Not My Apocalypse (4 page)

The others got up and stumbled away from me. We’d been hanging out together for about a year and they’d seen what happened when my father showed up. I was glad Emily wasn’t around right now. Last time she’d cried. Sick fear filled my stomach and the air shimmered as heat rose off me. My powers were getting stronger and that gave me a little hope. I tried to shove the fear back as I got to my feet. “Lucifer.”

“I’m getting very tired of coming to get you.” He glared at me, flames licking around his feet.

“Then don’t.”

I didn’t even see him move, just felt the impact of his hand against the side of my face. I tasted blood and reached up to wipe the trickle away from the corner of my mouth.

“Leave him alone,” Stefan yelled.

“You have bold friends, Alex,” Satan said.

“Stay out of this,” I told Stefan. “I don’t need your help.” It was the kind of defiance Satan might expect from me, but I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want him to help me because I didn’t want him to get hurt, not because I was being stubborn.

“He couldn’t help you anyway. Nothing can help you.” He grabbed my arm and I felt the rush as we teleported. We showed up in the living room where my mom and my stepdad, Ken, sat waiting on the couch. Sometimes I feel sorry for the poor bastard, since he’s just there for good PR when I start my political career. Nowadays you can swing the born-to-an-unwed-mother thing, but it’s still better to have the old American-Dream, nuclear-family thing going on. So my mom is married to another Satanist so I have a public father when the reporters start snooping around. My stepfather is almost as crazy as my mother. Almost.

“Alexander Holden, you can’t keep running away like this.” Mom stood and glared at me. “You need to stay here and study for your exams. You’ve got two years until you have to get into Harvard. No more fucking around.”

“I’m not going to Harvard.”

Satan slapped me again, this time hard enough to send me to the floor. Me and pain, we’re like old friends. “You will not defy me. Stop fucking around and do what you’re told. You will rule the world, and that path starts at Harvard, where you will
not
cause any trouble.”

I stayed where I was and Mom leaned over me. “I know studying isn’t glamorous, but it’s necessary. And we’ll make sure you’re able to control your powers, if you only let us help you. Think of it, you’ll finally be able to go to school with other kids. You keep saying you want to be normal; well, college will be your chance to be normal.”

I did want to be normal, but I knew college was just a step in their plans. First a local election as soon as I’d graduated—something small like the park committee. Then on to the state senate, then two terms at the national level, then running for president. First America, then the world. My whole miserable fucking future was planned out and I wanted none of it. I stared at my mom and wondered if I should do the smart thing and go along, just for now, to avoid more beating. Or at least make the beating I was owed less painful. If I kept my mouth shut and played good for a while I could wait while my powers grew. By the time I got through college I should have my full powers and I might be strong enough to fight back against Satan. All I had to do was keep my head down and wait.

Nope.

“You think I’ll just be a good little puppet? Fuck your plans and fuck you.”

“You stubborn little shit.” Satan kicked me, knocking the breath out of me. Then he kicked me again. He kept beating me while Mom lectured me about my responsibility, my destiny, and how glorious it was going to be to have the world at my feet.

I couldn’t fight back; I could only do what I’d done all my life. I endured.

***

When it was over, Mom dragged me to my room. I hurt too much to even mouth off. I lay on my bed with the curtains drawn, the light letting me know it was afternoon. Groaning, I fished the bottle of pain killers from the drawer of my bedside table. I always kept a bottle in there because it was too fucking far to walk to the bathroom after one of the really bad beatings.

After a while I heard a soft tapping on the window and crawled over to it, my whole body aching. It took me a while to get the window open. Mew-Mew hopped in, purring up a storm, licking at the bruises on my face. I stayed on the floor for a while, curled in on myself. If I were a full human, I probably would’ve ended up in the hospital for this. As it was, I’d be able to limp down to breakfast tomorrow and Mom would expect me to go to my lessons. I had to study to get into Harvard, after all.

I was too tired and sore to even move my lips.
Did I miss anything after I left? How are the others?

Mew-Mew sat down in front of my face, still purring.
They’re fine. They went to put the sun horse in Apollo’s stable while he’s still gone.

Mew-Mew had gotten home by one of the secret paths cats know. Every cat knows some of the Paths, but since I brought him back to life Mew-Mew seems to know them all. He’s shown me a few glimpses of other worlds he’s been to, some that look like something from the past and other things that look flat-out alien. Someday I’m going to find a way to follow him to one of those worlds. I bet Satan would have a hard time finding me there.

After a while I made it back up to the bed and fell asleep, wondering how long it would be until I came into my full powers and if they would be strong enough to let me stand up to my father.

***

My earliest memory is of my third birthday, when they sacrificed a black goat to my father. I didn’t know what they were doing until they did it. When I saw the goat I thought he was for me. I remember petting him and he snuffled my hand with his soft nose. Then they did the ceremony and cut his throat. I remember all the blood and the sad noise he made. I was too young to really understand death, but I knew the goat was hurt and when he fell down and didn’t move I knew he wasn’t going to be my pet. I cried and cried, no matter what they said to try to soothe me. They all looked surprised, like they expected the son of the devil to enjoy something like that. So yeah, your trauma about the scary clown on your fifth birthday? I got you beat.

After that they didn’t do any more animal sacrifices for my birthday, at least not in front of me. That’s good for them, because every year my powers got stronger. By four or so I would have been able to stop them, even if I couldn’t hurt them. When I was four I could control flies and talk to rats and crows. The rats sometimes did what I told them to, but the crows just wanted to chat. I still can’t control them, but they do things if I ask nicely and if they’re so inclined. Other kids have toy planes for mock battles. I used flies and had them flying formations, shooting each other down, winning and losing battles. I was seven before I realized not all kids could do that.

When I was ten, after the guy ran over Mew-Mew and I killed him, Mom and Ken gave me this lecture about not killing people in public, but I kept insisting he deserved it because he ran over Mew-Mew. After a while I tuned them out. Ken threatened to take Mew-Mew away if I ever did anything like that again, but I just gave him a look and he shut the fuck up. It was about that time I realized they couldn’t make me do anything.

That was in the summer. My birthday was in the fall, and that year, my eleventh birthday, I met my father for the first time. Up until then they let me believe Ken was my father, I guess in case I talked to any outsiders. They didn’t want little me running around and letting slip that my mom’s husband wasn’t really my father. My mom later told me they wanted to wait until I was thirteen to tell me, but I was impossible to handle and the only person who could control me was dear ol’ Dad. I was already running away by then, at first only making it a few blocks before they found me, but the month before my birthday I made it fifty miles before they tracked me down.

When my father showed up at my birthday he looked normal enough. Well, creepy, but normal. Everyone stopped what they were doing when he came in and bowed to him. Like, right down to the floor, kneeling and putting their foreheads to the polished wood. Mom tugged on my pants, I guess trying to get me to join them, but I just stared at Satan. Some part of me recognized him. When Mom told me who he was, my mouth fell open. “No fucking way.”

“You know who I am, son,” he said. And I did, and it chilled me to the bone. I’m fucking terrified of my father.

***

The next day, just like I guessed, Mom demanded I come down to breakfast and told me I had to have my lessons. My friends got to have summers off from school, but since I’d started running away, one of my punishments was year-round lessons. We had a room in the house made up like a classroom and Mom and Ken brought in other Satanists to teach me.

They couldn’t bring in anyone normal because they wouldn’t be able to explain why they had to wear a special amulet and have a spell spoken over them without sounding like total fucking nutjobs. My teachers had to be protected from me. I totally would have killed all of them if they hadn’t been magically protected. Not that any of them were as bad as my parents, but they told me what to do and some of them were mean to me. In case you haven’t figured it out, I have authority issues. When I was younger I lashed out on pure emotion and didn’t always mean to hurt people. Now I was more dangerous because I was stronger, and when I hurt someone, most of the time I meant it.

This teacher was a new one for this year, Mr. Hoffstein. He was actually really smart, so at least he could keep me interested, but he was still a Satanist, so of course he was an asshole. His face scrunched just a little when he saw me walk into the room that day. I looked like hell, covered in bruises, with one eye swollen almost shut and a puffy lower lip. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen me the day after Satan laid into me. Like I said, I ran away all the time.

I wasn’t sure if the little flinch was sympathy or something else. “How does the story go?” I asked, my voice sounding funny coming out of my smashed-up mouth. “I fell down the stairs.” I tried to give him a smile, but it hurt too much. “No. Actually, Satan beat the shit out of me.” I went past him and sat at my desk. It looked stupid, just one desk sitting in the middle of the room. It was pretty old-school, from what I’ve seen in movies and TV. It had a blackboard at the front of the room and everything and a big American flag sitting in the corner. I shit you not.

Since I couldn’t go to school with normal kids, or even play with them since I’d probably end up killing or severely hurting them even when I didn’t mean to, I needed to get what Mom called a “cultural education” so I could fit in once I started interacting with the public. How I got it was through tons of TV and movies and the precious internet.

They gave me a computer when I was eight and let me go to it, no parental controls or anything. I saw plenty of things that scarred me for life, and I think that was part of the point. Real nice, my folks. Man, I fucking hate them. Anyway, the intent was for me to soak up pop culture as much as possible, up to and including heartwarming Christmas movies. They wanted me to be exposed to anything and everything that would make me understand American culture. I don’t think they expected me to spend quite so much time on LOLcats and looking at cute kitten videos on YouTube.

And I don’t think they expected me to like Disney movies. Seriously, I love some of those movies. I’m not kidding. Stop laughing at me.

I was always a smart kid, too. The first teacher they got me, for kindergarten, was all right. I needed to learn the basics like counting and the alphabet, but they tried to use her again the next year and I got bored because she was going too slow for me. She tried to make things harder, but she’d been teaching little kids for years and didn’t know what to do with me. So after I started trashing the school room out of boredom, they found me a new teacher.

I wasn’t super smart or anything, but there were some things I was really good at and some things I was okay at, so there are some things the teacher had to go at a typical grade-by-grade pace for and other things where I caught on fast and the teacher had to try to keep up with me. It wasn’t easy for them to find someone both patient and challenging, especially when they only had so many people to pick from. Despite what the far right-wing Christians think, there aren’t that many Satanists in America.

But this teacher, finally, was the right fit for me. He stayed patient as I struggled through math at a tenth-grade level and kept me at a good pace for science (I was good at theory and lab work, not so great at things related to using math) and he also challenged me in reading and philosophy. Being a Satanist, he had a particular view of philosophy and what was right and wrong, and I had some very different ideas. Instead of just treating me like I was flat-out wrong like the last few teachers had, he pushed me to back up my ideas and praised me when I did a good job.

That day I was having a hard time paying attention. Sitting at my desk was painful and after a while I just gave up. I went into the den and dragged the most comfortable chair in the house back to the school room. The dragging hurt, but I kept focusing on how much better it would feel to sit in that instead of the stiff desk. What I really wanted was to go back to my room and lay in bed watching TV all day, but I knew Mom wouldn’t let me. She would have forced me to sit at the desk the whole time to make me suffer more for running away. Fucking bitch.

Mr. Hoffstein let me do it and didn’t complain. Maybe he had a streak of compassion, or maybe he knew I’d pay attention more if I was comfortable. I got through the day and Mr. Hoffstein said there was no reason for me to stay late. I retreated to my room and lost myself in some glorious, mindless TV. When Mom called me down to dinner, I thought about telling her to go fuck herself, but I considered all the aches and pains in my body and chickened out. I didn’t want to add to them again so soon. After a good beating like the one I’d just gotten, I tended to be a coward for the next few days. He beat the rebellion out of me, but it never lasted long.

I went down to dinner and did the best I could, glaring at her out of my black eye. She made meatloaf. Motherfucking meatloaf. Not that I hated it, but it was so fucking wholesome American middle class. The older I got the weirder everything seemed. Like sometimes Mom and Ken pretended we were some kind of normal family living the American Dream and yet they kept reminding me of my destiny to rule the world and bring about the Apocalypse. My life is the fucking
Twilight Zone
.