Painted Faces.

The next morning was cold. Rain hung in the clouds, making them the colour of stone. It reflected Emmet's thunderous mood. As soon as he had opened his eyes, he had decided it was too early. Birds were singing inconsiderately, the family dog, Angus, barked furiously in the garden and the din of a far off ocean liner’s foghorn bellowed from the coast. His mother found it the perfect atmosphere for her to pursue her writing career; sometimes Emmet wondered why.
Emmet gripped his throbbing, heavy head and groaned. Idle chat traveled up the stairs, the smell of toast made his insides twist, and even the thought of food made him want to vomit. The last thing he could remember was running home, and then his whole body was on fire. He remembered hitting the ground and rolling into a ball. Now he was awake and tucked into his bed.
Sighing, he sat up, propped himself against his pillows and reached for the mobile sitting on his bedside table. The time on the screen read ten-thirty a.m. Leaving the warmth of his duvet had never seemed less promising; he pulled the cherry cover up to his nose and hugged the smooth cotton. It had the faint smell of lavender washing powder, his deodorant body spray and sweat, but it was comforting.
He took a glance around his small room. The walls were a deep royal blue colour, and had been since he was a young boy. Posters of bands and films were pinned up, and on one wall there was a large window overlooking the sea. A draft leaked from under the door and through the cracks in the floorboards. At the bottom of the wall beside the wardrobe there were painted handprints and two names in felt tip marker; ‘Joel’ and ‘Emmet’. He smiled as he remembered the horrified look on his mothers face; she’d soon gotten over it and invited John round for a coffee instead. They’d been good friends and regularly went for coffee together in the city, but since Gavin came back they had only ever spoke over the phone. Even then it was brief. On the locker beside his bed he had a photograph of his friends from school, all of them in their uniforms. He also had one of Joel in a shopping trolley, legs in the air and a huge, intoxicated grin on his face.
Emmet sighed and closed his eyes. The thought of joining his family for breakfast wasn’t appealing at all. He imagined his mother, a small woman, only 5’4 and weighing no more than 115 pounds, standing at the stove making tea with the old fashioned tea pot. Her book would be lying flat on the marble worktop beside her, the ceramic coffee pot balanced between the pages to hold it open. Her short chocolate brown hair would already be made up in a mothering style bun and a light layer of makeup applied, she would be ready to go into the city to do the shopping. His ten year-old brother, Fillen, was usually still in his pajamas at this stage, his shaggy blond hair sticking up at odd angles and his hazel eyes hazy with sleep. Then there was Gavin, his biological father. He looked like an older, cleaner cut version of Emmet, from the colour of his green-blue eyes to the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled. He stood an inch shorter than his son at just 6’0 and his graying hair was neatly barbered. Emmet wanted nothing more than to erase him from his life. It had been four years since Gavin had introduced himself back into their lives after walking out on his mother when he was three. Back then, he hadn’t kept contact at all between them, the only reminder of him was the child support each week.
The chime of the grandmother clock in the hallway told him it was ten forty-five, and squeezing his eyes tightly, he threw the duvet from his body. He sat on the edge of the bed and glanced down at his trouser clad lap. He mustn’t have taken them off the night before. They were stiff, and the black was oddly darker. He turned his hands over and stared in horror at his palms. They were caked with dark blood. His mind started to spin; his skin crawled. What possibly could have happened last night? He ran his fingers through his shaggy hair.
He quickly stood up and ripped the trousers from his legs; he threw them under his bed. Cold air cut through his body like a knife. As he pulled on his jeans and an old t-shirt, his balance was almost lost in a sea of nausea, and he gripped the side of his headboard for support. The sight of the blood made him feel sick; the smell burned his nostrils and his throat. A sudden feeling of lust and rage tightened his chest. An invasion of stars exploded in front of his eyes as pain burned through his left arm like a raging fire and his legs buckled under him, leaving him on all fours. Then it was all over as quickly as it had come on, and he slowly pulled himself up, using the edge of the bed. Taking a deep breath, he continued to get dressed, and despite the increasing pain throughout his body, he left his room and ascended to the kitchen.

Downstairs, the upbeat atmosphere immediately dropped when Emmet entered the room. Gavin and Fillen stopped and looked guiltily at him as if they had committed a criminal offence. His mother looked up briefly before turning back to her breakfast and book. Emmet took a seat, exceedingly aware that all eyes were on him.
“Where were you last night?” Gavin asked, and the authority in his voice made Emmet's blood boil.
“Out!” Emmet snapped.
“Don’t take that tone with your father,” his mother idly retorted, keeping her eyes on her book.
“He isn’t my da! As far as I’m concerned anyway.”
The anger on Gavin’s face was just the icing on the cake for Emmet, who smiled to himself as his ‘father’ tried to find the words to take control of the situation. His mother continued to read her book; she had done her part, and they had argued about this so much that it seems to have lost all effect. Fillen lowered his eyes, obviously sensing the tension.
“You should have more manners! You ungrateful little shite!” Gavin spat through gritted teeth, shaking his coffee spoon furiously at him.
“Maybe if you had stuck around long enough to teach them to me! I know Mam certainly did, but maybe you have a different way of doing things!? Or is running away from your problems the highlight of your ‘manners’?”
Gavin was furious now. He slammed his hands on the table as he rose to full height, towering over the rest of his family.
“If you aren’t happy with the arrangements, Emmet,” he spoke his name as if it were poisonous, “then why don’t you move out?!”
“I am. After college is over, I’ll be leaving you to look after this family. Until of course, you decide to run away again.”
That was it. An awkward silence loomed over the table. Emmet started for the box of cornflakes, but suddenly he was even less attracted to them than he was before. Ignoring his father’s poisonous glance, he pushed himself away from the table and left the room.

******

The train from Portmamock to Dublin always left at 12 p.m. on Saturday mornings, and it was always half empty or half full, depending on how you look at it. Mrs. O’Malley had an all year pass, which she used for both Emmet and herself when they traveled together on a Saturday morning. They always took the same seat in the middle of the front coach, a table between them with graffiti on its plastic surface; most of it put there by Emmet and his brother.
Mrs. O’Malley set her handbag on the seat beside her, and took out her notebook and pen. Emmet placed his head in his hand and watched out the window dreamily.
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” Mrs. O’Malley said.
“You’re joking right? It’s pissing.”
“But it’s poetic in a way.”
“Guess so.” Emmet straightened up. “You think everything’s poetic though.”
She laughed, “I wasn’t top in my literature class by chance.” Smiling, she reached across and gripped Emmet’s free hand. “What’s on your mind?”
Emmet shrugged, “Nothing, Mam. I’m okay.” He sighed and looked back to the window, watching the raindrops trickle down the pane. “Are you happy?”
There was a pause, “Of course -”
“I mean with Gavin back. Are you happy with him back?”
“Yes. I am.” She sighed. “I just wish you two wouldn’t fight. It’s painful to watch.”
Emmet’s heart ached with that last comment. He concentrated on the droplets hitting the glass, a continuous rapid tapping. He knew something wasn’t right; he could feel it in his bones and on his skin. His mother’s scent was different too like fear mixed with chocolate. His heart was telling him to, for once, agree with her. Emmet didn’t know why or what was fueling this sudden feeling of change, but he didn’t like it. It felt dark and empty. If something was going to happen, it was happening soon. He didn’t want to take charge of leaving things like this.
He closed his eyes tight and groaned.
“I’m sorry, Mam. I’ve been thinking about it and,” he paused, “I forgive Gavin for all those years. It’s behind us. The past. You know?”
His mother smiled a genuine smile. “Thank you, son. That means the world to me.” A tear sparkled in her eye. “We can be a family again. Properly.”
“Yeah.” Emmet forced a smile. “One big happy family.”

****

13:05pm
Raindrops dripped from Emmet's hair, tracing the lines of his face until they fell from his un-shaven chin. His stomach was in knots. This morning it had been nothing but a slight pinching. He knew the feeling but not as intensely as this. Flames burned inside him, clawing at his insides and trying to escape. Even with the soothing rain, his scarred skin felt like it was on fire. The white blemishes that cloaked his left shoulder blade and slivered down his arm smarted from the damp of his shirt.
Emmet forced his head down tight against his chest, gritted his teeth and moved through the torrent. He pulled his left arm across his body as if it were in a sling.

“Just keep going,” he thought. His stomach was burning. “Not long now.”

With every move of his muscles, the pain intensified. But he kept up his pace, pushing his reluctant legs forward.
It was Gavin’s fault he felt so angry. If he hadn’t started on him this morning, then he wouldn’t be so full of boiling rage. The pain had struck him so suddenly that he hadn’t time to consider it an effect of Wrath. Abaddon could always control him; he could always make him do anything. It was always about the control, and for a brave while Emmet had the upper hand. Abaddon had no longer controlled his life by soldiering the other sins, and he thought, he hoped, Abaddon was gone for good. It was now apparent he had just been dormant.
A sudden boiling ache spread across his stomach and up his throat. Emmet doubled over into a fetal position and gripped his stomach as a blood-chilling scream filled his head. His scarred back and arm felt tight and irritated as if the flesh beneath the skin had grown too big for it and needed to escape. He fumbled for his mobile phone. If he could just reach Joel and tell him where he was, maybe he would have a chance. Maybe he could regain some control.
His hand shook, and his fingers reluctantly clicked the small keys. Pain shot up his arm with every movement.
Placing the phone to his ear, he tried to avoid screaming out in agony.
“Hello?” The sound of Joel’s voice had never been so welcome.
“Joel -” Emmet winced.
“Emmet!? Where are you?”
“The beach...,” He choked as bile rushed up his throat, and he leaned to the side as it spilled from his mouth. The metallic taste it left suggested it was more than just bile.
The phone slipped from his hand onto the ground beside him as he rolled onto his back. He could still hear Joel faintly on the other end of the phone. The rain seemed to dance and swirl in the air above him, an explosion of colours twinkled in the belly of the clouds. His hair was sticking to the skin of his neck and across his eyes. He bit down hard; the incisors pierced his bottom lip, and he could taste the blood as it trickled into his mouth.

*****************************

“Emmet? Emmet, c’mon, stay awake! Not long now.” Joel’s anxious voice filled the interior of the Jaguar X-JS. His voice momentarily drowned out the sound of agonized heavy breathing. Outside the vehicle, the sky had grown darker, populated by an abundance of pregnant grey clouds that refused to release their burden.
“S-s-so c-cold.” Emmet’s jaw shook as he spoke; his words were slurred and unconvincing. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t keep his heavy eyelids from closing.
“Come on, Emmet!” Joel said, but Emmet didn’t answer no matter how hard Joel screamed.
He laid a hand gently on Emmet’s shoulder. “Emmet? Open your eyes!” His teeth were clenched together to prevent himself from crying.
Emmet’s only response was a barely audible moan. His whole body was trembling, and his skin was covered in goose pimples. Joel’s worry increased tenfold.
“Keep him awake!” John ordered from the front seat, though he kept his eyes on the road. It was bad enough to have a time bomb on board, but if they didn’t reach the bar in one piece, or at all, that would be just bad luck.
Joel gripped both of Emmet’s shoulders and shook him. His eyelids opened slightly, exposing his glazed and blood-shot eyes. Emmet wheezed something in reply, in between gasping and coughing up blood; his words linked together in one slurred sentence.
“What?” Joel whispered, tears welled in his eyes. “ Say that again.”
“I-It h-h-hurts.” His voice was so weak. Blood dripping down his chin and stained the inside of his mouth.
“I know.” The tears spilled from Joel’s eyes. He couldn’t bear watching his friend, his brother, in such a horrible state.
Emmet twitched and exhaled a soft moan. The burning had dulled to a continuous sting, but the only real awareness that he had was of the vicious throbbing in his head and along his arm and back. But his stomach felt as if it was being slowly ripped apart. As John turned the car, his body swayed with it, threatening to fall from the seat. But Joel held on to him.
“Nearly there.” Joel’s voice was so distant, so far away.
The car stopped at the back of the bar, doors slammed shut, and before Emmet could register anything, he was lifted from vehicle. Cold air ghosted over him, igniting small fires of pain over his aching skin.
His head was filled with noise. Voices, birds, wind. He wanted to scream out in agony, but his vocal chords were raw. Instead he closed his eyes and clung to his boiling skin, creating deep grooves in his arms.
John kicked the back door of the pub open; it crashed against the wall.
“Put him here,” Emily said, her voice quiet and full of urgent concern.
The cold leather of one of the bar’s booths sent a shiver down Emmet's spine. He held tighter to his own body, praying for some sort of relief. As someone else spoke, he tried to concentrate, to make out what the other was saying, but it increased the intensity of the throbbing in his head to unbearable proportions. Emmet shifted on the padding of the seat and gritted his teeth, fighting back the nausea.
As a needle broke the skin on his bicep, the fear, confusion and terror caught up with Emmet and his abused body. His refusal was lost as his glazed eyes rolled up into his head.