recto me satanas.
MAY 20TH, 1984 (NEW YORK)
It should have been raining. Had the universe any sense of decorum, there would have been dramatic, sky-splitting forks of lightning, the kind of thunder that resounded in the molars, sheets of rain that could only be described as torrential.
A damnably peaceful late spring night stared back at him instead. The purple twilight beyond the window was deepening into proper, inky darkness. A gentle, warm breeze rustled through the leaves of the oak tree beside the house, carrying the scents of fresh-cut grass and smoky grills into the room through the mesh screen. The faintest cricket song began in the distance.
The scream silenced the song, made his heart stutter beneath his ribs.
“Close that window!” Francis shouted. “And help me hold him!”
He slammed the window down, pulled back the curtains, and turned back to the bed. It seemed the lull had ended.
The boy lunged, twisted, snapped like a rabid dog, bloodshot eyes rolling wildly in his black-ringed sockets. He was whipcord thin, and yet it took both of them to pin him to the mattress, the muscles of their arms standing out in sharp relief.
With gritted teeth, he held on as tightly as he dared, praying to whatever benevolent power was listening. Let this fit be the last. Let it be over soon. Let the ceremony prove successful…
If this kept on much longer, they wouldn’t have mere bruises to worry about.
Just a slice of an Uncle Harry scene, mainly for Julie (who called dibs on him as soon as I cast Peter Horton, bless). Expect a linear section of Weird, USA posted tomorrow at some point, as soon as I've written the next scene -- I always like to be a scene ahead of the piece I post, just for my own sanity.