The Holy Darkness AFB

Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 1 of 133 The Holy Darkness By Albert F. Borris Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 2 of 133 Part I: The Kill Martin walks up on me, from behind, while I’m assembling the bomb. “Hey,” he says, not noticing what I’m holding. “That’s my locker.” I startle. My right hand, the one with the bottle, shakes. From the ground where I’m kneeling, I look up at him. There’s not a good way out of this kind of situation. “What?” I say, slowly. My ears feel suddenly hot. I imagine they’re turning red. This is probably one of the stupidest ideas I’ve ever had, but I can’t seem to help myself. Stall, I hear the voice in my head yell. “That’s my locker,” he repeats. Now his tone changes, louder, kind of angry. In the empty hallway the sound of his voice seems to echo forever. He puts his hands on his hips, like they do in the movies, when someone is indignant. Why that word comes to mind I don’t know. Probably from a vocabulary quiz. The bottle wobbles in my fingers, shaking. I feel like I can’t swallow. “What are you doing?” Making sure the school bully won’t pick on anyone else, I think. I don’t say anything. “Well?” I realize he can’t see my hand. I’m a big enough guy. My bulk hides the bottle from his view. Mostly it’s torture being so big, but for the moment I’m glad. Hands, still in the locker, I tighten the cap on the ammonia. Don’t think it smells, at least not much. Fortunately, nothing has spilled. I haven’t even had a chance to mix the chemicals yet. No time now. “It was open,” I lie. I glance behind him. Still, the hall is empty except for the two of us. “And that gives you the right to go in it?” Martin says, voice rising. By now, it’s apparent that I should stand, step away. We’re not friends. I look guilty of something. It’s not like I should even know his combination. I must seem suspicious, kneeling, but not answering. The bleach, fortunately, is still in my book bag. So’s the wire that would hold the bomb in place until he opened the door, part of the whole contraption. “Well?” The bell rings, and a loud noise, maybe a door slapping open, happens down the hall. Martin twists towards it. Quick, I stand and slide the small bottle into my back pocket in one motion. As Martin turns back towards me, I grab the locker door. I tower over him. “Fine,” I say coldly, indignant. “You see if it was cockroach, then.” The top of his head is dark, covered with extremely short hair. He’s shorter than I even imagined. I step aside, pointing to the bottom of the locker. On the lowest shelf nothing moves, but I stand there looking and directing my attention to the corner as if there were something. He drops his back pack on the floor, then slides it away from the locker. Standing now, I look down at him. His eyes turn to me, stare at my chin for a second, then my eyes. Most people don’t gaze into my eyes too long. They gawk. He just keeps his Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 3 of 133 eyes frozen on mine for a minute. Finally, he turns to look at the books in the bottom of his locker. “Great,” he says, sarcastic. He kicks the locker door with his sneaker, hoping to draw out the imaginary cockroach. “Disgusting,” I say. He steps towards the locker and his arm brushes against mine. Somehow that feels scary, like I shouldn’t let him get too close to me. I don’t know why. I’m at least a foot taller than him. I move farther away. He gazes into the locker, and then seems to forget me. Slowly, Martin bends down, pokes at a few papers with his finger, looking, I assume, for the bug. The other kids start to meander past. I let a few of them get between us, then I start to walk away. With great difficulty, I grab the bottle from my back pocket and sneak it into my pack. Martin’s head drops behind a few bodies and then he’s gone from view. As best I can, I slip into the crowd hoping to disappear. I turn back, knowing that he can see me, head well above everyone else. And, sure enough he stands. But, he never looks towards me, just slams his locker and heads in the other direction. I stop at my locker. Time to ditch the evidence. I pull out the ammonia and the bleach and walk into the boys room. In the handicapped stall, I lock the door behind me. Then, I open the bottles, one at a time. Both of them stink. I dump the bleach first. I don’t sit, just pour the liquid straight into the toilet. Then, I flush. Mostly, I want some time alone to think about what to do next. It is April 30. Maybe this is dumb, but I think Martin needs to go in a very public way. In school. So other people will know that we don’t tolerate bullies in our building. No picking on other kids. Whether it’s the special ed kids who get called retarded or gay kids. No body should be picked on. I want something special. Something unusual. Something that won’t make it like I’m the bad guy. Not like Columbine or that Amish crazy guy. I’m not a killer. I’m like the Punisher, a force for justice. That’s why I wanted chemicals. Ammonia and Bleach mixed together, toxic, fatal, a spill in front of his locker. A symbolic act. Death by gas chamber. As I open the door, I hear someone in moving in one of the other stalls. Quick, I drop the bottles in the trash and head for the door. Next time it’s the electric chair. Or poison injection. Firing squad is too messy. Maybe I should catch a cockroach and put it in his locker just to be on the safe side. Maybe torment Martin the tormentor a little. Maybe a million cock roaches could eat him if I starved them long enough and somehow managed to put whatever cockroaches eat all over Martin. For the time being, I guess the chemical bomb is out. I need another plan. # The next time I see Martin, he’s doing the same thing that made me plan to kill him in the first place. Borris/The Holy Darkness Page 4 of 133 I am sitting in the cafeteria at a kind of mixed table. We still have assigned seats because of last month’s a food fight. Four hundred twenty five students in my lunch period with designated seats. “Hey faggot” Martin calls out, acting all tough. I am sitting with Monica, a smart chick; two freshman gamer kids who I don’t know at the far side; the soccer coach’s daughter Lin; a girl in my science class named Bethany with great lips; and Joey Roberts. I know Joey best, since fourth grade. He’s next to me, near the end. I’m always at the end of the table, every table. As Martin walks past, I hear a thunk. A noise. Joey’s fingers go to his head where the tray has caught his ear. “Jerk,” Bethany calls out. Her face scrunches up, lips puffing. Really cute. Martin laughs, looking at Joey. “Sorry.” He tilts his tray, his weapon. Martin doesn’t seem to recognize me. Even though I’m big, I’m relatively normal looking, sitting down. And it’s not like we’ve been in any classes together. There’s 2000 kids in this school. Joey rubs his ear. As he pulls his fingers away, I notice red. Blood. I start to rise. I don’t know why. Martin’s back is already towards us, headed away. Maybe I’ll go trip him, accidentally, pretend to need a napkin and knock him over. “Ungh,” says Joey to Martin or maybe Bethany. I begin to unfold myself, and bump the table with my knee. I wince. The table jars, shaking. Joey’s container of fries falls over. My chair slides back nearly tumbling. Joey grabs it. “Go kick his ass, Baby” chuckles Lin, then she blows me a kiss. Shamed, I glance down. She knows my reputation. “Didn’t know you liked boys,” Joey blurts, catching me off guard. Everybody knows Joey is gay, for years now, since eighth grade. But nobody much cares anymore. Except Martin, obviously. I toss Joey a dirty look. “I don’t.” Joey looks at me. “I meant her,” he says, pointing at Lin. Joey’s always been like that, cocky and challenging. Makes his family nuts. Especially because he’s not afraid to say he’s gay. I’m surprised he doesn’t take on Martin, say something. The Gamers laugh. Lin turns red. “Up yours,” she grumbles back. I’m not used to people sticking up for me. Lin tosses her perfectly cut, blonde, athletic hair, then turns her chair so that she doesn’t have to look at us. “Forget it,” Joey says. “He shouldn’t—“ “He’s not worth it,” Joey interrupts.

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