My Soul to Keep

CHAPTER 1



I kicked at the latch on the heavy wooden door and got it on the first shot. I felt a sense of accomplishment as it clicked open and the warm air from inside my house poured out into the chilly October night. Early evenings have always been my favorite. I always feel more alive just as the sun starts to set.

A nice quiet house after a long day of dreary school never failed to make me smile. Both of my rents would be at their jobs for at least two more hours, and my little sister would be at cheerleading practice just as long. Life can be complicated unless you figure out what you love and abuse the hell out of it.

My love is solitude, and I planned on enjoying it. I dumped my backpack on the floor just inside the door and placed the books I held in my other hand on top of it. I probably should have set them down outside and used my hand to open the door, but they were books. You don’t put books on the ground, ever. Besides, I'd gotten quite proficient in opening our usually unlocked house with my feet. Thankfully we had one of those old style thumb latches. If we had doorknobs, I’d have to grow a thumb on my foot. That would suck in gym class. The jocks already made my life a living hell. Having a thumb on my foot would just make it more unbearable.

I walked onto the set of a 1970’s sitcom. Just kidding. My parents had all the house decorating ability of a pimp named HuggieBear. I tried not to stare at the red and yellow plaid couches as I practically ran to the stairs. They hurt my eyes. Before my foot hit the first stair, I remembered I had homework. I turned and ran back to get my backpack and books. Before Playstation, there must be homework! My parents enforced very few rules, but homework first had always been numero uno. If I hurried, I could still abuse the hell out of the “me time” remaining.

Backpack on shoulder and books in hand, I ran up the stairs two at a time and straight into the bowels of hell. Or as my sister calls it, my room. Few have entered, none have returned needed to be stenciled on the door. I’d been begging for permission for months. Slowly wear them down, Connor. Slowly wear them down. My parents rarely said no, but we were renting the house. I bet myself two weeks ago I would have it up by the end of the month.

My wondrous new literary finds, I set on my bookcase for later perusal. I tossed the backpack on my beat up, looked like it came out of a 1920’s schoolhouse, had more chemicals spilled on it than a science lab floor, carved up, broken, battered, little wooden desk and pulled out my algebra book. Without opening it, I held my hand over the cover, palm up, and slowly curled all but one finger back into a fist. Yes, I gave my algebra book the finger. It’s childish I know, but algebra deserved it for making my life a living, miserable hell. Actually, it deserved worse, much worse. When my sophomore year was over, I planned on sacrificing it to no one in particular. I was thinking ritualistic burning or maybe saying a few words in Latin before chucking it into a wood-chipper. Either idea would make me giggle like a little school girl as I watched its demise.

I sat down and looked over at my Playstation 3. It silently called out to me, pleading with me to not do my homework, but to come caress the buttons of her controllers. She promised to help me defeat the soldiers of the opposing team. I could hear her. “Don’t pick up the pencil…pencil…pencil.” It never ceased to amaze me how electronic devices always spoke with an echo. Stoically, I held my hand up to my shiny source of endless entertainment in a gesture of denial. Keep thyne mother and father happy.

I flipped open the dread book of polynomial torture and choked back the gorge rising into my throat. After trying three times to get into the drawer holding my paper and writing utensils, it finally flung open and jabbed me in the chest. My breath shot out with the force of a sneeze. I needed to remember the drawer trick if I ever found myself choking in my room. Screw the Heimlich, open a drawer.

Battered and weary before the homework even began, I pulled out my pristine sheet of white paper and my famed No. 2 pencil. Okay, it wasn’t famous, but it might be some day. Fine, it was a stubby, overused nub of a pencil without an eraser, but it was still my favorite.

I set the paper on the desk in front of me and then flipped to the page we were working on in class. Of course it had to be my favorite; multiplying polynomials. I’ll admit it. I had no grandiose desires to be a rocket scientist, geneticist, or anything else that ended in "ist". Why on earth did I have to learn this crap? "Firsts, outers, inners, lasts," sounded like a recipe for disaster. It’s why God invented calculators. We weren’t allowed to use them and they would know if we did. “Show Your Work” really meant prove you didn’t cheat. It took me all of three seconds to make my first mistake.

Because my favorite pencil didn't have an eraser, it ended in one of those dangerous metal contraptions that could bore a hole through a wood desk in detention. Trust me on this one, I know. For just such emergencies I kept a fat pink eraser in my desk drawer. Staring at it, I silently prayed to the eraser gods to start making them in different colors. Pink was my least favorite color in the universe. Rubbing it against my paper and watching it disintegrate into tiny dust nodules made me feel a little better. Plus it made my mistake go away, too.

Knowing my mistake-making wasn't over, I slid my arm sideways across the desk to set it aside. Someone, probably myself, had left a half buried staple in the desk. The half that wasn't buried slit me open like a bag of Doritos. Chips didn't pour from the wound, but blood did. Lots of it.

Time slowed for an instant. I've never been a squeamish person, nor have I ever been into the macabre. However, I couldn't help myself. I stared at the wound as the blood flowed toward the desk in thick droplets. My eyes shifted from my arm to the tiny puddle of blood on the desk. Eventually the flow stopped, leaving a red streak on my arm. It wasn’t the wound which captivated me. It was the thick red blood forming the shape of an artist's palette.

Mesmerized, I stared. I couldn’t help but dip the tip of my pencil in it. I brought the tip closer to my face and saw the tiny drop of blood suspended from it. I glanced down at my empty homework sheet and started writing in my own blood. For several minutes, I scribbled a note in blood red ink to nobody in particular. I don’t know if a vague memory of mine inspired the note, or if the fates themselves guided my hand. As I wrote I could feel the importance of it. I knew without a shadow of doubt I'd written a binding contract in my own blood.

I probably should have crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash, but I wasn't done yet. Something drove me to grab the note and walk over to my stereo speaker. It stood over three feet tall (another leftover from an era before digital surround sound and wafer thin speakers) and had only one thing on it. A black candle I'd gone through hell and high-water to get.

I picked my unused candle off the speaker and headed through the house out to the back porch. As soon as I opened the storm door and stepped outside, I debated going back in for my jacket. The chilly October air sent goose bumps up my arms and over my chest. I figured I wouldn’t be outside long, so I let it go. I set the candle down and reached into my front jeans pocket and pulled out my red plastic lighter (don’t ask, or at least don’t tell my parents). The wind blew across my arms as I held out the lighter and cupped it with my hand, trying to block the breeze. As soon as I ran my thumb over the lighter, the wind died completely and a bright flame sparked to life. I brought the flame closer to the candle and I swear, it jumped from the lighter to the candle wick. It only added to the craziness of the situation. My mind screamed, "This can't be real." The rest of me wasn't so sure.

I stared at the dancing little flame for a full minute waiting for the wind to snuff it out. It never happened. The air was still chilly but calm. I pulled my hand away from the candle and pulled the letter out from underneath my arm. I unfolded it and looked at it one last time. The words were no longer bright red. My blood had dried to an almost dull brown. What the hell are you doing, Connor. This is stupid. Nothing is going to happen.

My hand shoved the paper into the flame of the candle.

Jokingly I chanted, “I, Connor Sullivan, promise my soul to whomever grants my fondest wish. I do this freely, understanding that this is bound in blood, never to be undone. So shall it be. Please accept my oath of blood.” The words rang and echoed into the cold October evening.

The sun set, and just as it dropped over the horizon, I swear the vanishing light chimed like a bell. The slowly burning paper flared in my hand. I lifted it higher as a nagging voice in my head urged me to blow it out. I sucked in a lung-full of air to do so when the note disappeared with a soft thwump. I didn't get burned, but I had a handful of ashes. Without another thought, I tossed them up onto the air.

I leaned over and blew a soft puff of air over the candle, snuffing the flame. The wind picked back up and the crickets that had gone silent without me noticing started chirping again. I grabbed my candle and headed back to my room, trying to calm the sudden fear spreading through my chest. It's official. You've lost your mind, Connor. They're going to lock you in a loony bin.