Brian Keene - Ghoul

His childhood, his fondest memories, the very things he loved the most, were ripped to shreds and lying in a cardboard box. And he still didn' t understand the reason for it. Timmy had seen enough afternoon talk shows to know that this would scar him for the rest of his life. He wasn ' t being melodramatic. It was the simple truth. Surely his parents must have known that, too. They knew how much those comic books meant to him. So why mete out such an unjust punishment? Why punish him at all? He 'd told the truth. Instead of disregarding what he' d had to say, they should have investigated his claims. After all, these were the two people who had always told him he could come to them with any problem. That he could tell them anything. Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Whatever the problem, they ' d assured him time and time again that they would listen to him. Be there for him. That he didn 't need to be afraid of talking about it.

But they'd lied.

Lying there in the dark, he was no longer filled with sadness. He was consumed with rage.

After the very last comic book, an old Classics Illustrated adaptation of Ivanhoe, was destroyed, Timmy's father had sent him to his room. As he' d slunk through the living room, Timmy looked at his mother for support, for a condemnation of what her husband had just done, for some inkling that she disagreed or felt sorry for her son. But instead, his mother had merely dabbed her eyes with a tissue and turned her head away. He interlaced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Go ahead and cry, he thought. Both of you. Just wait until I prove you wrong. I' ll show you. I 'll prove I wasn't lying. Then you'll really have something to feel bad about. He' d show them all. He might be grounded now, but when that was over, he 'd get the proof he needed. If it wasn't too late by then…

He thought about it some more. It probably would be too late by then. He couldn't wait. He' d have to sneak out at night, after his parents were asleep, and get the proof he needed. Maybe he could get a picture of the ghoul. That should be enough to shut everyone up. But not tonight. It was too late, now. He ' d have to wait one more day. And besides, he couldn 't do it alone. He'd at least need Doug with him, and preferably Barry as well, especially since his father was involved.

His thoughts focused on Barry. Timmy closed his eyes. He was wondering how his friend was doing, and how he was coping with everything, when there was a light tap at his window. Timmy 's legs jerked in surprise, and his eyes popped open. The tap came again, still light, but more urgent.

He slipped out of bed, went to the window, and opened the shades. Something that looked like Barry stared back at him, but it couldn't actually be Barry, unless he'd just gone ten rounds with the XMen's Juggernaut. His friend's face resembled a package of hamburgerraw and pink and bloody. Despite this, Barry smiled. Timmy put a finger to his lips, advising his friend to be quiet. Then he opened the window and the screen.

"What happened," he whispered. "Are you okay?"

"Do I look okay?" Barry's voice sounded funny. Slurred. "I've had better days."

"Your dad did this." It wasn't a question.

Barry nodded. It looked like he was about to start crying.

"Jesus Christ, man." Timmy ran a hand through his hair. "You need to go to the hospital."

"No way." Barry shook his head. "No doctors. No adults. I'm out of here, dude."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm leaving. Running away."

"You're hurt. You can't just run away."

"Well, I am. I can't take any more of this shit." And then Barry did start crying, and somehow, that scared Timmy worse than his appearance did. His split lip quivered and tears spilled from his swollen eyes. Timmy sighed. "Hang on. I'll be right out. Just stay quiet. If my parents wake up, we're both screwed."

Sobbing, Barry nodded again, and then slipped off his book bag and crouched down by the side of the house.

As quickly and silently as possible, Timmy changed out of his pajamas and into some clothes. He checked on his parents, making sure that they were both asleep and their door was shut. Satisfied that they were, he grabbed a flashlight and then climbed out the window. He left the screen and the window open a crack so that he could sneak back in. He stared at Barry. Barry stared at him.

Then they hugged. Spontaneously. Uncharacteristically. But the gesture was real all the same. Timmy patted his friend's back, and Barry winced, and then pulled away.

"Ouch."

"Sorry," Timmy apologized. "He messed up your back, too?"

"He messed up my whole body. Even my bruises have bruises."

"You really should see a doctor, man."

"No. That would just be one more delay, one more excuse. And then I'd be stuck here again tomorrow night. If I don't leave now, I might not ever."

"But your face…"

"I'll be okay. It's not as bad as it looks."

Timmy disagreed with his friend's diagnosis, but didn't argue.

"What set him off? Was it what happened earlier, at the shed? If so, I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have gotten smart with him."

"No, it wasn't that. Who knows? It started because I didn't want to finish my dinner, but if it hadn't been that it would have just been something else." Despite his friend' s obvious suffering, Timmy felt an immense surge of relief. Finally, after all these years, they were actually talking about the abuse. It was out in the open. No more excuses. No more pretending that it wasn 't going on. Now, maybe they could finally get Barry some help.

"Can I ask you something?"

Barry nodded. "Sure. What's up?"

"How long? How long has this been going on?"

Barry looked at the ground. "As long as I can remember."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you ever tell somebody?"

"Who would I tell?"

Timmy shrugged. "Well, on those after school specials, kids tell their teachers. You could have told Mrs. Trimmer."

"Mrs. Trimmer hates us. No way I was telling her."

"You could have told me and Doug. We kinda knew about it anyway."

"You guys couldn't have done anything. Not really. It just didn't seem fair to get you involved. And besides, Doug's got his own problems."

They sat in silence, huddled together against the side of the house. Elizabeth' s wind chimes rang softly. The notes seemed melancholy. A dog barked, far away into the night. After a few minutes, Barry said, "You know what the first thing I remember is? I mean my very first memory? I was like two or three years old. I was sitting on the kitchen floor, underneath the table, playing with one of those plastic telephones. Remember the ones with wheels on the bottom, and the smiley face and eyes that moved when you pulled it on the string?"

Timmy nodded, smiling at the memory. He'd owned one, too.

"Well, I'm sitting there playing with that thing, calling Daddy on the telephone and pretending to talk to him. And then my old man comes home. He' d been working all day. Back then, I was too little to understand that he just worked across the street. All I knew was that I missed him. So he comes in and sits down at the kitchen table, and he 's talking to my mom. I think they were arguing. I'm not sure, but they probably were. And meanwhile, I'

m trying to get his attention. Trying to get him to pay attention to me, because I'd missed him all day. I'm still under the table, tugging on his leg, and he's just ignoring me. So I bit him."

"You bit him?"

"Yeah. Like I said, I was just little. I don't remember why I did it. Just seemed like a good way to get his attention, to let him know I was down there. It wasn' t hard. I mean, I just had baby teeth, right?"

"And what did your old man do?"

"He kicked me across the room. I can still see that very clearly. He hollered something and then kicked me across the room. And that's my very first memory."