book part something

Another fight had occured, more dangerous to the last. When he burst out the door into the almost full-moonlight, there was only one place to go. Stepping into the library, sobbing, he made his way back to his secret place, quietly not sure if an alarm system was yet installed in the dusty, blistering heat of the old towns only safe-haven. Looking around, one solitary feather fell from some place high up in the ceiling. "Bird!" he yelled, still sobbing. He knew if he could just gain wings such as that bird accquired, all the ghosts and nightmares of life could be left behind.


Many people mistook braden for a man with not enough mental capacity to grasp ideas beyond an eight year old. None of these unnamed knew his IQ was much higher than one they could ever achieve. sometimes in genius, your body finds it hard to cope with the power of the pulsing center it had acciqured during life in the womb. sometimes they break, other times the body melts down, slowly, to make way for such a large epicenter.

And yet still, the body will make way for this manevolent beast, as braden refers to it as he spends his days rearraging, and changing his life, to experience it all.

All he ever wanted was to experience it all. It was never expected to go this far, life is cruel.

And so our story begins.


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As one goes through the standards and practices of life, they are expected to carry with them stories and memories of the past. Romances, childhood, first jobs, and broken bones, maybe a swatting or two that especially hurt, or reminders of a divorce gone wrong.

Other-times, there are so many memories and stories building up inside, they become confused with reality, even for someone with an unimaginably high level of thinking. There were days when Braden would sit on his porch, sure that he was ten again, sure that any minute daddy would come walking in the door. With his sister beside him, they sat. Both of them wondering what kind of day it would be, as the sun was setting and the world around them becoming distinctively silent. They were never fooled by the sun going down, for the day started its terror as daddy arrived home.

He could almost hear the truck backing up the driveway, see the look on his sisters face, telling him she couldn't go another day. The trembling beneath her clothing angered him, although he felt helpless in this time. She reached for his hand as the screen door slammed, and the beast loomed before them. He dare not look up. As Gracie followed the man known as their father into the house without a word, seemingly knowing her place, and her fear, he began to think, to remember.


Two years later dear-ole-daddy had died, and Braden swore to never look back. His sister never made that promise, but he was sure she would understand. He swore he couldn't. Until now. The bitch brought it up, wanted to know DETAILS. DETAILS? of what he did to ensure she had a safe life. And now the bitch wanted the details. Braden stared up at the eaves, searching for the bird, silently begging it to carry him away. He couldn't deal with details! Didn't she know that? Whats done was done, talking about it had no real essence in the world. The beast was gone, what more did she need? Memories he thought he had successfully blocked, started to creep back up at him whilst pleading with the ghost bird. He tore at his pocket, searching for the pad and pen he needed to keep him grounded. Even when he was so ready to fly away, he found himself begin to draw. The abstract creations that tore from his mind were unreal, and shared with no one. He was an introverted being, everything worth talking about beneath his will, therefore, he did not talk, with a few exceptions as Gracie, and his boss. Not talking to Gracie meant he would have no one. He wasn't sure now if that was as bad as he once thought. As he tried to start a line on the paper, he knew drawing wouldn't help him tonight, its gone too far. Everything came in a torrent now, a flood of pain and recalled portions of his life. As they poured into him, Branden was swept down into his memories, unable to pull back. He was lost in the sound, in the music of things past. And it broke his heart.

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His father was a lying, waste of space, a letdown. Everyone is a let down, it just deepens on how far down you can go. Before the beast showed his colors, childhood had been maginficent. The beating of Braden's heart was irratic by this point, as his brain was flooded. Canoing at Saltwater Creek when he was a mere child, he was eight at the time; his sister was 12. The way the stream ended in a thick pool, filled with creatures. Scooping up some of this water into a jar to look at it closely later on. The way that when the current wooshed past their canoe at high speeds, looking at his father with terror written on his face, only to feel a loving arm pat him on the head. Looking back, it was his mother. Oh how she looked! Long, coursing hair, more often in a ponytail than not, for it was too curly to do much with she always said. But the moments when she allowed it to be down, Braden swore she was an angel. Without a belief in heaven or hell, he believed that his mother was an angel. The one subtle moment of her arm filled him with a feeling of peace, he knew it was all going to be okay, and that time it was. Coursing over the waves, they soon came to the pool, and the day ended joyusly as any could. Looking at the water later that evening, hidden by the eaves in the attic, where he hid his "devils toys" as his father referred to them, he took a closer look at the water. It was not water, as he once thought. It was a living thing. MANY living things. In such a small span of space there were shapes of wriggling things he had never before seen in his life. It should have scared him, inspired him to show his sister and scare her too, so he wouldn't be alone while she decided to go back to the creek. But he couldn't. He wanted, NEEDED to go back. Humans have roughly the salt content in their body as the ocean, and he was sure this was the reason for the pull he felt. Besides, you couldn't expect the water to be void of any living thing, who would want to swim in a water that could do that anyway? So he kept to himself, drawing what he saw, adding swirls and darkened masses here and their to effect. A week later, when his drawing was found, Braden remembers the terror and rage in his fathers face, but turning to look at his mother, he saw pride. When he was ask what exactly had inspired such a creation, he tried to explain it was the water from the creek. Hearing no more, his father walked out of the room, pale faced, always with a cigarette in his hand. When his father was gone, Mom, Lacey, as she was so often called by other adults, kneeled down. She told Braden she would keep his drawing somewhere special, but from now on he should show her them, at least being wary of when his father was gone. Braden never shared another drawing, and there was never another trip to the creek, at least , as a family. He stole down there quite often by himself, remembering his drawing, and looking quizzically at the water, wondering if he had made it up. On these days, he would sneak more jars of water into the house, and peer at them through the lens of his microscope, reassuring himself that indeed, the wrigglers were real after all. When his mother died, Braden was found in the attic, admist the dozens of jars of half empty and presumably dead creek water. The microscope was smashed in a fury by his father, and Braden prayed he didn't find the drawings that now occupied the dark corners of the attic. They were never found. Thus they became an obession, the only real thing Braden could control in his life, and he hung on for the fact that he truly thought without these things, the living would end.

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He could still feel the day she passed. I say feel rather than remember, because the day was filled with more emotions than actual memory. The day was built up entirely of colors and numbers in Bradens mind. Up with the chariot that drove the sun across the sky, sneaking out with his mother to see the last of the nights stars and stop for an ice cream. Ice cream for breakfast! What an angel she was.

On this day, her hair was down, a wondering thought to Braden. Those days, hadn't been so good. Theres been alot of red, and black. Swirling masses that followed his parents during their stiff conversation at the dinner table, although, they never dragged Braden or Gracie into what was happening. And the noise. After one of these dinners, his father would proceed into a locked room that Branden, nor Gracie, and he believed his mother either, had never been permitted to enter. Three locks on the door, all deadbolts, plus the normal key lock, and a latch on the time, inside the door, made entering this door not only improbable, but likely impossible as well. The best answer ever given to the mystery was an ear at the door, listening to the noises that sometimes leaked out. Horrible, wretched noises they were too. Sometimes a sound like a scream or moan, other noises unearthly, and other noises yet that sounded like machinery and construction workers filled this room all at once. Bradens mother told him once his father had insulated the room heavily when the house was built, the reason unknown to her. Even with the insulation, the nightmares that filled that room, and Braden's mind never failed to creep into his dreams. Life was logic. One could be considered a pychic if only they took the time to completely ingulf themselves of the habits, and persons who created these habits, of the world. Paying enough attention, could be considered as an eerie 6th sense. If you can answer a question before it is asked, or know what someone is going to do before they do it, is based on logic, and attention. You pay enough attention to someone, you know them inside, and out. Their thoughts, are easily written on their face. But as the days passed of Braden's childhood, he realized that his father was composed of false thoughts. Ones to scramble any real emotions he hide behind the only one he knew. Rage.