The Inception Trilogy Read online

  Not everyone viewed him in that light. His teachers’ view of him was different.

  “He’s a good kid,” he’d heard them say.

  “I wish all of my students were like him. Save the world a ton of headache.”

  Most of them were sincere in their assessment. Some of it was pure sympathy, but he was all right with that. He’d take whatever he could get. Sure. He knew he wasn’t the best dressed, most popular, or best liked. That wasn’t his focus, nor his forte. He was on the honor roll every semester and always in the top five. That kind of thing fostered resentment from the other kids, which expressed itself in name calling and practical jokes. He had to tell himself that or it would have been unbearable.

  A day in the life.

  He sat with his eyes plastered to the blackboard. Multiplication and fractions were fun to him, but most of the kids in class dreaded any that appeared similar to mathematics. For him, it was rather easy. He finished the assignment Ms. Tracy had written on the chalkboard before anyone else.

  Twenty minutes later, school was out. A deluge of bodies poured into the corridors as young students rushed out of their classrooms. Some went straight for the school buses outside so they could reserve their favorite seats. All of them were eager to get home… except for Jason. He took his time, always one of the last if not the last to get on the bus.

  Sitting in the middle of the bus, he pulled out his copy of his latest fantasy novel, A Paladin’s Burden. He checked it out from the library earlier that day. He didn’t have many books at home. In his excitement to lose himself in its pages, he failed to notice he had sat in front of Franklin Connors, the fat bully on his school bus. Franklin took special pleasure in teasing and humiliating Jason because he could. Jason wasn’t a fighter and even if he was, would get his face smashed in if he tried to do so. His coordination being somewhere between one and nil on a scale of ten, it would more than likely be from his own fist. He tolerated it, wouldn’t cry or threaten to go tell his parents. He’d just take it. The perfect human punching bag.

  Frankie quickly seized the opportunity by flicking the back of his ears with his forefinger. Jason tore his eyes from his book to glare at him. As soon as he saw it was Frankie, he turned back around and leaned forward, trying to stay out of reach. Frankie peered around at the other kids toward the front of the bus to make sure the driver didn’t see him. Satisfied the coast was clear, he grabbed a lock of Jason’s hair and yanked, forcing his head back.

  “Sup L Seven,” he said, his strong breath blasting Jason’s nostrils. The stench of cherry bubblegum and spittle combined with the sight of Frankie’s cavity-ridden teeth made Jason’s stomach somersault.

  “Whatcha readin? Dungeons and Dragons?”

  He punctuated the statement by taking the bubblegum out of his mouth and sticking it on the tip of Jason’s nose. Laughter came from the back of the bus as Jason pulled away and knocked the gum off his nose.

  No one understood why he would let Frankie get away with humiliating him like that. Most kids would cry, fight back, or tell an adult. Not Jason. Every day there would be a new insult or prank, and every day he would take it in stride. Most of the kids thought he was strange. His pacifism only made him more bizarre. However, it wasn’t a major concern. They were grateful they weren’t targets.

  They soon settled into their routine as Frankie continued to antagonize him. When his stop came, he gathered his book and backpack and exited the bus, the stares of the other kids burning into his back, their giggles stabbing his ears. Jason waited for the bus to turn the corner before he started down the block.

  This was the bad side of town. Section 8, low-income government housing. He didn’t live there, but he lived next to them, which wasn’t too far off from living in them.

  Half a block down Western Avenue, he turned onto Broils, which was his street. He stood at the walkway for a few moments, steeling himself. Slow, languid steps took him to the weather-beaten front door. Gold paint clutched onto the wooden surface, faded flakes littering the porch where countless footsteps had ground them into tiny pieces. Jason stared down at the tarnished brass doorknob, his breathing becoming heavier. He closed his eyes with a loud sigh. He grabbed the house key inside his jacket pocket, inserted it into the deadbolt, unlocked the door and entered, being as silent as he could.

  Inside, the shades covered the windows, filtering the small amount of light to a dim luminance. The atmosphere was like walking into a room full of sick people. Oppressive. Clothes, newspapers, and beer cans littered the floor, tables, and chairs. Beer cans. *His* beer cans.

  “Jay. Is that you?” came a deep, gruff voice down the hallway. He froze and tried to answer, but his throat became constricted and dry.

  “I said is that you, boy?”

  He’d answered five times, but the words came out no louder than a whisper. It was only a matter of time now.

  Heavy hooves stomped down the hallway. His heart beat faster. He wanted to run, but his feet turned into blocks of cement, unmoving.

  Please, God…please God…please.

  The stomping ceased. Jason looked up. There stood his father. Imposing. Gargantuan. Above six feet tall and over two hundred and fifty pounds, most of it deposited in his stomach. Balding in the middle of his head, he hadn’t shaved in days. The gray hair in his beard and mustache combined with sagging cheeks and eye wrinkles deceived the beholder. At thirty-nine years old, he looked ten years older.

  He stood in front of Jason, glaring.

  “What’s wrong with you? I asked you a question.”

  “I…I got…I couldn’t talk.”

  “What do you mean you couldn’t talk? You’re talking right now. You lying to me?”

  “No…no…I couldn’t…”

  “What have I told you about lying boy?”

  Before Jason could respond, the back of his father’s hand crashed into his face. The door rattled as he stumbled into it, sending The Paladin’s Burden falling to the ground. For a moment, he thought impact broke his jaw until he realized he could move it without extreme pain. Putting his fingers to his mouth, he glanced at the tips. Blood.

  “When I ask you a question,” his father said, pointing in his face. “You answer.”

  “Yes…yessir.”

  “Pick up that stupid book and get upstairs.”

  Jason walked over to his book, which landed at his father’s feet. A slap across the top of his head tussled his hair making it look as if he had just gotten up out of bed.

  “Hurry up!”

  In haste, Jason scooped up his book and ran up the stairwell towards his bedroom.

  “And don’t come out of there for the rest of the night!”

  When he reached his bedroom, he entered and with a soft click shut the door though he wanted to slam it. The room was a complete change from the environment his father dwelt in. He kept it immaculate. No matter how many times his father would come in and destroy things, Jason would clean it back up without fail. It was the only place he had any semblance of control over. His dignity and self-worth disintegrated in small doses daily. It was miraculous there was anything left at all and what remained hung by the proverbial thread. He didn’t have many toys and wanted none because it was a lost cause. It was an eventuality that his father would break them.

  Jason sat down on his bed grabbing a towel stained with faded blood splotches from in between his mattress which he kept for such occasions. In the ten years of his earthly existence, the last three had been the worse. It baffled him why that was the case, but he had an idea. Somehow he was to blame. That’s what it was about. He was the reason his mother disappeared.

  He remembered walking in on his father and seeing him sitting in his faded brown recliner. There was a letter in his hand. He was crying, but it was soundless, tears running silent down his cheeks as his eyes became more bloodshot. It was the only and the last time he had ever seen his father cry. When he turned to look at Jason, there was a hollowness in his eyes. Something d
ied. A light went out somewhere inside him. Then the words crawled up from his chest, exiting his mouth like poison.

  “Your mom won’t be coming home.”

  It was the last time he had spoke anything about his mom. Any time he tried to bring up the issue, he would get yelled at until one day, a backhand was the result for simply mentioning her. That’s when it started. That’s when he knew. It was his fault. His mom left because of him. He was the reason she abandoned them. It was the only thing that made sense. Why else would his father be so mad? Why would he hit him all the time? He had driven his own mother away.

  At first, he took the punishment because he believed he deserved it. He had no bad thoughts about his father because he felt he had the right to correct him. Whatever Jason had done to drive his mother away had to have been bad. If he was bad, he needed discipline, a word he’d learned early. That much he knew. But as time rolled on, questions arose in his mind. Why was his father drinking so much all the time? Why didn’t he show him the letter? He was a good reader, even at his age. He was smart. Smarter than all the other kids his age. He would have understood what she had written. However, the burning question more than any other was why was he being punished all the time? What he did was bad, yes, but how long was he supposed to suffer for what he’d done? Why was he never told what he had done so he could try to fix it and she would come back? Something wasn’t right.

  He wiped his mouth. It could have been worse. Sometimes it was. What had just happened was mellow compared to other instances. Two slaps were minor. There were many occasions Jason came home, greeted at the door with a paddle. Something was out of place, or his chores weren’t finished in the exact way his father wanted. It never failed. Always something. Today, he must have been in a good mood today.

  Setting his book and backpack on the bed, he walked over to his dresser, looking at himself in the mirror. He stood there, moving his face from side to side, searching for bruises that had covered his face the week before. Most of them had healed and to his amazement, his father’s slap only left a red mark. It was wishful thinking because he knew it would develop into a bruise. Their presence invited inquiries at school, but he would cover it up by claiming he had gotten into a fight with Frankie, which wasn’t a lie. He’d pick a fight on purpose and cover his face while Frankie tried to beat him up. After taking punches and slaps from his father, Frankie was nothing. Just a stupid bully. He almost never would land a real punch, but it would always suffice from the guidance counselor as legitimate. A reprimand would follow for being in fights so much, and Frankie would retaliate. He didn’t care about that. Frankie, he could handle. As long as they left his father alone. That was the last thing he needed.

  Taking his shirt off, he turned towards the mirror and inspected the various pink welts on his back, compliments of an extension cord. They appeared to be healing, which brought a weak smile to his face.

  Even though he was to blame for his mom leaving, he hated his father. He hated him for what he always did to him. At school, he’d overhear the conversations, kids talking about their parents in ways that seemed… normal. Right. Being picked up for soccer, being allowed to spend the night over at a friend’s house, getting money to go to a game or the movies. His ears filtered this through his mind and his insides shrunk and shriveled up. He felt two inches tall. He was listening to something foreign. Another language. Another reality.

  Man! He hated his father!

  “I wish I could beat up on him like he beats up on me.”

  Throwing his shirt across the room in a fit of anger, he jumped on the bed, burying his face in the dark blue pillow, screaming as loud as he could. Tears soon followed in its wake. He hated his life, but he hated his father more. Salted streams poured from his eyes beckoning him to forget it all if only for a few moments, to let the oblivion of sleep cradle him.

  Part II - Growing Concerns

  Sebastian sat in the leather chair in his makeshift office, his chin set in the crook of his hand, looking down at the ground. To the onlooker, it appeared as if he was praying. He was. The news he had received from the Pennsylvania chapter was uncomfortable. That was an understatement. When he received the phone call late that night, it had forced an inaudible sigh from inside him. Praying was a normal response for him on such occasions. He had done it for so long; it had become a reflexive habit.

  Parsons informed Sebastian that his team had found two disturbing things.

  The first was a gathering they had stumbled upon in Meechum Forest. It didn’t take them long to determine it was a coven ritual. The women there focused on the nature altar in the middle of a circle they had prepared. Rituals like this were always the precursor to some plan or solidifying of their power base or both. It was pagan worship with a purpose towards the need of increasing their influence. Without fail, that was the goal.

  Wasn’t that always the goal for all kinds of religion, to increase their power base to some degree? Sebastian knew the answer. No. His order was an order dedicated to the worship of the Most High God. There was no need for increasing in power because He already had all the power. A power base had nothing to do with the worshipers but to the object of their worship, and that was a foregone conclusion.

  Not so with covens. The whole idea with them was to increase the influence and power they wielded in society at large. The focus was on themselves. They put on a good front. The facade presented was that they wanted to be left alone to worship as they saw fit, recognized as another form of innocuous religion. Sebastian knew better. He had been doing his job a long time. That was not the case and anyone who believed it were fools drinking the Kool-Aid. It was a pretense for their evil machinations to continue and flourish on behalf of whatever false god they served. What was more alarming was they had lulled a sleeping society into believing the lie.

  Parsons informed him that his team had stopped the ritual and routed the witches. He didn’t think they had broken it up before they accomplished whatever it was they wanted to accomplish. He could only speculate because they had interrupted the coven in the middle of the ritual. It appeared as if they were trying to divine the location of an object. Something of value.

  That there was an active coven performing ritual and rites was unsettling. Disquieting. That wasn’t the most disturbing part. When Parsons and his team had gone back to the forest to do a cursory patrol, they had run into something they did not expect. Somehow, the forest was alive, and it wasn’t welcoming any visitors. It had taken them by surprise, but they recovered and defended themselves, fighting their way out and making a narrow escape. They spotted the Baker’s minivan and passed on the pertinent information to Sebastian and his team.

  The forest incident was something Parson’s team would need to investigate further. That was their jurisdiction. However, it brought with it the growing suspicion it was a sign of something stirring in the other dimensions. Bad news in the long run.

  Of course, there was always an overlap. Most people refused to believe in such things, relegating them to myth and fantasy. It was the only way they could handle the reality. Sebastian understood that. He understood it because he understood human nature, especially in the day and age which he lived.

  Humans sought to be at the pinnacle of everything thanks to the burgeoning deification and reliance on science, the supposed great emancipator of man. Ever since The Enlightenment, the idea had invaded the global mind that the only existence, the only being, was the material. The belief in the immaterial, the supernatural, was some sinister method of controlling people or attempt to explain something for which there was no scientific explanation. Yet. Materialism was a philosophy that aligned with mankind's desire for power; human beings were in ultimate control and everything would have an eventual answer through the new god — science.

  Sebastian found that outlook ironic because that took faith, a word hardcore science adherents avoided in their sphere of experience or loathed altogether.

  The stanza of a poem r
an through his head:

  Science and technology, the new mythology.

  Look deep inside. Empty.

  Sebastian knew better. He lived in a world where clashing with the unexplainable was normative. He knew the lie men were telling themselves was just that — a lie. A delusion at best. There was much more going on under the surface of the great blue marble than science could explain. This was where he existed. It was where he thrived. That is what he confronted daily. Self-delusion was always dangerous, and even the most brilliant scientific minds of the day were nothing but infants in the realm of the supernatural. That was on a good day. Sebastian admitted to himself long ago that he was privy to only a small pocket of it and it was enough.

  Now, he wondered what the forest manifestation meant. Was it an isolated incident or was it a sign of something else to come? Would it manifest in certain areas, or would it be widespread? So many questions. Even if he had the answers, he wouldn’t be able to do too much about it now. He had to focus on the pressing matter in front of him and his team. The coven.

  Parsons informed him that the vehicle that left Meechum’s Forest after their run in with the coven. It had come from Sebastian’s area.

  This was falling into his lap.

  When Sebastian contacted his informant at the BMV, they confirmed it was registered in Toledo, Ohio. The subsequent conversation with the Bakers was despondent. They had no frame of reference to understand how to process what they had been through. Their worldview — their reality — had been upended.