Chapter Text
Travis’ eyes were blue. They weren’t the kind of blue that looked at you and made you shiver, somewhat nervous of the omniscience they held. Those blue eyes begot Travis’ own. They were the color of tumultuous oceans that, however stagnant they wished to be, birthed waves which crashed into flimsy ships that then sank like rocks to the sandy floor. They were not any color that the sky could ever be; rather, they were the color of still water that reflected the sky, which was such a bright blue that it made the water look inky black in comparison.
His face, pockmarked from years of picking at his acne in dull and stressful moments, was a deep olive, and the seemingly constant black eye that he wore looked calm, deciding against its usual furious battle for the land rights of Travis’ face. The complexion of his skin was one that didn’t show the ugly greens and yellows of healing bruises too heavily, instead opting to announce his injury to the world with angry reds and purples, which clashed heavily with his other features.
All of this occurred to Travis as he looked into the mirror that hung on the cream colored wall above his dresser. His left arm propped himself against the cold oak wood, and sat flush against the light bruising of his ribs. His hand hung onto and fiddled with the cross that hung against his sternum. With his right hand he prodded at his face, moving the tawny skin with touches of varying intensity. He rubbed at the loose brown skin under his left eye, and thought of the countless nights he’d laid in bed until the early morning reading(reading until the daunting thoughts of what Travis was going to do with his life began worming their way through his mind, and then he just laid there thinking). Pointedly, he ignored the angry skin that surrounded his bloodshot right eye. He felt his cheekbones through the thin layer of flesh that blanketed them, and remembered the baby fat that cushioned his face just a few years prior. It had all but disappeared now, just a few reserves left in various parts of his body; his hips, and more so his thighs, still held a slight ration of fat. Most of him was quite sinewy though. His shoulders were well defined, as were his triceps and quadriceps. Though much of this muscular definition came from his middle and high school fighting experience, he’d started out with quite a bit of natural strength; the Phelps men had broad shoulders and strong physiques. Often, Travis thanked God that he had inherited many of his Mother’s traits, but secretly, in the part of his mind that housed his guiltiest thoughts, he was extremely grateful that he had his Father’s build, which was optimized over generations, perfect for an absolutely obliterating punch.
Travis pushed away from the dresser, and opened a drawer on the top left, which housed an almost criminal amount of basketball shorts. He’d played basketball for a year in middle school, which thereby doomed him to an eternity of receiving basketball related gifts from all of his relatives, for every holiday, evermore. He pulled out a pair, a classic glossy black, and stepped through them. He felt the silky polyester glide up his legs, and let the elastic waistband come to rest just below his hips. Travis didn’t remember too much from his basketball escapades. He remembered the general rules of the game. He remembered how his blond hair would stick to his face, plastered there with sweat. He remembered the succulence of a cold shower after a game, and thought that the feeling must be quite close to godliness. He remembered getting kicked from the team after fighting a boy, remembered the way their blood mixed in the water, pinkening before being washed down the drain. (The way it felt to snap the rubbery cartilage in someone's nose.) The way his stomach twisted when John Dawdry, (of all people) who had pictures of NBA players taped up in his locker, their bodies slick with sweat, called him ‘faggy Phelps.’ And to be fair to John, Travis now had to admit how ingenious that nickname was. (And to be fair to John once more, Travis was quite faggy. John had only picked up on the obvious stares Travis had shot his way.) It never stuck, though. After that incident, he was referred to as ‘that fucking psycho?’ Or he was not referred to at all.
For a few days afterward, hallways would quiet in his presence. Or most hallways quieted. Anywhere that was occupied by Larry Johnson and his band of cronies would actually get louder, which made sense. Larry had about 4 inches and 30 pounds on Travis, not to mention a freakish amount of self confidence. Travis would have been fucking stupid to mess with him.
Travis padded across the navy carpet, his feet, though socked, delighting in the plush texture. He stopped in front of the closet, a doorless cubby offset from his room. He rifled through the scarce selection of t-shirts, and settled on a very worn tee, given to him at a church camp, one of many he had attended. It was a deep forest green, sloganed, “Go Green for Jesus!”
After retrieving a book from his nightstand, Travis opened his bedroom door, careful to lift it slightly, as to keep it from squeaking. He noticed his Father, reading his own old, leather bound book in one of the living room armchairs. The book’s pages were yellowing, and the cover was emblazoned with a symbol that Travis had never seen. The whole thing looked like it would disintegrate if you so much as looked at it wrong. He stood at the top of the stairs for a minute, looking down on the man. He felt almost powerful, towering over him. His Father’s skin was somewhat gray, gray perhaps from age, but his Father was only fifty. He had a bald spot on his head, right where a cowlick would be, and surrounding it, there was thinning, straw blond hair.
Kenneth lifted his gaze from the book, and let his steely eyes bore right into Travis’. “Come here, son.” His Father’s voice was that of a god’s. Not the cartoony, echoing voice that boomed in so many movies. His Father’s voice didn’t need to be loud, it didn’t need to be deep in order to command a room. He spoke with such conviction that anyone who listened to him physically couldn’t question anything he said. There was no doubt that everything his Father said was true, true to the letter, to the comma, to the even inhale of breath that he took before speaking, and the dragon’s smoke that he exhaled with every word.
Head up, shoulders back, Travis descended the stairs, his every move calculated and sure. Phelps men were precise. He traversed the hardwood floors until he felt his feet meet the red Persian rug that overtook much of the living space. Standing on the edge of the fine fibers, it was a full body effort to continue looking his Father in the eyes. His feet pointed straight ahead, a little less than shoulder distance apart. His hands held each side of the book behind his back, fiddling with the thin pages. His jaw was strong as he held his Father’s gaze, and his face did not betray any of the fearful anxiety that was currently making its way through his bloodstream.
Where Travis’ body showed a tense obedience, Kenneth’s was calm, a kind of calm that was on a hair trigger, that could turn, Jekyll to Hyde, on a dime. Leaned back into the recliner, feet up, he seemed relaxed. “Travis, I will be home late tonight. Possibly into the early hours of the morning. There are dinners in the freezer,” His Father stated, tone even. “Yes, sir.” Travis replied. He worried for a moment that his voice had been a bit nervous, though he wasn’t sure it was shaky enough to be noticed. His Father’s voice called for his attention. “Are you going somewhere?” And this question wasn’t accusatory, or at least it wasn’t accusatory yet, depending on Travis’ reply. “Yes, sir. I’m going for a walk.”
The fewer questions that Travis asked, the more plausible deniability he gained. So he had taken to speaking as little as possible around his Father, in the hope that his seemingly limited knowledge would lead to a lesser punishment when his misbehaving was discovered. It hadn’t worked yet.
Travis saw the look in his Father’s eyes, the slight provocation that was invoked whenever Travis made plans without consulting him. He looked to the ring clad hand that held the ancient book. His Father wore jewelry most days. He had a collection of watches, rings, and crosses in his vanity. Today, he wore two silver rings on his right hand, and on his left wrist he sported a silver Rolex Submariner with a blue face. He had never gone diving, as far as Travis was aware. Travis’ eyes caught on the jewels embedded in the rings. He felt a phantom hand strike his face, the sharp diamonds cutting his cheek, splitting his lip. What was more embarrassing than having a black eye, was having the small cut on your face from a ring, so that everyone assumed you were backhanded by a girl.
“Take the trash out as you leave, son.” His Father then resumed reading, as if he had never been interrupted. “Yes, sir,” Travis replied, unseen relief washing over him.
—
Travis, carrying the trash bag, took the far longer route to their dumpster, over a paved walkway. To soil his Father’s perfect lawn would have been a mortal sin.
He tried not to breathe too heavily as he tossed the bag into their dumpster, because however heinous a trash can smells for most of the year, it is at its worst in the late summer months, after the blazing heat has cooked all of the residue left inside of it, and new trash is added on almost daily.
He finally set out on his walk, sneakers hitting the ground with determination. He was brimming with excitement. He clutched his book, The Never Ending Story, tightly in his hands. He’d reached a particularly exciting chapter, in which Atreyu meets the werewolf G’mork. He walked on, with a pace that was slightly faster than normal; the hot sun did nothing but propel him further.
Padding down the concrete sidewalk, Travis felt the heat that permeated Nockfell begin to work itself into every part of his body. The deodorant that he applied after his shower that morning was straining to keep up with the sweat that was trying to pour off of him. His legs, as they walked up steep hills, hurt from exertion, and were caused further malaise by the UV rays that burned his calves. He’d become used to these discomforts, however, and had begun to attribute them only to the relief that he gained once he sat on the cool grass of Wendigo Lake. As he walked, Travis looked at the great oak trees that many of his neighbors' front lawns sported. They were trimmed neatly, so that there were no uneven branches shooting out of their lower trunks, and many were painted white on their bottom halves, in order to prevent sunscald.
His walking path, the only walking trail in Nockfell, led him straight past Addison Apartments. On a normal day, Travis would have nervously picked up his pace, as he always felt a strange, almost supernatural aura surrounding the place. He attributed it to the decaying visage of the building, cracked brick that was then painted a dingy yellow, as if to distract from its dilapidated foundation. Today, he almost ran past, spurred on by his growing anticipation that paired with the childish fear of the apartments.
—
The harsh and unrelenting sound of cicadas was ever present throughout Nockfell’s summers, but, as Travis made his way down the increasingly decayed sidewalk, he was met with the familiar croaking of frogs that Wendigo Lake was so populated by. It made him nostalgic, not unlike the train horns that sounded at night, far enough away that, from his bed, the harsh noise was quite comforting. He relished in the deep, velvety tones, just as he relaxed upon hearing the chattering, rhythmic sound of bullfrog calls.
Travis strayed from the walking trail once he saw his tree, an enormous willow that casted shade upon a great portion of grass that led up to the lake. He was always glad that he lived nearest to this side of the lake, as he looked out to the gnarled old tree across from him.
Travis had made a pact to himself at the beginning of junior year, that he would do his best to keep all of the violent and argumentative tendencies that he housed deep inside his brain, and, much to his dismay at the realization, that he would consequently cease all contact with Sal Fisher and his friends. Now, in the late summer before his senior year, he could confidently say that he had gone through with it, and had not spoken a word that could be considered hostile, much less laid a hand on anyone. Sometimes, when he passed Sal in the hallway, he thought he could almost feel the waves of confusion that radiated off of him, as Travis continued walking without a word.
Summer vacation had been more relaxing this year than any other, a recess from his anger, or at least from certain thoughts that made him much easier to provoke. He’d spent it walking, mostly, walking and reading. He’d gone through many of the titles in the ‘Banned Books’ section of the Nockfell Library. He’d also spent a great many hours in the Phelps’ Ministry, doing bible study, singing in the choir, and mainly pretending to listen to his Father preach. Not that Travis wasn’t religious, just that there were more pressing matters to think about than the sermons that Travis had heard many, many times before.
Travis laid down in the tall grass, which smelled vaguely of citrus. He opened his book. He was undeniably, unreasonably afraid for the upcoming school year. Existentially, he was afraid for what would come after, what he would do post-graduation, and what position he would have to fill in the church, if it would be fulfilling, if he would even believe what he taught. His thoughts flickered to the well stocked gun cabinet that was kept in the living room.