PRINCE OF STAVES

A young boy sits in a room, imagining the journey ahead of him, and awaits for change to the surface. He realizes change comes at a price. The boy is passionate about his ideas, but is he ready to put those thoughts into action? Secrets, messages, connections are gifted to him, but he must be cautious, for in the unknown is where doubt is born on the other side.

* * *

— Ray —

Beep-beep-beep!

My hands under the covers searched for the buzzing, irritating alarm. I rubbed the wool off my bleary eyes and saw the clock sitting on my nightstand, blinking its pale-white numbers, unlike last night’s glowing green color. It was six-thirty a.m. Wasn’t the clock set on my work desk last night? Across the work surface, I saw a black box sitting atop where my clock was supposed to have been. I laid frozen in my sheets, picturing the pitch-black room with four corner walls, chilling me to the bone. Curling up my fingers, a pricking cut my palm, leaving moon-shaped markings. I eased the pressure of my hand and waited for the clear pinch of terror to wake me up. A stabbing persistence flushed my skin red. The dream was over, but it followed me here.

I peeked under the narrow gap of my sheets to look beyond my nightstand. Nothing else except my garments, shoes, hanging bags, and a dusty-yellowed poster of The Matrix occupied my closet space. I rolled my eyes at my own jarring thoughts. There’s nothing Ray. It’s all in your head. Still, I kept looking back at the black box and my fingers combed my curls. I stiffened and inspected my hand. An itching scratched my mind, there’s something warm about it. What was it? It’s probably nothing important. Pursing my lips, I got up, making my way to the freakin box. Maybe I should torch it, throw it away. It has a red satin ribbon crossing each section, shaping a simple bow on top, and a sandy parchment note attached to the side. My heart broke into a sprint, sucking all the air out of me. I approached, nonstop shaking hands, sweat dripping down my neck all the way to my spine.

Knock-knock-knock!

Jesus! I jumped at most three feet in the air, gripping my teeth at her impeccable timing.

“Morning! Ray, it’s your mother. Can I come in?” Her voice hallowed out from behind the door.

Unable to get a word out and Mom walked right into my room. The hinges of the door screeched, making my skin crawl. Nevermind, come in! I’m fine.

“Sure,” I grumbled, walking back to my bed, keeping an eye out on the box.

“Hi, honey.”

She appeared to be staring at me on my bed, her gaze wavered to my window, and my desk.

“Hey,” I answered back.

She pulled back a smile, marking aged lines around her eyes. I tried to show a semblance of interest, but I murked a smile, and for a moment her brows furrowed, the room fell silent and crisp.

“Listen, your father and I want to talk to you downstairs—” All of a sudden Mom paused and grabbed the black box.

“What is this doing here?”

Mom scrutinized the box, a perplexed unease made me stifle my breath. She was touching it. The thing was real. I pursed my lips, waiting to see what Mom was going to do with it, yet she shrugged.

“This is a gift from your Uncle, your father was going to give it to you tonight, but it seems he already did. I could have sworn I saw it on your Dad’s desk this morning. Did your father come to you this morning?”

Mom pinched her chin, and mocked at the ceiling, perhaps hoping to find answers to her questions while I stayed slumping my back, watching her kaleidoscope expressions. I can’t wait until I’m in college, maybe I’ll have some privacy, but for now, she’s entertaining to watch.

“I haven’t heard from my uncle in years.” Wasn’t he dead?

He didn’t keep in touch with Dad, much less with me.

“Your father and uncle call each other every now and then, you haven’t noticed when he laughs in his office during the weekends? That’s him talking with his brother.”

I oh’d, not quite sure if I ever heard my Dad laughing in his office. It’s probably because I spent too much time worrying about my mind going haywire. I laid back, tiny-hidden cobwebs making my ceiling their home, not that I minded. Spiders had their usefulness, they ate the flies buzzing around my face, but maybe cleaning out a few of them wasn’t a bad idea. At the edge of the bathroom, the sound of rolling marbles clinking on the tile floor could be heard. I noted Mom, she kept mumbling to herself and didn’t twitch or boggled her beady eyes to hear it. My first instinct was to search for the sound—I bit my lip. Don’t look for the sound Ray! Ignore it. The clinking started to quiet down—quieter than an echo. I silently sighed.

Splat!

I shook, and unwilling, my eyes followed the splattering sound after I had heard the clinking of marbles in the same place. A red handprint splattered the bathroom door, tracks of its fingers moved to the edge of my Mom’s feet. The quivering thickness I hoped was paint traced half her face—she remained unaware.

“Honey, are you alright? You look awfully pale.”

Ashen-faced, I leaned back drawing away from her blood-dripping fingertips, and shivered.

“Ray, is something the matter? What? Is there something on my face?”

She smeared the blood all over her face.

Clap!

I blinked from a sudden clapping—my mother paused her hands in midair.

“I lost you there for a minute. You must be still sleepy.”

She chuckled, her olive-green eyes wrinkled at the end softly. I shook my head—not a trace of splatter coated her face.

“Mah! Stop!”

Mom rubbed my face, making a mess of my hair. I shielded my head and avoided her pincers from pinching my nose.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. Get dressed and come downstairs. Oh, bring the box.”

She snorted and nudged my shoulder.

“Ok… there better be coffee!” I said.

She waved me off with an expression which said, “I got it.” The door hinged on her way out and clicked shut. I rested my head on the fine wood, a soft pine scent lingered from the Pledge cleaner from last week’s Summer cleaning. A number of deep breaths went in and out of me, and the thumping breaking my ribcage cooled. I saw the rosary around my doorknob, questioning its effectiveness, but grabbed it along with the box. It didn’t hurt to trust it. My clothes were fine, wrinkled, but fine. I wasted no time gesturing a cross outside my bedroom, not like it ever worked since it’s all in my head.

On my way downstairs tiny eyeballs rolled and chirped over the steps. Are you a damn chicken? It was the weirdest of many things, but not the scariest. At least they didn’t bother with me even when I shooed them off. I darted my gaze at the box in my firm grip and a tail poked and tugged the ribbon.

Meow!

“Hey, when did you get in Jeffrey?”

I bent down, rubbed the swirl on Jeffrey’s head, he purred nonstop, and pawed the box.

“What? You want this? Sorry buddy, it’s not for you, but I promise to give you treats next time, ok.”

I patted his fur and followed the scent of brewing coffee. Unbeknownst to me, Jeffrey narrowed his sapphire irises, eyeing the box. He followed me down and rubbed his creamy coat on my legs. Clattering came from the kitchen, the sweet-buttery scent of eggs sizzling in a pan, and warm toast being scrapped among the jams on the countertop—it warmed the morning, making it brighter, easing my tiresome mind. The regular morning remained blissful, an ignorance of what hid behind every door.

“Morning dormilón, how’d you sleep last night?” My Dad called out to me.

He sat on the futon in front of the t.v., raised his brow in questioning, turning the pages of the newspaper, and paying not two seconds of what’s on the channel. The peering of age coated his face, white streaks matting the rest of his charcoal-grey hair—a younger version of Grandpa, without the stubby nose.

“Fine—” and I lied.