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Author's Note - This is a reupload of the first three chapters of this story that is (hopefully) less mangled than it was when I first submitted it. Thanks to everyone who pointed out the silly formatting mistakes I made. The content is completely unchanged, I just condensed the first three chapters down into one submission since the spicy stuff doesn't begin until chapter 4 and beyond. The rest of the chapters should flow as intended, and should be up very soon.
Please don't forget to vote and leave a comment and if you'd like to support me there is a link in my bio. Thanks and Enjoy! DM out!
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Chapter 1 - The Prison of Memory
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and George sighed. He'd just spent the better part of the night trying to sleep despite the pain in his abdomen, but he knew it was all but impossible once a thunderstorm began. The digital clock on his nightstand glowed through the darkness, beckoning him to check it. Three a.m. was later than he would have guessed. "Two entire hours," he thought. "A new record."
Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. George clutched his stomach and winced with pain as burdensome memories flooded his mind. This was an all too common occurrence, though usually, the memories were of the petty bullying he'd suffered at school, as they were the most present. But on this night, his thoughts were consumed by the accident. It happened six years before when George was only twelve. George was in the passenger seat as his father drove too fast in the middle of a storm, just like this one. In a freakishly surreal scene, like out of a movie or a comic book, a bolt of lightning hit a telephone pole just up the road ahead of them, startling the driver of an oncoming box truck. George had somehow avoided any injuries; however, his father was left broken and mangled. George could never forget those piercing eyes frozen in terror as they stared right through him.
He was a prisoner in those moments. The memories dominated his senses, sending him into a tailspin of self-hatred. Now fully conscious, he could take his time ruminating over the accident and imagine all the ways it was his fault. If only George hadn't snuck out and ridden his bike to Twilight Hill that evening to watch the sunset. He couldn't even remember why he'd gone in the first place. Pulse after pulse of electric fire shot down his spine to punctuate every recurring rumination of that fateful night. Even though he ought to be used to this by now, the sheer force of it always managed to surprise him, always worse than the time before. The doctors assured him that his pain was 'all in his head,' that he just needed to deal with the trauma, and it would go away. But that was easier said than done.
He threw off his covers and swung his legs off the side of the bed. At moments like this, when his body and mind screamed in agony, he'd learned to submit to it. He would stare out the vast circular window in his attic bedroom and pray that whatever was wrong with him would finally put him out of his misery. Fighting these feelings was useless and only prolonged his suffering. He sat there brooding for almost an hour, watching the storm, hoping for an end, one way or another.
At one point, the thunder boomed so loud it rattled the house and knocked out the power. And there, in the dark, George felt a familiar, comforting presence. While he couldn't see her this time, he could feel her hand in his. He held on tight, squeezing as the pain washed over him. She was always calm and passive and never said anything but was always there when the pain was at its worst. Usually, her presence meant the episode was on its way out. Sure enough, the pain eased as his raw nerves ran out of the chemicals they needed to produce more. But it never truly stopped. It was always there, lurking. Waiting. And the girl was gone.
He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and opened his calendar. In the corner of each day's square was an emoji to signify how well the day went. If one were to check previous years, they'd see a more varied selection, ranging from neutral to frowny to crying. But the past few months had only one emoji: a person drowning. Though it was very early in the day, he didn't have high hopes and added the drowner without much thought. Then he noticed the date and let out an ironic chuckle. Today was his eighteenth birthday. He'd forgotten, somehow.
His stomach growled with the familiar hunger pangs. They were sometimes hard to discern through his episodes, and he often went too long without eating. He grabbed an electric lantern from the shelf over his computer desk and went to the third floor, through the hall to the main stairwell, and down three floors to the kitchen. The Everhart estate was an old Victorian house built in the eighteen hundreds. It had been remodeled several times over the centuries, being modernized along the way. It was once a landmark in the town of Stafford, being one of the oldest buildings in the state. It was large, welcoming, and well-appointed, with expensive furnishings, fancy paintings, and other rare art objects from around the world, all collected by the Everhart clan over many decades. But ever since his father died and his creditors came calling, most everything of value had been sold off. Most rooms were unused, their remaining contents covered in protective cloths, and their doors shut tight to discourage occupancy, thereby saving electricity. Since his sister, April, left for college several years prior, the house felt drafty, decrepit, and empty.
George crept down the stairs, trying not to make any noise. His mother worked long hours as a nurse at Stafford General, often in the late evening, and knowing how precious sleep was to him, he did his best to let her have as much as she could get. With the power cut, the house was dark and silent, making the storm outside sound even more prominent. Though George had lived in that house his entire life, even he would admit it could be spooky at times.
Upon reaching the ground floor, George could see a light coming from the kitchen and knew what it was immediately. He rounded the corner, and sure enough, there was his mother, Jessica, still in her favorite cranberry-colored scrubs, passed out at the breakfast table with an empty bottle of wine next to her open laptop. He approached cautiously so as to not startle her and rubbed her back gently. As she slowly came to, George took a peek at the screen and saw that it was open to her bank accounts. She was in the middle of paying bills when she fell asleep.
However, many of them had gone to collections, with some reading "past due" or "respond immediately." It was his fault they were in so much debt. His condition couldn't be diagnosed, and the insurance company wouldn't cover treatment. She worked herself ragged to make ends meet, but she couldn't afford the taxes on the land, let alone pay yet more doctors to evaluate George and find nothing. They were in an unsustainable situation, and they knew it. And yet, his mother refused to sell the house. When asked, she'd laughed off what she considered a silly notion. This house belonged to her late husband. His memory lingered there like the faintest smell of woodsmoke from a cozy fireplace; she'd never give it up.
Jessica held her head and groaned before noticing his presence. "Oh... good morning, sweetheart," she said as she yawned. "Couldn't sleep?"
George set the lantern down on the table and switched to her shoulders. "I got a little, but... ya know," he said, shrugging.
"Yeah, I know, love," she said. She rested her forehead in her hand and asked, "Would you get me something for my headache?"
"Sure," he said. He grabbed the pain reliever from the cupboard and poured her a glass of water. "What's the occasion?" he asked while motioning toward the empty bottle.
"I got it for you. For your birthday. But I guess I got a little impatient." She picked up the bottle and shook it, realized it was empty, and sighed. "Happy Birthday."
After grabbing a pre-packaged portion of his favorite cookies, he set the tablets and the water down in front of her, then grabbed the nearest chair and sat down. "You didn't have to get me anything. I forgot until just a minute ago."
She lightly slapped his wrist and said, "Oh, c'mon! It's the big one! You're too young to forget something like that. You're an adult now. Aren't you a little excited?"
"It's just another lap around the sun. It's not like it's magic or something."
She rolled her eyes but smiled playfully, "God, you're no fun, George. No fun at all."
"Sorry," he said softly.
Jessica looked at him pityingly, her pretty brown eyes and chestnut hair catching the light. He'd been told many times that his mother was gorgeous. His father had once confessed that she was the kind of woman men fought over. Tonight, she looked tired, overworked, and concerned. She reached out, took his hand, and asked, "Did you have another episode?"
He didn't want to tell her the truth, knowing it would worsen her headache. But he'd always been a terrible liar, especially to her. "Would you believe me if I told you I didn't?"
She shook her head and asked, "Did you take your medicine?"
"It doesn't work," he muttered.
"George," she groaned, "you have to keep taking it. It might take a while for the effects to show up. You can't just keep suffering."
"You heard the doctors. They didn't think it was gonna work either." He looked away from her and said under his breath, "They all think I'm looking for drugs anyway."
She sighed heavily in defeat. "Have you been doing your exercises, at least?"
He nodded, "Twice a day."
"Is it helping?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
He couldn't look at her, and with his voice quivering, he said, "Mom, I... I-I don't know how much longer I can do this."
"What...do you mean?" she asked, worried.
"I don't know, it just feels like... I'm cursed. Everything hurts, I can't do anything right." He held his head in his hands. "Everyone hates me."
She frowned. "So... what? I'm just supposed to give you permission? We talked about this. You know I can't do that." Then she scoffed, "Is this about your friends at school?"
He looked at her indignantly and said, "Bullies, Mom. They're called bullies."
"George," she groaned with predictable exasperation, "labeling them bullies is poisoning the well. If you keep calling them bullies, that's what they'll always be."
They'd had this conversation numerous times, and it always ended up in the same place. It always confused him how she could seemingly be the only person to believe he was in pain, yet that pain could never come from without. As always, George was just 'poisoning the well' and needed to try harder. It was all so frustrating and pointless to him.
"I know..." he said finally. "It's my fault."
"No! Honey, please, don't do that. That's not what I meant."
George awkwardly poked the unopened pack of cookies and avoided her gaze. He didn't know what to say anymore. All George knew was that he wanted this to end. Suddenly, he wasn't hungry.
George felt Jessica's hand on his shoulder. He could hear the pain in her voice when she said, "You know that... I don't blame you, right?"
He shook his head and said, "I wish you did. It would make everything so much easier."
