3
Things You’d Rather Not Think About

 

Bronson Black’s Dogboy mask sat on the TV in his small— but comfortable— room located below the shop where he worked. Across the room his cape served as a blanket while he rested in the bed. He slept, but it wasn’t an easy sleep. The cape was damp with sweat. He thrashed around, throwing his pillow to the floor.

No, it wasn’t an easy sleep.

In his mind, Bronson is in the backseat of his parent’s car. The front seat seems to stretch out a thousand miles ahead. He recognizes the backs of his parents’ heads— his mother’s dark, wavy hair; his father’s bald spot. He crawls forward on his hands and knees, but for every inch he travels they move that much farther away.

“Mom. Dad,” he yells, but no sound come out.

A man is standing in the road ahead. Bronson braces for impact.

The man shoots orange light from his hand, scattering the windshield into sand. The street outside disappears, replaced by nothing. Not white, nor black, but nothing.

The sand blows back through the car, cutting into Bronson’s eyes as he presses forward. His parents stand before him. He spies the front seat through the gaping wide hole in his father’s chest. Deep scrapes accent his mother’s cheekbones, glass shards like glitter caught in her hair.

He isn’t afraid like any normal boy would be. He’s glad to see them, even in this macabre state, and jumps into their arms. He hugs them, but they ignore him, staring into the nothing.

“She’s gone, Bronson,” his father, Duncan, says. The sound of his name on his father’s dead lips makes him shiver. “I’m gone. It’s all gone. All because of you.”

“No, no. You’ll be okay,” Bronson mouths in silence. He wants to believe it. He must believe it, or his heart might wear out in his chest.

His father grabs his shoulders like he always used to. “You are poisoned. Your power? Your legacy? Your burden. We were happy until you came home crying. Maybe the Tillman kid would back off if you’d bulk up a little.”

“It was your bad luck, honey,” his mother says. “That’s what took us away from you.”

Duncan’s face decays, dark divots forming in his face, exposing the bones underneath. “You’re rotten. That’s the only luck a kid like you can make. Rotten luck.”

Bronson’s stomach sinks into his shoes. Whatever these creatures are they aren’t his parents.

He turns and runs towards the back of the car, but now he’s in the woods climbing up a steep hill. He looks back to see a small dog chasing him. It bares its teeth, which grow with each snarl and step.

Bronson reaches the top. He can see the road ahead. He feels the dog’s fangs rip through his calf, blood shooting from the wound. The dog takes another chunk out of his leg as he pulls himself closer to the road. Thorned vines (or are they chains?) wrap around his throat.

He can’t climb anymore. The blood soaks the leaves then becomes a river, until all Bronson sees is red.

The red drains away. A bearded man with horns growing from his head stands outside space and time in a field that exists but at the same time doesn’t. Bronson can’t feel his body, a consciousness skimming the tall reeds.

The man plucks a reed, pulling a little soil out with it. A snake slithers out from under his fur cloak then slides up his arm and curls around the plant. His eyes glow orange. He snarls, snapping his head in Bronson’s direction. The snake coils around the reed until it snaps. The lights go out.

“Voice to the sky, then the dead will die,” comes a low rumble in the darkness.

A sharp wind blows. Cars honk in the distance.

He’s in costume, flying high above the Colta City skyline. He swings his body back and forth between the buildings, gaining speed as he goes. He feels the urge to go higher, so he does. Above the buildings, above the smog. Angling towards the stars.

He’s passing a plane now. He waves to the happy people through their porthole windows. His body glows as he sweeps through a cloud in front of the full moon. He feels his powers leave him, flowing into the celestial circle. The moon turns black then vanishes against the low contrast of the night sky.

He falls down through the cloud. Familiar faces stream by him calling for his help. He can’t reach them so he can’t save them. Falling through the cloud, seeing the buildings pointing up at him, he realizes he can’t even save himself.

He tries to ignite the spark of magic that will save him from the greasy sidewalk. Orange particles spark from his hands. They twist up in the air in front of him, forming snapshots from his past. He gazes at the cosmic line art, lost in the fog. His uncle’s dark deeds. Mr. Horum’s kindness. Kissing Cindy for the first time.

An unfamiliar scene appears. Cindy hugs him, but he seems upset. He doesn’t recall the moment. Maybe it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe his flash forwards are working for once. Maybe his powers are back.

The ground is right under him now. No time for a miracle.

Bronson screamed as he hit the floor beside his bed. He gulped in some air as he opened his eyes. What a wild dream, he thought. He grabbed his shoe from under the bed, reaching inside to retrieve his watch. 6:52 AM.

He jumped up then got dressed for the day. He was still shaking from the dream, but the shock of waking up had erased most of it. Besides, there were more important things going on today than some stupid nightmare. It was his 14th birthday, and he was finally taking Cindy out to Tralbert’s Arcade for a bona fide date.

Bronson grabbed his Dogboy mask off the TV then put it in his father’s travel chest. Evil lurked around each corner in Colta City, but he’d decided even superheroes should be able to do whatever they wanted on their birthday. He wasn’t going to let the bad guys ruin his first birthday without his parents.

He climbed up the ladder. His nightmare parents flashed across his mind as he swung the trap door open, shambling over the edge into The Old Curiosity Shop. Broom in hand, he started sweeping away the thin dust layer that had settled overnight. As he swept the dark thoughts left his mind, his heart lifted in his chest, and he concentrated on the good in his life to push out the things he’d rather not think about.

 

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