#Book #Excerpt I talk all day about how emotional and intense Book #5, "The Owl from Oblivion" is but the words really don't convey anything unless I give you a real sample. So here is the beginning of the Chapter 8, "Syon's Mishap of Reality". You'll have to tell me if this piques your interest or makes you recoil in horror.
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Paul7 materializes invisibly into the room of a sleeping twelve-year-old boy—the reality timeline Syon. He recoils at the sharp sour-milk smell accosting his nose mixed with the smell of stale, greasy cheese defusing from the bed, with a faint whiff of mouse feces emanating from the numerous holes chewed in the sides of the mattress. He floats quietly over to the bed and firmly grips Syon’s head by placing his hands on opposing sides; his ghostly presence, like a warrior decrepit from many wars, locks in a battle to preserve the innocence of Syon, who has just arrived from the terrifying rip in time. Paul7 asserts control on Syon’s mind using his direct telepathic connection as he searches through Syon’s memories. Using the same memory-erasing technique he had used on Elof2 to free him from emotional connections to his abusive pseudo-father, Paul7 erases the trauma and memory of the events surrounding the rip in time. Syon’s memory of the supernatural timeline becomes like a dream, containing only memories of his love-filled parents and the memories of his time-travel journeys with him connected to “Squiddy”, the mature Atreyeu form of Jenny, where Syon used his powerful control over time to create positive changes in everyone’s lives.
Paul7 smiles and removes his hands, feeling a personal victory in being able to touch and influence such a powerful mind. For the first time in his life, he feels strong and important. Syon moans loudly as if he is in pain as a rat emerges from his bedding. Paul7 points his finger at the rat, raising its squealing, struggling mass into the air. He smiles the smirk of forbidden pleasure as he aims his other palm at the rat, disintegrating it into a cloud of precipitating dust. As Syon twists in his small bed violently, trying to wake himself, Paul7 smiles and thinks, “And so the play of Paul25 begins and likewise my reign of terror upon the humans who would harm these advanced children.” He quickly jaunts away to avoid detection and the possibility of his discipline weakening, causing him to interfere in the timeline to suit his own pleasures.
Syon wakes and abruptly sits up in his small, womb like bed covered with ragged blankets, with discarded clothes piled on top to form a nest. He rubs his leg where it was bitten and examines his hands and body. “I am older now.” He jolts as his new life’s memories hit him. “This is terrible. I want the dream—I want it back now!” He buries his face into his pillow, unfazed by the overpowering stench of the pillow case used for years without being washed, and pulls up heaps of fabric scraps and outgrown shirts to completely bury himself, shutting out the world.
Through the paper thin wall next to his bed, the sound of his dad throwing up in the lavatory is inescapable. With every heave, his three-hundred-pound dad slaps the wall behind the fixture, attempting to steady himself. His wavers on every heave, slamming against the nearby sink, rumble the building’s plumbing. Syon’s curls into a defensive ball of submission, shaking with fear. He rubs the back of his upper arms and jumps; there is a sharp pain from a swollen spot where his dad grabbed him hard the previous night amidst a tidal wave of incoherent screaming. His body had swollen the area of repeated assault, with internal scar tissue infiltrating the bruising in a desperate attempt to protect the fragile veins of Syon’s boney arms.
The heaves rise in violence and intensity as his dad’s body desperately labors to expel its toxic contents through the collapsed esophagus pinched from layers of excessively vascularized fat, early calls for help from an unhealthy liver. The extreme violence of his dad’s heaving causes the ceiling to shake, with little chunks of plaster and spiders falling to the ground, and centipedes seeking shelter in the openings of the electrical sockets, the outlet’s protective covers having long ago failed. The extreme shaking told Syon that his dad had probably lost control, like usually did, and had begun spraying the entire tiny, closet-like bathroom.
While in his dark haven, Syon’s relentless mind wanders, his genius desperately searching for something to relieve its steady diet of boredom and helplessness. As it often did, his mind found philosophical thought about his current situation an irresistible and compulsive obsession. “I am, a prisoner of time. On the other time line, I wield the forces of nature and here, I am counting down the days until my emancipation or until my dad thinks I'm old enough to kill. The summer before year eight; the summer I met Professor Kettil, the only teacher who didn’t consider me a disposable gutter child with a broken mind, and Stefan, a child with a mind powerful enough to take me from this nightmare, at least for a short time.”
He pokes his head through a crack in his shield and like a turtle, surveys his floor; several more shirts have been added to the pile of clothes his dad thinks he should wear. There's an oversized one with a beer ad on it and one that's likely too small, with a soccer ball and a team name. The small one was probably added by his mum, who hadn't checked his size in a couple of years.
The shirts in the pile have several things in common: they are done in the primary colors, or as Syon likes to call them, the kindergarten colors; they were likely free; they are guaranteed to be dull and unclever like the people who are his parents' friends; and the designs are only of themes that would lead a boy to adulthood as a man, defined by the brutish code his dad adheres to and his mum lusts after.
The barfing continues. “Wow, Leonard had a big night at the pub,” Syon says as his mind adjusts to the reality of the new timeline.
Leonard is how he refers to his father here, not wishing for anyone to know of any ties connecting them. Suddenly, there is silence. He listens carefully, wondering if his father is still alive. A steady stream of cussing followed by water running in the sink breaks the silence. “Blimey, I can smell it from here. I hope mum feels like cleaning it up. I’ll pop before going in that loo.”
A frightened mouse scampers into the pile of shirts to hide from the perceived onslaught of a predator—a predator willing to stomp out life without giving it a second thought.
Syon thinks, “Please little mouse, chew holes in my cesspool of shirts—make a soft lined nest for your babies so that I might see what a soft nest feels like.”
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