CRACK!
Shattered glass punctured through Sylas Peters's right hand as he stumbles out of his now soon-to-be ex-girlfriend's bathroom. The orange wooden floorboards creaked and wobbled as she ran past him. Her aroma reminded him of strawberries. As Sylas stared at his bloody hand riddled with shards of glass, he imagined eating a nice matcha chocolate truffles crepe. He would pick off the sliced strawberries and mix it with the chocolate sauce then-
"No!"
A harrowing screech pierced through his ears deeper than the glass in his hand. It must have been his girlfriend, he thought. He walked forward further down her hallway. As he did, blood dripped down onto the clean floors, then onto her oriental rug that ran up to her front door. Both she proclaimed to have pride in how well she managed to keep clean. When he reached the front door, the afternoon August sun blinded him.
"Where the fuck is he?" A rough voice tingling with malice charged towards him.
Instinctively, he used his bloody hand to protect his eyes from the sun and perhaps the voice as well. Sharp pangs of pain radiated from his hand to the rest of his body. It reminded him of his childhood.
Approximately 13 years ago, when Sylas Peters was 7 years old he gave birth to a belief that his father was the incarnation of evil. The catalyst of said belief came when the chubby black haired boy asked his father for the newest RPG game, Mysterious God Prowler II for his SYGA game console.
"No!" It came like a strike of lightning. "You already have enough games."
"But Dad!" Sylas responded, quivering his lip. "I already beat those games!"
"Good. Then you should pick up a sport."
"I never win in those! Everyone is so much taller or faster than me." He was 4 feet at 7 and would only grow to be 5 feet 6.25 inches. He's extremely proud of those .25 inches.
"You know Sylas, I was a really good pitcher. Your uncles were even better hitters. Plus they were really good at basketball, football, the real football, not that concussion contest."
Sylas closed his eyes, puffed up his chest, and clenched his fists, "I don't want to play those ball games. I want to play real games." When he opened his brown eyes, he saw his father's contorted face. His black brows narrowed into a V shape, his hazel eyes shrunk, his mouth agape, banana yellow fangs– which were really just teeth– shone under the light of their kitchen.
He thought his father would bark at him if he didn't move, so he walked away. Stomping his feet and swallowing his anger. In his room he would load up his favorite game, Mysterious God Prowler I. As the startup chimes of the game console rang through the air, a breath of fresh air filled his lungs. His anger did not subside. He pressed the new game button on the start menu. The soft piano keys indicating the start soothed him as the memories of the game came flooding back into him. He couldn't give up. Did the mysterious mage give up when he prowled all over that God? No!
Over the course of 5 months, nearly biweekly as long as he remembered, he would ask his father for the sequel to his most beloved game. Each encounter essentially went like this.
"Can I have the game?" Our brown eyed chubby boy would say at moments of absolute calm from his father. His father would be drinking his favorite drink, a mix of beer and a pop soda from the 80s. He had won a lifetime supply of the stuff for winning a little league competition at 12. It was sponsored. While drinking away his childhood success he would stuff his face inside of a book far too mature for Sylas to remember the name of.
"I don't have money." His yellow stained fanged demon of a father would respond.
A dejected Sylas would go back to his room and replay Mysterious God Prowler I. After he finished his homework whenever he had any. His mother would always remind him. She was 6 years younger than his father. An angel hiding within human skin. The macabre never really interested him until much later in life, but the essence of an Angel being a Skinwalker graced his mind often as he prepared to do his homework. After completing it, he would be reminded not to give up from those familiar soft piano keys.
The last time Sylas asked his father for the game occurred near Christmas. He had a pleasing theory that his father would give him the game as a gift. However his burning anger had festered in him like a growing tumor gnawing away at his body. It first appeared in mid October during one of his 2nd grade classes. He was sitting at his wooden desk in the back of the class next to the window.
"Yo stink!" A young skinny boy with a shaved head said to Sylas as he attempted to learn the multiplication table. A month prior in the very same seat, he had ripped a large fart while everyone was silently reading. Everyone laughed. The name "Stink!" stuck around and he hated it.
"Stink!" The boy had said a third time. "Stink, don't cha hear me calling you."
Sylas slammed his pencil into his desk, it wobbled. "My name ain't stink! It's Sylas, Sylas Peters!"
The bald headed boy grinned, the ends of his mouth curled up like a mustache from a mustachio villain from cowboy films. He snickered. "Stinky Pete." He bursted into laughter, cackling away as Sylas's fist flew at his face.
"Sylas" His mother would begin after scolding him that night. "Sorry, but I'm going to have to take your games away. You cannot just hit people that you dislike. What if you hurt them really badly and they died." Sylas thought that they would have deserved it. His mother always taught him that those who do wrong should be punished. So why was he being punished? She sighed, "Your mommy and daddy would be in trouble too. You don't want that, do you?"
Only for his father, his mother never did anything wrong. In his short life, Sylas has always felt that his mother's favorite word was "Sorry". She apologized when she would give him mustard instead of ketchup. She apologized when she would enter his room without knocking. She apologized when she scolded him, typically the morning after with a nice breakfast.
"What do you want, Sylas?" His father asked as he walked into his father's office. His heart was pounding, his hands sweated profusely to the point where his hand started slipping off of the silver door knob he held. His eyes darted around his father's office. It was a small room, his father's desk barely managed to fit inside of it. Just to walk around it, his father always had to turn to the side. About 5 paces from the door, he would reach the desk. 3 more and he would reach the only window that brought in a small source of light that illuminated the brown walled room. The walls were fitted with shelves of DVDs, CDs, records, baseball cards, books, and posters. Most of which had half naked women on them. Sylas felt like entering it was like being welcomed into a nunnery of sin.
"Sorry." Sylas stammered as he repeated himself. "Sorry, can you get me the game please?" His father stayed silent, shuffling around what seemed to Sylas to be thousands of dollars from his wallet to his drawer. A distinct scent of beer mixed with the rancid cologne of middle aged men bombarded Sylas. He pinched his nose.
"I don't have any money." His father said as he closed the drawer, then locked it.
Sylas gritted his teeth, his eyes sharp, "You liar!" He let go of his nose.
"Are you calling me a liar?" His father barked. Sylas took a step back. He supposed at that moment that he should just replay Mysterious God Prowler I again. Find strength for another day. Right after, he imagined the nice breakfast his mother would make him. It wasn't much. An omelet filled with green peppers, onions, bacon, and sausage. She used to add tomatoes to it, but Sylas dislikes the taste of them.
He also dislikes the taste of blood. The orange wooden floorboard creaked and wobbled as his father rushed towards him. He reeked a stench of beer. It overwhelmed Sylas as he stepped forward, preparing to defend himself as his father reached for his arm. Sylas struggled to raise it in front of his face. He attempted to yank his arm away from his father's grasp. He held tight. He barked, "Sylas! Who the hell do you think you are?"
"Dad, let go." Sylas scratched at his father's hand. "Please let go." Sylas scratched deep enough to make his father's hand begin bleeding. His father grimaced, then released his grip on his son. Sylas stepped back then held the spot his father grabbed. His father then captured his wrist. Sylas shrieked as his father pulled his arms apart and away from Sylas's face. He then slapped him.
Some time passed. Blood pooled in his mouth as tears dived down his face. Sylas stood at the door of his father's office with his head down and his back to his father's desk. He stood up straight as his pants were rolled up above his knee. He could run at this very moment. Run to his room, lock the door, then wait for his father to calm down. However, he had already lost once, he will lose again.
SMACK
His father's black diamond studded belt roared across the back of Sylas's legs.
SMACK
"Where do you think you are Sylas?" His voice was straining as the veins in his forehead began to pop.
SMACK
"You come into my office." Sylas felt the saliva of what made up half of his DNA collide with the back of his neck.
SMACK
"Ask for my money!"
SMACK
"And call me a liar?"
SMACK
"Where the fuck is he?" The rough voice repeated as 20 year old Sylas Peters walked out of his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend's house. The blood from his ravished hand dripped into his mouth. He blinked. He then saw the man who was screaming at him. He had a shaved head.