Author's Note: This version of Stone Eyes was written almost 8 years ago. Some of it is admittedly pretty bad. I'm working on an updated version of it.
Stone Eyes
Stony eyes stared out at the lifeless
water, his heart unaffected by everything that had gone on around him. His head
held high in defiance and anger at the cold heartless world he lived in. He
could care less what they thought of him, they were mindless drones, doomed to
follow a mindless society. He was the one who sat on the bleachers in front of
the pool and smoked while classes went on in the prison-like institution around
him. He was detached from the world, one that had shunned him for so long. He
never felt love, only hate. Baggy jeans hung loosely on his hips, and a plain
white tee shirt clung to a muscular torso, massive biceps hidden under a black
leather jacket with patches and buttons placed haphazardly all over it. His
cold grey eyes examined the area around him. Bodies were strewn around him in
unnatural positions. The gun lying next to him in the hands of the killer, his
best friend. That was the only reason he’d survived this massacre, the one
miracle that had kept him alive. But he didn't believe in miracles, he didn't believe in a god. But this didn't mean he was evil, no, just misunderstood. He’d
been given a biblical name, but he preferred to be called by his middle name, a
name his father had chosen for him.
He stood up and saw that the pool was
filling with blood, turning the glistening clear water, a pale red. He looked
out the massive windows and saw that dark clouds had rolled in the hour it took
Jeremiah to go on this killing spree. Jeremiah was his best friend, but somehow
in the time they’d spent together he would've never been able to foresee this
from Jeremiah. Though, at that same time, it didn't surprise him. Jeremiah had
only one friend, and that was him. Other than him, everyone made fun of Jeremiah,
and treated him horribly. Jeremiah had been verbally and physically abused
throughout school, the worst this year, their junior year.
He looked at all the bodies, nearly
thirty in total; they had a very small school. Blood was fresh on the walls and
floors. He’d watched Jeremiah kill the entire school, and then kill himself.
Everyone bled the same, but you couldn't convince them of that. They
thought Jeremiah just took the beatings, and harassing in stride, that it didn't bother him. But he had spent many nights holding Jeremiah while he cried
and telling him everything would get better. He’d talked more than once about
suicide, but never about killing them. If it hadn't been for him, Jeremiah would've been dead a long time ago.
He heard a faint cough and his head
jerked toward the noise, someone was still alive. It was one of them the
ones who always made fun of Jeremiah and beat him. Jael, she may have been a
girl, but she was probably the worst. But there was no hope for her; by the
looks of it Jeremiah had taken out the remainder of his anger and bullets on
her. But he had made sure she wasn't going to die quick and painlessly, he
wanted it to be long, drawn out, and as painful as possible. He wanted her to
feel all the pain that he’d felt throughout school, all the teasing, and all
the beatings. He wanted her to feel it all. He shot her many times in the legs;
they were almost unrecognizable as human. They were burnt and torn from the
bullets. She was bleeding out slowly. Jeremiah seemed to have used the
remainder of his bullets on her, all but one. The one he’d used to kill
himself. She would bleed out soon, but she’d been there for nearly an hour.
He walked over to her, and he could
see fear in Jael's eyes, he pulled out his knife. Even though she’d always
treated him and Jeremiah horribly, he couldn't stand idly by as she suffered.
“Don’t worry, I’m going to help
you,” he said softly as he leaned down to her and slit her throat. She died
quickly after that. She didn't suffer.
But her pale blue eyes still stared
at him, lifeless and cold. He gingerly closed her eyelids as she slipped into a
peaceful death. Hopefully they could restore her throat to look normal enough
to have an open casket; he’d be attending a lot of funerals soon. Some for
those he knew, and hated. And for those he didn't, and despised. He walked along the halls, fresh blood
coating the floors and walls, and he could see through the doors the flashing
blue lights. The cops were here already. He knew because of the blood he’d be
accused. But that could be attributed to cradling his best friend against his
chest as he died. This memory, the one that took place not an hour ago, brought
tears to his eyes. But he didn't cry. And never would. Because this was what
Jeremiah wanted.
He took out a package of cigarettes
and opened it, drew one out and letting it slide into place between his rough,
cracked fingers. He placed it to his chapped lips and took a drag from it. As
his smoky mistress filled his lungs he couldn't help but feel the relief fill
him. He’d been smoking for six years, ever since he was eleven. He’d never
thought about quitting, so he never did, probably never would. He took a few
drags, letting the cancer causing smoke fill his already black lungs. He took
one step out of the school doors and was met by the police.
“Freeze!” The cop shouted.
He kept walking not saying a word.
He held his cold defiance as the police threatened him. They continued saying
freeze and then one of them pulled his gun.
“If you don’t stop we’ll shoot!” The
elder looking one said.
“I've seen enough shooting today,”
he said. He turned to face them, his eyes a stony grey, which stood out even
more because of his shaggy coal black hair. “The boy who killed everyone is by
the pool. He killed himself.”
“Come on son, we’ll need to take you
in for questioning,” the younger officer said.
They sent in three or four cops to
survey the scene, while the youngest and oldest looking on took him down to the
station to question him. The ride to the station was quite, other than the
rattling of the loose bars on the windows, and a putting of the engine. The car
had to have been made in the 1800s. When they finally got to the station they
sat him down and began questioning him.
“What’s your name?” The younger one asked.
“Demon,” he replied, as he looked
around at the drab grey walls of the interrogation room. The table in front of
him was a smooth, dark wood, probably cherry wood if he had to guess. But he
could almost see his reflection in it, a great contrast to the rest of the
dull, dingy little room. He could see cobwebs still hanging in the corners;
they obviously didn't clean very well, or that often.
“Full name, no nicknames,” the older
officer said.
“Malachi Damien Sydal,” he said.
“But my friends call me Demon!”
“Ok, Malachi, tell us what
happened,” the younger officer said.
”I don’t know, I was skipping,”
Malachi said. “All I know is I heard the girls screaming, probably some of the
guys too.”
“Don’t give me that. Tell us what
happened!” The older officer said angrily. The man’s facial expression told
years of tales, stories of heroism and daring. His stern, wrinkled features
cold and callous, as his deep chocolate eyes stared at Malachi, sizing him up.
“Fine, I gave Jeremiah a ride to
school, as always. His bag seemed a bit bigger, but I didn't ask about it. When
we got to school I asked Jeremiah if he wanted to go to the pool and have smoke
like always. But he said he’d had one before I picked him up. So I went out to
the pool and had a smoke. I heard the screaming and I ran inside. By the time I
got there, half the school was dead. And Jeremiah’s clothes were covered in
blood. I asked him what happened and that’s when he turned around, when I saw
the gun. He said he couldn't take it anymore, that he had to make them pay. I couldn't watch, and I didn't want to be killed myself, so I went back out to
the bleachers. He came outside half an hour later. That’s when he put the gun
to his temple, and I begged him not to. I pleaded with him, praying that he wouldn't.
But he said he’d never survive in jail. So he pulled the trigger, and he fell
to the ground. But before he did it, he whispered that he loved me, we we’re
like brothers. As he fell to the ground I ran over, I couldn't help it. I shook
him and pleaded for him to wake up. But he wouldn't, and I know he wouldn't.
But I had to try,” Malachi explained in detail.
Both officers were shocked that he
could remember it so well.
“How old are you Malachi?” The
younger officer asked. The young man’s facial expression softer, and kind
unlike his fellow officer, whose facial features were rougher. The wrinkles
outlined years in this business, years that left his body nearly crippled, and
his heart cold and icy.
“Seventeen,” Malachi said. “I’m a
junior.” Malachi’s face said that he could care less as he listened to the
officer’s interrogation. He tried to pay attention, but he just couldn't. His
mind wanders to all the things that had happened in the past two hours. His
life had spiraled into a living hell that he wasn't likely to escape.
“Is that how old Jeremiah as too?”
He asked again.
“Yeah, our birthdays are two week
apart,” Malachi said. “We usually did stuff together for our birthdays. That
way we didn't have to pay twice as much.”
“Was Jeremiah also a junior?” The
elder officer asked.
“Yeah, he was. We were going to
graduate together and get out of this hell hole,” Malachi said angrily as he
thought of his best friend. “But they pushed him too far! They weren't the ones
staying up late into the night bandaging his cuts and holding him while he
cried!”
“Come on son, we’ll take you home so
you can calm down and we’ll talk some more another day,” the younger officer
‘Officer Lewis’ said kindly.
He escorted Malachi out to the cop
car and let him sit in the front seat.
“What about my car? I have to have
my car. Take me to the school so I can get my car,” Malachi said.
Malachi loved his car, it had cost
him nearly two years worth of saving to fix it up and make it drivable. Now he
only took it to school, home, and the bar. Malachi wasn't exactly shy, not like
Jeremiah. Jeremiah had always been shy, but Malachi was never shy, he was the
more social of the pair. And that’s what they were. If they picked Malachi for
something during gym, then they’d also have to pick Jeremiah. And being an
amazingly talented athlete, though hidden, Malachi was always one of the first
picks.
“Well, you’ll have to get your
parents to drive you back to the school. You could have PTSD, so I can’t leave
you alone until you’re home,” Officer Lewis stated.
Malachi growled and began smoking
another cigarette.
“You know, smoking is bad for your
health,” Officer Lewis laughed.
“I don’t care. I could stop, but I
don’t want to,” Malachi said angrily.
“I was joking kid, I smoke too,”
Officer Lewis joked as he lit up a cigarette of his own.
“They let you?” Malachi asked
referring to the police station.
“Not much they can do, besides, most
of us smoke. Just a habit we picked up off each other. I didn't start till I became
a cop,” Officer Lewis said.
“I started when I was eleven,”
Malachi said.
“Wow, you been at it along time
then,” Officer Lewis said.
“Yeah,” Malachi replied.
Malachi was home soon after; glad
he’d no longer had to deal with the interrogating. He wouldn't be going back in
there and they couldn't make him, he’d given them his statement. A week or so later Malachi was enrolled at a new school, one in the same county, but ways
away. Hoping that he would forget everything that had happened. But as he looked
up at the night sky, a blanket of coal over a baby blue sky, he couldn't forget.
As he walked through the doors of
his new school Malachi could already hear the whispers.
“They say he’s the only one that
survived.”
“Everyone in the school was killed
but him! Even the teachers!”
Malachi just kept walking, trying
not to show the pain that stabbed at his back like a thousand knives. They didn't have enough guts to say what they wanted to his face. A new school and
more people to call him a punk, scum, good for nothing. But this he had gotten
used to. His mother died during his birth and his father had never really
gotten over it. But Malachi dealt with it with a cold heart and stony
expression.
His eyes darted through the halls,
seeking a way to escape his new prison so he could satisfy his addiction. He
saw a door, which led outside. He opened the door and went out to the bleachers
and took out his cigarettes. He lit his first one and let out a sigh, he was
already starting to feel better. But nothing could replace the gap in his heart
that had been left by his best friend killing himself. He laid back on his back
and closed his eyes, hoping he may finally get a few minutes sleep, something
he’d been lacking since the shooting. But just like every other time he tried
to sleep he saw the moment that Jeremiah killed himself. His eyes shot open and
just remained in his laid back position.
He nonchalantly laid his arm over
his eyes to block the bright sunlight from his sensitive slate eyes. He wanted
some relief from the constant torture that plagued him, the sight of his best
friend, dead on the ground, his baby blue eyes not dancing like they used to,
glazed over. Maybe if he didn't close his eyes he wouldn't see it, but knowing
his luck this wouldn't be true. He didn't know how long he laid there, but he
eventually got himself relaxed. He sighed and let the sun warm his skin,
despite the noticeable chill that lingered in the air that had seemed to be
present all through the area since that day. He’d gotten off lucky… His dad hadn't been home since the day of the shooting. If he had been, he would've been worse for wear. And he certainly wouldn't have been at his new school. He
hated school; he had ever since he saw how cruel kids could be, not that they were
ever cruel to him. They were far too scared of him for that. And they hadn't given Jeremiah a beating in months till the day before the shooting. Because
Malachi had made them pay the last couple times. But then, the day before the
shooting was worse than ever. Jeremiah had to have his jaw wired shut because
of those scum. And Malachi had to watch him cry, because it hurt so much and
they couldn't give him any more of the painkillers, any more and he would
overdose.
Malachi sat up, running his fingers
through his shaggy black hair. He didn't know how long he’d been lying outside;
he’d somewhat drifted off in the time it took to stop thinking about Jeremiah.
He hated to think that his best friend was gone. The person he’d grown up with
and he’d never seen it coming. It hurt him to think he knew his best friend
that little that he couldn't have seen this coming. If he had seen it coming he
might have been able to stop it. He felt almost guilty for not being able to
tell. He hated this feel, and wanted it gone, but he didn't know how. He stood
from the bleachers and sighed. He couldn't take this anymore. The guilt weighed
on him like the weight of the world on his shoulders, he was strong, but not
this strong. He stumbled his way to his car, he'd gone to pick it up in the
days that followed shooting. He was tired and felt like the Earth was bearing
down on his shoulders. He got into the 1959 Triumph TR3. Not even thinking
about getting into his precious car, that he'd spent so long fixing. Countless
hours of time under the hood and in the garage fixing up the beat up old to
make it shine like it was new. He just drove, it was almost muscle memory now
to drive to his run down old apartment building.
He looked up at his
"home". It was beaten up, rundown. Most of the windows were smashed
in or boarded up. The concrete steps were eroded by time and use. And the
rusted metal railing cried out for help every time a hand rested on its rough
surface. He hated to call this old place home. Cobwebs hung from every corner and
crevice. He walked up steps into the building before hearing an all too
familiar sound. That beat up truck was sounding worse and worse every day But
his dad wouldn't let him fix it. Malachi was a genius mechanic, and his dad was
a drunk. Malachi tried to get up the stairs without his dad seeing him, but he
was too late.
"Well, well, well, look who's
decided to come home," the older man mumbled, slurring his words together.
"I've been home dad, you're
drunk again...." Malachi said softly.
Christian Sydal had a wicked temper
when sober, but when he was drunk. Things went from bad to worse. He was a
former army private who got kicked out for his drinking habits. Malachi tried
his best to avoid that temper that had gotten Christian into so many bar fights.
But it didn't matter how much Malachi avoided it. He was his dad's personal
punching bag. Malachi shook his head and tried to walk away but Christian
roughly grabbed hold of his son's loose leather jacket, slamming him into the
wall of the steps. The rusty railing jammed into his back, causing him to cry
out. He swallowed and looked at his dad.
"Don't you walk away from me
punk!" Christian growled.
"Dad stop! You're drunk, just
go back to the apartment and get some sleep…." Malachi pleaded with his
father. His eyes full of fear, if there was one man that Malachi truly feared
it was his father.
"You wish…" Christian
slurred. He dropped one hand from Malachi's collar and reeled back, punching
Malachi in the jaw, causing his head to bounce off the disintegrating concrete
wall behind him. Christian grabbed Malachi's raven black hair and slammed him
down onto the steps. "I wouldn't come back to the apartment if I were
you…"
Malachi tried not to let it show,
but he wanted to cry. He picked himself up off the steps as his dad walked
away. He walked on flight up the stairs and made a left, not going to his own
apartment, but Jeremiah’s. He lifted his key ring and went straight to the key
Jeremiah had given him years ago. He unlocked the door, before making his way
inside. He opened to door of Jeremiah’s room, Marilyn Manson posters hanging on
the walls, along with Slipknot and Disturbed. Malachi couldn't help but smile a bit. He also looked at the plethora of guns lying around. He looking at one in
particular, they’d actually returned it. The gun Jeremiah had used to kill
himself. It was a simple nine-millimeter semi automatic handgun. Malachi picked
it up off of the bed, looking at the shining chrome exterior.‘Who would
really miss me?’ Malachi thought to himself. ‘Mom’s dead, Jeremiah is gone, dad
hates me…I have nothing to live for. What would it matter?’
Malachi
opened the clip, a full magazine. He took out all but one. He let the cold
steel touch his temple, thinking of only Jeremiah.
“I love you Jeremiah, I’ll see you
soon,” he whispered before the gun went off. Sending him to meet Jeremiah
again, in the afterlife.
