Chapter 3: A Need to Want

Lightning flashed through the Everhart house, followed by distant thunder. Its vacant halls and dust-filled rooms echoed with the oppressive rain outside. Near the front entrance hallway, a bucket silently collected the runoff from a leaky roof, one of many such receptacles placed strategically throughout the house. George’s family had never been wealthy, but they had been comfortable enough to afford maintenance on the old house when required. But ever since Henry had died and George’s medical expenses had skyrocketed, a bucket was all the effort to be spared. The house had accepted its fate without complaint. It would fall slowly into ruin, sheltering the last of the Everhart clan until it couldn’t. And that would be that.

The front door practically burst open, and George collapsed just inside. He’d endured pain, humiliation, and self-hatred to his limit and had used what little strength he had left to make it to the safety of his home. But he could go no further. As the infernal heat threatened to consume him from the inside out, George lay on the bare hardwood floor curled up in the fetal position and twitched with each wicked twinge. His only company was the quiet drip into the bucket nearby.

He was there for what seemed like hours, begging, pleading, praying that it would stop. But the pain kept getting worse, twisting and molding itself into new tortures before George could get used to them. He was hot and cold, his heart skipping a beat one moment, then painfully slow the next. He struggled to breathe, even as every strained intake of breath was filled with knives. Was this it? Was his body finally giving up and shutting down? Was the pain coming to an end? He hoped so. “Not here,” he grunted. He didn’t want to die cold and wet, splayed on the ground like a piece of roadkill for his mother to stumble upon. He raised his gaze to the stairs leading to the upper floors. He’d made the climb to his bedroom thousands of times, yet suddenly, the creaky central staircase seemed entirely too steep for a home. But there was a letter he’d written for his mother hidden in his desk that he wanted to make sure she found, should the worst occur.

The sun, heavily obscured by the dark clouds, had all but set by the time George had saved up the strength to stand. “C’mon, loser. One more time,” he said and finally shut the door, quieting the storm outside. The climb to his attic sanctuary was arduous, the thunder forcing him to hold onto the railing for balance as his father’s voice echoed through his mind.”

“It should have been you...”

Finally, he made it to his room. He locked the door behind him instinctually - a habit he’d acquired after the bullying had started. George knew his mother hated it, but she eventually stopped getting on his case when she realized it made him feel safer, even if George couldn’t admit that to her. Jessica had the key anyway, but to her credit, she’d never used it. He wasted no time stripping off his wet clothes and tossing them to the floor without a care. He grabbed a grungy towel from the wash basket and dried himself, then put on a pair of fresh sweats and a t-shirt. They were his favorite sleepwear, comfy and cozy under any other circumstances, but even this tiny luxury seemed off. The shirt felt tight in the wrong places, and the sweats were scratchy and rigid like thick canvas.

George hoped to feel his dream girl’s presence to signal this episode’s ending. But she was way overdue. He needed relief and wracked his brain to find something he could do to cope. But as he sat on the edge of his bed, the only thought he could focus on was how much he deserved this. He was a terrible waste of air, of flesh. Lightning and thunder crashed, forcing his father into his mind’s eye again, and George wished the memories would listen when he told them how sorry he was.

It was then that George noticed the birthday gift his father had sent him from beyond the grave. The odd wooden box sat unassumingly on his computer desk, just as cold and uncaring as the rest of the house. But he felt drawn to it. That box and the stone inside it were the only relics of his father he had left. Desperate for something else to focus on, George set it down next to him on his bed and poured all his attention on it. He examined every strange symbol carved into its surface in excruciating detail and slowly began to realize that he recognized some of them. He couldn’t remember where he’d seen them nor what they meant, but he had seen them somewhere. It was like a word on the tip of his tongue, a memory hidden in the fog of time. Maddeningly, he knew it was there; he just couldn’t access it.

He opened the box with shaky hands to procure the strange stone orb again. However, something caught his attention. A slip of paper was tucked just under the black velvet cushion that held the sphere. He pushed the cushion aside and pulled out an envelope sealed with the Everhart family crest, that of a dragon in flight before a rising sun. It had been a long time since he’d seen it, and it wasn’t something he ever cared much about in any case. Family crests were of little use in modern life. But seeing it again, purposefully emblazoned in red wax, lent it a certain amount of authority George couldn’t help but take notice of.

George traced the emblem with careful reverence before reluctantly slipping his thick fingers between the folds to break the seal. Inside was a folded sheet of yellow paper ripped from a legal pad and a photograph. The picture grabbed his attention first. His hands shook as he saw the entire Everhart clan: his sister, April; his mother, Jessica; his father, Henry; and himself. It was a beautiful summer day at the local park that hosted a carnival that year. It was a wonderful, happy memory he’d purposely forgotten—a bleak reminder of what he’d destroyed.

He set the photo down and unfurled the paper to reveal a letter written in his father’s wild cursive. It read: To my Son, George, if you’re reading this, then something happened to me. I wanted to give you this gift in person when you were old enough, but I’ll settle for this if need be. After a few dozen drafts, I’m still trying to figure out how to start this thing, but here goes. Before I met your mother, I was a different person. I was foolish and driven. There were things that I thought I wanted, thought that I needed, thought I deserved. I was willing to do anything to get them. Even betray my friends. Inside this box is one such item. According to legend, the one to open this vessel will want for no desire, and their every wish will come true. However, nobody has ever been able to open it. But I knew it would be me; it had to be me. Everything that I had ever desired would finally be mine. What I didn’t expect was that, in the act of retrieving it, my heart’s fondest wish would come true. I met your mother, the most wonderful woman in this world, and she loved me. And then she gave me you. I forgot all about petty desires and realized I had everything I would ever need. Even now, I can hear you playing with your sister, and it moves me to tears. Then again, maybe it really does grant wishes. Perhaps I did open it and didn’t realize. Maybe I’m crazy. It’s possible. I’ve never been a wise man. In any case, the sphere is yours now. When you can, get to a quiet place where you won’t be disturbed and spend some time with it. Who knows, maybe it will make your wishes come true like it did mine. Don’t feel bad if it doesn’t work. It’s older than the Romans, and nobody has ever figured it out. I hope this will make a difference for you in whatever trials you face—either my words or the sphere itself. As for me, my old life has started to catch up to me. I don’t know what will happen. I may just be paranoid. There isn’t much more I can tell you now, so I’ll end with a bit of fatherly advice. Don’t be ashamed of weakness, don’t forget your strength, love as much as you can, and if you can’t find a way, then make one. I love you. Yours Always, Henry Argentum Everhart (AKA Dad)

George welled up with tears as he heard his father’s voice reading it to him in his mind, cutting through his defenses like a fiery sword. Then, he read it again. Then, again, savoring every word.

His hands shook as he picked up the orb, intending to fulfill his father’s request. He held it in front of him for a minute expectantly, but nothing happened. Now, on top of everything else, he was beginning to feel stupid, sitting there holding a lawn ornament like a sacred relic. But eventually, his intrusive thoughts gave way, and new ideas began bubbling up to the surface of his befuddled mind. What did he desire most? What would it take to make him content? He felt compelled to answer and spoke aloud without intending to. “I wish the pain would stop.”

But nothing happened.

“Please ... make it stop,” he sobbed. But the pain only worsened in defiance. He squeezed the orb tight and screamed, “Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop!”

Exhausted and angry, George jumped to his feet and launched the orb through the big circular window, shattering it. There was a crackle of lightning, followed by a loud boom that rattled the floorboards and knocked out the power. George bolted his eyes shut and fell to his knees as the visions overwhelmed him. His world became a barrage of past humiliations and mistakes, with the pain of a thousand lifetimes ripping him apart in all directions. All he could think about was the hell of existing in constant pain, without friendship, without family, with pity being the best he could hope for.

And then he felt her - his illusory companion, his imaginary friend, his dream girl. He couldn’t see her but could feel her hand on his shoulder and knew it was her. But the pain wasn’t going away. It was getting worse and worse and worse. It felt like his head and heart could explode at any moment from the pressure. She wasn’t there to tell him it was getting better; she was there to say it would finally be over.