A View To A Kill*

[laZardo†]

((Continued from Skipping School))

This is probably the most relaxing part of the day for both immediate members of the Carter-Madison family. Fresh from school or work or the odd media appearance, the evening hours from just before dinner to the moment the mother and son fell asleep in their beds proved more than a welcome alternative to the hustle-and-bustle of the grind.

The son sat on the edge of his bed, staring outside the open window, letting the seaside breeze waft through his jet-black locks and ruffle his home casuals. A nice warm shower had released his hair from the gel that kept it regulated through the school day, and a change into some clean clothing relieved him - if only temporarily - from the stress of the day's events. There also appeared to be a book on his lap, one that he was writing into with black and red ballpens.

After what happened earlier today, he was almost desperate to fill this book with new memories.

"Damien?" comes the soft call of his mother Nicole, through the opening of the slightly ajar door. She's also dressed in modest housewife casuals that somewhat dispel the impression of activism during the day. "It's time for dinner. It's also your turn to do the dishes tonight." She opens the door a bit more to see the back of her son and the effects of the breeze. She smiles, knowing that at least here, her son is safe in her care, safe from any outside harm (thanks partially to the neighborhood watch.) Nicole slowly withdraws to leave her precious son to what she believes is his diary, taking the door back to its crack-ajar position.

"I'll be down in a sec, mom." Damien replies softly, takes one last glance into his book for the time being, a maniacal grin suddenly crossing his face. His first one today, probably not the last.

He tosses the book and pens elsewhere on his bed and heads down to dinner, making his way briskly down the stairs, socks softly thumping against the carpeted steps as he descends. He makes his way to the dining room, taking his seat beside his mom at a table suited for four or five people. Nicole smiles as he sits down. She feels most at peace with her son at her side like this, where he is the most protected, shielded from harm by her and God's good grace. Damien returns the smile warmly, though he in all honesty feels quite the opposite in Nicole's presence. However this feeling is amplified or easily suppressed depending on the place of presence, and at home it's easier for him not to show it.

The two say grace - Nicole a practicing Catholic - and chow down. They eat quietly before Nicole pops a big one.

"I'm running for the District Board of Education." she begins with determination.
Damien is right in the middle of a mouthful of greens, caught almost like a sinner at the Apocalypse. "Whuh?"
"Honey, this bullying has gone out of control. And at an institution that supposedly prides itself on its academic achievements!"
Damien forces himself to swallow like a kid that hates veggies. "But it's-"
"It'll work out for everyone. I'll still be with the PTA so I can manage your school and the public institutions at the same time."
"It's fine, mom. They don't pick on me as much as you think."
"Then what's that on your forehead?" she points, matter-of-factly.

Damien facepalms and it hurts because he's hit the spot where Marvin deskdunked his face.

"Aww, crap."
"No swearing in this house, young man. Now listen..."

Damien groaned, as his mother began her usual lecture on how kids like Marvin and boss Reneé had to be brought to justice. And that she was going to do it if he didn't. The former, as one would guess, happened more often than the latter.

Meanwhile, Damien's "diary" had landed wide open to the same page he was reading earlier.

This particular page had crudely decapitated cut-outs of what were once pictures of Marvin delivering semi-professional tennis serves from the school's Gilroy Mirror. "Blood" spurted out of each of Marvin's "severed" limbs. The lifeless "corpse" was surrounded by ballpen-streaked darkness, to give the illusion of a lonely, painful death. This and variations of the like with different victims - Marvin and Reneé most common - decorate each and every page of Damien's "little black book," a new one added at least once every week since his first fateful encounter with their gang at this prestigious institution of supposed learning.

The wind blowing through the window was the only witness to the horror waiting to be released into reality. For Damien, he hoped it would only be a matter of time.

((Continued in Movie Night Fever))