The Bottom Club

08 | fugacious

WHEN HE WAS eight, he'd been made to go for therapy on the basis of his anger issues after he repeatedly slammed the head of a classmate into the sand of the playground. It wasn't that he'd done it without provocation as this classmate had been bullying him for months.

His name was Sean Walsh.

On that particular day, Wyatt had been sitting on his own―Tobi and a bunch of other boys in their grade at a far corner of the playground, trying to see if they could get away with looking under the girl's skirts―when Sean came up to him.

By then he was already used to his tactics and so he remained silent as Sean unleashed every new bit of cruelty that came upon him as soon as it did, in the way of child bullies who do not fully comprehend the meaning of things they say; and noticing his verbal bullets had no visible effects, he tried a physical approach and began to push Wyatt around, which soon evolved to punches, which all his friends took that as an invitation to join in, but still he remained unresponsive.

And then Sean made an offhand comment about Wyatt's mother leaving him and everything changed.

It'd felt like being possessed by a demon, the snapping of his sanity as it took a backseat to make way for the rage, and Wyatt stood up, sandy, bruised, then launched himself at Sean.

He did not remember slamming Sean's head into the playground floor till his blond hair was matted so thoroughly with blood its original color was barely visible. He didn't remember being dragged away by his classmates at first, then teachers. He did not remember scratching and biting any hand that latched onto him, drawing blood.

These things he heard from his principal's recounting of events to his parents as she insisted that while Sean's parents would not press charges as their son had been the provocateur, Wyatt would have to go to see a professional or potentially face expulsion.

He got angry, sometimes dangerously so, but it had never gotten to that level, though in the years to follow Viv would joke about the one time he'd tried to drown her when he was five and she was three―a case of child's play turned deadly, and another memory he had no recollection of.

He remembered Emilia's tear infused words as she spoke to his father on the phone later that evening.

"He got this from you, Regan, and if he doesn't go to therapy this boy will set a house on fire with himself inside, just to get at another person."

He saw a therapist for two months.

Her name was Candice, and she didn't have any candy in her office except licorice. She'd spent a lot of time asking how he felt, and then asking how he felt about how he felt; an exhausting circle.

In the end, Reagan decided that it was a waste of money and besides, two months was enough of a cure.

Watching Rashad and the nameless stranger move however, had Wyatt see red. A drowning calmness settled over him as he moved away from the door and down the hall as if on autopilot.

No logic remained. Only rage.

He grabbed the ceramic vase he'd spotted upon entering and retraced his steps till he stood once more in his former position. An eyelid twitched.

"What the―" the stranger began when he noticed him, and then he buckled, effectively pushing Rashad away seconds before the vase came flying over his head.

It made contact with the headboard and shattered.
"Wyatt?" Rashad said, bewildered as he blinked rapidly at him. "Are you out of your fucking mind? That shit costs a fortune."

But he wasn't done. Wyatt raced to the parlor, ripping a mask from the wall before flying back down the hall. The stranger, who already had his pants on and was making his way out of the room squeaked and rushed back in, ducking to the other side of the bed just as he threw the mask at Rashad, who let out a muffled scream as the wood connected with his forehead.