Justice

CHAPTER I
New York City 1985

         Archer was woken with a fright. His eyes scanned his lightless room for the source of the noise. His window was closed tight, but the city lights poked through his mangled curtain, and painted small orbs of light on the floor and far wall. The faint sound of beeping taxis and murmuring of the bottom feeders that came out at night seeped through into Archer's room, but he was used to that. Whatever had woken him was different, the noises of the world around him was not what woke him up, whatever it was was closer. There it was again, muffled shouting and screaming from somewhere not to far away. Archer pulled his blanket up over his nose, leaving only his eyes and his sand colored mop of hair exposed to the noise. Shivering Archer wondered whether he was shaking because of the noise or because of how cold he was, the blanket was thin and too small, and his feet were now exposed. Luckily he wore socks to bed, he could see his small woolen flippers hanging out from the edge of his blanket. A blanket for babies, and Archer was a big kid now, he could not just lay there and be afraid. He threw the blanket and swung his legs over the edge of his mattress. His feet hovered over the cold tiles, he sat there in his pajamas, pondering the consequences of leaving the safety of his bed, his fortress. Another crash made him jump, he lost his balance and smacked onto the frosty tiles, leaving his elbows and his knees sore.
       Picking himself up and dusting off his worn super-hero pants he shuffled his feet around his bed and scooted towards the door, and froze. The mahogany door loomed over him, looking up to where the door met the frame, he reached out slowly towards the gold knob. His fingers a fraction of an inch away from making contact he stopped. Breathing heavily he stood there, waiting. His eyes bulged with indecision, and the tips of his fingers trembled. He turned with all his might and with two great bounds was on the edge of his bed, grabbing at his stuffed dog sandwiched between his pillow and his mattress. Once Archer had his dog, he marched toward the door again. The dog under his arm, held tightly against his chest. with his other hand he turned the cold metal and pulled. The door swung noiselessly, the hallway was even darker than his room, the only source of light was from tear dropped night light further down the hall.
       The hallway was carpeted, the thick shag was matted and twisted, and if had not been for Archer's socks, his toes would have gotten caught in the loops like they always did. He walked on, the noise was coming from the living room, which was past the bathroom and on the other side of the kitchen, he marched past the bathroom and into the kitchen. When he turned the corner into the room he found it wasn't as dark as he thought; the living room lamp was on. The light from it cast Archer in the shadows, he could see into the living room but its occupants, had they looked would have only seen a tiny gleam in his eyes. He stood there frozen, holding his dog close to him, an old pillow case cut open and tied around his neck, hung just above the floor.           
        He watched as the two bodies wrestled against each other on the battered couch. They were naked and they had knocked the pillows on the ground. Where the magazines and where Archer's backpack belonged was giant mound of white powder, and his backpack on the floor. There was a small fist sized hole in the wall, and dry wall was scattered on floor. A trail of clothes were strewn from the door to the couch, like a path of sin marked off on a treasure map.
        "Wait," whispered the woman, his mother Archer realized. "Wait!" She said louder this time. "More coke," she said pushing away the man and jumping to the table.
          "Bitch! thats my coke!" he  yelled pushing her off of the mound "The deal was you fuck me for some blow, and if its good, we continue that arrangement!"
          "That was fine, until I saw that pitiful excuse for a dick," she laughed her eyes rolling around her head.
           "Fucking bitch!" He screamed slapping her across the face. Horrified, she jumped trying to get away, but he lunged after her, they crumpled over the table knocking the white powder everywhere. It dusted the room like someone struck a bag of flour with a sledge-hammer, and he sat over her in the fog and clamped his hands around her neck. She yelled out, kicked and fought but he held her down. He leaned in and kissed her, and she kissed him back. his hold loosened and hers tightened, he pushed against her no longer violent.
           "Hey!" yelled Archer, walking into the foggy air, determined to save his mother no matter what. "Don't you hurt my mom!"
            "What the hell?" exclaimed the man, jumping off of Archer's mother and falling into the couch. "Who the hell is that? Your son?" He questioned, scared by the fact that someone else was in the room.    "I'm out of here, you got a freakin' kid! God damn!" He stuttered running around the room naked, picking up his clothes. He ran out of the room with only his underwear on, his clothes in one hand and his salvaged cocaine in the other. Archer's mother just watched, her exposed breasts rising and falling with her erratic breathing.
              "Great," she said after a few minutes. "Fucking! Great!" she yelled throwing the last handful of the white powder at Archer. It hit him full in the face and he started coughing and wheezing. the powder coated his nose, his lips, and ran down his shirt in little veins. he started to feel strange. He couldn't stop blinking, and his heart felt like it was going to shoot out of his chest. His head felt like it was moving a million miles a minute, he couldn't focus on a single thing, he only saw a blur of colors, blended and bled into each other. His world was spinning until felt the crashing weight of hands on his shoulders and the soft coo of his mother, "Hey my little hero, you saved mommy!" she kissed his forehead, and it felt like every nerve in Archer's body was where her lips touched. She kissed his cheek, and licked the powder off of his nose, and then his mouth. She kissed under his chin, and snorted the powder off of his shirt. The wrinkles making perfect little vallies for her drugs to sit in. She kissed his stomach and each of his thighs, making a triangle between his them and his bellybutton. Then she kissed below his navel, Archer couldn't move, he was his mother conduit for drugs. She looked up at him, and struck him across the face.
              "Kiss your mother back, you ungrateful leech!" she seethed.
Archer leaned forward, scared and disoriented and kissed his mother on the cheek.
               "Lower,"
Archer kissed her collarbone.
               "Lower," she growled.
He kissed her breast, and she exhaled deeply.
                "Lower," almost hissing with pleasure, Archer continued to kiss his mother until he was at her feet, and she was laughing from the powder that she loved so much. She kicked him away, and he ran to his room, slamming the door behind him. The tile made his socks slip across the floor with no traction and he fell, banging his head on his small end table. Laying on the floor, he began to cry. Everything felt wrong, his body ached, his head was bleeding, and he was cold. Much colder than he was before, he felt hollow, like a oven in the arctic sea. he was supposed to be warm in his bed, he knew that but he wasn't. He was supposed to feel cold on his skin, not his heart. He crawled up to his bed, pulled his cape over his frail eight year old body, and held his dog to his face and finally fell asleep to the beeping taxis.
 

The General

“Elegant isn’t it? The orchestra of war,”

Sang the General as he crushed skulls beneath his feet.

The horizon exploded in a jubilee of heat, and thought the General:

“I the composer, for I guide and flourish in all that is war,

But there must be more, more, than bathing in a bloody shore.”

He walked past the countless cemeteries,

Past the ruined monasteries,

Past the forests of charred trees, past the skeletons

Praying on their broken knees.

Up a jagged cliff above the blackened seas,

To a stone dish, filled with seeds.

“To the fore-fathers of war, Odysseus,

Caesar, Lincoln, Hitler, Truman,

I am the last of our kin.

I have no heir, nor an enemy to fear.

For the first time my mind is clear,

We the lions of our people, were made to end the war,

But none have walked out of his Cave have we?

 Truth we have failed to see,

So I stand on my hands by the sea

For the maker knows

 There is no war without Generals.”

And the General slit his throat into the bowl,

His blood feeding the seeds, and there grew flowers

And there grew trees, and his body turned stone.

On that cliff grew “Lincoln” and “Jesus” roses,

And so ended the only war ever known,

Because the Reaper reaped what was sown.