Saw

The long road home seemed to go on and on. The road stretched out in front of the vehicle endlessly, the horizon barely distinguishable in the distance. The light that shone through the branches of the tall, green trees danced across the window in random patterns, occasionally shining obnoxiously into the eyes of the passengers. The surroundings were full of deep green trees forming a dense forest around the road. The only sound was the hum of the car’s engine as it traveled down the path, creating a serene and peaceful atmosphere. However, the ride lacked any semblance of peace for its two passengers. The middle-aged woman behind the steering wheel had neat short brown hair that fit her complexion quite well. She wore a green v-neck T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Diamond stud earrings decorated each of her ears, which partially showed from behind her haircut. Her deep green eyes, accentuated by her shirt, seemed more noticeable in the soft lighting filtering through the trees. Despite her average appearance, she had dark bags under her eyes and a gloomy, sad expression. Every so often, she would sniffle and glance in the rear-view mirror to look at her son in the back seat. The boy in the back seat was hunched over partially, with his arms held tight around his chest and his head pressed against the cold window. His appearance was far from normal; his messy brown hair went every which way, and the lighting brought out his pale, almost gray skin. His eyes were dark, unlike his mother’s, and he wore a white T-shirt and scrub pants provided by the hospital. The clothes he had worn before were so shredded and bloodstained that they were no longer wearable. The right side of his face bore several cuts, along with a split eyebrow. His right arm was bandaged all the way to the shoulder, shredded when his right side hit the shattered glass. Despite the appearance of painful injuries, he couldn’t feel anything due to a rare disease that left him numb to pain. This was just one of the challenges Toby Rogers faced growing up. The other major disorder he had to deal with was Tourette’s Syndrome, which caused him to tick and twitch in uncontrollable ways. This condition had earned him many insulting nicknames during the short time he attended grade school before switching to homeschooling. The kids would mock him, calling him “Ticci-Toby,” and imitating his tics with exaggerated twitching and laughter. It got so bad that he had to leave school altogether. Toby stared blankly out the window, his face devoid of any emotion, while every few minutes his shoulder, arm, or foot would twitch. Every bump the car tires hit made his stomach turn. The last time Toby remembered riding in a car was when it crashed. As he thought about the crash, tears welled up in his eyes. Horrible memories replayed in his mind: his sister’s screaming that was cut off when the front of the car was smashed in, and the sight of her body with her forehead pierced with glass shards, her hips and legs crushed under the force of the steering wheel, and her torso pushed in from the too-late inflated airbag. That was the last thing he had seen of his dear older sister. The road home seemed endless. It took longer than usual because his mother wanted to avoid the sight of the crash. When they finally reached their familiar neighborhood, both were more than ready to get out of the car and step back into their home. It was an older neighborhood with quaint little houses all next to each other. The car pulled up in front of a blue house with white windowpanes. Both quickly noticed the old vehicle parked in the driveway and the familiar figure standing there. Toby felt a surge of anger and frustration at the sight of his father. His father, who wasn’t there when they needed him the most. His mother turned off the engine and prepared to step out of the car. “Why is he here?” Toby asked quietly, looking back at his mother who reached to open the car door. “He’s your father, Toby. He’s here because he wants to see you,” his mother responded in a monotone voice, trying to sound less shaky. “Yet he couldn’t drive up to the hospital to see Lyra before she died,” Toby narrowed his eyes out the window. “He was drunk that night, honey. He couldn’t drive—” “Yeah, when is he not,” Toby pushed the door open before his mother and stumbled out onto the driveway. He met his father’s gaze briefly before looking down at his feet with a stern expression. His mother stepped out behind him and met her husband’s eyes before walking around the car. His father opened his arms, expecting a hug from his wife, but she walked past him and put her arm around Toby’s shoulder, leading him inside. “Connie,” her husband began in a raspy voice, “what, no welcome home hug, huh?” She ignored her husband’s obnoxious words and walked past him with her son under her arm. “Hey, he’s sixteen. He can walk by himself,” his father began to follow them in. “He’s seventeen,” Connie glared back at him before opening the door to the house and stepping inside. “Toby, why don’t we get you in your room to rest, okay? I’ll come get you when dinner is ready—” “No, I’m sixteen. I can walk by myself,” Toby said sarcastically and glared back at his father before stumbling up the small staircase and turning into his room, slamming the door violently behind him. His little room didn’t have much in it, just a small bed, a dresser, a window, and a few picture frames of his family, back when they were a family. Before his father became an alcoholic and acted violently toward the rest of his family. Toby remembered the arguments, the way his father grabbed his mother by the hair and shoved her to the floor, and how Lyra had tried to break it up, only to be pushed and hit her back on the corner of the kitchen counter. Toby could never forgive his father for what he did to his mother and sister. Never. He didn’t care how much his father beat him down; he couldn’t feel it anyway. What he did care about was how his father intentionally hurt the only two people he loved. And when his sister was in the hospital taking her last breaths, his father was the only one who didn’t rush to her side. Toby stood by the window and looked out at the street. He thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye, but quickly blamed it on the medication he was on. When dinnertime came and his mother called up to him, Toby came down the stairs and hesitantly sat at the table across from his father, and in between his mother and an empty chair. It was quiet as his parents picked at their food, but Toby refused to eat. Instead, he watched his father with a blank stare. His mother caught on to his staring and elbowed him slightly. Toby looked over at her and then down at his uneaten food, which he still didn’t touch. Later, as Toby lay in bed, he pulled his covers over his head and stared at the window. He was tired, but there was no way he would fall asleep. He couldn’t; there was too much to think about. He had been debating whether to follow his mother’s directions and forgive his father or continue holding a grudge with his boiling hatred. He heard his door creak open and his mother padded into the room, sitting on the bed next to him. She reached over and rubbed his back, which was turned to her. “I know it’s hard, Toby. Trust me, I understand. But I promise you it will get better,” she said softly. “When is he going to leave?” Toby asked with an innocent tone in his shaky voice. Connie let her gaze fall to her feet. “I don’t know, honey. He’s staying as far as I know,” she replied. Toby didn’t respond. He just continued to look forward at the wall, holding his damaged arm near his chest. After a few minutes of silence, his mother sighed, kissed his cheek, and stood up to walk out of the room. “Good night,” she said as she closed the door. The hours passed slowly, and Toby couldn’t stop tossing and turning. Every time he let his imagination take over, he heard the screeching of tires, his sister’s screaming, and he would uncontrollably jerk in bed. He threw off his cover and lay on his back, pulling his pillow over his face and crying into it. He could hear his own pitiful weeping, and he would have been screaming and crying if he didn’t press his pillow over his face. After a few seconds, he threw the pillow off his face and sat up, hunched over, holding his head and breathing roughly, tears streaming from his eyes. He couldn’t help but cry. He tried to keep it in, but he couldn’t stop the whining and whimpering as he sat there shaking. He inhaled before he stood up and walked around his bed to the window and peered out, taking deep breaths trying to calm down. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the group of tall pine trees across the street. He stopped suddenly, and his gaze slowly centered on something standing under the street light. He heard ringing in his ears and couldn’t look away. The figure stood beside the streetlight, about two feet shorter than it, long arms draped at its sides as it stared up at him with non-existent eyes. The figure had no facial features to speak of: no eyes, no mouth, no nose. Yet it held Toby’s hypnotized stare....