Got An Angel On My Shoulder
By: Motsie of Atlantis
Detective Marty Deeks woke up to the sound of his own screaming. He bolted to the bathroom, and just barely made it to the toilet. On his knees, with his head over the bowl, he was puking his guts out again. Most of the vomit had landed in the bowl, and he remembered flushing it down a couple of times. Marty knew he was going to have a big mess to clean up, but that would be later, when the demons were gone again. Kensi kept nagging him, whenever she was over to his place, telling him he was a typical male who never put the toilet seat down. He didn’t think the typical male was subjected to these types of demonic attacks in his sleep, and had to have as big a target as he could to avoid an even bigger midnight mess. Marty wrapped his arms around himself as the tears started to flow and he slowly turned over into a sitting position, not knowing which was causing his body to wrack more, the bile in his stomach, or the ache in his heart.
The images that flashed through his mind this evening were bad. It was scenario number three, as he rated them to the LAPD police psychologist. In this one, like most of the visions, he was again 11 years old, although his slim, frail looking body made people guess that he was at least two years younger. His father, Gordon John Brandel, drunk as he usually was in the evening, had ordered Marty to sit in a chair and watch while he taught his son how women were to be dealt with. Gordon dragged his mother to the center of the room and smacked the woman senseless with his fists and open hand, when he wasn’t taking another pull from the bottle of cheap whiskey he had by his side. When she no longer responded to his hitting her, he started cursing and swearing at her, wanting to punish her more. Marty had no idea what he was going to do next. Usually he became his father’s intended target when he was done hitting her.
Something in Gordon must have snapped, and Marty began to scream as he realized that his father was stomping his way down to his sister’s bedroom. He tried opening the door, but it was locked. That didn’t stop him. He broke it down and grabbed the screaming teenage girl and dragged her back to where Marty was still glued by fright to his chair.
“Shut up, boy,” Gordon snarled at him as he threw the girl to the floor. “This is the only thing a bitch is good for” as he ripped the clothes off of her body and proceeded to rape her there in front of him, She pounded him with her fists until he grabbed her hands and held them over her head. To silence her screams, he put his other hand over her mouth. When she bit him, he cursed at her again and dropped his hand to her neck, effectively cutting off her screams, but not realizing that he was cutting off her breathing too. When he was done, she didn’t move. He poked her several times, but there was no life left in her body.
Still filled with anger, Gordon’s eyes fell on Marty. “See what you made me do, boy?” He got up and went to the back bedroom, coming back with his shotgun. Marty knew he was going to kill him too. Gordon tripped over the bottle of whiskey he had left on the floor and fell to the ground, dropping the gun. Watching the liquid pour out onto the floor, he grabbed for it to rescue as much as he could. Marty grabbed for the shotgun and pointed it at his father.
“And what do you think you are gonna do with that, boy?” Gordon sneered.
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