Rule's Madness

When the children began being born mad, concerned parents formed committees. The committees tore through the economy, laying waste to medicinal companies and food producers. Tort lawsuits became vogue again as everyone seemingly had a case.

Nothing but assured facilities remained, and still no cause had been found. Slowly, the new generation was replacing the sane.

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A single yellowed bulb swayed from the ceiling. It's drawstring had been torn loose, and it flickered at the loss. The room was almost silent, but a small pair of lungs rasped through an irregular beat somewhere on the ground beneath the bulb. When the bulb swayed just right a small form could be seen huddled against a wooden support. Teeth bared in a rictus grin, the drawstring between them.

For a long time it was quiet.

The boy sat down against the wooden pillar, wrapped the beaded silver string around his left little finger and remained still. Eyes open and focused on a set of wooden stairs across the basement.

When the door above them opened, he remained still but tense. A middle-aged woman came down the stairs, slowly but with purpose. Neck poised, back slightly arched. Sure and steady steps.

As she came to stop at the bottom of the set, she took in the sight. Seeing the bulb still, string torn, child panting on the ground. Behind him a nest had been built, discarded.

Pieces of linen and wicker had been pressed into a bowl and tied with strips of cloth. The build of it was small, what was left. Something had begun destroying one half of the bed, preserving the remainder. Dust had settled on the edges of the wicker frame. It had not been used recently.

"Rule. are you hungry? You can eat if you will tell me the color of your eyes. You musn't be difficult this time or I won't be back for another day"

Matronly voice. Piqued with concern, but also a coldness in it that belied her appearance. A warmly patterned dress, and a small thin sweater covered her. Across one arm was a woolen brown sweater, many times thicker than her own. In the other hand was a loaf of bread.

She stood still, listening for any sign. Any recognition. Watching him as his eyes slowly lifted back towards her. He began to stand, reaching back to grab a hold of the wood pillar. Lifting himself carefully.

Torn shorts. Barefoot on the concrete flooring. Hair dirty and neat cut framing a young face. Mouth set slightly open above a set jaw. The eyes were tracking the movements of the woman. Her hands had been making small, discrete movements. The loaf of bread had been dropped to the floor a moment earlier.

His smile formed first in the posture, somehow eliciting an innocent perception of him. The smile came on far too quickly after that, the lip curling in before settling on it's shape.

"But I've forgotten Madeleine. I have"

The smile grew and the hand flexed, light glinting silver off his pinky. The flash of light remained beaded, but to the woman of the stairs it seemed hard-edged and sharp.

She began moving back towards the door above the landing. Movements shuffled and quick, leaving the room without a word.

The smile stayed as it was for a while afterwards, as his teeth tore into the bread she'd left. It was gritty with the dirt, but it was fresh baked and good.

He finished half of the loaf, and moved back to where the torn bed lay. Moving a piece of the frame away, he put the remainder into a small hold after wrapping it in a strip of linen.

He'd just finished returning it to it's place as he heard a voice coming from the darkness of the area behind the bed. It was placed midway between the stairwell, and a water tank. The water tank was large, rumbling deeply when it was used, and otherwise was a source of feeble heat in the room.

From behind it stood himself in finer clothes. Hair clean but cut ragged. He was looking at his ragged compatriot, watching him through openings in the pipes. Whispering.

"They'll come soon. They are only men Rule. I am more. Make sure they don't know why I'm here. If they do. I'll speak to them in private. I won't speak of you well."

Rule was crouched next to his bed, visibly shaken. He watched as his form began to spread haphazardly. Pieces of the image budded into eyes, stalked back into a veined white core. Each one a different color, a different texture.

One burned, a white-hot against black pupil. Flinted shapes danced in the glare of it.

At the stairwell, the door cracked open again. Rule gave his attention to the eyes, watching him, seeing them elongate towards the door, peering forward at the visitors. He turned to look, and then back towards the shapeless stalks. The eyes were watching to be sure of something. He knew he couldn't look away from them, but they were going to judge him, however he acted.

He turned towards the two large men who came down the stairs. Everything he could see was dark, smudged. The men were goading him, jeering at him about something. He didn't want the eyes to hear it. And so he acted.