Lawrence winced, fighting the strange feeling washing over him. Shooting pain ran through his body, then subsided. His head swam and his body became as light as a feather as the universe went black. After a moment, he regained consciousness. The pain was gone, save for a dull headache. He was in his happy place once more.

He stood in the foyer of his childhood home in New Orleans. He could smell the sweet odor of delights wafting from the kitchen. Mama was cooking. Daddy would be home soon. He looked down at himself. He was wearing a dirty Saints T-shirt and his jeans and shoes were caked with mud and grass stains. His arms were bruised. Not such a happy place after all.

He carefully slipped out of his shoes, remembering Mama’s rule about dirt in the house, and tiptoed through the hall into the kitchen.

Mama stood at the counter, kneading dough before throwing bits into the fryer. Lawrence walked over to the stove and looked up at her.

“Mama?”

She paused from her labor and turned to smile down at him. For a second, he basked in her warm grace. “Well, hi there honey. I’m just making some snacks for you and Daddy. He should be home any minute. How was practice? Oh, dear lord! You’re hurt!” She knelt down beside him and began helplessly dabbing his face with the hem of her apron.

“Where’s Joe?” The words welled up from his subconscious.

“Who’s Joe, honey?”

“He’s a friend, Mama. I think,” Lawrence looked into space, trying to remember. A familiar large and important face came into view in his mind’s eye. “Um, I think we were playing a game and we both got hurt. I was supposed to look out for him.”

“Well, it sounds like that Joe’s a mean boy. Let my son get all beat up! I bet he started something, didn’t he? You stay away from him until I have a word with his parents!”

“No, Mama. Remember what you and Daddy said about responsibility? I was being responsible, and then I wasn’t being responsible. I think. I don’t know. I have to find out if he's OK!”

“Now, don’t go worrying about someone you ‘think’ you were responsible for. Sounds like you must’ve hit your head, honey. Maybe we should go see if Doctor LeFarge is in this afternoon!”

“No. I think I’ll be OK, Mama. Don’t worry. I’m just worried about Joe is all. He’s nice.”

Mama rose to her feet and shook her finger at him. “No more talk about this Joe character until Daddy gets home! You hear me?” There was a fire in her eyes he had never seen before. He nodded and looked at his shoes. The silence between them was suddenly broken by the familiar sound of Daddy's pickup roaring into the driveway. The truck door slammed and keys jangled from behind the front door. “Now, we’ll see what Daddy has to say. Have yourself a seat.” She pointed to the table.

Reluctantly Lawrence sat down with a sigh. He hooked his shoes under the stool and stared into the gloss sheen of the tabletop as Daddy came through the doorway. He looked unusually grungy, motor oil smeared under his eyes making him look like a bloodshot raccoon.

“Hey, honey.” He embraced and kissed the corner of her mouth sweetly. He turned and eyeballed Simon and his bruises. “How’s it going, my little all-star? Take a spill?” Lawrence looked up, but before he could speak Mama butted in.

“Look at him, Daddy! Now you tell him what happened, Simon D.H. Lawrence!” The intensity of her glower multiplied. Daddy slid into the chair across from Simon and watched him patiently. Simon stuttered, and then told him exactly what he had told Mama. 

“So,” his father paused and reached into his work shirt pocket for some gum, “new kid on the block, huh?” He extracted a stick, unwrapping it methodically before tucking it in his cheek. “Fighting ain’t right, son. We taught you that. Did you fight back?”

“We didn’t fight, Daddy. Joe’s nice. He didn’t hurt me!”

“That’s nonsense, son. We’ve lived here all this time and never once had a problem. Can’t be the neighbors. They’re good people. Why can’t you just accept that someone you thought was your friend really isn’t?”

“That isn’t true, Daddy!” I can’t…I can’t remember what happened. But I know that something just isn’t right!”

“Forgetfulness is a form of freedom, son. But you’re not playing straight with me.” He looked up at Mama and smiled at her conspiratorially. “Would you be a dear, baby, and get me some beer?” Lawrence froze in his seat, utterly shocked. Daddy never drank. Mama and winked wickedly at Lawrence before going to the fridge and bringing back a six-pack, dropping it heavily on the table. Simon flinched at the noise.

“Now, I don’t drink. You know that. I know that. Only your Mama and I know the reason why I don’t. But until you tell me the straight story, I’m gonna’ drink my heart’s content.” Simon looked at him in horror. This was not Daddy.

He held out his palm toward Mama and in it she placed a plastic and metal Saints bottle opener, grinning from ear to ear at Lawrence. This wasn’t Mama either, it couldn’t be. In one swift motion, Daddy popped the top on the first bottle and chugged it, slamming down the empty bottle hard on the surface. Lawrence recoiled.

“You aren’t real,” Lawrence muttered.

“What’s that, son? I’m sorry, maybe I need to open up my ears a little with another drink!” He cackled and popped the top on the second beer, chugging it like the first, slamming the bottle onto the table. Lawrence nearly fell off the back of his seat. Daddy’s pupils had narrowed into slits, like the terrifying dragon eyes Lawrence had seen illustrated in the fantasy books he read. “Tell me what you said, son.”

“You’re not real,” he wheezed. Lawrence fought for breath, but found none. His heart raced and he felt tightness throughout his body, the pain in his head roaring into a cacophony of nauseating sickness. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. He blinked back the pain and stared in terror at the man who claimed to be Daddy.

“Hmm,” the Daddy creature stroked the stubble on his chin thoughtfully, then opened another beer, downing it in the same fashion. Scales began to form in patches along his skin. “You want to know why I never drink, Simon?”

Locked in horror, Lawrence could only nod, clutching his chest. Daddy’s eyes began to glow red through the motor oil smudges as his body prickled even more with scales. Daddy drummed his fingers on the table, fingernails turning into talons, clacking hollowly. Another beer and this time he threw the bottle against the wall just to the right of Lawrence’s head, smashing it to pieces. Lawrence covered his face and cowered.

“Let me begin by telling you something else you don’t know. You’re our second child, Simon. Right, Mama?” He grinned at her with fiendishly sharpened teeth. She winked and flitted out a forked tongue. These were definitely not his parents. “You’re middle name don’t honor the author.” He chuckled fiendishly. “Stands for Designated Hitter.”

“Your older brother,” Mama cut in, “he was absolutely good for nothing. Just like you. A real big disappointment. He couldn’t do anything right. He’d never listen. Never obey.” The Daddy-beast nodded to Lawrence and continued the story.

“So, I began to drink. Well, it brought out something inside me, what like you see before you now with your own two eyes. And oh my,” he pounded the table for emphasis, “was that little boy tasty!” The creature tilted back its head and roared with laughter. “God, it’s good to be free again, ain’t it Mama?” Mama purred and stroked the bristly hairs on the thing’s head.

“Your Daddy can be quite a monster, honey.” She shivered. “Believe me, I know. At the service, all we had to bury were a pair of bloody sneakers. Now, why don’t you just forget about Joe?”

The horrific duo leaned across the table in unison, arching towards him in freakish supplication until they were a hair’s breadth away from Lawrence’s eyes. He stared back, half in terror, half in incredulity at the allegorical horror before him.

Lawrence felt an unknown courage well up inside him. He shot up from the stool to his feet and picked up an empty bottle, brandishing it like St. George.

“You aren’t real! None of you are!” Adrenaline coursed through his body as he smashed the bottle against the table’s edge with a mighty stroke. As the shards flew away, he drew back his arm before lunging full-force at the monster with his weapon.

The creature feinted, flipping backward out of the chair and landed on its feet. Lawrence drew back again menacingly, trembling with an equal mix of rage and fear. The beast snarled and snapped at Lawrence, then it looked at Mama. It winked. Suddenly, both began roaring with laughter at him. Simon chose that precious second to strike.

“Get behind me, Satan!” He sprung from his feet, bottle held out with both hands, aiming for the creature’s heart. The bottle found its mark and cut through the scaly flesh like tiramisu. The thing shrieked in agony and staggered back, helplessly clawing at the black blood gushing from the wound.

Lawrence released his grip and collapsed to his knees in exhaustion. Before he knew it, Mama had her fingers tightly around his throat and was throttling him. He struggled, throwing his weight around while desperately digging his fingers under hers just enough to pry them loose. Then the searing pain began.

The first blow came to his right shoulder, a hot dagger of agony. His vision went white as he screamed. Mama loosened her grip, but still held him firmly to the floor. When his vision came back, he saw the beast tasting its blood-dripping claw. It grinned at him widely before slashing him through the left wrist. He cried out, Mama let go, and he fell heaving to the ground in the fetal position.

“Aren’t you lucky,” the creature snickered, savoring Lawrence’s pain, “to have parents who care enough to discipline you?”

Mama kicked him hard in the stomach while the beast eviscerated the rest of him with stinging rakes and stabs from its talons. His head sang with a nightmare chorus of pain and the sounds of frenzy. Lawrence felt life slipping away from him. He sobbed, not for fear of death, but for utter helplessness. Soon it would all be over.