Innocent Guilt
Diary of The Damned
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Chapter
One: Diary of the Damned
13, 2003
Threw up again.
sides (corn, chef's salad, asparagus, and about a hundred other varieties of
vegetables and cheeses) were scrumptiaddiadditions to my plate, but I
the French wine could be prevented from coming up, no
matter how hard I willed my subconscious to stop pestering my ego about calorie
consumption. Realistically, I can enjoy just about any concoction placed in
front of me, but that nagging voice--no, that pretentious bastard in the back
of my mind--won't leave well enough alone .
Damn you, my
overbearing, overprotective bitch of a psyche.
Damn you to
Yes, I'm probably as fucked as they come,
missing a few screws, playing a game of marbles with an incomplete set, but
that's the way life is--excuse me--always has been for me.
And
situation of mine.
Here I am, the CEO of a major corporation,
spokesperson and creator of the latest gaming technology, someone so high up
the food chain that I could purchase the Supreme Court for guaranteed freedom
if my ass was ever threatened with prison, and I'm still susceptible to one of
the most lethal disorders to scratch the heads of social scientists.
one?
Feeling an unpleasant wave jostle the insides
of my stomach, I dropped my pen and glanced at my midsection.
"Looks like there's a
rumbling in my tummy." I
murmured, grimacing as I drew my writing hand to the disturbed part of my body.
It didn't lessen the stabbing sensations, but at least
it eased my troubled thoughts. That was a good enough reason alone to keep the
limb there.
Gritting my teeth in
unison with the excruciating vibes, I pressed the back of my other palm to my
forehead, wiped away some beads of sweat, then let the
arm fall back in place. Every part of my frame throbbed as if I had been
running for miles, relentlessly sprinting over wet sand, a slanted spiral that
had me gasping for breath each time I opened my mouth. Actually, I found this
experience to be somewhat amusing. Not in humorous pleasantry, but in the way
that was comical under risky conditions. You know the kind, where literally everything
seems funny because the senses are shot without
any promise of redemption.
Truthfully, I
instructor reprimanded me for a poor performance on the high bar. I loathed how
he scolded me, hated how he treated me like a child barely able to hang
upright on the beam. In front of every couple, their toddler-age children, and
other students in my class (most were no older than eight,
I was the only male there who was in high school), I told my haughty
superior where he could stick the damned rod at. That was the
only afternoon am I m I left with a genuine smile on my face, a pleased
and content expression that would never be forgotten. Happiness like that
was an atypical commodity, and I cherished all fifteen seconds of my fame, no
matter whose blacklist I ended up on then. Any other time, I was doing well not
to flip the judges off when I went to competition.
Realizing that the
horrible clenching had subsided, I returned to my desk and replaced my quill in
its ink bottle. Casting a nervous gaze around the
study, my eyes scanned the bookshelves, couch, and surrounding furnishings,
searching for a sign of someone there. It's an uncanny
notion I get when I'm by myself, cooped up in a room with the insanity that
loneliness brings in the dead of winter, where the frosty wind invades my skin
and turns my blood into an icy ocean of paranoia. Finally, my eyes drifted to
the frame of the room, the double doors pressed against the walls
stood at full attention, tall, straight fixtures that mirrored the proud
stances that my bodyguards flaunted. Settling my gaze on the gaping mouth the
towers left, I came to a comfortable understanding--
No one was there.
Patting my chest, I
blew out a heavy sigh of relief. Nobody was eavesdropping or peeking over my
shoulder, and I couldn't have asked for better fortune
than that. These are my secrets, my special somethings
that are meant for these eyes and ears only, items
meant for me to add onto or dispose of in my spare time. I was happy no one was
observing me from a distance.
No one should be there.
Forcing myself to
concentrate, I spied a gold knob to my left and gave the handle a modest tug.
Almost immediately, the drawer opened, revealing my standard perfectionism.
Documents were neatly stacked and paper clipped there, with writing utensils
that were as important as the pages themselves to their right. Beside the legal
sheets sat a box of envelopes, resting in vertical alignment to stamps, postage
sporting the American flag. There, hiding amongst the professional refuse,
dozed a vital brass accessory. Sticking a weary hand in the compartment, my
fingers plucked the shiny object from its location.
"After all," I mused, slipping the
object through the surface of my book, "What's a diary without a
lock?"
"An unpublished memoir?" proposed a
small voice from behind me, sharing an odd mixture of seriousness and weird
serenity.
Startled, I clicked
the lock closed, shoved the book under some tax forms, then
slammed the furniture shut. The abrupt actions caused my brother to stand on
edge, staring at me with big scary eyes that seemed perilously close to tears.
It was a look that didn't come over his featurery
ry
often, but when the expression did surface, I knew it meant that
something was wrong. He was terrified about one matter or another.
fear...
Relaxing at the
sight of the fright-filled look, I rose from my chair and fell to one knee.
Gazing at him sympathetically, I beckoned to him with outstretched arms while
smiling, but he remained where he was. It took many minutes of nodding and
wiggling my fingers before he started towards me, cherub feet padding across
the carpet, the stuffed rabbit he slept with bouncing against his thigh, his
behavior serving as a reminder of how I was at his age. Even the bunny was a
friend I had cuddled with in childhood years, for it was a
toy I had lovingly named, played with, and thought of as a real person.
Now Mokuba was the owner of the artifact of my youth,
a boy who made a splendid parent for the cottontail. Waving at me each moment
it struck the child's leg, Mr. Fluffian (an immature
title for the poor thing, but it was all my six-year-old mind could invent)
seemed to gesture with a pink paw to my sibling's pajamas. Tonight's set
consisted of the powerful Blue Eyes White Dragon on the top, while its evolved
form dotted a gray backdrop of pants. Naturally, my relative likes everything I
do, and that works out to my advantage in the long run.
He couldn't have picked a finer to display on himself.
Now if he could only be
as happy with me as I am with him, then maybe I'd
begin to feel better about myself. Maybe.
Once he was within
reaching distance, I closed the gap with my arms, hugging him until he
arms around my neck, squeezing me back with enough affection to make an
orphanage of kids experience the joy of being loved.
When the brotherly gesture ended, he sat on my leg and dug his rump into a cozy
position. Afterwards, he set his huge indigo orbs on me, fixing me with a sad
stare that nearly broke my heart.
"What?" I questioned him, surprised
by the emotional production. "What is it?"
Without answering
me, he buried his face in my chest. Puzzled, I began stroking his hair,
twirling the bluish tresses in subtle motions, hoping the movements would calm
my sibling's soul. It wasn't until I felt something
warm and wet soak my shirt that I pulled him away from me.
"What, Mokuba?"
I asked in exasperation, praying that he would recognize his name, wishing that
my words would be enough to save him from this upset rush.
Looking
at me with wide, unblinking eyes, his mouth started to move, but no dialogue
came out. His lips quivered in the dim lighting of the room, silent speech that
qualified as language of the unformed, some strange malfunction where someone
jammed the mute button on him. Alarmed and at a loss for what to say or do, I
held him closer to me.
I almost put his head on my shoulder, but I
heard him cry, "I had a bad dream!
Exhaling in momentary relief, I turned my
arms into a cradle, gently rocking him back and forth, murmuring sweet nothings
in his ear to pacify him.
“Tell me about it.” I said quietly, brushing
a wave of hair from his face.
He shook his head. “You won’t like it.” he
countered, gripping my clothes tightly. “I’m big and strong and I can’t
even stand it.”
I smiled knowingly. “Why don’t you let me
decide that much for myself?”
Mokuba
suggestion carefully. With his eyes closed and his head tilted inward, he
office, walking into the corridor he toddled from. Passing a painting of a
waterfall with a host of playful pixies by, I veered to the right, sweeping us
both into an area stockpiled with toys, video games, virtual reality
simulations, and art centers. His room, of course, which also
provided a walk-in closet and enough fashion statements to put the runways in
of recent masterpieces, I cut a clear path to his mattress without tripping or
fumbling a step. Exhausted, I set him on the sheets, pulled his comforter up to
his neck, and pecked him on the cheek. Thrusting aside some action figures with
my foot, I shot him a dubious look.
descending upon his features.
“How could you get to my den without knocking
yourself out?”
“Easy,” he said, the
tension in his voice diminishing. “I just play leapfrog over my stuff and I
turn out fine. You should try it some time ‘cuz
“Not if I did it intentionally.” I
grumbled, suddenly recalling the moron who claimed ownership of the dragon.
“What was that?”
Yawning, I pressed a hand to my lips,
expelled a gust of used oxygen, then replied,
“Nothing. I was just thinking out loud again.”
“Oh, you mean like Joey does?”
“No,” I responded tiredly, “it’s like
“Yeah, but he also does that.”
Now the late night hour was really
getting to me. Turning off his reading lamp, I tucked him in the rest of the
way, shaking off a bout of sleep as I straightened his bedding.
“That’s because he gets it from me.” I
responded in a half-weary, half-irritated tone. “I swear he’d be hazardous if
he could think for himself. Why, I may even--”
Glancing at my brother, I smiled blissfully,
placed another kiss on his cheek, and passed my fingers through his hair. I
always had a token of affection for this cute angel of mine, left to my charge
by a mother and father who would be as proud of him as I am—if they were still
alive today.
“Sweet dreams, Little One.” I whispered
lovingly in his ear. “Lullaby and good-night.”
Believing him to be
asleep, I groped my way through the darkness, not really seeing anything, but
I stood tall and unharmed by any missteps at the entrance to his living
quarters. I can’t describe how wonderful that felt to
cross the minefields of cards, plastic creations, and clay safely without a
scratch on me. Assuming my work here was complete, I put a foot outside his
bedroom, only to hear a young, phantom voice ask something I wasn’t
prepared to listen to.
“What if the bad dream comes back?” mumbled Mokuba.
“Then pray for our archangel mother to give
you peaceful rest.”
“What if she doesn’t? What if I have to see
you be put in the hospital again?”
Chilled to the bone, I snapped my gaze to his
visage, trying to comprehend his grave premonition.
“Excuse me?” I asked,
my politeness layered with agitation.
“I dreamt you were in the hospital and died
there. Your funeral was--” Interrupting himself, he
confirmed what he foretold earlier. “Told ya
you wouldn’t wanna know.”
Stiffening, I blinked my eyes to refocus my
vision and thoughts.
It’s
repeated over and over again, just a dream, it’s just a dream…
Hoping to quiet the obnoxious voice in my
mind, I gathered my courage, sucked in my pride, then forced out the one
question I dreaded forming the words for.
“Why
did I die?”
Sensing my unusual apprehension, he reacted
by slowly delivering the ominous news.
“ ‘Cuz
moonlight reflecting untold sorrow in his eyes. “You wouldn’t eat anything from
anyone an’ you starved to death.”