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The ride home was long and unforgivingly silent. The road was surrounded by a variety of deep green deciduous trees of late summer. Light traveled through verdant leaves and through car windows to eventually reach sad tired eyes. The rumbling of the car that was once a comfort only caused teetering uneasiness. The woman behind the wheel was doleful, her neat brown hair unusually awry. Dark bags clouded under her eyes, her age more obvious by the day. She sniffled occasionally, rubbed her eyes, glanced through the rear-view at her son in the backseat. The teenager stayed curled up–head against the cool window, hand clenched together–throughout the ride. He gave an occasional and noticeable sharp tilt of the head, quick spasm in his pale wrist, a click from his throat–unseen by normalcy. Involuntary and routine. The boy shared the stressed expression of his mother, though more tattered by wounds. His left side was scraped with shallow cuts, his fingers to his shoulder were covered in bandages. The boy's grimace, however, wasn't from any pain he felt from his injuries. In truth, he hadn't ever felt any physical pain in his life.
"Toby," his mother said faintly, "don't pick at your scabs."
He hadn't noticed. Toby hummed in response, taking in no information. He continued to stare through the window, queasy from every turn or bump the car made. The pebbles in the asphalt move by so quickly it's impossible to count them. The last time Toby rode in a car was when it crashed. Seconds tick by and Toby realized blood was dripping from his brow.
All he thought about on the ride home from the hospital was the moments before he passed out. The memory replayed while the car seat under him hummed with the engine and produced discriminative touch. The worst part is that when you realize something bad is happening it's too late–light flashes, glass shatters, head whips with the thrashing of the cage surrounding you. And, of course, the pain which congenital analgesia denies Toby. Blood never ceased to be a surprise–but when your sister's beside you, only oozing blood, you lose any other emotion besides terror. Toby couldn't envision her corpse from the surrounding airbags and what his brain managed to blot out, but it agonizes him anyway. The human body is incredibly red on the inside. He doubts he'd ever sit in the front seat again.
The forest around the car finally gave out to suburbia–and soon after an old, familiar neighborhood. Little one floor houses, little two story houses; sparse in trees, barely enough room for a backyard. At the end of the block the car parked in front of a house, veneer painted blue and already faded. Parked in the driveway was an unused car, and a square-faced figure beside it. The man was scowling, arms crossed, obviously upset. Toby automatically felt frustration fester at the sight of his father. Toby's mother turned off the engine and sighed heavily, hand pinching her nose bridge. Toby's head ticked unwittingly.
"What's he doing?" Toby said, more as a comment than a question. He looked at his mother who was preparing herself to face the man.
"He's your father, Toby," his mother responded steadily, "he wants to see you." She glanced out the window nervously, her hand on the car door trembled.
"Yet couldn't at the hospital," Toby narrowed his eyes, "maybe visit Lyra before she died." He clicks unintentionally. His tics got worse with his stress.
His mother looked away from the window, "You know he couldn't, honey," she said, "he was drinking."
The man outside visibly grows impatient. Toby grumbles, "He always is." before pushing the door open and stumbling out of the car, followed shortly by his mother.
Toby met his father's glare before snapping his eyes to the ground. His mother placed her hand on Toby's back as a small comfort. She and her husband exchanged a few words before she ushered Toby inside. The man's gruff unkind voice followed into the building, eventually dulling by the time Toby reached his room upstairs.
His room was small, barren besides the basic necessities. A few family photos decorated the side of the room, nothing else. Bed, dresser, desk, window, wall, wall, wall. Toby slammed the door shut unconsciously. His father used to be better than this, no drinking, no holes in walls, no violent patterns. Toby can remember his father vividly arguing with his mother when he was younger. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, threw her to the floor over bickering nonsense Toby can't recall, she hit her head on the corner of a table. His father's actions were eventually directed towards his children, in time. Laid off from a job, got drunk or took something, and went to take out his anger on people surrounding him. Being incapable of pain wasn't a curse when his attacker hesitated after he fell unconscious–but the suffering intentionally inflicted on those vulnerable is what dragged Toby into irritable hatred. When Toby watched his sister flatline the only person who didn't rush there was his father. Uncaring, deadbeat, detestable.
Toby wondered, sometimes, if his place on Earth was to absorb every attack. Even when kids at grade school ridiculed him, he had to tolerate it or bottle it up. Tourette's isn't appreciated, and congenital analgesia already made him susceptible. And at home, normalcy was shattered by a conceited nuisance. He adapted to threats. He'd switched to homeschool after bullying turned physical. Go out at night with his sister to her friend's place to escape their father. Now everything was ruined. Toby glanced outside briefly onto the street below when he saw something moving unusually out of view. Like he saw it from the corner of his eye. He could feel seconds tick by waiting for it to appear again.
Toby had dinner silently and returned to his room. Laying in bed didn't hush him to sleep. He dragged his fingers over the texture of the bandages on his arm. He pulled the covers over his head, frustrated. Toby had been debating if he should act upon his fuming hatred towards his father–maybe he could save his mother from his influence like he should've with his late sister. Toby clutched his damaged arm to his chest. He neared unconsciousness a couple times that night but jolted awake before getting any meaningful sleep. He threw a pillow over his head and sobbed silently not to wake anybody–out of profound distress and grief. When his tears ran dry he shoved the pillow off him and curled into himself pitifully. A light buzzing stayed constant in his ears.
Home turned even bleaker than before. Habits stayed, routine continued, joy was long gone. Toby mostly stayed in his room. He'd greet his mother after her work then isolate himself again. His mother usually cleaned the house in her sorrow, planned Lyra's funeral all by herself, and continuously let herself be harassed by her husband. Toby tried his best to stay away from his father. He started chewing on his fingers and the inside of his cheeks again. He would tear the flesh out from his body gradually and only took a hiatus when the funeral came and went. His father showed, but ran off to a bar somewhere before anything happened. Toby saw his sister's friends cry by her closed casket. He watched the coffin lower into the ground. He looked at the sad excuse of a tombstone and within his mourning felt indignation towards himself and his family. He failed to look at his mother's face the next week.
Toby met with his psychiatrist multiple times for his medication intake–and during procedural questions he lied about hearing voices or seeing things that weren't there and lied about intentions of hurting himself. His psychiatrist asked about how he handled the loss of his sister and he stayed quiet. Back home he watched the forest outside his window and the featureless creature under the streetlight. He heard Lyra's voice whisper from afar, speaking in tongues, murmuring warnings in pain. The persistent static in his ears didn't leave him, either–only fluctuating between intensities. Toby's Tourette's worsened incessantly. He felt like a clock, ticking every second, preventing him from sleeping–echoing in the hall.
His nightmares were inescapable, almost always including his sister. Gored or alive. Sometimes Toby was killing her, sometimes his dad was; sometimes she was shaking Toby while screaming unintelligible pleas. Toby woke up terrified after the sound of tires screeching and immediately settled into abhorrence after rooting back into reality. He was always aware about his father, how the world would be better off without him, without people like him. He knew he couldn't do anything about it and it infuriated him to no end.
Months had passed with no change. One Sunday, Toby awoke with a start. It was midnight. Fresh bandages laid over his skin. The ringing in his ears vanished for the first time since the crash. The world was quiet–no crickets, no creaking in the floorboards–except for the abrasive coughing downstairs. Toby exhaled deeply. He felt tranquil, in an odd matter. He sat up and left his bed. He moved slowly to ensure his footsteps weren't legible against the cacophony. His heartbeat was placid and even. The breaths he took were full and lifted. Nothing stood outside the window. Toby turned towards his door, considering his actions. He pressed his unhurried hand to the door handle. He surveyed the dark hallway then walked down it with the same pace as before. Toby glanced downstairs, hidden behind the corner. There stood his father, smoking idly in the living room.
Toby had a familiar, smoldering intensity build in his chest, his fists shook tightly. Wrath isn't a stranger. Toby felt like water boiling on a stove, harassing with its obnoxious bubbling, whistling incredible heat that turns your hand swollen red. Yet, Toby was calm, controlled. He felt better than he had in years.
His emotions seemed to speak to him, personified into a single voice, one Toby tried to keep hidden away at the back of his mind: "Do it, kill him."
When Toby registered the thought, his morals refuted, "No, I won't kill anyone. I'm not going to kill my father"--then he went idle, suddenly decided.
Toby crept down the stairs once his father turned away then sneaked into the kitchen. He silently browsed through drawers until he found what he was looking for and kept it under his shirt, steady against his waistband. The metal was cool against his skin. Toby left and returned to the living room, glaring unfaltering at his father.
His father noticed Toby skulking and scowled, "What're you doing up, boy?" He grunted, uncaringly flicking his cigarette ashes on the carpet. He was greasy. He smelled like weed and cheap bar food. His beard was unflattering.
Toby stared, he stared at his father's messy appearance and somehow laughed abruptly and unforgivingly, suddenly amused. He laughed at his father's disgusted, confused face until all his air escaped him.
"What the fuck's wrong with you?" His father said, "Stop that, you freak."
Toby gasped for breath, now toppled onto himself. He held his knee to keep him upright and clenched his shirt. He couldn't breathe. Nothing was funny at all.
His father glared at the sight, "The hell are you trying?"
Toby tried to snuff his giggling, he stood up straight, rubbed this face, and sneered at his father. He stayed silent and placed his hands behind his back. He reached under his shirt, grabbed the handle of the boning knife he pocketed, and pulled it out from his waistband. The blade hovered behind his back, waiting.
"Y'know this is why nobody likes you," His father spat, "this shit matched with your dumbass spasms no wonder you got picked on."
His words fell empty juxtaposed to what came next. Toby grinned. Before his father could register a threat Toby swung the knife at him. He missed, only grazing the neck by an inch. His father stumbled back either way, falling onto his back ineptly. Toby sat on top of him, foot crushing down his father's arm. He raised the knife up high, adrenaline coursing through him. Toby never attacked someone, he never realized what strength he had–he felt ecstatic.
His father's free hand grabbed Toby's attacking arm by his wrist. "Stop! Get off of me fucker!" He yelled, unprecedented terror in his pale eyes. He punched Toby in the shoulder. Besides loosening Toby's hold on the man, he was unphased. Toby bared his teeth through his smile.
Toby transferred the knife to his free hand and slashed his father's arm, making the man recoil. His father tried to pitifully shove him off fruitlessly. Toby punched him in the face as hard as he could–he felt the hardness of bone, the slap of meat. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. Focus seized Toby through delirious nimiety of past mistreatment. Toby stabbed his father's shoulder, then tore the knife out and stabbed his throat. The man screamed while he could, his eyes flickering between clenched and widened alarm. His panicked mouth gaped open and closed like a fish.
Blood started to stain the carpet and their clothes. Toby got off the man briefly and watched him sprawling on the floor. The man grasped his hands over his neck and gurgled on his blood. Toby then ripped the boning knife out of the man's throat and stabbed him in the chest, aiming for the heart. When that didn't work he tried again–finally reaching the sporadic muscle. The human body is incredibly red on the inside. Toby's hands were damp and stained. The gurgling man on the floor stuttered in motion and went limp, deteriorated from life. The blood gushing from his neck that pulsed with the man's heart was weakened into a dribble by the time he stilled. The knife stayed hidden in the man's chest. Toby was cathartic, he could breathe freely. The manic look in his eye finally faded.
A shattering scream tore through the air, "TOBY!" his mother cried. The illusion broke. Her hands were over her mouth and she shook with terror. Her alarmed, wide eyes had tears streaming down them.
Toby met his mother's horrified eyes and his heart dropped. He whispered from a dry mouth, "Mom?"
The woman staggered away, "No!" she shrieked, "stay away!"
Toby looked at the destroyed, disgusting body below him. He shot up and backed away from the man. Guilt started to seep into him. His then steady hands started to shake and his breathing quickened. When he was far enough away the woman ran to the dead man on the floor and shook him, sobbing. Toby ran upstairs.
Toby didn't have a lot of time–he had to leave soon, ordered by instinct. His vision started to cloud from his uneasiness. Toby yanked warm clothes from his dresser. His hands spasmed from the stress. He clicked his throat senselessly. Toby stuffed his quickly chosen belongings into an old backpack and rushed back downstairs. He looked at his mother–she held the landline up to her ear shakily and she glanced back at Toby. They met eyes for the last time.
Toby hurried to the garage and smashed the opener on the wall. The ticking from his mouth echoed on the walls. He glanced around the area and caught his eye on some hatchets in the corner. He chewed his finger anxiously, weighing his options as the garage door opened. Toby paced to the newer of hatchets and grabbed it alongside matches he found next to a jar of rusted nails.
Toby rushed out the door, then backtracked on a whim to the red, probably old, gasoline canister on the ground. Impulsively, he kicked the canister over and quickly hit it with the hatchet, spilling gasoline on the floor and down the driveway–its distinct smell filling the garage immediately. Toby looked around, he heard police sirens in the distance. Finicky, he grabbed a match and struggled to light it. Toby cursed at himself and his shaking, ticking hands.
Once he lit a match he ran down the driveway and threw it to the sprawling liquid. Toby didn't have a particular reason to, he just needed to run and hide, pretend everything was fine. Flames engulfed the concrete and fire ticked the grass and the underside of the unused car parked in the front. Light cut through the midnight dark. Toby nervously glared at the house once more.
Then Toby ran into the trees as fast as he could, barely avoiding tripping over branches. He sprinted until his bare feet were cut and bruised from the natural debris of the forest. Toby collapsed onto the ground and wrapped his arms around himself, panting. His vision was fully unfocused. He crouched his body over his legs until his sweaty head touched the cold ground. Toby curled onto himself tight like he could shrink small enough to disappear.
He gasped for breath but couldn't grab it from the air. Toby felt he could vomit bile. His heart pounded louder than the ambient night that surrounded him. Tears ran down his contemptible face. Toby kept whispering to himself, "It's over, I'm going to die, I'm gonna die," while he cradled his shaking body. He was sick, hysterical, and broken. His blood soaked, torn pajamas didn't provide warmth. Toby was covered in blood and damp mud and leaves. Toby murdered his father. Toby committed patricide and didn't feel any remorse. He laid there on the dirty forest ground with a worn backpack and a stolen hatchet and twitched and ticked into the dark forest.