THE RELIC GUILD (and other stories) Updated regularly.

THE KINGS OF BRAN'S CAULDRON (part 10 of 10)

SOMEWHERE ELSE: Teen Spirit

Donald's bedroom was a typical teenager's pit. It wasn't too small, but size wasn't really important; somehow, no matter how big it might be, the room would never have held quite enough space. There were posters on the wall, a few books haphazardly on shelves, and dirty clothes strewn across the floor and on an unmade bed. Here and there, food-caked plates were piled one upon the other, and mugs, half-filled with old drinks, made dirty rings on the dresser and side tables.
A computer sat on a desk, a computer filled with music and movies. The monitor was alive with the images of a band playing to a rioting audience. The song was heavy and familiar, the type of music that could so easily form the soundtrack for a summer.
Donald was slumped before his computer. His sandy hair was matted with blood. The back of his head was mostly missing. Where once his face had held haunted yet angelic features, it was now burned and bruised, ripped, torn. Eyes that had never ceased demanding answers had finally stopped looking for questions.
Donald's arm dangled by his side, dead fingers mere inches from a smoking shotgun lying on the floor.
The door to the bedroom opened abruptly, disturbing the blue-grey mist that hung in the air. Donald's father rushed in but stopped short, his hand still clutching the door handle. He saw the gore on the carpet, the red spray on the walls and posters. Donald's father cocked his head to one side as he looked from the shotgun on the floor to the ruin of his son's head.
Donald's father made a guttural sound, unintelligible, but understood clearly enough by his wife as she ran up the stairs behind him.
"Brian, what's happened?" Her voice was breathy, hoarse.
"Don't come in." His tone was flat, detached.
"Tell me what's happened!" Desperation now. "Let me see!"
"Helen ... no ..."
But Donald's father made no real effort to spare his wife from the images of her dead son. He didn't even attempt to close the door. Donald's mother choked. She held a hand to her mouth. She collapsed, falling backwards, landing heavily in a sitting position outside the bedroom. And there she wrapped her arms around her stomach and wailed.
Donald's father dropped to his knees, but he didn't let go of the door handle.
And on the computer screen, the audience's appreciation reached a climax, and the band played on with a soundtrack for a summer.

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