The Inception Trilogy by Easton Livingston (best classic novels .txt) 📗

As soon as he saw it was Frankie, he turned back around and leaned forward, trying to stay out of reach. Frankie peered around at the other kids toward the front of the bus to make sure the driver didn’t see him. Satisfied the coast was clear, he grabbed a lock of Jason’s hair and yanked, forcing his head back.

“Sup L Seven,” he said, his strong breath blasting Jason’s nostrils. The stench of cherry bubblegum and spittle combined with the sight of Frankie’s cavity-ridden teeth made Jason’s stomach somersault.

“Whatcha readin? Dungeons and Dragons?”

He punctuated the statement by taking the bubblegum out of his mouth and sticking it on the tip of Jason’s nose. Laughter came from the back of the bus as Jason pulled away and knocked the gum off his nose.

No one understood why he would let Frankie get away with humiliating him like that. Most kids would cry, fight back, or tell an adult. Not Jason. Every day there would be a new insult or prank, and every day he would take it in stride. Most of the kids thought he was strange. His pacifism only made him more bizarre. However, it wasn’t a major concern. They were grateful they weren’t targets.

They soon settled into their routine as Frankie continued to antagonize him. When his stop came, he gathered his book and backpack and exited the bus, the stares of the other kids burning into his back, their giggles stabbing his ears. Jason waited for the bus to turn the corner before he started down the block.

This was the bad side of town. Section 8, low-income government housing. He didn’t live there, but he lived next to them, which wasn’t too far off from living in them.

Half a block down Western Avenue, he turned onto Broils, which was his street. He stood at the walkway for a few moments, steeling himself. Slow, languid steps took him to the weather-beaten front door. Gold paint clutched onto the wooden surface, faded flakes littering the porch where countless footsteps had ground them into tiny pieces. Jason stared down at the tarnished brass doorknob, his breathing becoming heavier. He closed his eyes with a loud sigh. He grabbed the house key inside his jacket pocket, inserted it into the deadbolt, unlocked the door and entered, being as silent as he could.

Inside, the shades covered the windows, filtering the small amount of light to a dim luminance. The atmosphere was like walking into a room full of sick people. Oppressive. Clothes, newspapers, and beer cans littered the floor, tables, and chairs. Beer cans. *His* beer cans.

“Jay. Is that you?” came a deep, gruff voice down the hallway. He froze and tried to answer, but his throat became constricted and dry.

“I said is that you, boy?”

He’d answered five times, but the words came out no louder than a whisper. It was only a matter of time now.

Heavy hooves stomped down the hallway. His heart beat faster. He wanted to run, but his feet turned into blocks of cement, unmoving.

Please, God…please God…please.

The stomping ceased. Jason looked up. There stood his father. Imposing. Gargantuan. Above six feet tall and over two hundred and fifty pounds, most of it deposited in his stomach. Balding in the middle of his head, he hadn’t shaved in days. The gray hair in his beard and mustache combined with sagging cheeks and eye wrinkles deceived the beholder. At thirty-nine years old, he looked ten years older.

He stood in front of Jason, glaring.

“What’s wrong with you? I asked you a question.”

“I…I got…I couldn’t talk.”

“What do you mean you couldn’t talk? You’re talking right now. You lying to me?”

“No…no…I couldn’t…”

“What have I told you about lying boy?”

Before Jason could respond, the back of his father’s hand crashed into his face. The door rattled as he stumbled into it, sending The Paladin’s Burden falling to the ground. For a moment, he thought impact broke his jaw until he realized he could move it without extreme pain. Putting his fingers to his mouth, he glanced at the tips. Blood.

“When I ask you a question,” his father said, pointing in his face. “You answer.”

“Yes…yessir.”

“Pick up that stupid book and get upstairs.”

Jason walked over to his book, which landed at his father’s feet. A slap across the top of his head tussled his hair making it look as if he had just gotten up out of bed.

“Hurry up!”

In haste, Jason scooped up his book and ran up the stairwell towards his bedroom.

“And don’t come out of there for the rest of the night!”

When he reached his bedroom, he entered and with a soft click shut the door though he wanted to slam it. The room was a complete change from the environment his father dwelt in. He kept it immaculate. No matter how many times his father would come in and destroy things, Jason would clean it back up without fail. It was the only place he had any semblance of control over. His dignity and self-worth disintegrated in small doses daily. It was miraculous there was anything left at all and what remained hung by the proverbial thread. He didn’t have many toys and wanted none because it was a lost cause. It was an eventuality that his father would break them.

Jason sat down on his bed grabbing a towel stained with faded blood splotches from in between his mattress which he kept for such occasions. In the ten years of his earthly existence, the last three had been the worse. It baffled him why that was the case, but he had an idea. Somehow he was to blame. That’s what it was about. He was the reason his mother disappeared.

He remembered walking in on his father and seeing him sitting in his faded brown recliner. There was a letter in his hand. He was crying, but it was soundless, tears running silent down his cheeks as his eyes became more bloodshot. It was the only and the last time he had ever seen his father