Reality Tears & Screams

Gideon stared out the massive window in his 49th floor office. All of Chicago sprawled below. One by one the lights from skyscrapers and street-lamps twinkled on in the approaching dusk to compete with the night sky for supremacy. So far, the city was still winning.

He enjoyed gazing at the city from that height. It made him feel like a shepherd looking after his flock. His expression was grim and worried.

Odd occurrences had recently been brought to his attention. They began when the magi, people with the ability to manipulate reality with their thoughts, started hearing an eerie humming sound. Then, one week later, he received the first reports of the Screamers.

The first Screamer was a twelve-year-old boy from a small town in Ohio. The residents reported hearing a sonic boom right before the entire town exploded. The boy's body was found on the school playground under the slide beside several of his classmates' bodies, all completely charred. Gideon still shuddered at the thought, and wanted nothing more than to end the afflicted children's suffering. However, what really fueled his determination was the incident with a sixteen-year-old girl who he was able to study for a short period.

He discovered her living in an abandoned building in Montreal mumbling to herself about a ceaseless ringing in her ears. Her clothes were shredded and dark circles surrounded her eyes from lack of food and sleep. She had bald patches on her head from where she had ripped out her hair. Gideon couldn't bring himself to walk away, leaving her in such a horrible condition, so he brought her home.

Gideon didn't have any children of his own, but he did his best to make her comfortable. He provided her with her own room, fed and clothed her. Interviews with her provided little information.

He never knew her real name, nor was he able to find out anything substantial about her past. She swore her name was Winddancer and that she was born in a cave. While living in the cave, she used to chase the clouds. One day she fell asleep and woke up in a down-filled bed. A woman told her it was time for school, but there was a ringing in her ears and she was sick, so she'd been allowed to stay home. Since then, the ringing hadn't stopped. At that point in her story the girl would start sobbing and tearing at her ears.

She lived for three days with Gideon. On the third day, he entered her room to wake her up for breakfast. The door to her room opened, revealing the most gruesome sight he had ever witnessed. The girl was lying on the bed in a pool of blood, her ears torn off and lying on the floor. One the wall, written in blood, were the words, "I CAN STILL HEAR IT."

After Winddancer's death Gideon began a crusade to find and protect the Screamers from themselves. Every time he thought about her it felt like someone opened up a mortal wound. Before he knew it, Gideon began to cry silently. All this power and I can't protect a single girl, he thought, his shoulders shaking gently as he bit back the remaining tears.

There was a knock on the door. Gideon pulled out a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his face, and straightened his gray suit coat.

"Come in, Patrick," he said twisting his sorrow-filled face into a casual, business-like smile.

A young man in his mid-twenties approached. He has a professional demeanor, but his unkempt hair and wire-rimmed glasses hinted at the boy beneath.

Gideon smiled when he saw Patrick. In a vague sense, Patrick reminded him of himself as a young man.

"What have you to report?" Gideon said, and turned away from the window.

Patrick traced an image of a computer screen in the air. He then moved his fingers as if he we're typing. Finally, several reports loaded onto the screen.

"Would you like to read the reports yourself or shall I give you an overview?"

Patrick's affinity for technology never ceased to amaze Gideon. The boy could literally access cloud storage without any actual digital device. It was almost like he was an actual wireless hub. This talent mixed with conventional magic made him an extremely powerful ally and potentially deadly enemy. Better to keep him close and in my employ.

"Just a synopsis is fine." Gideon said, rubbing his temples.

"Alright Sir, I've been going through the research on the previous Screamers. So far, all I've been able to determine is that they aren't magi, yet they can still hear the humming. It also seems to have a greater effect on them than on us. There seems to be some sort of link between the two. What that is, I can't say as of now. We need to conduct further trials," Patrick said.

"Is that all? What of Jiles?" Gideon suspiciously eyed Patrick. Patrick shifted nervously for a moment staring at his shoes before answering.

"It was too chaotic. There was the fire, and fire trucks, and police. What if I was stopped for questioning?" Patrick fumbled allowing his professional guise falter, "How could I possibly find the boy in that mess?" For all I know he's probably dead," Patrick finished.

Gideon ran his fingers through his silver hair and sat in his plush leather chair overlooking an obsidian desk. Everything on the desk was neat and orderly from the absence of normal clutter to the rigid way the stapler, paperclips, and other office supplies were arranged. Gideon reached into one of the drawers and pulled out a bottle, nearly three quarters of the way full. The crisp, still impeccably clean label read: Johnny Walker, Blue Label. Near the bottom, it was marked: BOTTLE NO. 562. He took two small, crystal rocks glasses out and placed them neatly on the table. He opened a mini-refrigerator tucked efficiently into the corner behind the desk, took out an ice-tray, worked two cubes from the tray into each glass, and returned the tray. Gideon had begun pouring gingerly for both he and Patrick before he spoke again.

"Relax. The boy isn't dead. In fact, he's alive and well in the city right now." Gideon finished pouring and recapped the bottle, placing it back in the desk drawer. He picked up the glass and swirled the contents slowly, savoring the oaky scent momentarily before taking a sip. "All those VR games in your brain are most likely interfering with your locater; must be why the NSA was keen to let me snag you. I've decided to hire a specialist."

"It won't happen again, Sir."

"But don't worry, I still have some important jobs for you,” Gideon smiled. "You can start by notifying the police. Tell them that this boy, Jiles, has stolen something of mine and I need it back. Inform them that he is armed and dangerous, but I want him alive."

"Of course, sir," Patrick answered, the barb cutting to his core, as it was intended. Patrick slunk down in the desk chair and tried to puzzle through the implications.

Why did he ask me that if he already knew the answer? Probably just another attempt to flaunt his superiority. Patrick humphed mentally, then winced, immediately regretting his lapse in guard, for he knew that Gideon could be listening to his mind at any time.

Gideon smirked. It was good to keep the kid guessing. Keeps him under control.

"Well then, care for a man's drink? Sorry, I don't normally stock organic, craft beers..."

Patrick's tried not to roll his eyes and took the glass without a word. He hated that accent.

"So, who is this specialist?" Patrick asked after taking a sip. Gideon was right about one thing, he would prefer organic craft beer. Gideon's silent, grimacing gaze. He hated that look. He felt condemned and discarded by that look.

Then, Patrick realized that he and Gideon weren't the only people in the room, and he wondered if they had been originally. The corpse-like face of a man dressed in an expensive black trench-coat, jeans, and a black, satin, button-down shirt rose from one of the leather chairs ringing the conference table on the other side of the room. He did not move toward Patrick or Gideon; simply stood and placed his hands in his pockets. Coldly. Smugly. Confidently. As if nothing in this world could matter. As if introductions didn't matter. As if Patrick didn't matter.

All warmth in the room was instantly stolen. His appearance seemed to insult the harmony of the room. Patrick suppressed an involuntary shudder.

"Is that him?" he asked, trying to sound confident.

Gideon walked slowly and casually to Patrick's side, turning to stand next to him as if they were two golf partners sizing up a chip-shot. He leaned over and spoke quietly. "Yes, although he wasn't my first choice. He does seem to have a certain knack for tracking those who don't want to be found. These are desperate times so we can't hesitate to use ever tool at our disposal," he remarked.

Tracking those who don't want to be found. Patrick heard the subtle emphasis. (Alright, point taken, get off it now old man.) he thought, then answered,

"I see. I assume you'll want to continue this discussion with him in private. I'll just see myself out," he finished, excusing himself and heading for the door.

"About time you finished with him. I was starting to lose my patience," the man's whispering voice jibed. The stranger grinned smugly, sitting again, resting his leather boots on the highly polished obsidian of the desk.

Gideon ignored the stranger's comments. The soft blue glow if Patrick's data screen eerily lit the room. "Please remove your feet."

The stranger complied, seemingly unperturbed.

"So this is what you called me here for," his voice was barely audible, "to get some kid for you?"

"Gideon looked up from the drawer, and his eyes narrowed. "This boy, Jiles, is no ordinary angst ridden teenager. He's one of the Screamers. The only one who has survived for more than one week."

"Screamer?" the stranger's eyebrow raised.

"Yes, these 'Screamers,' as I've taken to calling them, while not Magi also hear the humming that previously we believed only Magi were privy to. However, they aren't Magi. We use the power of belief and faith to weave our reality. From what we've already discovered, these children lack this power. Until Jiles, none of the others have lived. The Screamer's power manifests in adolescence. Our guess is that the power possessed by these children simply overwhelms them. The best thing that can occur is that they are driven insane. At the worst, they literally explode. Personally, I believe that since Jiles came into his power at eighteen rather than thirteen or fourteen as most do, he was able to control it enough to survive."

Gideon paused and finished his drink. "Of course, we won't know for sure until we get a chance to study him."

"Well, congratulations to Jiles. I don't suppose you planned to reward me for this?" the stranger mused.

"Favors. I'm willing to sacrifice anything to understand what's happening with the Screamers," Gideon stared the stranger directly in the eyes.

"You really wish to aid me?" The stranger grinned triumphantly. "Very well, I accept your payment."

"Please find him quickly. He's a live grenade. No one in the city is safe while he's out there alone, including himself," Gideon said, almost to himself. He turned back to the stranger. "Including you."

"As you wish," the stranger smiled a toothy grin and bowed mockingly. Gideon ignored the gesture and poured another drink, refusing to be drawn into trading insults. The stranger melded into the shadows and dematerialized.

____________________________________________________

​ Celeste rubbed her temples. Another migraine was brewing. She had just received a call from the trauma ward about another kid in shock over apparently seeing his house blow up in a gas explosion. His parents were burned to cinders and his older brother was nowhere to be found.

Her job title was, officially, 'social worker,' but more often than not she found herself acting as psychologist and guardian for children who had witnessed severe trauma. The little boy was currently staying with his grandparents.

He was returning home from spending the night with a friend when the accident occurred. Celeste didn’t know the complete details yet, but it was questionable if the grandparents would remain suitable guardians for the boy. They were both in their 90’s and in need of nursing services themselves. Thus, she would have to visit the child and make the dreaded call herself.

Sighing, she picked up her coffee cup and gulped down the remaining dregs, grabbed her belongings, and headed out the door.

“Hi Simon, I might not be able to make it to class tonight. Yeah, I have one more home visitation tonight.” She put down her phone, turned on her car and drove off.

Traffic was always horrible that time of night, but it still gave her a chance to think about how to approach each situation. There would be at least two police officers present, and she would have to assess his situation and psychological well-being. From there she would have to recommend any counseling or even make the call of whether to put the child in foster care or not. She hated that the most. Once the kids were in the system, it was nearly impossible to get them out. Still, this kid came from a good home with people who loved and cared about him so he might be one of the fortunate few who got out. Some of her other charges weren’t so lucky.

It took nearly an hour and a half driving from her office in central Chicago to the suburbs where the boy’s grandparents lived. She was greeted by two officers; one deputy officer and a criminal investigator.

“Good evening officers.” she said reaching out her hand for a handshake.

“Good evening, I’m Detective Blakely of the Chicago PD. I just need a few minutes to get a report from Josh about what he saw that night and then I’ll leave the rest to you.”

“Of course, while you get the report, then I’ll go ahead and assess his current living conditions.”

​ Celeste first walked the perimeter of the house. It was a small, probably two or three bedroom, ranch style house. They yard was fairly well-kept, a few weeds here and there, but mowed and landscaped. The blue, painted siding was in good condition. For all intents and purposes it looked like a warm, cheery grandparents’ home.

​​ Detective Blakely rang the doorbell and an elderly man with wispy white hair answered. He leaned slightly on the doorframe and spoke with a surprisingly strong voice.

​ “Can I help you, officers?”

​ “How are you tonight, sir? I’m officer Blakely of the Chicago PD and this is Officer Williams and Miss Celeste Everston, a social worker assigned to your case. She’s here to check in with Joshua and find out if he will be in need of any special services to help him cope.”

​ “Help him cope?” The old man rested his forehead against a palm as tension gathered and stretched taut the lines at either side of his eyes. His chin quivered as anger grew inside his throat. “How’s a seven-year-old kid supposed to cope with his family being blown apart and his home destroyed in a pit of flame??” he started to go on, but Celeste stopped him gently but firmly.

“Sir, I understand completely. No child should ever have to witness what Joshua has seen. That’s why it’s so important to see him. I have no doubt that you are doing everything that you can to be sure that he is taken care of. I can see already that he is in a good, loving environment. However, given that his brother is still missing and that he is a suspect; there are just some details that need to be filled in for the criminal report. My job here is to talk to Joshua and help him get what he needs to get through this as an intact person. I think we can both agree on this?” As she spoke she lowered her voice. Words connected with a calming emotion and (Joshua’s grandfather) relaxed.

“Of course, this has been trying for me and the missus too. We lost our only daughter in the explosion and we have a missing grandson,” His voice trailed off. “Come in, come in.”

“Thank you. It’s only natural that you want to protect him. We won’t take too much of your time.”

​ Detective Blakely began interviewing (the grandparents) about the family and the night of the explosion. Celeste waited patiently taking note of the living room. It was a very comfortable living room. Soft, cushy furniture. T.V. set. Family photos on a shelf. Celeste busied herself with the photos. She saw older pictures of a young woman graduating from college. Then later, a wedding photo. Finally, she saw several pictures of the boys, each progressing from youngest to oldest. Right before her eyes, she watched Jiles transform from a bright little boy to what looked like a troubled teenager. He seemed to deteriorate over the years. His hair became unkempt; he seemed to pay less and less attention to his clothing. That wasn’t the strangest part of his transformation. She had seen every kind of appearance imaginable. In each picture he had what looked like a spark in his eye. Every year it grew brighter and brighter until it was no longer a spark, but almost a flame. Celeste gazed at the last picture of Jiles. Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain in her eyes, like the photograph was actually burning her. Quickly, she looked away and heard a small voice.

“Are you here because of my brother? Do you know where he is?”

Celeste rubbed her eyes and the pain subsided. A thin seven-year-old boy with straw-colored hair and crystal blue eyes stared up at her. His eyes seemed to cool the fire in hers when she saw him.

​ “You must be Joshua. I’m Celeste. There’s a lot of people looking for him. I hope he’s okay.”

____________________________________________________

A scrawny boy caught somewhere between childhood and manhood with spiky, dyed-red hair reclined on a tattered but comfortable lime-green couch. Reaching with his left hand, he pinched a joint, brought it to his mouth, and inhaled deeply. He coughed and dropped it on his naked knee, visible through his slashed jeans. As he swore, he picked it up, brushed the ash off of his leg, and passed it back.

"Sedation," Jiles breathed the word slowly, resettling himself on the couch, eyes drifting closed as he exhaled loudly. The smoke billowed up, blue and comforting. Jiles knew he had to keep himself sedated; at least, he thought he should. When he didn't, horrible things happened. The drugs didn't make him forget what happened. But, the numbed his emotions enough so that it wouldn't happen again.

When did things get so crazy? he thought again.

Not six months ago he had been living in a nice suburban home with his parents, about to graduate from Washington-Grover Municipal High School. He was never the perfect son. In fact, they nagged him about his grades, clothes, friends, hair, his eyebrow piercing, and anything else they could find to criticize.

It was on the night he got his piercing that it happened. Jiles had just come home from the tattoo shop where his best friend Alister worked. He had walked in and hung his jacket on the hand-carved wooden coat rack by the door. He had tip-toed into the living room so he wouldn't wake his parents. It had been 2 a.m. on a Wednesday. To his surprise, he had seen his parents sitting on the couch with a bag of marijuana sitting on the glass coffee table.

"We found this in your room. Care to explain?" his father bellowed. The varicose vein in his forehead was throbbing. He always yelled. WHY did he always have to yell??

"We're both very disappointed in you!" his mother added.

"Oh, please, as if I don't already disappoint you with everything I do!" Jiles said bitterly, trying to walk to up the staircase. "I suppose you won't pay for my college now, until I clean up. Or, you'll call the cops and have me arrested to teach me a lesson," he continued as he climbed the first three steps.

"Get your ass back down here, we're not done talking to you!" his father yelled louder.

Jiles temper, which flew easily and often, went white-hot. He stopped on the stair, clenching the rail. "Well," he began. He felt that familiar sensation - that infinitesimally small moment of time passing that said he was going to try to keep his mouth shut and fail miserably. "You can JUST. FUCK. OFF!" His blood boiled and his temper was instantly at full burn. "I don't need your sh-"

His last word was cut off by flickering lights. Jiles felt a pain like lightning shoot through his skull. He winced and dropped to the steps, unsure and afraid. Then he got even more angry. Angry at himself for losing his temper. Angry at himself for being so weak and sick all the time. At his parents for not caring or recognizing the torment he felt inside, all the time.

Reaching the paramount of his rage, Jiles just started screaming - at first, one low, sullen, growling scream. He felt horrible inside and hated everything. Hated himself and the hardships of growing up. He hated dealing with people, coping with society, and appeasing anyone. He just wanted to give up. Almost instantly, he started screaming louder - as loud as he could.

He hadn't noticed the anger in his parents immediately change to concern. He never heard his mother's worried pleas: "Bob, don't stand there, help him! What's wrong with him - what's happening??"

Jiles kept screaming - the kind of scream that guaranteed a sore throat in the morning. Diaphragmatic, projected screams that held multiple tones. The kind of screams people heard and immediately knew something was desperately wrong.

He just didn't care anymore. Jiles had started thrashing and kicking for a moment. He never felt his head slam hard against the step as he threw it back, trying to scream louder. He couldn't feel his father trying frantically to hold him still, yelling, "Son! Son, stop, listen to me! You're going to hurt yourself, and you're scaring your mother! Jiles, stop! We love you and care about you, and we don't want to see you hurt! We're sorry!"

Nothing made sense anymore, and nobody cared. Jiles had felt out of place for so long - always nervous and picked on by other kids. Frail. A nobody. Alister always told his friend he was strong on the inside because he put up with it all, but Jiles was tired of even trying to do that. He never felt the house begin shaking; ever saw the lights and television explode, creating a shower of sparks that lit the house on fire. Then something forced the flames to burst into life, raging hotter and faster than physically possible. He never saw the flames engulfing his parents, though he heard them. Jiles heard the agonizing death screams that shocked him out of his trance, for whatever reason. He heard them, but there was nothing he could do to save them. Nothing he could do to save his sister, trapped on the second floor. He was barely able to save himself from the flaming confusion. He ran.

The official report stated that a gas main exploded, simply because there was no other identifiable evidence left to explore. The temperatures of the fire were comparable to cremation incinerators, remarked one fire marshal wistfully. He announced the inferno had killed the entire family. Jiles took up residence with Alister in his tiny studio apartment in Chicago. He had been high ever since.

"You ok?"

"Yeah," Jiles fumbled for his cigarettes. "Shit, all out."

Jiles got up, grabbing his keys and wallet. "You got ten bucks? I'll float you an eighth."

"Goddamn mooch," Alister laughed, tossing him a worn, wadded up ten-dollar bill. "Hey, just be careful," he warned, doing his best to look serious. "You're pretty high, man. Don't want the cops pickin' up my dead fuckin' friend!" Alister burst out laughing, unable to keep up his serious demeanor after the concept suddenly struck him as hilarious.

Jiles grinned and waved off the notion, "Shut the fuck up, man, I'm just going a couple blocks. See ya."

He stepped out into a muggy August night. The air was oppressive and his shirt clung to his chest. He wanted to get into the air conditioning as soon as possible so he took the shortcut through the alley. He wasn’t afraid of the street vermin and bums. He was one of them now, he thought.

The memory of that night still burned in his mind. Since then, Jiles had been plagued by migraines brought on by a dull humming sound that only he could hear. On top of that, he was having nightmares and remembered things he never experienced; things that belonged to other people from a different era. He remembered a city completely built into a forest. He was sure it was too much acid, stress, and video games.

But there was a girl in his dreams. He was glad she kept showing up in them; she was hot! Hair the color of autumn leaves. She lived there, in that city. For some reason when he thought of her, he always felt a deep sense of loss, though. His logical mind told him that a place like that couldn't exist and that he'd never met the girl, so there was no reason for remorse. However, no matter what rationalization he used, it didn't stop these memories from being as vivid as his own childhood.

Alister assured him that he was probably in shock when Jiles talked about it, and that it could eventually end. But, the pain only got worse. Sometimes it got so bad he just wanted to scream and drain his head of the pain. And the memories. Knowing what would happen if he did, he always reached for the drugs. Whatever he could get - and as much as possible. It wasn’t an addiction, he firmly believed. It was the only way to handle it all and stay sane. He knew most people wouldn’t understand the difference, too. And most of the time, he didn’t much care. Caring about what others thought of him took too much effort anymore.

What the hell is happening to me? He stumbled through the alley lost in his thoughts, not noticing that the temperature had begun dropping rapidly. Jiles rubbed his arms for warmth, wishing he'd brought a jacket. Or more weed. Suddenly, he realized that he had gone from ridiculously high to completely. Fucking weather!

He paused and scanned the alley. For the first time, he consciously took note of how it had gone from oppressively humid to near freezing temperatures in a matter of seconds. There was an unusual absence of the homeless and junkies normally inhabiting the alleyway. Jiles quickened his pace and continued. He turned around and found himself staring directly into a death-like face.

____________________________________________________

Patrick exited the obsidian elevator and, suit jacket slung over his shoulder. He smiled curtly at the security guard and made his way to his office on the 30th floor. He flung his jacket over a plush armchair and flopped down in his desk chair. He swiveled back and forth in the chair brooding.

Fuck that old geezer. How dare Gideon cut me out of this project. I’ve been tracking terrorists in underground desert bunkers since I was sixteen years old for the NSA. Old dinosaur doesn’t know how hard it is to sift through what actually qualifies as actual data and naked selfies. The problem with Jiles is that he’s gone completely off the radar. No digital trail, nothing. I bet though, if I try to get a lock on anyone he might know….

Patrick created a new screen and began to Work. He mentally searched: Jiles (Last name). Quickly, his search brought up a picture on a school website from a school battle of the bands. Jiles was in a band with four other kids about his age and older. Awesome! Now I just have to hack a couple of accounts to see if anyone’s been in touch… Patrick smirked. He would find Jiles before this "specialist” and every friend, teacher, and living family member in the process.

Identify, current location. He pointed to each of the people on the photograph. Their names swam into his computer screen vision. Okay, so… where to start. The room crackled as Patrick Worked. Although his particular brand of magic was highly technical, conventional location magic would allow him to cut several corners to the hacking process. You can learn a lot about a person from their data, but magic was still faster and more efficient. Sometimes it was more fun to piece together the puzzle. Learning all their secrets bit by bit. A text message here, Twitter post there. There’s no end to what people share when they think no one’s looking, or watching.

To be continued...