2016-11-06 - Welcome Home

May 10, 1997
7:00pm

Laying sprawled out across the floor in the middle of the living room, Byron has his Lords & Ladies coloring book set out before him with a Crayola 64 pack of crayons at his side. Yes, the paper is supposedly white, but Byron still clasps that white crayon within his small hands to make sure that the ink-printed horse upon that page had a noble and majestic coat of color to it. In the background the cartoon voices of a random kid's show can be heard on the television, something which the boy only mildly pays attention to between his coloring.

Further in the background, he hears the sound of his babysitter's voice, a teenage girl named Sasha. The cartoon was on for her benefit, in truth, but from what Byron can tell, she was too preoccupied on the phone with her boyfriend to pay both the television and himself any mind.

While he can ignore all of this background noise going on around him, being too engrossed in his own important duties, there is something that immediately captures the child's attention -- the familiar sound of a 1970 Dodge Charger RT that just pulled up outside. Byron's body freezes for a few mere seconds before he pulls himself up to seating and scrambles to locate where Sasha had left the television remote control. He searches the couch and coffee table, before making his way into the kitchen where his babysitter is only now finishing up her call, having heard that familiar engine as well. The King had returned.

Clambering up onto a dining room chair with this nervous energy, Byron grabs the remote before quickly hopping off to hurriedly return to the living room to turn the television off. The comfort of silence quickly fills the house. After setting the remote control down on a safe place on the coffee table, the boy hesitantly returns back to his coloring, the brief exchange between the babysitter and his father keeps him alert to where the elder Thorne is positioned, before hearing those heavy footsteps heading his way.

While Stephen Thorne was a decent cook, who made a mean backyard barbecue in the summer, he had stopped off at a bar on his way home after a frustrating day at work. He's on his third glass of whiskey already for the evening. So rather than make anything substantial for the kid, he opens then heats up a can of SpaghettiOs. There's a quiet exchange between the two over dinner, father and son. Byron even shows him a drawing he did that day, one depicting a man in a suit and tie, a crudely created depiction of a police detective, the way only a six year old could make. Stephen seemed pleased enough. Before Byron is even done eating, the man stands to make his way into the living room and drop down into the couch with a bottle of whiskey in hand this time. He's still dressed for work but by now the tie is loosened and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. The news comes on.

Taking this moment to breathe, Byron pokes at the remaining tomato sauce covered O's in his bowl with a fork. Dilly-dallying was always a risk in this household, but he's enjoying this bit of reprieve.

There's a sound from outside, now that it's become full dark and there's cover for it. It's not quite loud enough to reach into the room where Detective Thorne is enjoying his several nightcaps, and it might even be mistaken for a cat. If not for the fact that it's muttering to itself, juuuuuust loud enough that the edges of the words can be heard. "...not the girlfriend. Stupid to say..." Alexander at seventeen is a rangy young man, all long limbs and spidery fingers. He's dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, dark, a nice button down with a collar that probably makes him look like a complete nerd at school, especially as it's worn with black jeans with various metal band logos ironed on, and dark sneakers. His hair is long, but styled, parted and peaked but with the bangs still falling over his dark, feverishly intense eyes. He's already acquired the nickname 'Crazy Clayton', although Stephen Thorne probably has other, more vulgar, names for him, as well. He's currently just outside that window, where he's snuck up bit by bit, and is now peeeeeking up over the sill, trying to figure out where in the house the detective currently is.

The cat outside is not the only thing muttering this evening. Stephen Thorne has a few choice words of his own now. One of those comes out as 'That Damn Kid'. Yes, whatever frustrated him earlier in the day, a particular Crazy Clayton helped to play a part in. He sits there in a heavy slouch, an angry stare directed at the t.v. There's no bit of news or sitcoms or game shows that will be able to tear him out of frustrations this evening. Just the whiskey.

Even though he's six, Byron takes his own dish over to the sink, climbing atop a small ladder set there specifically for him. He turns on the water to let the bowl soak, then hops off and down onto the floor. There's a moment where he lingers in the kitchen, deciding on whether he wanted to wander out into the living room or not just yet. While most children are known to be spontaneous, putting very little thought into their actions because they're children, Byron's learned at an early age to be mindful of what he says or does.

It's that moment when he notices a shadow at one of the windows nearby. He knows that he should ignore it and that he should be on his way up to change shortly for bed, but who would be out there at this hour? He knows that his mother won't be back for another two, at the very least. Call it recklessness or a lack in judgement for a six year old, but this need to investigate gets the better of him. Of course, he could have just told his father that someone was outside. But it's better not to bother him right now.

The front door opens and out steps the dark haired child dressed in a white Tee with Mickey Mouse on it and a pair of shorts. He didn't dress himself himself, alright. He'd preferred something Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle probably. He had some of those toys. He peeks out the door at first, being more curious than nervous. In fact, the only reason for him to be nervous right now is if his father caught him. Seeing nothing at first, he steps outside and for the time being, he leaves the door open as he does so.

There was a person there, like he thought he saw. What he'd expected. Wide eyes peer up at the scraggly teen before he takes a peek back inside. Stephen was still watching t.v. Slowly, closing the door partially shut, it's like he already has a feeling that he knows this stranger. His father talks about the kid all the time. "That Damn Kid."

Alexander freezes as the door opens, looking all sorts of guilty as hell. "I wasn't doing anything, Detec--" he's already starting to say, when he realizes that the shadow that's exited the house is not Stephen Thorne, unless the cop has had a VERY strange evening. He blinks a couple of times, nervously gnawing at a hangnail on his thumb. His eyes dart towards the yard, like he's thinking about booking it. But he rocks back on his heels, squatting down under the window instead, arms resting on his bony knees. "Hey. You must be the detective's kid. Hi." A flash of a grin in the darkness. "'m not a robber. Cross my heart, hope to die. But I don't. Not anytime soon, anyway. Just mean that I'm telling the truth." His voice is hushed, and he looks to that open door periodically, making sure the light doesn't change with a moving, adult form. "What's your name, kid?"

Of course, as the child of a cop, Byron was taught the mantra of Stranger Danger. Though Alexander may just be a kid himself, he was a much bigger kid than Byron. In this moment, the way that the boy practically freezes and stares at the skulking stranger, one might get the idea that the child was afraid of Alexander Clayton. He makes no further move on his own, even when the other guy starts talking and asks his name. He may blink a few times, his bangs brushing against his lashes, but he does not dare move.

Any onlooker would be wrong, of course. It's not Alexander that the boy is afraid of.

If he says something, his father might hear him, so it takes a long while before he even dares utter, "Byron." His heart stops for a second once the name escapes his lips. A careful look is given back at the house, the door to be precise. He knows he should tell the older kid to go. Shoo him away. No good would come if he stuck around. Yet, there was something else going on in that young mind of his that keeps him from doing just that. "Be quiet." He practically whispers, leaning forward a bit. He doesn't come out to say 'He can hear you'.

Alexander goes quiet. Let's be honest, he's not exactly looking forward to what happens if the elder Thorne catches him skulking around his house in the middle of the night, either. Especially now that the guy's kid is involved. He doesn't have to have the shine he does to know that doesn't end well for anyone. So, instead of speaking again, he carefully lowers himself to the porch, wincing when the wood squeaks as he shifts. In an easy half lotus, he leans forward, and points at himself, then slowly writes with one finger on the wood. A-L-E-X-A-N-D-E-R. Each letter slowly written then checked with the kid. It does not occur to him that a six year old may or may not be up to reading pantomimed writing in the dark. Then he points at the door, mimes pulling it closed. Because that totally doesn't look like he's trying to get the kid alone for nefarious purposes.

It's a good thing that Alexander goes slowly or else the six year old wouldn't have been able to read what Clayton was trying to spell out. Byron gets as far as A-L-E-X before he checks the door again, then cranes his neck up to try and peek through the window, but he's a small kid right now, so sees nothing.

If Clayton were a 'bad man', then it would be game over for Byron because against his better judgement, he takes first one step, then two steps back so that he can close the door. He's extremely careful during the last bit, not wanting to make any sort of sound at all when the door clicks. Children aren't all that coordinated. He doesn't move far from it however, lingering there with his back against the now closed door.

Alexander breathes out a sigh of relief when the kid closes the door. Rather than, say, screaming 'Daaaaaaaad' and running back inside. He doesn't try to approach the boy, just stares at him with interest as his eyes adjust to him no longer standing in the light of the open doorway. As the door is closed, he closes his eyes for a moment, and reaches two fingers up to his temple. Byron is likely to feel the tickle of power - not directed at him, but reaching past him towards the mind in the living room. Just assessing the elder Thorne's mental state at the moment. A grimace at what he finds, but it's not alert or searching, yet, so he whispers, "We're good." He points to himself again, and adds, "Alexander. Nice ta meetcha, Byron Thorne." Another quick grin. "Didn't mean to wake you up. Or whatever. Your dad's just wrong about something and it's important." Because that's definitely a thing to be telling a kid.

Stephen Thorne's more than a bit sloshed, his intense eyes fixated on the television. Alexander can definitely sense the man's rising ire despite his dulled senses. The television was on as a distraction. It's the bottle that his right hand clutches tightly at that keeps him satisfied, for now..

At school, Byron is an animated child. Always ready with a smile and a joke. Incredibly outgoing. Here, however, he's the complete opposite of how the other children and teachers see him. Quiet, tense.

That tickling sensation is something that he'd experienced before. He's not sure when, but he it's something familiar to him. Still pressed flat against the door, dark eyes stare across with Alexander having dropped down to his level. I wasn't sleeping. He thinks in his mind, a silent response to the statement made, yet unable to voice these words out loud. However, he understands what the word wrong is. He's been wrong before and his parents and teachers are quick to point this out to him. Still in that very hushed whisper, he has to ask with wide eyes, "Wrong about what?"

Alexander feels that rising ire, shies away from it. His smile falters, he looks aside from the boy, staring out into the darkness, instead. He wants to stand up, pace, move to deal with the rising anxiety the man's emotions cause in him. Conscious of the precariousness of his situation, though, he contents himself with just letting his hands dance up and down his legs, tapping out a rhythm that young Byron probably doesn't recognize. It's unlikely his parents let him listen to Metallica.

The question snaps him out of that fretting, and he turns his attention back to the kid. There's a moment as he tries to think about how to frame things. "He thinks someone hurt someone. But they didn't. So, if they get punished for it, that would be wrong. And the person who really hurt the guy would still be out there. Also wrong. Just can't get him to listen to me." A hint of sourness there, a twist of his lips. "Isn't your problem, kid. Byron. Sorry, should use your name. Names are important. Powerful." He smiles again, leans forward a little. "You're a bit sharp, aren't you? Just a bit."

Byron wasn't the one wrong this time. His father was. He doesn't pay much attention to the fidgeting, not thinking anything odd about it at his age. Some kids are restless too. What he does pay attention to is everything that Alexander now says. His father is going to be in a lot of trouble. That's as far as he knows. "Mikey did that once. Mrs. Mackey and my dad got mad." He's about to say 'But I didn't do anything', he's pleaded his case many times after the incident to no avail. He's not quite sure what being sharp means. Knives were sharp, so he was told. Was he like a knife? Knives cause a lot of pain.

It's just at that moment that the sound of a shattered whiskey bottle can be heard from the living room. Stephen Thorne either nodded off and dropped the thing or, even worse, he threw it out of anger. Heavy footfall can be heard from inside, but it's not coming towards the front door. It's headed up the stairs. "Byron! Are you in bed yet?"

The sound of a bottle shattering across the floor is enough to send Byron into a panic. His heart just stopped again and he turns to hurriedly open that door in the hopes that he can sneak inside. With the door now swung open, he pauses momentarily to give the visiting Clayton another cautious look. Once more, those gears are turning. He doesn't quite tell the other to RUN or leave and instead responds, "I tell him. Don't want dad getting into trouble." And at this point in his life, he really doesn't. Stephen Thorne was still his father. There's another moment of hesitation there and they can clearly hear the heavily drunk footfall coming from upstairs. That's enough to spur Byron into action. Without a good bye, he disappears back through that front door.

"Everybody's wrong occasionally," Alexander starts to say, but he flinches when the whiskey bottle shatters. "Shit." Then winces. "You didn't hear me say that." He's frozen, listening to that heavy tread, trying to figure out what to do next that doesn't make this go bad. He doesn't think quickly enough. The kid, the kid's wheels are turning faster than his are, and it catches Alexander flat-footed. "What? No, Byron--" too late. Byron's gone inside, and Alexander is clambering to his feet, edging away from the window. Shit shit shit. He's touched Stephen's mind. Felt the well of the man's drunken rage. How's he going to react to his six year old trying to tell him that he's wrong?

Not well, Alexander suspects. You have fucked up, and it's gonna get that nice kid hurt. It's not an unfamiliar thought, although the consequences might vary. He reaches out, then, tries to impose calm on Stephen's drunken ire. Maybe he can help. But his control and power aren't what they'll be in twenty years, or even ten, and it's a clumsy, faltering attempt to influence.

Stephen Thorne was that drunk. He had no idea if his son walked passed him at any moment to go upstairs and to bed. Not that he'd seen the kid go upstairs, but that was the first place he checks. Why would Byron be anywhere else but in bed? And if he were in bed... Stephen's bellowing surely would have woken him up by now. He's that drunk. It's more than obvious that he didn't find Byron in his bed, because his voice grows louder now, calling out for the boy.

The heavy footfall can be heard coming down the stairs now and then there's a brief moment of silence at the midpoint of his trip. Their paths must've crossed.

Once inside, so many conflicting thoughts run through the boy's mind. He was going to tell his father that he was wrong. But the deeper he was inside of the house, the more he wanted to just shut up and pretend that he went to the bathroom or something. Anything! That's why he wasn't in his bed. He wasn't outside!

It's Alexander who might be able to sense this wave of panic now as well. Byron's mind was untrained and while he doesn't realize it, his thoughts, the raw fear of his emotions are branching out like panicked tendrils to anyone and anything. He's not consciously doing it. It's running wild. This is what angers Stephen most of all. He may have sensed something earlier, with Alexander, but whatever his kid is doing, he's feeling it now. To shut Byron up, he shoves him hard against the banister on reflex. The boy might not be saying anything, but Stephen's definitely sensing something.

Things would have gone a lot worse if not for Alexander, however. As clumsy as his abilities are, the chaos going on in the drunk police detective's mind is giving the man a splitting headache. The calm, the panic. Everything. As Byron struggles to pull himself up, his small hands gripping onto the baluster, he feels his father's hand squeezing around his arm, jolting him up. The boy flinches, already used to his father being in this state, but there was something wrong. Wrong... that's the first thing that pops into Byron's mind when he watches his dad, with one hand clutched at his head, waver in his steps. Then he feels himself shake, before being thrust forward in the direction of the upstairs landing.

"Get your ass to bed right now!" Normally, there was no stopping the elder Thorne when he gets into a drunken rage. But today, at least, he has this urge to lay down and rest his head.

Byron doesn't hesitate and begins to, at first, crawl up the stairs, before picking up pace. There was no brushing his teeth or anything of that sort. He just quickly closes the door behind him in his room and hops into bed. No changing of clothes. Nothing. No, he's not about to tell his father that he was wrong. Not tonight. Maybe Alexander was right. He was sharp.

"Jesus, kid." Alexander leans against the outer wall of the house, eyes closed. He's not good at shutting things out, yet, particularly not the darker emotions - pain, anger, fear all have a way of cutting through his mental protections like a slap to the face. He can't help but feel Byron's turbulent emotions, with the big bass notes of Stephen's drunken rage pounding above it all. There's a moment of relief when Byron is pushed towards his room.

But also a tremendous resignation. This isn't the first abusive home he's felt. In this town, with all its broken people? Not even close. And time and time again, it's been proved that one kid, even one with (unstable, badly controlled) psychic powers can't do a lot to stop it. He thinks about it. He does, in that moment listening to the angry sounds, the angry mind, inside the house. But the word of Crazy Clayton against a respected police detective? He doesn't have to be sharp to figure out how that one goes.

He turns and kicks the door, once, in an expression of impotent fury and guilt. Then? Then he runs away. Because he, too, does not particularly want to tell Detective Stephen Thorne that he is wrong right now. But he'll return, even when he doesn't necessarily have to, lurking outside the house on odd evenings, rambling to the kid whenever (and if) Byron lets him, until several months later when he makes his first attempt to get the hell out of Gray Harbor by running away.

August 21, 2000
5:30pm

Dark gray sneakers hit the pavement hard in rapid succession as Byron races through the streets of Gray Harbor. He was supposed to be home at 5pm, it was almost 5:30. And today he knew that his father finished work early, so would be home waiting for him. He'd lost track of time at the Gilford house. He rarely ever does that, even when he leaves there at the very last minute. He always made sure that he'd arrive home on the time. On the dot, to be precise. There was no need to be there any earlier.

But tomorrow was his birthday and the Club House was abuzz with that news. There was going to be a party after school and everything! He even asked Mrs. G. if they could have a mountain of cheeseburgers with the works, because Lilith had to eat and those were her favorite! Even if Byron (and most other kids) could do without the veggie stuff. For whatever reason, she liked the lettuce and tomatoes and pickles. Lily was weird. Tobin didn't even tell him what he and his mother got for Byron, no matter how much Byron tried to pry it out of him.

He keeps at a steady pace the whole way. That is until he actually gets to Oak Avenue where, at some point, his pace begins to slow. Byron didn't want to go home right now. Even worse, he knows what's waiting for him there. If he ran the whole way, he knows that his father would be able to tell that he was running. Or so he'd always assumed. That's why whenever he gets anywhere close to the Thorne House, he always stops to a quiet, brisk walk. It attracts less attention.

Byron's hair was growing out, his bangs already fell into his eyes if he didn't brush them out of the way. He had on black long-sleeved shirt with the Batman symbol in bright yellow on the front and a pair of blue jeans. Whatever excitement that was coursing through him has completely faded by now, when he walks up those porch steps.

Once inside, he could hear voices from the kitchen. They weren't alone.

Sitting at the kitchen table was his father, Stephen Thorne, already dressed in casual clothing and drinking a beer instead of whiskey, and Detective Nathaniel Jones, Magnolia's dad. Byron liked Detective Jones. The man was always nice to him. That's how he was introduced to Maggie and her brother in the first place. His father was often a different man in the presence of company, but then again, Jones was a long time friend of the family. His mother was at the stove, making dinner. She was still dressed in her waitress uniform, having just returned home herself.

Both men turn to Byron when he shyly enters the room. Before he can explain himself, not that he had a good explanation on hand, Stephen's practically growls out at him, "You're late. What time do you think it is?"

"I was only at Tobin's pl--" Byron starts, his gaze already lowered.

"It's 5:30." The voice booms out and Stephen Thorne is already on his feet. "Do you want me to call Lillian Gilford and tell her that we're cancelling your damn party tomorrow?" Obviously, the birthday party wasn't his parents' idea. It was Tobin's mother who set it up.

The eight-year old looked pale, his eyes lifting slowly to look up at his father. He was crushed inside and on the verge of tears just thinking that they were going to cancel his birthday party, but he didn't dare show any of that.

"C'mon Stephen. It's just half an hour. Byron's here, right? Safe and sound." That's Detective Jones talking. "And anyway, I promised the twins that there would be cake tomorrow. You better not make me break that promise." There's laughter in the man's voice, his kind eyes turning to the Thorne kid.

Though he was terrified of being in this situation, Byron had this on and off switch in his head. Things may be bad at home, but he knew that they would only get worse if others found out about any of it. No, he wasn't afraid that social services would come and take him away or that his father would be sent to jail. Byron was afraid that if people found out, that would just anger his father even more.

So despite the fact that he doesn't want to, that he doesn't feel that confidence inside, Byron forces himself to beam quietly at Detective Jones, flashing him this smile of appreciation. Thanks for standing up for me! That's what he's trying to convey.

Jones steps forward to muss up the kid's hair fondly, "Don't forget: Fishing. Trip. Next. Weekend." He says, turning back towards Stephen. He knows full well how Stephen Thorne enjoys these fishing trips. It was peaceful and quiet and it meant that both father and son would be out of each other's hair for the time.

That reminder brings a smile to Detective Thorne's lips, "When do I ever forget?"

Stepping in close, Nathaniel leans in to give Mary Thorne a kiss on the cheek, "Wish I could stay for dinner, but I've got dinner waiting for me back home."

Byron wishes that Magnolia's dad could stay for dinner as well. Or move in... With his whole family. Even he knows that was just wishful thinking. "Goodnight, Detective Jones." His voice is quiet when he says this, lacking the charisma that Jones would be used to hearing. Then Nathaniel Jones was gone, leaving only the Thorne family to enjoy their evening meal together.

Stephen roughly demanded an explanation for his son's tardiness yet again. This time, Byron knew that it was /he/ who was wrong. Not his father. All that he could do was apologize after his father shook him up real good. Perhaps, Detective Jones did enough to satisfy the elder Thorne, keeping the man's hopes up for this upcoming fishing trip. Whatever reason, no more questions were asked.

Byron headed to the bathroom to wash his hands for dinner. His anxiety was high and he was trembling. While the fear of his birthday party being cancelled had upset him earlier, that is quickly replaced by a new fear. No, it's not new. It's something he experiences on a near daily basis. With the bathroom door closed, the boy's thin frame shook, his shoulders slumping. A sudden choked gasp is soon followed by another as tears began to spill down his cheeks. He tastes the salt upon his lips. If he could, he'd lock himself away in this very bathroom to never step foot outside of it again.

But that wasn't how a Paladin would behave. If he were a real Paladin then... then he wouldn't have to be afraid ever again. He would be strong and brave. And he would make his parents proud.

As his mind wanders to the recent adventures of Sir Roland, his Paladin, alongside the others within the Gray Harbor Adventurer's Guild, Byron finishes washing his hands, before splashing some water on his face in order to drown away those tears. Once he steps out of the imaginary sanctuary that was the downstairs bathroom, he feels a sharp spike of... it was a torrent of dark emotions, some pained, some confused. He's not sure what these sensations are that he's experiencing, but he's felt this before too.

If he had understood his own powers better, he would have heeded the warning that they gave, for once he stepped foot back into the kitchen, he notices his father's body racked with tension as he holds his head within both hands. The man's wild eyes take notice of him, staring at him accusingly.

The rest of the evening went by like a blur. He remembers the first strike catching him off guard as it landed at the side of his face, bruising his cheek badly. He was then thrust against the edge of the kitchen table, his arm pinned harshly against his back by his father's vise-like grip. Stephen Thorne demanded silence, yelling over and over at the boy to "SHUT UP!" By now, Byron was crying, promising that he'd be quiet. That he wouldn't say a thing. But the sobs mixed with the child's overly stressed emotions that are unconsciously projected onto the elder Thorne drives him into an angry frenzy.

The arm twisted behind his back soon breaks, making him cry out in a yelp. He knows better than to scream, even though he really wants to. He remembers watching his mother at the stove in the kitchen, though rather than her cooking anything, she seemed frozen in place. Unwilling to make a move during any of this. He then feels himself being forced back against the table again, knocking the wind out of him, his torso throbbing in pain. He remembers hearing the sound of shattered glass. His father's glass of beer, but at this point, he's unsure whether it had struck him at all, with how much pain he was already feeling.

Then there was darkness.

When his eyes finally open, there was still light in the room. His head hurt so badly, but so did the rest of him. He shifts where he lies, his prone body still on the kitchen floor. He can make out the broken shards of glass scattered around him. The sound of the television can be heard in the other room, but he doesn't dare move to look. God, his arm hurt. He wanted to cry out, but his head was still swimming.

At the kitchen table itself, so close to where he had fallen, he sees his mother's black SAS work shoes. So comfortable for standing and walking in all day. She was seated at the table, doing a word-search or crosswords probably. She tended to do that in the evenings. If she had noticed any movement coming from him, she makes no reaction.

Then there is darkness again.

By the time his eyes open again, the room was dark. His head was still killing him. He believes he understands what his father must've been going through, hearing his son's thoughts in his mind. There was an urge to just stay there and sleep, right on the kitchen floor. He even begins to drift off again, eyes growing heavy. But something in the back of his mind tells him to wake up. No, it tells him to GET UP. And so he does, even if it's a struggle to do so. He was no longer lying on his stomach, someone had re-positioned him. In fact, the pain that he remembered feeling, some of that was now gone. His arm still hurt though.

Kneeling there in the dark among the broken glass, he decides to pick each piece, each shard up within his small hands. Some of them cut into his hand, making him bleed, but he works quietly and carefully to clear the floor of this obstruction. When he's done, he's in the bathroom again. Once more washing his hands.

All the while he tries not to think of anything. It's hard, especially for a young boy with an active imagination. He does his best to clear his mind. The journey up the stairs was a frightening one. The old house could betray him and creak loudly beneath his feet. Each step is taken with care and by the time he is reaches the upstairs landing, he keeps steady watch at the space beneath his parent's door. If it lit up suddenly, Byron wasn't sure what he would do. He holds his breath, tip-toeing down the hall and into his room. Not even his bedroom felt safe. After changing in the dark and slipping beneath his covers, he prays for sleep, too afraid that the longer that he remains awake, that at some point his thoughts will rouse his father from his slumber.

Eventually, that blissful sleep finally soothes his exhausted young mind.

April 20, 2004
3:00pm

The laughter of children was a rare thing to find at the Thorne House. At least with the current generations of Thornes who resided there. Despite the old Victorian home being larger than both the Gilford cottage or Winslow's trailer, Byron would more often than not be at either of those locations instead of bringing his friends over to his place. Today, he had no choice.

No, today Tobin and Lilith came to visit him. Byron had taken ill and this was his second day of missing school. His friends decided to come over and drop off his assignments while checking up on how he was doing. With his fever from yesterday being mostly gone, the little patient was doing much better, his day being brightened by being surrounded by friends. It was difficult finding a babysitter during school hours, so while Stephen and Mary Thorne were away at work, Mrs. Huxley, a neighbor from a few houses down, was on babysitter duty for the sick twelve year old. With the arrival of his friends and knowing that Detective Thorne would be back at any moment, she leaves the children to their own devices, needing to do some grocery shopping before dinner.

With Huxley now gone, the children had free reign over the house for this brief moment. Both Byron and Tobin were standing on the upstairs landing as they try to brainstorm a plan on what to do with the castle that they were presented with during their last D&D session with Kevin.

"The tavern owner and the other villagers were way too friendly to us last time. I mean, we were told that bad stuff is happening in these parts. They sure don't act like bad stuff is happening." A young Byron, who could probably use a haircut, says in a far too serious tone for the topic. But then again, they were twelve, this is serious business.

"Yeah. And now the Lord of the castle invites us to dinner so we can tell him all about our adventures." Tobin says in a just as serious a tone, suspicion in his voice, "I'm sure he's got a Beholder or something down in his dungeon."

"Probably." Byron says in distracted response, his dark gaze quietly observing Lilith in her romper, one that Mrs. G. gave her, hoisting herself up onto the handrail just so she can slide down the banister.

"Are you even listening to the plan, Lilith?" Byron asks, sounding frustrated, but to be honest, he doesn't mind. She looked excited about being in this big house. Or maybe she just loves stairs.

After sliding all the way down to the bottom of the stairs, the petite brunette hurries back up again. On reaching the top step, she extends a leg to spin into a pirouette, "I was listening." She sounds adamant about it too. "If I lived in a house like this," she starts, before turning to Byron. Rather than finish the sentence, she decides to say, ""It's not the Lord that's the bad guy, it's his bard. He's keeping the town and the lord enthralled by weaving an enchanter spell. Don't you guys pay attention?" Ironic, considering she was just accused of not paying attention in favor of the banister and all the entertainment it can provide. Really, she sounds exasperated with the boys. But then she admits, "Probably is a beholder in the basement, though."

With that a lively bit of brainstorming goes on at the top of the stairs, just as Stephen's car can be heard pulling up to the curb outside. As far as the other children in town knew, Detective Thorne was a mostly friendly guy. He could sometimes be a bit gruff and react harshly with known delinquents or cop botherers. In more recent years, however, he's been known to be low on patience.

Lilith and Tobin would have seen both sides of Mister Thorne, though today he's in one of his moods as he enters the home dressed in his detective's suit and tie, his briefcase in hand. Byron knows that he probably should shoo his friends away, but that would be quite an awkward situation to happen so suddenly. So instead, he ushers them into his room, his gaze meeting with his father's from the bottom of the stairs, "Lils and Tobin brought my homework from yesterday and today." A pause, "We're gonna go work on it for a little while, so I can hand mine in tomorrow." This is Byron's way of portraying a normal family life.

He can sense this incredible tension surrounding his father, this darkness in Stephen Thorne's eyes, but the man nods, "Hey, Lilith. Tobin. It's good that you're making sure my kid isn't falling too far behind." This next part he calls out to Byron, "I have some work that I need to do." That's his way of saying that he needs his quiet.

As Byron monitors his father's every movement nervously from upstairs, Stephen Thorne removes his jacket, folding it in half before draping it over the back of the couch. He carries a silver flask with him, more often than not, filled with whiskey, so by now he's already had a good dip into bad spirits. The glass cabinet in the living room provides him with more. His briefcase is opened up wide upon the coffee table where he's now settled on the couch. It hasn't been a very good day for Detective Thorne. A case that he helped to close earlier was now reopen with new evidence after the wrong person was put away. So after a deep hit of the bottle, he sorts through file after file of documentation and evidence, witness statements and the like from the old case file.

"Emilia Jenkins. Charged and Arrested for.." He mutters aloud, his hands shuffling the slips of paper after he silently goes through them. He can see the woman's face in a photograph staring up at him, followed by images of the victim, her boyfriend, Hector Clark. He takes another drink. "A witness had said they had heard yelling coming from the residence." He flips through more reports and images, drinking again. Leaning over to reach for a new file, his lips murmuring in time to the words which he now reads, "Suspect in the murder on April 17th, 2004 was named as a person of interest in a case dating to 1997. He was released due not having enough evidence."

With these files resting in his lap, he grabs an old notebook, flipping through the pages in his agitation. Just at that moment, the sound of laughter can be heard from upstairs, his gaze lifting towards the ceiling, a sound that strains every muscle in his frame. Taking another drink from the bottle, he finds the dates he was looking for. "Plane tickets for Jenkins and Clark to Greece." He mumbles, "Anniversary. Purchased by Jenkins."

While he doesn't notice his son's presence at the top of the stairs, Byron having gone out to ensure that his father was still preoccupied, the elder Thorne's attention is shifted in that direction as if being drawn to something there. Something that makes him take a long drink again, one of his hands raking fingers through his hair before cupping tensely at the side of his head over his ear. "Wrong person. Alexander Clayton." For whatever reason, Detective Thorne wrote down what the Clayton kid had told him around that time. He remembers now, how insistent Alexander was that he got the wrong person, but in Thorne's mind everything added up. Or did he want to hurry and close things because of trouble in his own ho-- A deep crease forms across his brawn, his fingers pressing even harder against his skull.

"How? Why was she the wrong person? How did I overlo--" The sound of more laughter erupt from upstairs, breaking the man's concentration even further. It wasn't just Clayton who warned him about this, he remembers Byron mentioning it as well. But the kid was six. How did he even know about the case? /Clayton/. Stephen Thorne takes another drink.

By this time, Byron flashes Lilith a smile through the doorway to his room after some joke she had made. Slowly growing into his own abilities, or having a slightly better understanding of the warning signs surrounding his father's mood, the younger Thorne looks over his shoulder, sensing this storm that can be felt in the air which often accompanies the man's rages.

Byron Thorne's room looked like your typical twelve-year old's bedroom, if the twelve-year old in question were neat. Everything is stored properly away and every item seems to have a place to be. A couple of movie posters hang on his walls

Tobin was seated at Byron's desk while Lilith was sprawled out on her stomach on his bed. Both were doing their own homework as they'd moved on from roleplaying games to television in conversation. It was hard for Byron to do his homework when he just knew that his father's patience seemed to be running thing down those steps. For a moment, he joins his friends, working on his own assignments as the group laughs, though Byron tries to make sure that this was quiet laughter. Pretending that everything was alright when in the company of friends wasn't easy, especially when his own anxieties were rising. In the end, he kept this up for another forty minutes, before making an excuse to send the pair on their way home. Maybe he shouldn't have waited so long.

Walking alongside them down the stairs, he can't help but try to sneak a peek at where his father is seated on the couch, leaning over the stair rail to do so. He saw folders and papers strewn about, though it seemed as if Stephen Thorne were taking a break from his reassessing of this closed case, seeing as the man was taking more interest in his whiskey than the fate of Emilia Jenkins.

"I'll see you guys at school tomorrow." Byron says, his voice quieter than usual, but then again he was supposed to be sick. There's this desire to walk them home, especially Lilith. It meant that he'd be out of the house, experiencing the freedom away from fear, but just at that moment he hears his father calling him from the living room.

"Byron. Did you finish your homework already? If you can have fun with your friends, then you could've gone to school today. Right?"

There would be no escorting Lilith home today. Remembering something that he meant to ask, the dark-haired twelve year old does so now, "Lil, are you gonna be okay?" He means with dinner, she probably knows this. He could get her some food from out of the kitchen, but he already has his father's attention.

"We can pick up something along the way." Tobin chimes in. He had a much farther walk home from Oak, all the way down to Bayside Road.

Young Lilith didn't like being reminded that she was poor. It made her uncomfortable when everyone would hover around her in that way, but she'll share a smile for Byron to show him that everything was okay. "See. Nothing to worry about." Even though she probably didn't have much money to spend on food wherever they stopped by, but Tobin would probably pick up the tab.

It really was only slightly reassuring, but if Lilith had to pretend that things were okay, then Byron did as well. "Good. Because the last thing we need is Hank complaining that we take a girl out on a date, but don't buy her dinner." Did he really say date? The statement was a paraphrase of something he'd heard older folks say. This wasn't a date... And Tobin was the one taking her home now.

With their departure, Byron quietly shut the door closed, those wary eyes peering down to hall to check in on his father.

"About time they left. I have a lot of god damn work to do and if you didn't go to school today, you should be in bed. Sleeping."

Making a quick apology and informing his father that he would be upstairs doing his homework, Byron hurriedly, but carefully, makes his way up each step. Once inside of his own room again, he releases his held breath and begins to flip through the pages of his latest assignment. Though she'd just left his house with his best friend, he can't help but wonder what Lilith was doing right now.

There was some comfort that Byron used to take when hearing the television on downstairs. It usually meant that his father was distracted, at least a little. Sometimes it was enough to quell the elder Thorne's bad mood. It was like white noise to the child to help cancel out everything around him. It didn't always work, but when it did, it came as a relief. The television is not turned on today, leaving the downstairs living area uncomfortably quiet with his father's rumblings.

The silence made his father's footsteps sound that much louder when he makes his way up the stairs. This need to seek out a place to hide grew stronger within the child the closer the sound of Stephen's steps got. Setting his pencil down, placing it atop his homework, he closes his eyes to take deep, relaxing breaths. He needed to clear his mind so that his father wasn't troubled by his thoughts, his emotions. By now, though, it was already too late. What he sensed in the air made him terribly afraid and the footsteps stopped right before his door.

Byron's door swings wide open and though he had anticipated all of this, he still jumps at the sound of his father's taunting tone, his words coming out slurred, "You're not so tough after all, huh? What will your friends think if they knew how much of a cowering crybaby you really are?" The boy could weather his adolescent insecurities, the stresses of school, obnoxious bullies, the darkness... His father, however, terrified him most of all. The younger Thorne says nothing as he remains seated as his desk, his body tense. The man walks through the room before knocking over some trophies he'd received from off his shelf; several of them Byron got from various GHPD family sporting events. And as proud as Stephen Thorne probably was about those trophies at the time, in his drunken state, they were mere trash.

When he's close enough, the man's arm slaps down hard upon his son's shoulder, practically shaking him with the impact. "That Winslow girl? Do you think she's going to stick around be all happily ever after? There is no happily ever after. Not for you. Not for any of us." That firm hand begins to violently shake at Byron's shoulder, jostling him around even more. All the while, he's trying to tell himself not to say anything. Not to think anything. Not to feel anyt-- "Trailer trash like that probably thinks she can do better than you when she finds out that you're no White Knight. No Saviour. You're nothing. Nobody. And once she learns that, she'll drop you in an instant."

Lilith wouldn't... would she?

His father was pushing his buttons, trying to force a reaction out of him. The stench of whiskey assaulted the boy's nostrils. It was a familiar smell to him, something that would stay with him for as long as he lived. "You got nothing for me tough guy? I see you with your friends, being loud and boisterous. And here, you're as meek as a mouse." While Byron probably thought it was best to keep quiet when his father gets this way, in Stephen's mind the boy was being wilfully stubborn and it was trying his patience.

The squeeze at his shoulder grows more painful, making the boy wince, his body twisted as he tries to pull his shoulder away from the hold. Byron wasn't even sure what he did wrong except for letting his friends stay over. He shouldn't have done that. He should have sent them home when they first showed up at his door. Lilith was there, so he wasn't thinking straight. All of the emotions and thoughts that he tried to muffle were quickly racing through his mind in a panic laced with self-blame and this need to know what he'd done wrong so that he can make corrections and never do it again.

It's this chaos that Stephen Thorne might sense at this very moment, or it very well could be his son's physical reflexive reaction to the pain in his shoulder, but it gives the man enough fuel for his fire. The pressure on Byron's shoulder is released only to be replaced by the pain at his head when his father grabs at his hair, tugging on it hard. "What did you say to me?" Byron hadn't said a damn thing before now and the first words out of his mouth are a pleading, "Nothing... I didn't say anything."

He didn't mean to struggle against his father, but as the man began to drag him by his hair, the boy's hands reach up to try an alleviate some of that pain, clasping tightly onto the police detective's firm grip. This seems to infuriate the man even more. Byron could feel himself being shoved against his display cabinet, his face and body striking hard against the shelves, but he's drawn back for a second go. More trophies and other memorabilia begin to topple to the floor, several of the them crack and shatter on the hardwood floor.

He could taste the warm bitterness of blood at his split bottom lip where his face was slammed against the edge of the shelf and within his mouth when one of his canines tore into the inner lining. A cut at his brow began seeping blood down into his right eye. When he feels that hard tug again, his body being yanked forward, feet dragging along for the ride as he tries to keep himself steady and standing at the very least.

The next thing he knew, they were out the door and into hallway, his hands were clutching at his father's the whole time. <<No, Dad! Please, stop!>> His mind was screaming, that desperation was clear on his face. Yet the only sounds coming from Byron Thorne were soft whimpering, which turns into a hissed cry of pain once the hand that grips him shoves him HARD against the top newal- the first thrust bruises the boy's poor ribs <<It hurts! STOP!>>, while the second, the angle shifts as he slams the side of the boy's head into the post. This is followed by another of the same, making his nose bleed and the side of his face to darken with discoloration. After the second strike to his head, the boy's mind is silenced temporarily.

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" The detective screams at his son, pulling him back still by the hair, then pushing him up against the railing, the force slamming into his ribcage once more. Byron's head was spinning, he was dazed and in so much pain that his legs suddenly give way, making him roll and tumble painfully half-way down the steps before he stops himself by grabbing onto the spindle. While it keeps him from falling the whole way, his body is twisted into painful jerk.

The next that the boy felt was a sudden weight of pressure slamming down against his chest. He felt the pain, then heard the shattering of bone breaking within his young chest. by now, Byron's arms raise defensively. It's like, despite wanting to be the good and obedient son for his father to not quell the man's anger, his survival instincts just wouldn't let him lay there like a ragdoll, even if that's how his father treated him. Oh, how this enraged the man even more. "You think you're so tough, huh?" His foot raises then comes smashing down upon the child's arms as they try to protect his chest and midsection, though doing a poor job at it. "Dad, please.." He pleads after a sniffle, breathing in that at his nose. For the boy's effort, his chest is suddenly racked with an incredible pain, making him squirm, those bruised arms wrapping themselves around him as he feels the agony of having the bones within his chest twist and snap. The elder Thorne didn't need to get physical to call pain, but this is something that he's rarely ever shown himself to do. One after the other. Snap. Crackle. Pop. More soft whimpers are heard, but in his mind, in the boy's mind he is screaming in pain. The intensity of child's shrieks makes the man clutch tightly at his skull, his posture bent over.

"You.. You're just like him. You're just like Clayton."

The waves of mental distress and the terror which only a child could feel continues to assault the man to the point that he just has to lash out or be driven mad by that damn kid.

Just as with the ribs breaking within his chest, Byron feels another sudden crushing sensation. This time it was his skull. Just this realization brings out a quick gasp. Tears were running down the sides of his eyes, his body lay sprawled across the middle of the stairs, sloped that his head was pointed down. He could see his father looming over with with these wide, terrified eyes. The only way that Stephen Thorne could keep his son from invading his mind was to stop him from using those abilities altogether. He could have just smashed the boy's skull then and there, but instead, he keeps his son in the grips of excruciating pain, which while spikes his fears, also disorients him. As if Stephen Thorne believes that Byron's invasion of his mind was intentional.

Standing over the boy now, Stephen squats over his prone body, grabbing onto the kid's dark hair. At this point, Byron was struggling to breathe; not only because of his mangled chest but he was in panic mode, his breathes coming out quick, short and strained. The child is staring up at into his father's eyes when he feels his head being lifted, then slammed down hard against the edge of the lower step. "Can't use powers when your skull is cracked." He spits out, "You won't invade my mind again. I won't let you."

Byron Thorne knew he was going to die today. He breathed in his father's heavy whiskey soaked breath just as his father's rough fingers grind into his sweat-damped hair. Or was it blood? The psychic grip on his skull was replaced with a far more personal and physical variety of torture. His eyes shut tight, when the impact of the back of his skull striking the wood step makes his body jerk. This time, he was a limp rag doll and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

When his eyes open, he sees that his mother had come home, dressed her work uniform and watching them from the bottom of the stairs. Their eyes meet, but it's Byron who flinches first. Disoriented, his wild gaze wanders aimlessly, suddenly focused on the stair rail. He remembers Lilith sliding all the way down, that happy smile on her angelic face. Then he feels that grip tighten again, the way that his father yanked his head forward by the hair.

Byron didn't want to die. There were so many things that he wanted to do, things that he wanted to experience. He was supposed to grow up and be successful. Get married. Have children. Live in a big house. Maybe own a boat too. Death terrified him. Death felt so.. final. Yet, even now, his vision was darkening, blood was streaming into his eyes but his head was filled with darkness- just like the darkness that envelopes this house, suffocating all who lives here. <<I don't want to die... please. Please...>> Even his thoughts start out weak, his mind rattled within his skull. God, his neck hurt, the way that his head is leaned forward. It felt like forever that he was being held in this position. Or his mind was losing track of time, giving him this moment of thought as the world slowed down around him. His head was killing him. If he felt pain, it meant that he was still alive. <<Dad, please. Don't make me. I.. I don't want to.. I WANT TO LIVE>>

The boy couldn't speak any more, his voice being choked back by sobs. Even his mind was finding trouble to put words together. His begging and pleading seem to fall on death ears when the ride begins again. This ride of pain. The back of his shoulders takes the brunt of shove and while his head makes contact, the angle was wrong. His father realizes this, so while he keeps the child's hair tangled within the fingers of one hand, the other drags spins the boy around so that his head was no longer pointing down the steps. Stephen had more control this way. With his face resting against the upper step, feeling the edge press against his temple, the boy's fear mixed with this sense of guilt and loathing plagued not only the child's mind but his father's mind now as well.

He could taste the blood at lips, the way that they stained his teeth and filled his mouth. His eyes were glassy and wet with tears when he felt his head being lifted once again. Those eyes then shut tightly. He didn't want to die. If not his father, he pleaded with God. or for SOMEONE to hear him. The fear was making want to wretch, intensified by the trauma to his head.

"God damn it. STOP IT, BYRON." The elder Thorne calls out, making his fingers twist even more painfully as if they were threatening to tear his hair off from his scalp. Stephen Thorne was struggling with the emotions that his son was trying to force into his mind. Except Byron was the guilty one. Or that's what the boy kept telling himself over and over again when the words 'I'm Sorry' raced through his mind. "Get... GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" He bellowed angrily, as his body reeled dangerously on the stairs. He needed to do this now. He could crush the boy's with his foot or with his OWN MIND. However, there was struggle going on between father and son, but unfortunately for Byron, he was already losing consciousness due to the pain set upon his entire body. "BYRON!" The voice calls out.

The boy's mind drifts back and forth, back and forth. "I don't want to die..." His words come out in a silent whisper with only his lips moving.

"You can't do anything for him now. You can't fix him, Stephen. Let it go."

"... That damn kid. Look what he made me do."

"It's... It's better this way. And you know it's true. Don't deny it."

"..."

"You'll be free of him, sweetie. Just let him go."