One day, the demons released him. They�d told him for weeks that they might let him leave, let him go home, let him go back to the real world; but he hadn�t believed them. They�d been known to lie before. But this morning, they came for him, and instead of going to the rooms with the demons who talked or the rooms with the young prisoners who screamed, they lead him down long hallways and told him to sit in a chair in a room he couldn�t remember ever seeing.

He sat there, in the chair, where they�d left him, leaning forwards, hands clasped between bent knees, face down. At his feet rested a small bag containing his few belongings. His hair fell in front of his face like a dark curtain. He�d run his hands through his hair often lately, fascinated by it. He couldn�t remember it ever being there before, so long and thick and always in the way. The same went for the stiff, poky mess on his jawbone and chin. It felt alien and out of place. He didn�t think it had been there before he came here.

These emotions were new as well. He was so out of practice of feeling anything but pain and fear that he wasn�t sure what they were. Nervousness? Excitement? Relief?

�You�re going home, honey,� the woman with the nametag had said.

Home? he�d wondered. He had to concentrate and wrack his brain to remember what �home� was. He�d had a home once, hadn�t he? Yeah. Several. Which home would he go to? The home with the young mother with the old red face, the one who screamed and punched and dug her long nails into his little arms, the first person who taught him that he was a hateful, unlovable creature? No, not there, no, he�d been taken away from there years ago. That horrible woman was half the reason for the scars on his arms and soul. Then was it the home with the old white house and the kind redheaded people who smiled and hugged each other? Mmm. That brought soothing feelings to his stomach and chest. It made him think of the blue-eyed boy. Yeah. Maybe that�s where they�d take him.

He wondered if the boy would come, or if one of the redheaded people would. He wondered if they�d missed him, or if they were angry with him.

He stared at the floor, but he didn�t really stare at it. He�d seen plenty of white-tiled floors already. He absent-mindedly chipped away at his stubs of fingernails. He felt like he�d been waiting for hours.

Maybe no one was coming for him. Maybe they�d changed their mind and decided he should stay in Hell for a little longer. Maybe they didn�t want him.

He fought the urge to cry, and he was busy pressing his long hair against his burning eyes when the woman came in. He didn�t hear her footsteps or her words as she spoke to one of the demons standing nearby.

Someone said, �Roger?�

He didn�t answer, for he was out of practice with his name, so the same voice tried again, with �Honey?�

He looked up at the woman who had spoken, and neither mother nor adopted son recognized each other. She looked old, with grey in her orange hair and fine lines around her eyes, mouth, and forehead. A weary sadness leadened her movements, as if she weighed several hundred pounds instead of the wispy 100 she actually was.

To her eyes, he was not the same boy she�d known years ago. He�d grown ghostly pale and thin, and his dark hair fell in an untidy mop to his shoulders. A thick black beard had enveloped his jaw, hiding any evidence of the broad white smile she�d loved so much. That, and the achy suffering evident in his sunken eyes, made him look ten years older than the twenty he�d earned. He did not look like her son. However, the hair and eyes were the same color as her son�s, and this man had scars in the same places her son should. It was him.

She gave a cry and embraced him, running her fingers through his hair and pressing his thin face into her shoulder. She couldn�t speak for several minutes, for she was crying much too hard. When she did speak, she chanted his name softly and whispered phrases with the word �love� over and over. He didn�t respond to her embrace, but stiffened. He wasn�t sure if he trusted her. She looked different from the mother he remembered. He smelled her hair and listened to her voice, trying to decide whether this woman truly was his mother and not some cruel joke those awful demons were playing on him�not another horrid doppelganger that looked like his mother but was really a clawed monster that would try to tear apart his chest cavity. He�d had plenty of those, thank you.

After a few moments, tears came to his eyes, and slowly, he wrapped his arms around her narrow heaving back. She was his mother. Oh, God, this was his mother, his mother who loved him, who was going to rescue him, who had never hurt him. �Mom,� he whispered, �Mom, help me.�

She pulled away, her blue eyes glassy and wide with sad fear. He felt a twinge�what if she wasn�t going to help him? What if he was wrong?

He burst into tears�leaned forward into his knees, held his head, and rocked with sobs, waiting to be dragged back to the white room he�d come from so they could tie him down again.

But the woman seized him gently; she kneeled down, lifted his face from his knees, and held his wet cheeks in her palms. She wiped his eyes and kissed his forehead.

�It�s okay, honey,� she whispered. �I love you, I�ll help you. It�s going to be okay.�

�Get me out of here,� he gasped, and the same horrorstricken look returned to his mother�s eyes.

She embraced him again and stood up, pulling him gently up with her. He was still very tall, much taller than her, but he seemed to have shrunk. Gone were the prideful stance, the athlete�s body, and the strong shoulders. He slouched, kept his head down and his thin white arms at his side, and his grungy clothes hung loosely. She held his hand, but his hand was a bony white skeleton�s hand that did not respond to her protective grip.

They had to speak to several people in glasses and suits who carried notebooks and stacks of paper. His mother had to fill out paperwork. It took a long time, and he was too foggy to comprehend it, so he dropped his mother�s hand and sat down again.

And then they left. His mother held his waist, and together they walked out of the nightmare. The real world was beautiful, he decided, when he felt the sun warm on his back, felt the brisk wind brush through his overgrown hair, felt the crunch of gravel under decrepit sneakers. Fuck all human thoughts and desires; right now the sun was the true meaning of happiness, he decided.

He climbed into the truck, shotgun beside his mother. It was the same truck his father had always owned. His father usually drove it, whether to work or soccer practices or the hardware store. He looked around the interior of the truck. It was surprisingly neat. There was no signature sack of dusty soccer balls thrown haphazardly into the backseat. There was no trace of his father.

�Where�s Dad?� he asked in a low voice.

His mother froze, her hand at the ignition. She looked at him and was silent for several moments. That scared-sad look was back in her white, white face, and he had to shift his eyes away, uncomfortable.

�Honey, she said softly, gently, �your father died three years ago. Car accident.�

He felt queasy. Of course his father was dead. He had been home when it happened�he hadn�t lost his sanity at that point. His father�s death was one of the reasons he had finally lost it. It had been so unbearable painful, he hadn�t been sure whether it was yet another horrific nightmare dreamed up by his polluted mind.

�I-I know. S-sorry. I wasn�t sure if it had really happened.� To clarify, he added, �I�m having trouble remembering things.�

His mother forced a smile and went back to starting up the car.

He and his mother had so much to say to each other that neither could find words to say them with. It was a fair distance from the building�the hospital, the asylum, whatever it was�to his house. He watched his long-lost world blur by through the window. What a relief it was to see that things like pizza parlors and movie theatres and reservoirs still existed.

�What�s the date?� he asked, his thick voice breaking the silence. She told him.

He was twenty years old now, quickly approaching twenty-one. It was springtime, March 31.

�Yesterday was his birthday,� he said. �He�s nineteen.�

�Who is, honey?� his mother murmured.

�Arik.�

His mother�s face turned to look at him, and she smiled, another sad-happy curving of her lips. �You remember him, huh?�

Of course he did. Of course he did. How could he have forgotten the last caring face he�d seen, the last person who�d told him he was loved? Yeah, yeah, he remembered Arik. Arik was the boy with the blue eyes.

A fist of anxiety clutched at his stomach suddenly as another terrible memory flashed back. He�d seen this one many times before. He chewed on his knuckle, afraid to ask his mother if the vision he was seeing now was truth.

�I�I didn�t�� he began, but the words caught in his throat.

�You didn�t what, honey?�

He wasn�t sure if he wanted to know�but he had to know�he choked out, �I didn�t kill him, did I?�

His mother�s eyes went wide, and the pale face flashed around to look at him. �No, of course not, Roger! No, no, Arik is fine�he�s alive and well�you didn�t do a thing to him!�

He sighed in relief and closed his eyes. In his dreams, he�d seen the pretty blue eyes terrified, heard his friend�s screams, felt his own hand around a knife�a large, glinting kitchen knife dripping red and pressed to the boy�s neck�he remembered the screams.

�What did I do to him, then?�

�Broke his heart, s�about all I can say,� his mother replied. �He really missed you, you know. You�ll have to give him a call soon. I�m sure he�d be thrilled to see you again.�

He was staring despondently out the window and not answering, so she stopped talking. Perhaps some subjects were too touchy to discuss right away, she mused.

In a little while they were home, and for the first time in years he laid eyes on the house he�d lived in for ten years. It still stood, looking lonely and melancholy and humble, with its white paint peeling and the wooden deck sagging. The lawn was brown and dead after being suffocated by snow all winter. Oh, Lord, it was a beautiful sight.

The inside was the same as he�d left it, only neater. Probably because his mother had no sloppy husband or son to mess it up. It smelled different, however; his mother had changed scented candles. He ran his hand along the counter in the kitchen while his mother chattered nervously about the house.

He opened up a drawer by the sink. The knives were still in it, glittering and gleaming. His mother rushed over and pushed it shut. Her eyes were scared.

She talked him up the stairs and into his bedroom, where he set down his bag. She had her hand on his lower back. She hadn�t stopped touching him since they�d reunited, as if she thought he might disappear again if she let him go. He responded to none of her touches, but stared blearily around the room, seeing ghosts. He�d spent hours here crying, hiding, bleeding, slowly dying. Nothing had been changed.

And suddenly, it was too much. Memories flooded back like a dam bursting, and the world shifted under his feet. Crying and chopping up his arms and chest, hiding from the world, so afraid of everything, so unbearably scared of everything� wanting to die, wanting to be with someone but too afraid to do anything but hide�oh, God!

His mother�s hand on his back moved to suggest that they leave the room, but he pulled away and went to his bed. He flung himself on top of it and buried his face in his pillow. His mother came over, spewing coos and rubbing his back, but he tensed and jabbed his elbow at her.

�Leave me alone!� he gasped, tears soaking the pillow. �Please, go away!�

�Honey!� his mother wailed, her hands on his shoulder blades. �What�s wrong? Please, tell me what�s wrong!�

�Get out of here! Get away from me!� he hollered into the pillow.

�B-but, honey�!� The hands were still on his back. His skin crawled�suddenly the hands were the demons� hands, wriggling and poking and violating him, and he screamed.

�DON�T TOUCH ME!� he yelled, and swung out with a heavy fist, catching her in the side. The little woman yelped and jumped away, her pale face horror-stricken.

Slowly, she backed away from him, glistening tears running rampant down her cheeks from enormous blue-grey eyes. �I-I�� she stuttered, retreating backwards towards the door, �I�ll be d-downstairs, if you need me. I-I�m sorry, honey, I�m sorry, please just� just try to relax, it�ll be okay�I�m sorry.� And she fled, face in her hands.

He watched her go and then lowered his face back into his pillow.

For the next two days, he laid facedown on his bed and cried.

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