The Scream Team

“That wasn’t a question, Gerard.”

Little fucker, how could he have known? No, no, no, he didn’t know, he had a hunch. A big one, He did however know that something was definitely up. But Gerard himself had no idea what was going on inside his head, or Matt’s for that matter. Not that he cared about that. No, he didn’t care about Matt at all. Not one bit.

Biting his nails, Gerard hoped that Matt was okay. Not physically, physically Matt could bring down anyone. Gerard knew that well. But mentally. Mentally they were both on the brinks of the loony-bin, or simply an all-out lunacy. No one deserved to have those images in their mind. Images that a thousand lobotomies could not erase or even blur.

All shades of red enveloped him while he sped home, walking swiftly through the desolate Jersey streets. Possibly rushing to the first hint of familiarity and routine he somehow managed to regain and recreate after… after the images were created. Mikey. The only one who made a difference when it came to Gerard. People came and went, friends… Never mind. Mikey was always there. Evils came and evils dies, but Mikey was always that. Good. Uncorrupted. Innocent.

Frank’s face gazed up at him from the darkness inside his mind. How that kid believed, how he clung onto God, onto Christ, onto the whole concept of faith that he himself found utterly stupid and naïve… Who was he to take it away from him? Gerard could easily let himself love the kid, feel some sort of affection, sure, he was lovable to say the least. Reminded him of Mikey a bit, in fact. Young and tender and gullible, but Frank had something in him that Mikey didn’t. A darkness possibly similar to his own. Gerard had no idea why he thought that was possible. How could someone as pure carry something like that inside of him? No.

He was just a few more blocks away from the safety of his own home when the images struck him down. The cold descended on his shivering body as the sweat broke out all over his pale skin and suddenly the curb seemed as good a place to crash as any. He had to sit, lay down, close his eyes, have a smoke.

Gerard was like Frank once. He believed. He was sweet and nice and gullible. Almost lovable like Frank. But it was all taken away from him. By someone he’d thought he would have done anything for. He did. He did everything for that man in the black habit dress and white collar. In those images, the rosary that always dangled from his fingers lay dismembered on the cobblestone floor, discarded along with the rest of the things that made him different from the others. The door to the small confessional was open, the darkness impenetrable. The flickering candle light dispersed with the draft that came from… from somewhere, he couldn’t see. Only tiny ghosts of smoke remained. And his own naked body, hidden somewhere in the pew.

A set footsteps and a flashlight. Looking for him probably. Something wet dripping from the balcony above his head. Foul tasting, like iron and salted water, sticky and warm, but cooling rapidly on the porcelain surface of his skin, seeping inside every dimple and line creating small paths all over his face and chest.

He prayed. After everything that happened, he prayed. For God to save him. But God wasn’t there, wasn’t even listening. Because, and then Gerard realized, God didn’t exist. There was no God anywhere. A being that was supposed to be infinitely big and undeniably good would not have allowed this. God wasn’t there. And the silent gasping prayer died too.

The wooden bench cut into his spine as he lay there, waiting for light to filter through the stained glass windows.

Much as the curb cut into his back right now as he waited for the images to pass. For light to come again.

Quinn sat on the front porch of his mother’s house.

He has his own images to handle. Only they were blurring much faster than he wanted them to.

His mother watched from the window, setting down her book and sighing in worry. She knew Quinn wasn’t going to let go. Even miles away from home, he still clung onto his sin with a deadly grip.

And she missed her husband so. There were times when Mrs. Allman wanted to truly hate her son for shattering the perfect life she managed to finally build for herself and her baby. The real son she was forced to leave behind and run to try and save whatever was left of the dreams they used to dream.

There were no dreams now.

Just nightmares.

Quinn felt her stare and it burned far more than anything else, than any insult, any blade. Because she didn’t know, but he did.

“I didn’t do it.”