A Little Mistake

As Easton plummeted to the floor in the inky darkness of his apartment, his hand firmly enmeshed in Haley’s bra strap, he was conflicted with two thoughts. He would never taste her plump, frosted berry lips and the spiky teeth embedded in his ankle hurt like a son of a bitch. The little fucker had escaped.

Haley’s body flailed under Easton’s bulk as her slender hands slapped him. “Get off me. Get off me!”, their tangled bodies illuminated by the harsh light cutting through the open doorway.

Haley shrieked. “Oh my God, something bit me!” She pushed against Easton as she struggled up. Her heel added a bruise to his leg. He scrambled up and fumbled for the light switch.

“What the . . .” Haley’s voice trailed off. Easton followed her glittering blue gaze to the jumble of shredded things that once furnished his small apartment.

There was a calculated, methodically malevolency in the way it had destroyed his belongings. Pieces of sofa foam were sprinkled over the feces-smeared carpet. His curtains were sliced neatly from top to bottom. Claw marks decorated the wooden end tables. And an overwhelming smell of stale urine burned to Easton’s nose. In the center of the mess hunched the perpetrator.

A small, clay-colored beast resembling a bloated lizard stared with its glowing, orange-stained eyes. Its purple pupils dilated then constricted as its pointed snout sniffed the air. Then its body stiffened while its back arched, raising a fan of rusty spines. It coughed, then gagged and deposited a partially digested can of baked beans on the floor.

“Oh my god, is that your familiar?” Haley’s hand cupped her pug-like nose, her drawn eyebrows arched with contempt. “Is that the best you could do?”

“I wanted a phoenix, not a trop. It was a mistake.” Easton’s stammering voice trailed off. “I can’t seem to send it back,” he whispered.

“Of course not, you idiot. Your power comes from it now.” She scooped her cloth purse off the floor. “What a loser.” With one toss of her frizzy blonde hair, she was gone.

Oh my god, thought Easton, he just got told by the dopiest female on campus.

A cold rage ignited and licked Easton’s humiliation. He picked up a gnawed-on hockey stick and bolted toward the trop. The beast hissed and slithered under the shredded sofa. Easton roared and beat the couch, sending dust billowing into the air. The creature dug its way into the damaged foam, popping its head up between the cushions. The hockey stick snapped into two as Easton tried to check the trop’s head. The trop jumped out of the cushion, its black nails clattering across the floor. It disappeared into a darkened room.

Someone screamed. Feet stomped on his ceiling. “Shut the fuck up down there or I’ll call the manager!”

Easton threw the stick at the ceiling. Plaster crumbled onto his head. He slumped on the edge of the sofa and put his face in his hands. He couldn’t afford to get evicted again.

His dream of becoming a mage circled the drain with a loud flush. He was tired of being average, unnoticeable. He was the grey blur on the edge of a glorious sunset. Plain, frumpy, mud-colored hair, a soft doughy face with no distinguishable features and anything he did was bathed in mediocrity. This was going to be his victory, the summoning of a gold, brilliant phoenix who was going to give him the power to make those who mocked him suffer.

Easton’s chewed finger nails raked down his pale face, pulling down his lower lids. He rose and stumbled into the kitchen, his mouth gummy. He clicked on the light switch.

The trop had not confined his devastation to the living room. Dried ramen noodles littered the peanut butter polished floor, mixed in with exploded cans of beans and corn. Drawers had been searched, and it had viciously shredded the papers inside. A crumpled yellow sheet lay at his feet. He picked it up. On it were the names of people he wanted to lord over when he became a mage, people who gazed through him because he had no substance in their world. He whimpered and balled the paper in his sweaty fist. He had had only one chance to channel a familiar and he had messed it up. He could never bond with that thing. And if he attempted to destroy it, all hope of having any magic skills died with it and he wasn’t ready to accept to that yet. “Why! Why?” He smacked his fists against the wall.

“Cause you’re a loser.” yelled a voice from above. Easton had his answer.

Easton slunk into the back of the lecture hall in crumpled clothes. An odor of dried sweat and broken dreams oozed from his stained shirt. The trop had eaten the shower knob so he couldn’t bathe. He eased himself into the back row and lowered his bulging backpack to the floor. Professor James raised an eyebrow but continued to speak, his clear, articulate voice punctuating every syllable. The Importance of Handling a Familiar was written on the white board in bold, blue letters. Next to the board stood James’ familiar, a regal rork covered in iridescent silver scales, which snatched bits of light and sprayed rainbows across the lecture hall walls. Its large bill pointed skyward, looking like the smooth spear of a heroic warrior. The only movement from the beast was its emerald eye which eyelid drooped as the professor continued to speak.

Easton noted that all the class had brought their familiars. It was a failing grade to not have done so. Haley was plopped in a seat eight rows up from Easton. Her familiar, a fuzzy, orange sritt was curled in her lap. Her eyes avoided his.

Easton’s olive backpack growled. He reached down and attempted to stuff it farther under his seat. His shirt sleeves crept up, revealing bloody abrasions crisscrossed with oozing claw marks. He pulled the fabric down.

The bag vibrated. He kicked it with his boot and heard a muffled hiss. It had taken all night to catch the little bastard. He didn’t dare leave it at the apartment after the midnight visit from a very pissed off landlord. He had managed to hog tie it with clothesline and duct tape its mouth. He was going to plead with the professor for mercy, hoping for a dying man’s last wish, as the instructor never cared much for Easton.

The backpack farted and from its depths came a most noxious odor smelling of rotting baked beans. As the smell wafted down the rows, students began to cough and gag, their heads craning around, looking. Easton dropped his gaze and coughed a few times. The professor glared at the students and rapped the board with his ornate wand. “Quiet, quiet over there,” he snapped.

A small slit appeared in the canvas. An ochre eye peeped out. Claws started to slice at the bag. Easton attempted to still the movement by pinning the bag to the floor with his booted foot. He heard whispers coming from the rows ahead.

Easton couldn’t stifle a yelp when teeth bit through his steel-toed boot. The trop exploded from the bag and scrambled under the seats, banging them with its head. Students yelped.

The professor’s gaze darted over the lecture hall, confusion furrowing his brow, then his mouth gapped open as the trop skittered onto the stage. The trop spotted the rork and turned. It slammed into the legs of the rork and snapped them like cue sticks.

“Nooo!” shrieked Easton as he watched the rork fold in half into a pool of its emerald glowing blood. The professor lunged for the trop, sliding on the liquid and collapsing onto his buttocks. The trop snarled then scrambled out of the room, leaving little green footprints behind. The professor clutched the injured rork to his chest, the beast wailing like a dying baby.

Easton froze, then thumped toward the nearest exit. Nausea curled in his stomach and hot bile bubbled in his throat. As he ran out, he met Haley’s eyes filled with icy contempt. His life was over.

Easton’s boots slammed the asphalt as he ran toward his dirty, white Corolla splattered with rust. They were going to kill him. He didn’t care where the trop had gone. As he skidded to a halt, he noticed a grey, motionless ornament perched on his hood. The trop fixed its gaze forward. “Fuck you,” Easton fumbled for his keys. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a crowd approaching like a stain across the parking lot. As soon as he cracked the door, the trop slithered in. His hand fumbled, grabbing the trop’s tail which slipped from his fingers. The beast hurled its body under the driver’s seat. It snapped at Easton’s fingers as he tried to pull it out. Someone screamed. He didn’t have time. He flopped into the seat, jammed the key into the ignition, and peeled out of the campus lot with a puff of dust.

Easton’s white knuckles gripped the sweaty steering wheel as he rolled down the three lane highway. The trop rode shotgun, perched on the faded cloth seat darting quick glances at Easton. Easton’s jaw ached as he ground his teeth together.

Thoughts scattered through Easton’s head like faded leaves, blowing around, none of them connecting. It was over. He was a failure, a laughingstock. He would be shunned the rest of his life. He had gained fame as a loser and would never have any magical ability.

The trop mushed his nose against the passenger window, his eyes fixed on the blurred terrain. It dragged its snout back and then forth against the pane, making an irritating squeaking sound and leaving streaks of wet snot. The beast clattered its teeth and snorted while Easton glared forward.

After a particularly loud squeal from the trop, Easton snarled, “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, sending a cloud of particles in the air.

The trop eyed him, then scrapped the window glass with a claw.

“What, you want the window open? Fine, I hope you fall out and die.” He pressed the switch on his armrest and the window rattled down.

The trop grew quiet, mesmerized by the moving traffic.

Easton’s hand crept over. If I could just throw it out.

The trop spun, its jaws snapped, missing Easton’s wrist. The car swerved. A semi-truck blared its horn then tried to roll past on the right. “Fuck you, you fucking douche,” Easton yelled, grinding the accelerator to the floor. He jerked the steering wheel and his car surged ahead.

The trop’s front feet perched on the window’s edge as they roared past the side of the truck. The creature groaned then belched, green bile tinged with blue flames pouring from its mouth. The glop hit the side of the rig, burning through the metal. Holes ate the metal then radiated outward. Easton watched in horrid fascination until he reached the trucker's enraged face. Easton gunned it and swerved in front of the rig, flipping the trucker off in the rear-view mirror.

As Easton’s car touched 90 mph, smoke began to ooze from under the rust speckled hood. He could feel the car shudder, gasp, then slow down. In the rearview mirror, the semi’s silver grill loomed. “Shit.” He frantically scanned for an escape. A rest stop sign beckoned. He rolled up the exit ramp as the semi attempted to roll over his Corolla.

Easton’s car retched softly then died. The semi’s brakes squealed behind him then stopped. Easton attempted to roll the window up as flames sizzled from under his hood.

A large tan hand yanked the door open and ripped Easton from his seat. Easton gasped as his collar choked him. “You think that was funny asshole?” A peeling sun burnt face hovered in front of him, his flat nostrils flaring. “I’m going to beat the living shit out of you.” Easton felt a fist crush his nose and he crumpled into a limp pile.

A steel toe boot pounded Easton’s soft body parts into blood lumps. Easton’s face felt hot asphalt on his cheek. Like a drowned worm in a heavy storm, he attempted to wiggle away. A foot pinned him to the ground; Easton’s flaying arms wrenched into distorted positions. The taste of iron flavored his mouth and Easton gulped air unable to inhale. Through a crimson haze, Easton watched as the trucker strode back to his rig. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the trop, scuttling toward the trucker. Easton struggled to rise, then flopped back down.

The trucker swore and screamed when the trop’s needle incisor sliced his ankle open as precise as a scalpel, the bone popping through the skin. The man hobbled after the trop, which zigzagged in front of him across the lot, then hopped unto the curb and whirled. The trucker followed it onto the curb, his body swaying, as rig barreled into the rest stop a bit too fast.

Easton locked the gaze of the trop whose pupils fragmented, coalesced, then spun. He felt tingling in his face and his pain seeped onto the ground away his broken form. His fingertips pulsated and acrid green webbing traced across his palm. Easton raised his right bloody hand. A stained white smoke puffed from his fingers, curled through them, slipped into his nostrils then slithered down his lungs. A steely coldness enveloped Easton and all the buried hatred collected over the decades bubbled up like hot acid. He looked at the trop again. It cackled and its drab, grey body glittered like shards of broken glass. This is what power felt like, thought Easton.

Easton stared at the trucker. With his hand raised, he shoved the air. The trucker yelped, fell off the curb and rolled a few feet. The speeding semi’s brakes screeched as its wheels rolled over the muscular body. People screamed, their bodies rigid with horror, then swarmed toward the body.

The trop appeared at Easton’s side. Easton reached to touch it. The trop growled, bit off the tip of Easton’s right index finger, then crouched near his side. Easton muffled a scream by shoving his finger in his mouth. The two peered at each other while the trop chewed Easton’s flesh. Maybe the trop wasn’t such a mistake, maybe not.