Dead Angels

I didn't care if I never came above ground again. I hated it. But before I left, there were two things I knew I had to do, and one of those was to say thank-you to Ray. He wasn't my friend, but if it hadn't have been for him, I wouldn't have gotten the chance to say goodbye to Melody.



Wiping the tears from my eyes, I set off in the direction of his house. It was almost nightfall by the time I reached it. There was a light on downstairs, in the room that I'd seen Ray and his father in before. I only got halfway up the front path when I heard his father's raised voice again. Just like I had before, I crouched down and crept through the neatly kept flowerbeds, until I was positioned beneath the window.



From my hiding place, I heard Ray's father say, "I'm going to make a man of you, Raymond. You need to muscle up and grow up. I'm going to teach you some exercises that will put some meat on those bones of yours."



"But I don't want to..." Ray started.



"Don't you dare disobey me," I heard his father bark. "It's about time you became a man instead of messing about with your friends. You'll be in the army soon."



"I don't want..."



"Quiet!" he roared and his voice was so loud and angry sounding that I flinched beneath the window. "Now get undressed."



Very carefully, I eased myself up and peered over the lip of the window ledge and into the room. Ray was standing on the rug again, his head bowed low. Slowly, Ray started to get undressed, then stopped.



"What do you think you're doing, boy?" his father snapped, making a whistling noise through his nose.



"I'm not doing this anymore," Ray said defiantly.



"You'll do as I tell you," his father insisted.



"Not anymore," Ray said, his voice growing louder.



I watched through the window as Ray stared at his father, those red spots glowing angrily on his forehead and cheeks.



"Don't argue with me, boy," his father commanded.



Ray glanced around the room as if looking for a way of escape  -  to flee this nightmare. He looked back at his father, who was gawping at him. Ray knew that his father wasn't looking because he had won a fight or done something brave  -  something he could be proud of. He was staring at him because he was standing in the middle of the living room looking pathetic and weak.



Then, without warning, he turned, rummaged beneath one of the pillows scattered across the sofa, and to my horror he produced a handgun, which he pointed directly at his father's face. I could see that Ray's arm was shaking uncontrollably as he struggled to keep the gun trained on his father's head.



"Don't be stupid, boy. Put the gun down," his father whispered.



"I'm not fucking stupid!" Ray screamed, tears now streaming down his face. "I'm sick of people calling me stupid!"



His father visibly flinched as his son screeched at him.



"Okay, okay. You're not stupid. But please put the gun down," his father tried to reason with him.



"You always call me stupid! Stupid-stupid-stupid! I'm fucking sick of it!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips.



"Listen, we can sort this..." his father tried to negotiate.



"No! You listen!" Ray screamed and he looked half mad as he waved the gun about.



"Stop! Stop!" his father was pleading now, his hands raised.



The more Ray became upset, the more his hand and arm shook, the gun waving recklessly only inches from his father's face.



"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" his father began to cry.



"Get on your knees," Ray ordered, his voice wavering.



Sobbing, Ray's father sank to his knees in the middle of that soft-looking carpet.



"Ever since I can remember, you've hurt me," Ray whispered, trying to keep his voice even. "It stops today, it stops now. I'm not a little boy anymore. It was wrong then and it's wrong now."



"Please..." his father whined, snot running from his nose.



"You think you are so brave  -  a hero," Ray said. "But brave men don't hurt little boys  -  only cowards do. But the sad thing is, I'm a coward, too. I hurt someone, bullied them because I could  -  because they were weaker than me  -  different from me."



As I watched from my hiding place, my heart beat so loud that I feared he might hear it. I knew he was talking about Melody.



"But the thing is," Ray continued, "she wasn't weaker than me, she was stronger  -  better than me. I just wanted to hurt someone. I wanted them to feel like I did. I can be a hero if I want to be  -  but not like you, dad."



Then Ray slowly lowered the gun and placed it on the floor in front of his father. "I was never going to shoot you. I don't need a gun to feel brave like you do. I'm better than that  -  I'm better than you."



"Sorry, Ray..." his father snivelled.



Ignoring him, Ray said, "When I was six you told me that I was never to tell mum what you did to me because if I did, you would kill me. So you better make up your mind what you're going to do, because mum will be back soon and I'm going to tell her everything."



His father glanced up at him, his face ashen and old-looking. Tears streamed down his face, but I guessed they weren't for Ray. Then, before I knew what had happened, Ray's father snatched up the gun and was aiming it at his son. Ray didn't flinch or move away. He stood silently and looked down into his father's face. Those few moments of tension were unbearable and I felt as if I was going to throw up.



Ray took two small steps towards his father, so the end of the gun was touching the centre of his chest. "Go on," Ray whispered. "You call yourself a hero."



Then, dropping the gun, Ray's father covered his face with his hands, and rocked slowly back and forth on his knees as he sobbed uncontrollably. Seeing that Ray had finally found the courage to stand up to his father instead of taking his anger out on others, I crept away from the house and into the dark. I kept to the grass verges and I hid in the shadows of the nearby trees as cars passed on the road.



There was one last thing I wanted to do before I left this hell behind me. I wanted to pay Melody's mother a visit.