In the Fishbowl - Prologue. Prologue

A/N: Thanks to Jim for editing!

As Kyle Davis gazed past the glass of his round, fifty-gallon aquarium, past the fake plants and purple gravel to where the only goldfish attacked flakes of food, he thought of Travis Beltnick, as he often did at three thirty every day when he fed his fish.

Funny things, these aquariums. He’d had at least one at all times since he was six years old and won his first goldfish at the county fair. That one hadn’t lasted very long after he’d decided to give it a friend, and he still wished that when his father had taken him to a small pet store to look for one that someone would have told him that bettas were territorial predators and the pretty red one he picked out would happily end up picking his goldfish to death. But even with his first goldfish gone, he took it upon himself to give the betta a good home in the small fish tank that was like a miniature world in his bedroom.

Like all worlds, it changed as time passed, his betta becoming a variety of school fish, and then a catfish, and even a frog; and they lived out their lives in the home they made within the glass walls until they became old, or sick, and met whatever fate awaited them down the swirling porcelain bowl.

Kyle Davis had learned a lot from his fish. Just like the people around him, they each had their own place in their little world, their own personalities, and their own purpose. The little goldfish was his most recent addition to this tank, and already he could tell that the two mollys seemed to be mistaking its gleaming gold scales for flakes of food. And just like always, he did not interfere in the affairs of fish, just as he did not interfere in the affairs of Travis Beltnick, who the little goldfish was reminding him very much of at the moment.

Like Travis, this fish had a mind of its own. If it was smart, it would stay well away from the mollys and find another place to eat, because there was certainly always enough food. Perhaps near the tangle of fake plants. That side of the tank was closest to the window, and likely cooler, and goldfish were supposed to like cold water.

But, no. That was not to be, because the little goldfish was a lot more like Travis than what was good for it, and Kyle watched in disappointment as it came too close to the crab that dwelled at the bottom, and he felt himself jump inwardly when that crab (which he’d appropriately named “Crabby”) gripped the little goldfish in its claw and shook it mercilessly.

It was true that Kyle could have tapped the glass in an attempt to break up the scuffle. Or, maybe he even could have reached in, his hand becoming a warring hero to save his new fish. But then what? He could free the little fish, but then it might never learn from its own mistakes, so to keep it truly safe, he would have to remove it from the danger of the bowl only to watch it suffocate in his hands. It was that way with Travis, too. Kyle could no better protect the goldfish from danger than he could protect Travis from himself or the many predators that he seemed to go out of his way to walk into every day.

So, perhaps that’s part of the reason why when the goldfish somehow managed to get free of the grumpy crab to live another day, Kyle smiled. After all, if something as tiny as a fish could learn from its mistakes and make it through a gauntlet of life’s dangers, then one day people could evolve to that as well. People like Travis; and maybe then, people like Kyle would stop worrying about them every day at three thirty when he fed his fish.

But, to understand why Kyle spent so much time worrying about Travis, and so much time waiting for Travis to help himself, one would have to understand the obstacles that Travis had already overcome and the pain that he’d never managed to let go of. And to understand that, the story would have to begin not in a fishbowl, but in a small bedroom on the second floor of a rundown house on Lake Street, fifty-three miles away, where Travis Beltnick had once spent the majority of his time hiding under the covers from a very real monster. It was in that room where Travis celebrated his tenth birthday under a tent made with stale sheets around a lower bunk.

In the few times Travis had recited his story of that night, the first thing he always remembered was smiling as he held onto a peanut-butter-filled candy bar with a lit birthday candle sticking out of the top. He’d been very careful to keep the dripping green wax away from his fingers as he patiently waited for his foster brother to conclude the Happy Birthday song in his off-key, twelve-year-old voice. Though, the way the song temporarily kept the screaming downstairs out of their homemade sanctuary for even a few precious moments made Travis believe that he could keep that candle burning forever by means of sheer willpower. And the wish was enough that when the singing ended, he quietly requested, “Sing it again, Allan.”

So Allan did. Because Allan was dedicated to Travis. They’d been together since Travis was six and Allan was eight, and had become brothers in the truest sense. But they weren’t the kind that teased and bickered. They were the kind that had made a silent pact to become family to each other, when neither of them had one to speak of, and anyone who argued that they weren't brothers often found themselves on the disagreeable side of Allan’s well-aimed left hook. Unfortunately, that kind of argument was often found among their peers at school, who like everyone else, could not see a family resemblance apart from the brothers’ obvious bond.

Physically, they were exact opposites. Travis had always been small and thin with a ghostlike complexion that seemed unable to hide the faintest of bruises, which accounted for the long sleeves he insisted on wearing even during the hottest days of summer, and his hair was black and thin, the kind that fell flat no matter how it was cut, which often happened to be long enough to hide the narrow dark eyes he’d inherited from his mother, or so he’d been told. Allan, who had no way to know where he’d developed his physical likeness, was fair-haired and golden-skinned. He was tall for his age, and the way he could lift Travis onto his shoulder effortlessly had long ago convinced the younger boy that Allan was a lot stronger than he looked.

“Come on, Travis,” Allan said after singing the birthday song the second time. “Time to blow it out and make a wish.”

Travis sucked in more breath than he needed and let it all out on the tiny flame, leaving the two in utter darkness except for the dull light that found its way through the crack under the bedroom door, and there he found that his wish had already failed to come true. The screaming below came mostly from a male voice now, consisting of some stuttered and slurred words, and followed by the sound of a glass breaking and a woman’s scream. Close to Travis, there was a soft click, and then light in their makeshift tent once again as Allan picked up a flashlight.

“Don’t listen to them, Travis,” Allan insisted, though he himself knew that the task was near impossible. “Not tonight.”

Travis gave an uncertain nod, and together they pulled down the sheet and snuggled under it together on the bottom bunk, splitting the candy bar evenly down the middle. For a while, the sound of their slow chewing was dominant in the room when the fighting downstairs dwindled into the lonely sound of a woman crying. They heard their foster mother, Sara, cry a lot. Sometimes even more than they heard her yell. But, it would stop soon, as it always did soon after the faint odor of marijuana wafted through the cracks in the door.

Travis yawned, and shifted uncomfortably next to Allan before finding a place on his right side that seemed easy enough to sleep on, at least until Allan’s elbow nudged the sore place between his shoulders and he flinched so hard that the bed rocked. Frustrated with himself for this, Travis tried to turn onto another side, but not before Allan caught him and lifted up the back of his faded red t-shirt, no doubt inspecting the dark welts that had swelled between the younger boy’s shoulder blades earlier that day.

“Just stop, Allan,” Travis insisted, reaching unsuccessfully for his shirt. “I wanna go to sleep.”

“Did you put ice on this like I told you?” Allan demanded.

Travis’s small shoulder’s shrugged in response. “Bill was in the kitchen.”

Allan sighed, and Travis flipped over when he felt him leaving the bed.

“Where’re you going?” Travis asked, obviously not crazy about the idea of being left alone.

“To get some ice,” Allan replied, licking a stray dot of chocolate from his top lip. “Stay here, alright?”

Somewhere downstairs, a door slammed and they both fell silent and still, as they always did when trying to attempt to figure out if someone was coming or going. Going was always favorable, but the heavy footsteps moving through the house a moment later told them otherwise.

“Don’t go down there, Allan,” Travis whispered. “Bill’s drunk again.”

“He’s probably going to bed by now,” Allan insisted, as always, refusing to let any sign of worry or caution to enter his voice, and sometimes that frightened Travis more than anything.

“I don’t need ice. Bill told us to stay up here, Allan. He’ll get mad.”

“He’s always mad,” Allan replied. And it was true, there was no disputing that. But, sometimes Travis knew better than Allan that Bill should be avoided when he was angry. He’d made the mistake of momentarily forgetting only a few hours ago when he’d tried to fix a snack after school and upset Sara’s husband when he spilled a glass of juice over the table. Now, he knew he’d made another mistake by letting Allan know about it.

They’d both taken their share of beatings before, but lately, Allan had been taking more of them, sometimes in defense of Travis, so Travis made sure to get into as little trouble as possible. It was how he’d come to protecting his brother, and when he failed, Allan seemed to take offense to it, especially when he wasn’t around to fend off Bill’s wrath. And sometimes, Travis thought, Allan got in the way just to make Bill angry. One day I’ll be a bigger monster than he is, Allan had said one night not long ago, and then had been unable to figure out why Travis had burst into tears. He hated when Travis cried and they both knew it, so it didn’t help that Travis looked ready to cry again now.

“It’s my birthday!” Travis said forcefully. “Don’t go down there, Allan!”

For a fleeting moment, Allan actually seemed to consider his brother’s request. But it didn’t last, and Travis became unnerved when the lines of the older boy’s face showed signs of knowing, and his lip turned up in an almost too confident look that Travis didn’t like at all.

“Come here,” Allan said with a nod of his head as he cut a path across the bedroom with the beam of the flashlight guiding him.

Travis rolled off the bed and in the dark made his way across the clear floor to the dresser they shared, reaching it just in time to watch Allan pull the top drawer open and push aside their collective piles of socks. Beneath there were jars of bottle caps, tacks, pennies, and the various other strange things that the boys collected together, along with something shiny and black that caused Travis’s eyes to widen excessively as Allan lifted it into his hand.

“Where’d you get that?” Travis bellowed, and Allan was quick to shush him, even as he held the revolver out flat across his hand.

“It’s Bill’s. Found out where he was hiding it under their bed... Hey! Knock it off, Travis! You look like you’re gonna puke!”

And indeed, Travis did feel like he was going to do just that as he nearly doubled over. Allan had put out a hand to steady him, but all he could do at the time was shake it off as he tried to overcome the mind-numbing reaction overtaking him. “Put it back, Allan,” Travis whispered desperately. “Please put it back... you can do it when they’re not looking.”

“I’m not giving this back to Bill,” Allan hissed.

“He’ll catch us with it... he’ll see it, and...”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to catch us with it,” Allan cut him off, and Travis remained incredulous over the look on his brother’s face.

“Allan.”

“He can’t keep hurting us ‘cause he’s bigger,” Allan said sternly, and then shoved the gun quite purposely into the large pocket of his sweatpants. “Next time, he’s gonna be the one who’s scared.”

Allan started moving past Travis, beaming the flashlight towards the door, but Travis was quick to latch onto his arm.

“Where’re you going, Allan?” he demanded.

Allan frowned, but then forced a reassuring look in Travis’s direction. “I’m just gonna get your ice. I’ll be right back.... Bill probably went to bed... okay?”

“No,” Travis replied, because it wasn’t okay. But this was one of those times that no matter how much he said so, Allan was too set on his mission to allow it any effect. He either wanted Travis to have ice for his wounds, or he wanted Travis to have ice so he could prove a point, in which case, they were both walking dangerous territory, just as they had the last time Allan had purposely mouthed off to Bill just to prove he could take the beating. He’d taken it, alright: twice before it stopped, and by then Bill had been so furious that he turned on Travis, and both of them had lost three whole weeks of the summer.

But unfortunately, just like this night, Travis became too frightened to argue with his older brother when Allan slipped into these moods. It was a disabling feeling, like he couldn’t find his voice, or move his legs enough to walk, except to the bed, where Allan took the time to tuck him in and once again promised that he’d be right back, and moments later, Travis found himself alone in a dark room, hiding under the sheets with a flashlight, pretending that that alone would keep him safe.

Too frozen to cry, he listened carefully, wanting to keep track of Allan’s every move, though it was a lost cause. Allan always moved silently, even taking care not to step on the two steps that always managed to creak and strain against the slightest touch. So instead of knowing for fact, Travis imagined Travis making his way carefully past their foster parents’ room, down the stairs to the right, and into the kitchen. He counted to fifteen; plenty of time for Allan to make it to the freezer.

A door opened, and closed, and the sound of heavy footsteps caused Travis’s breath to quicken, and he rolled into a defensive ball. He knew that sound all too well, and when a rough, muffled voice reached his ears he tried to cover them with a pillow to keep it out. The next thing he heard, however, had him shoving it aside and sitting upright in bed.

Allan should not have yelled. Travis knew it right away, but there it was regardless: his brother’s words raised in anger before there was the sound of a chair scuffling over, likely Bill attempting to get to him, and Travis quickly prepared himself to hear his brother’s cries; because no matter how hard Allan always tried not to, it always came, the sharp agony that it seemed Bill needed to hear before he stopped.

But on Travis’s tenth birthday, that sound never came. There were more words exchanged, and then Bill called out Sara’s name, something he had never done before, and when he called her, there was something in his voice that Travis couldn’t quite place. He placed it in Sara’s voice, though, after she moved through the house and met them somewhere downstairs. Fear.

Something about that sound coming from the very source of his nightmares forced Travis to push his own gut-wrenching fears aside as he made his way slowly to the door, pressing his ear against it in an attempt to catch some of the words being spoken in the other room. But all he could hear was voices, and Allan’s sounded so angry, and then there was the crack. Not in any voice, but in the room, in the halls, a boom that echoed through the entire house. Travis’s knees buckled from shock and he fell backwards, the flashlight falling away from him, rolling across the room to disappear beneath the bed.

Sara was screaming, a sound that Travis wanted to make himself before it pierced his ears in an aggravating way and he found himself praying for it to stop. His eyes half closed to block out whatever demons might meet him outside of the bedroom, Travis yanked open the door and made his way blindly down the dark hallway on trembling knees, stumbled down the first few steps when he reached the stairs, caught his balance and made it down the rest of the flight before he turned left and met Allan’s blue eyes across the room where he stood just behind the overturned kitchen table, looking shocked.

Travis’ mouth formed Allan’s name, but it was unclear if any sound other than a soft breath came out beneath Sara’s screaming. It didn’t seem to matter, because Allan wouldn’t have heard it, anyway. He looked down at the gun in his hand, wide-eyed and bewildered, and then back to Travis, who took the awestruck expression of his brother as permission of a sort to take in the rest of the scene filling the room.

There was blood, ominous and sticky, only a few feet away from Travis’s socks, looking far more real than the props he’d seen in the movies. There was blood spattered in a strange pattern that likely would have become whole of Sara was standing on the right side of the twitching body on the floor. But she’d moved; had the bearded man’s head in her lap as the palm of her hand covered the open wound on his throat. She just wouldn’t stop screaming.

“You killed him! You killed him!” Her voice was a strange, unconstrained shriek aimed at Allan. And indeed, he had killed him, despite the fact that the choking man wasn’t quite dead yet. Travis took a step closer, perhaps out of morbid curiosity, or for fear that standing in the same place too long would draw the blood to his white socks, but a gurgling sound from Bill as the forty-year-old man’s eyes suddenly shot to his and, angry and desperate and accusing, brought him up short and sent a petrifying chill through his small body. He felt something warm suddenly trickling down the leg of his cotton pajama pants, ripped at the knee, but the fear of finding that he’d wet himself somehow prevented him from looking.

And then he saw Bill die, and Travis heard a strange whine that he knew had come from him.

His body jolted, his shoulder feeling torn, and suddenly Allan was next to him, though he couldn’t quite remember seeing the other boy cross the room.

“Come on, Travis!” Allan screamed. “Travis!”

Not knowing where they were going, Travis was quick to follow his brother out of pure instinct, screaming pointlessly when another, stronger hand gripped his other arm and tore him straight away from Allan before they reached the door.

“Let go of him!” Allan ordered, and only then Did Travis realize that Sara was pulling him, her voice shrill and screaming as she pulled him away, with no regard for the pistol Allan still kept in his trembling hand.

No longer in control of himself, and lost to the situation developing around him, Travis became smothered, wanting nothing more than to break free as he screamed, set his feet, bit and clawed at the crazed woman pulling him across the floor, through the blood, into the living room. He was aware of Allan trying to pull him, telling him that they had to go or else they’d be taken away from each other. To Travis’s young mind, it only made a small amount of sense, but still, he didn’t like the sound of it and pulled harder when Allan tried to force him away from Sara. And then she reached the phone. Travis watched as she dialed three numbers, and then he became strangely still, as if it all made some sort of sense now.

“Let him go!” Allan shouted again, but his order fell on deaf ears, and when Travis looked at his brother, he nearly wet himself all over again.

Allan, pale-faced and nauseous, had raised the gun again, like he didn’t quite realize he was doing it, just as Sara didn’t seem to realize that it was pointed quite neatly at her head as she screamed into the phone at the 911 dispatcher.

“Allan!” Travis managed in a strangled tone that felt ripped from his throat. “Allan, no!” Something in his voice reached his brother, because Allan met his eyes, startled. He looked lost, confused, and for a moment that Travis would not soon forget, desperate.

“I had to, Travis,” Allan whispered, and then as if he’d never been there at all, he dropped the gun and fled the house.

It was the last time Travis Beltnick saw his brother.