I wrote this April 13 when I told:
"RIIIING!" sounds the phone as the unsuspecting teenager lurkes in the darkness of his dungeon. Some may think he is an insane child waiting, on the brink of independence, for a final moment that sets the cage open and the rains pour down from the heavens in the dawn of a new beginning. What is it that sets this young individual apart from the rest of the sheep that flock every corner of this over infested universe? Aren't all humans just viruses? The destruction is overwhelming sometimes. Why spawn new ones when the old suck in all of the limited good air and pollute the skies with a stench so foul that it poisons the minds of the brainwashed and depresses the intelligent?
"Hello?" whispers a hesitant voice as if this is the brilliant light that will fill his darkness.
"Hi. It's 'neighbor'," says the ice, the sting, and the overly confident virus. Fear is not an option. One must think clearly. What to do? Where to go? How the FUCK to get out?! Stop breathing fast. You're safe. Safe. No you aren't. Don't lie. Just don't say anything. Stop talking to yourself. "Hey, I haven't seen you in a long time! Cat got your tongue? Anyways, I was calling for your dad. He wouldn't happen to be there, would he?" Liar. He can't be trusted. He saw me two days ago. No, it wasn't this man. It was the monster. Remember that it's the same man, Caleb.
Why must one be faced with such a decision on such brief notice? Saying yes would only provoke a later response and one wants to hang up the phone really badly; but on the other hand, why provoke anger in the virus if his temper is the one that hurts the most? Stay calm. Dad is home. Act calm. Bluff confidence.
"Oh, that's too bad. You alright, Caleb? You don't sound well. Maybe you should take a bath." ...Keep calm. Keep breathing. Don't say anything. "No? Just a suggestion. Anyways, I'll see you later." Click.
Sigh of relief. It's over. Let go of the phone, Caleb. Put down the phone. No! What did he mean, "see you later"? How later? Does that mean he's coming over now that he thinks my dad isn't home? Would my dad protect me? What do I do? Simple tears, yet the basis for very complex emotions protruding through a body tormented by something he isn't even allowed to experience yet. There's no movement. Too many racing thoughts. Hands so sweaty that it lubricates the fall of the phone. Too loud. That noise hurts. Like doors that slam. Can't stop the noise. Have to push the images away!! Make them stop. Scream. Throw things. Try to open the door. Just get THE FUCK OUT!!
Dad has a firm grip. My heart is calm now. What happened? This is kind of confusing. Dad lets go and stands up, with a stretched out arm willing to help me off the floor of my bedroom dungeon. I think it got a little darker on this side of the world. I'm still crying and I can't help it. "Are you okay?" asks my dad. He seems unusually concerned, but it's genuine. I briefly glance around. My room is destroyed. I've been cleaing for weeks now. I had piles of stuff I wanted to throw away and things I wanted to keep. Trying to organize. Or pretend to. Everythings gone. I even hurt the computer, which miraculously still works.
"No." I feel like a child. Someone who knows nothing and is terrifed of the existance around them. We walk into the living room and sit down. My dad actually listened to me for once, when I told him how hurt I was. In honest and detail. I wanted him to grit his teeth and feel pain like I have felt. He didn't understand when I told him in general, before, so I opened his eyes. I told him I was too scared to go to the police. He said think about it. And he cried.