mutts and a cream-and-black pug that always nipped at your ankles as some form of endearment.
He didn’t really like dogs anymore, either. They just--he didn’t know. He wasn’t really afraid of them, per se; he was just particularly aware of what sort of damage anything with teeth like that could do. Especially if those teeth had sixty to nearly two hundred pounds of force behind them, maybe more, according to the dog.
In the sense of being all-encompassing, he also noted the sharp teeth and claws on cats pretty often and their habit of sleeping on people’s faces.
“Yeah, of course,” Sampson said quickly. Jacksin’s uncle looked down at him, humor in his brown eyes. “What? You got a crush on her, or something? Bad idea, Jackie. Mike’s possessive and, dude, she’s almost my sister-in-law.”
Jacksin made a face. “No. I do not.”
“Bet he does,” Thomas commented.
Marisol’s glare only intensified.
Jacksin’s days tended to go badly, even now, but he grinned and bore it. Seriously, this was heaven compared to a lot else. He wasn’t going to be picky. At least Sampson was here and the two kids sort of liked him, even if he stayed away from them if he could.
Marisol thought he’d murder them all in their sleep or whatever crazy was revolving around her brain, but the truth was he still wasn’t a good influence.
He was still sick.
Not that anyone here knew that.
I'm sorry, I have nothing to review. Keep writing!
