Josh just had one brutal-raw argument with his dad. You know, the kind where the obscene words just keep floating in the air. Even long - long after the shouting stops.
As always, he tried to explain his perspective in front of his parents. Forcing his hands into different shapes. Trying to carve words into the air, but.. as always, no one listened.
Those clashing voices ended up hitting some high notes. Above all stood his father's tone - always carrying that heavy authority. And as always, with the remote in her hand, His mother.. she just remained silent. Those zzzz sounds on the TV kept interrupting the fine melody of this argument for sure.
"A conversation - it was supposed to be a two-sided thing, wasn't it? But they never listen," Josh thought bitterly.
He was frustrated.
Filled with a whole lot of disappointment, Josh stormed into his room. And slammed the door right behind him. That "Thump..." sound echoed down the hallway.
Josh wiped the tears that were about to make an entrance from his big emotional eyes. This... his room... it was his safe space. Like for Batman... his bat-cave. Like for Superman... his fortress of solitude. Oh yes... he liked comics. The room was filled with posters and comic prints.
It was definitely a small, crowded room but if you had ever entered it, you could see how his whole life was jammed into those four walls. A football sat abandoned by the closet. In the corner, there was his guitar. His bed was a complete mess. His computer sat on the desk, its screen scarred with fingerprints and smudges on the screen.
Such a cramped place, yet to him, it felt more lively than anything in the world. It wasn't just a room.
It was him.
Every corner, everything.
And maybe… maybe this was it. Only This place was patient enough to hear him.
Because the people… they never listen, do they?
"The perks of being a mute guy, I guess." He smirked at himself.
Yeah, that's right. Joshua Fernandez aka Josh - He can't talk. Since birth, actually. While in his head, though, he has been talking. Talking so much.
Whole arguments.
Whole conversations.
Whole worlds built in silence.
"I'm fed up," he thought, collapsing into the worn-out chair at his desk. His head fell right into his hands. "Maybe the wall is just as tired of me as I am of it."
He definitely needed a distraction.
With a sigh, he pressed the power button on his computer. A buzz. Then, a slow bloom of blue across the dark screen.
The screen blinked into a news channel. The anchor appeared first - a woman in her forties with a smile that was too plastic. She was trying to project calm, but even through the glass, Josh could see it - the job was eating her.
"Two more communities from sector 5 have endorsed the Troopers. As of now, 16 communities throughout the entire sector are now backing this group of vigilantes. Communities are anticipating the approval from the government for the Troopers. And from the looks of it, the day is near." The anchor announced.
Josh rolled his eyes. "Really never liked these trooper guys. Damned the reputation of our sector 5."
Then came - the debate. Two women, sitting across from each other in shiny black chairs. The first one was a blonde. She leaned forward, arms crossed. Her hair was tied too tight. The second lady was speaking with her chin tilted like she was above it all.
"She got a nice watch on her wrist," Josh thought to himself.
The debate spiraled between these 2 women. Josh turned up the volume.
"The more... I say the more I get to hear about this group, the creepier it gets. What I don't understand is, our great beautiful country doesn't have any shortage of police officers! We're fully armed with well-trained forces. Do we really need those vigilantes who are running in the streets, calling themselves - The Troopers?"
The lady with the nice watch responded quick, "Mizz... We've gone through this conversation several times already. The troopers only operate in Sector 5."
The blonde woman didn't back down as well, "I don't care, Sector 5 is one of 56 sectors of our country. We are supposed to act like one. Those troopers are acting like they own the land. We shouldn't let-"
The 'Watch-lady' interjected immediately, "Dead coral project. Our country's dream. For that project, we, our people, and the government need help from the natives of Sector 5. Troopers, They're needed for security and a lot of other reasons. Those troopers are really loved there."
"Don't lecture me!" this time, the blonde snapped. "Now we are calling someone a criminal after measuring their popularity?"
The Watch-lady sighed and looked directly into the blonde's eyes, "Uh-huh. Never about popularity; It's about respecting one's culture. Did you forget what happened last time we didn't? People died. Even this Troopers team was born because of how the center mistreated their sector. Don't try to rewrite -"
The woman with blonde hair laughed, "I am not trying to rewrite the history... no. I've seen their so-called methods. Violence at every turn. Just three months ago, they burned two people alive in broad daylight. Is that what justice looks like now?"
"They were criminals."
The Blonde retorted once again. "So are they."
Something about the noise in their voices bled into Josh's room, too close, or maybe in Josh's words, "Too raw".
And he liked it that way.
He pushed back from the desk. His gaze went toward the guitar in the corner. The guitar felt heavier than it should. He dragged it into his lap.
"Hahaha," His fingers fumbled across the strings. And that ended up producing a sound so rough it almost hurt his ears.
Ugly, but somehow.... just somehow.... that felt alive.
He pressed harder, striking faster, forcing the noise to rise and rise. That instrument cried like a wounded baby. The noise on the television fought to drown the remedy, but Josh's chords fought back. Oh lord they were defiant.
His rhythm was off, his strumming violent, but it was his. It was him shouting, in his own way. And slowly, he let it consume him. The voices from the television blurred. The room, the house, even the world beyond his walls - all of it dissolved into nothing but some broken sounds.
Then-
Da-da-da-da. The sound of plates crashing downstairs ... heavy.
The noises came from below, where his parents slept. At first muffled, then sharper. But Josh didn't even flinch. He didn't rush to check what's happening.
Maybe he didn't listen... or maybe he didn't care.
Either way, his mind was too lost to the escalating tension. His hands moved faster with the strings, in sync with the arguing voices on the screen and the chaos unfolding beneath him, as if the guitar could fight the noise with him.
He just played and played....
Until - The door.
It exploded, Right in front of Josh's face, the frame got torn apart in a single violent burst. Josh's hands froze mid-strum. His whole body froze, the last chord vibrating... but slowly fading into silence. And through the wreckage, something heavy slammed onto his floorboards.
A body.
His father's.
Josh's ears strained. His hands shook violently and his breathing patterns were uneven. He darted his eyes from the body to the doorway. And that's when he saw it.
A figure cloaked in a wolf-skin.
But it's not a wolf.
It was standing on two feet like a human.
But not also a human.
It was neither.
Its head tilted unnaturally. The fur shifted, as if alive, crawling across its frame. Hands stretched too long, claws retracting as flesh bubbled underneath. The jaw snapped - bone cracking, Its reshaping into human lips. The skin tore. Fur receded into pores, leaving raw patches of pink flesh behind. Step by step, its shape changed.
The beast dissolved.
A man stood there now.
Josh's insides were burning with silent screams. He was sweating but he could feel. He could feel that, his legs locked beneath him. He just couldn't run even if he wanted to.
His thoughts raced - Is this real? Why my father? Am I next?
The man stepped forward slowly. Boots heavy. Moving slow. His gaze was fixed on Josh. There, Josh's trembling poor hands slipped. The guitar fell to the floor. The monster - now a man - spoke,
"Boy, say.. what's your name?"
Josh tried to sign, but his hands - his "fucking hands" - betrayed him, shaking too violently to form even one word.
The man chuckled, "Oh, you can't talk? Poor soul."
The way the man said those things, it wasn't just pity, it was delight, as if Josh's silence was entertainment. The stranger leaned closer, so close that Josh could smell him.
"Don't worry," he whispered, "I won't kill you. I'm a bit soft on the disabled."
The man straightened slightly. And he murmured, "Just need a place to stay for a day, I'll leave after that. But you-"
Then his lips curled into something wide, "-don't you ever leave my sight. Is that fine, baby?"
Josh nodded weakly. Not out of understanding, but sheer survival - the smallest motion he could muster to keep that gross voice from turning sharp. The room was feeling colder.
Josh somehow forced his fingers into shaky shapes, each joint felt stiff. Slowly, he spelled out one question - Who… are you?
The man paused. Laughed. That sound burst from the man's throat, echoing off the walls of this tiny room. Josh was still trembling from the sounds, the facial expressions that stranger was making.
From his black trench-coat, he pulled out a cigar. Lit it in front of Josh's face. The flame carved his face into sharp edges. The leftover smoke just curled around him like some serpent.
"Who am I, you ask?" His tone shifted.
"The night is deep, ain't I right? The moon is sparkling so bad. The right time for me to- me. me…. Me….."
His voice broke into some fragments.
"That's right. I can't be a human. Hmm..... Then what do you all call someone who runs the place and doesn't give a shit about the civilians? Mayor or police.. is it?"
His grin widened until it looked painful. His vocals were smooth, mocking.
"Nah... A bloody God."