Lamb

Have you ever questioned just how much of the world around you is actually real? Have you doubted the validity of a tabloid, the accuracy of a re-enactment? Probably. It is human nature to seek knowledge. Unfortunately, it is also human nature to fear what cannot, or simply will not be understood.

In this, we often put aside instinct for branded intellect; wisdom runs a thin line between paranoia and outright madness. From the beginning, we are presented fear by the media, through what we are taught, by the wool pulled tight over our eyes. From birth, fear is presented to us on a silver platter, and we -ever the obedient children- devour it.

Perhaps it is a matter of morals. One has an obligation, afterall, to keep oneself and one's own safe. And if something is worth being feared, then surely it must be worth protecting against. Ah. There we go. Are a few of you dying to contradict that statement? Congratulations. Incidentally, does the warrior not fear battle? Certainly he must, or the act of battle would not require so much courage, nor merit such a degree of honor. If fear were replaced with eagerness, or more so, apathy, then certainly the wise man's war of morals would seem little more than an act of pure cowardice; a fire escape from a more perplexing alternative. An alternative that may require a breaking from the violence of our forefathers. A breach in contact, disconnection from the past. A transition, perhaps, from what is known, safe, predictable, to what is right.

Ah, but that again is a question of morals. And morals themselves are not so universal as they once had been. Or are they? Does the gay man at his wedding hold the same morals as the old woman who condemns it as lustful sin? Does each not seek a common goal? Satisfaction, purpose, contentment, virtue perhaps, survival Does rebellion- the refusal to accept what is taught, learned, bred- does this quality mark a contempt for morality or merely an alternate perception of it? Is the killer who pleads insanity any more validated than the blatant destroyer?

Honestly, is the Wolf in the fairytale really the villain, or is he just a tangible culmination of the adorable child's idiocy? We're armed to face life's Wolves with a bonnet and a basket rather than a shotgun and a can of mace. And what of it when the door to the third house- the one of impregnable brick- is locked? Jammed? Pulled from its hinges?

Oh, but that would never happen. Surely the good guy always pulls through in the end. The woodsman grabs his axe, the angel gets his wings, the lambs are saved from slaughter. Everyone lives happily ever after.

Or perhaps one day the woodsman and the angels and the war heroes grow wise. Perhaps one day when the sun is not quite shining and the hills are shrouded in grey, the good guys see things in a new light. For killing the Wolf and banishing the darkness, these were tasks, surely (for they required such uncommon kill) that must be worthy of payment. Afterall, what was truly in it for the hero when the lamb or the maiden or the helpless babe were freed? Pride? Satisfaction? Morality?

One cannot pay the bills on these alone. Perhaps a deal had to be met with the Wolves. Perhaps a little extra scare would coax the helpless into compensating. The authority of the heroes was trusted, prized was their foresight. If the woodsman says fear, the little girl fears. If the angel says pay, the child pays. And perhaps good will becomes a trade, and the service of compassion bears a hefty price tag. The fear of the masses is a tool, the ability to alleviate this fear, a product. Home remedies for the fear become almost commercial, subtle, and perfectly outrageous.

The heroes are rich, the good guys have found themselves a new practice. The Wolves are no longer needed. Restless, demerited, they are forgotten and replaced with artificial woes. Exaggeration becomes the foundation of business worldwide. Collapse is always a tomorrow just out of sight but never quite out of mind. Always a fiction on the verge of becoming a reality. Moral becomes perspective, and the witch doctor has a thousand cures in his bag.

Aluminum beasts with cruise control and plastic smiles overtake the paths once undiscovered. Convenience is an element never out of style. The very nucleus of modern life. Distraction is complimentary, and key. Lambs wrapped in leather and raw, unrefined emotion aspire to become sheep made of gooseflesh and artificial flavoring. Red #3 replaces common sense.

Grandma's house becomes too risky a journey, the road less traveled. Sorry Granny, it's just so much safer to stay home. The pre-cut cookies are so much easier than homemade. The Wolves are only shadows, twisting themselves to fit the bill, shadows without light, for the light has become a grey area so large that it envelopes societies with the audacity of the Bermuda Triangle swallowing cruise ships for Thanksgiving dinner.

Occasionally a sheep renounces its wool. Up come the cries of, "Wolf! Wolf!". Disorders are proclaimed. Petty instabilities. Sedatives are prescribed. Through another perception, however, from an older pair of ears, those cries may sound more like, "Hero! Hero!".

The cursor blinked steadily at the end of the word Hero. Scotty gazed into the murky monitor of the 1995 Compaq Presario, and sighed. This was not the first time the twelve-year-old had sat down around early evening and poured out such a thing. His fingertips were well aquainted with the once-white keyboard, and moved nimbly, only eons slower than his thought process.

But this one... this had a bit of prose to it. The thoughts these days came in waves, in rants. In volume, they would tend to prevent him from sleeping, demanding to be written, either by hand, or more often, punched into the electronic database.

It gave him perspective on life. Perspective was important. It gave him a way to empty the bats from the belfry of his subconscious. It gave him an alternative to attempting a discussion with any of his family or peers. It allowed his verbalizations to stick strictly to what was required. And in this way, Scotty kept up a facade of normality, or tried his best to, in order to get by.

"I said, let's go!"

Scotty jumped in the cheap plastic chair, head snapping round to the source of the noise.

Bev (the source) peered down at him contemptuously, popping her gum loudly.

"C'mon kid, go put your shoes on! We ain't got all day!" she cautioned with a hint of a Boston accent. He watched her turn away, heels clicking across the faded linoleum, and remembered that Bev and her boyfriend- Scotty's father- would be waiting in the van outside. It was Monday Night, he recalled, and Monday night meant all-you-could-eat at Lina's Chicken. Scotty didn't have much of a taste for the greasy half-meat, but knew it would make no difference to voice this opinion.

He stood up habitually, roving with trained eyes for his old Converse, imagining the conversation outside.

"I told ya, he gets that shit from Kathy's side, I swear it. Ain't no good Bremmer ever spent so damn much time with his head in the clouds." his father would be proclaiming.

"Well, lucky for him he don't talk back to me no more, or I'd just jackslap him til all that mopey brainy bullshit came flying right out his ears." Bev might reply.

It'd take a second, and then they'd both burst into laughter. If Scotty made it out to the car and inquired into what was so humorous, he'd most likely receive a sarcastic remark rather than a valid explanation.

His hand hovered over the latch of the back door.

Wait, the document, the computer. He retraced his steps back to the small desk, standing over it and slapping his hand over the cheap mouse, clicking SAVE. A progress bar near the bottom of the screen ticked up, then froze.

The entire screen then proceeded to turn a sickly unnatural shade of blue, with the words, ERROR- POSSIBLE POWER GLITCH, PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE printed neatly in bright white lettering.

Scotty couldn't help but wonder if they made the ERROR screens look like that just deliberately to piss you off. He wet his lip, reached down and punched the spacebar once.

The ERROR screen flickered and reappeared. He pressed ESC. The screen flickered again, and reappeared.

This was just his luck. The one time Scotty had managed to type up something like this in a mildly coherent format, the one time his school newspaper had actually offered to publish them, even open up a new reader's section if it did well, and the haggard old machine wouldn't cooperate.

Eyes watering without his permission, he glared down at the blue ERROR screen with nothing short of hatred.

Suddenly, he began to punch his fists into the keyboard. Right, Left, Right- hearing the plastic letters crinkle and rebound each time. The computer made a loud beeping noise. Scotty glanced again at the screen to find a new message swimming in the pool of static blue- ERROR- WARNING, DATA MAY BE LOST.

WARNING, DATA MAY BE LOST.

ERROR.

"Fuck." he said to his computer, flatly yet loudly.

"What did you just say?" came the reprimand. His father stood frozen, halfway through the back door. He was a rather large man with a rather intimidating stance.

"Uhm." Scotty managed. Instinct said to run when the man had that half-tossed look in his eye, but experience knew better. That would only anger him more. Briefly, Scotty marveled at the hypocrisy of the gruff man stomping toward him.

"He repeated the utterance of, "What did you say?" one more time, then struck Scotty across the face not with a flat hand but a closed fist.

The boy fell backwards, tripping over his own feet, grating his arm against the sharp corner of the desk.

"You get up, you blaspheming, ungrateful little shit, you." the larger man ordered with not the previous dark outrage but a new thick scorn.

Scotty stood, carefully, aware of the throbbing ache of his jaw.

The metallic stink of alcohol was present as his face was pulled closer to his father's, just before being hit again, this time a little harder, and a little higher as well. That would be a black eye. Did they have any steak? He was held by the collar of his plain white button up to prevent any recoiling, then hit again in the stomach, twice, knocking the breath from his body and making his chest heave.

The fifth blow hit his nose dead-on, and Scotty felt not only the snapping of his glasses, but also the sickening crunch of his nose as it shattered. Blood seeped from his face in warm spurts and dripped onto his shirt.

Seemingly satisfied, his father let go of him.

Scotty fell to the floor, immediately curling into a defensive position, coughing. He burrowed one lean set of fingers into the room's brown shag, and wished wantonly that he had long shaggy hair himself, instead of the close layered cut he had kept for the past four years. More hair might help to hide the hurt in his eyes when they met that of the man who glared down at him.

"Now, what did you say?"

His eyes narrowed (not to be mistaken for the squint the lack of glasses caused) and before he had a particular amount of control over it, Scotty's throat spat, "I said fuck. Fuck you Dad. Fuck you."

A grin that bore no humor played across the man's face for a second.

Scotty closed his eyes as

(ERROR)

the approaching steel-toed work boots paced the perimeter of his crumpled form.

(ERROR)

He braced himself as the tread upon carpet paused,

(WARNING)

eased his eyes open just in time to witness the boot aimed at his skull before

(WARNING, DATA MAY BE LOST)

it connected with his head. In a detached way, Scotty heard a large thud- heard it more than felt it at that point. He thought he heard something spurt (rupture?) somewhere out of sight. He closed his eyes, taking in a shaky breath, but the stars kept right on dancing into oblivion or beyond, and things were getting black, taking on strange phantom shapes behind closed lids. The last string of thought he had before consciousness mercifully took flight was a recognition of the sound that the back door made being opened and closed, and his mind's cries of, "Wolf! Wolf!"

No, he corrected, Wolves didn't wear steel-toed boots. Those would be more suited to a Woodsman. He left coherent thought with a bitter bloody smile, under the ERROR screen's cold blue glow.