Page 239 of Satan's Spawn

It’s just about 6 p.m., and asalmostalways I like to be on time.

His fingers dance against the back of my headrest. “So tell me…what happens if you stop taking your magic pills? Will you spin around the room like Jim Carrey inThe Maskor some shit?”

I roll my eyes. “You’re such an ass, you know that?”

“Somebody stop meee…” he whispers in Stanley Ipkiss' voice, and it makes me chuckle, remembering all the times I’ve watched the movie with Dad.

I swat Crayton’s arm when he holds his hands to his face, pretending to get sucked in by them, and I can’t deny loving this playful side of him.

He’s turning his body toward me, serious again, so I journey back to his question. “I won’t be spinning, but my mind will be in a constant state of overload—my senses too heightened to be able to focus, make good decisions, even remember things. It’s actually pretty painful despite what others may feel about invisible disorders.”

He stays quiet, running his finger along my arm as I continue, “I mean, when I was a kid, yeah. I was so hyper I couldn’t sit more than ten seconds in my seat without fidgeting or jumping out of it. I couldn’t keep up with my peers, and acted out terribly. It’s why I was held back in first grade.”

“I wish that was why I was held back,” he says rather coldly.

“Why were you?”

His lip twitches, hand still exploring. “My mother gave birth to me in our dingy apartment. No doctors, birth certificate, nothing. In all senses of the word I ceased to exist. Which is exactly how she wanted it.”

My entire soul shatters for him. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”

He switches his focus to my thigh. “She didn’t allow me to go to school because she said I was too much of a threat to mankind. That I’d poison all the kids with my dark soul.”

I wish Miriam was still around…because I’d kill her myself. Who the hell treats a child that way?

“Why was she so adamant about you being evil?”

He turns to face the steering wheel again, squeezing it with white knuckles. “Let’s just say whoever my sperm donor is fits the profile really fucking well.”

“A bad father doesn’t define his son.”

“Well, to her it did.”

I squish my eyebrows together. “So he, what? Treated her like crap so she took it out on you?”

“That’s one way to put it,” he grumbles, eyes trained on the windshield.

Inhaling a deep breath, I try reading him for a few before drilling any further, knowing too many questions will have Crayton retreating behind those steel rod walls.

“So, you’re the product of a toxic relationship. That’s more on her than you.”

He laughs, but there’s nothing funny about it.

“Motherfucker didn’t exactly stick around after busting a nut inside the psychotic bitch.”

I’m about to ask if his comment is a rhetorical one, but Crayton’s incoming confession has the words dying in my throat. “I’m a product of rape, Rebecca.”

My mouth drops open. “Shit, Crayton. That’s bad.”

His tone turns defensive as he slams an open palm against the steering wheel. “Yeah, it was, but doesn’t make it my fucking fault.”

I reach for his thigh and squeeze it. “Of course not. It’s an incredibly unfortunate incident…one you did not deserve to be punished for. She should’ve sought professional help, not religion.”

“My mother was a Christian fanatic, Rebecca…to her, doctor’s were evil and worked with the devil too.”

A thought hits me at random, and fear of the truth has me recoiling my hand. “Is this why you started calling me Little Ghost? Because of how much I remind you of her?”

“Well, why did you think I did?” he tosses back.