Contest Winners of the Thanksgiving Theme!
Best Thanksgiving Themed
Emilia Klee played by Sarisocks
Best with Family
night_dream
Thanksgiving Comes to Hawaii
night_dream
Thanksgiving Nightmare
Benjamin Lloyd played by lipsofsweetdeciet
Thanksgiving. A time meant to be enjoyed by families and friends alike; a celebration of gratitude for all things some entity has provided throughout the year. By definition, Thanksgiving is defined as an annual national holiday marked by religious observances and a traditional meal. A traditional meal. When was the last time Benjamin Lloyd was given the opportunity to take a seat beside his family members, enjoy the delicious tasting buffet cooked with tender loving care, and share in some laughter with those he called "close" to his heart? The answer to this? Never. Thanksgiving had always been a lie to the eldest of the Lloyd siblings, it was a figment of the imagination. From a young age he had watched those "feel good" movies themed around Thanksgiving, and from year to year, the illusion of the joy and merriment seemed to fade. Life was not full of smiles and laughter. It was filled with pain and a silent anguish. This was a lesson he had been forced to endure the hard way. He had to make his own happiness, he had to achieve it by whatever means necessary. But all hope had not been completely dashed upon the jagged rocks of misery and despair; with the escape from Beverly Hills and the readjustment to life outside the control of their drunken father, a new life had been breathed into the Lloyd family. It was a life unlike one they had experienced before. Of course they had their ups and downs, but at the end of the day, family meant everything. It had been his sister's idea to host a Thanksgiving dinner, to sit down as if they were a normal family without the treacheries of their past lives. She had seemed so bright eyed and eager to gather as a family, Benjamin could not deny her enthusiasm and so agreed to such an event. Dennis, on the other hand, was hesitant and stubborn. But at the end of the day, some convincing was enough to drag the tattooed Lloyd brother to the table; whether or not he would actually arrive at the mansion was another story on its own.
The aromatic smells of food being prepared wafted about the large mansion owned by the mysterious psychologist: Benjamin Lloyd. The young sophisticated man was putting the finishing touches on the gourmet meal he had prepared for his brother and sister to commemorate the start of a tradition he had hoped would endure throughout the years they were all alive. Family was important to him; it was the only source of disillusioned unconventional love he had left. Without them, he wouldn't have survived, and without him, they would never have made it out of that hell hole. He hummed a happy tune to himself as he carted the large stuffed turkey to the open-planned dining room set with fancy trimmings. The food was almost all transferred to the room. All he had left was the large bowl of his special potato salad that would drive the taste buds wild... But first, let me get the knife. He thought to himself as he rummaged within one of the drawers, pulling out a knife that looked identical to the one that was used by his father all those years ago. Yet, the thought only occurred to him when he passed by the mirror, catching a glimpse of his reflection, of the scar that had been etched into his skin. It was ugly. Pink jagged scar tissue had formed in an attempt to heal the old wound. Benjamin found himself rooted to the spot; his mind danced back and forth between the present reality and the past that seemed to be something out of a fictional horror. His thoughts flashed back to that horrid event, the very last Thanksgiving the Lloyd family had been forced to endure...
A younger Benjamin Lloyd could not fully interpret the necessity for Thanksgiving. Not during the year their mother had died. With her gone, things became more violent. Benjamin was often left bruised and bloody after encounters with a drunk Michael-Scott, a father who cared little for his children, who thrived off of controlling people around him and getting his own way. There was nothing to be thankful for; not in the eyes of the developing psychopath, at least. Yet, the family of four were forced to endure the company of one another. A young misfit, a drunkard, a little princess, and a brooding teenager all sat down for the first family meal together after the untimely departure of their loving mother. Silence settled over the table. None uttered a single word. Michael-Scott, the father figure that resorted to violence at almost every instance he could, swigged back another glass of golden whiskey, smacking his lips together once the liquid had been polished off. An unsavory hiccup perturbed his diaphragm; Benjamin greeted the notion with a look of disgust.
"What is it boy?" Michael sneered, his fingers reaching for the almost emptied bottle that was never far away. "Never heard a man's sound before?" His fingers closed tight around the bottle, drawing it closer to his body. Clang. Clang. Clang. The lip of the crystalline whiskey bottle was continuously knocked against the rounded tumbler attached to their father's arm. Eventually, the golden poison sloshed its way into the glass. "Now. Carve the turkey. Yes. Shall I let ol' Benny boy do the honors? Nah, I don't think so... He's not a man yet. He'll fuck the whole thing up, like he does with everything." A loud snorting chortle escaped his lips as he stood up abruptly from his seat, knocking the chair back. While he stood, he swayed slightly from side to side, the motions becoming more distinctive as each second passed. A sickened smirk twisted onto his lips as that menacing glimmer was found in those eerie black beetle-like eyes. A few moments later, once he seemed to have regained his composure, Michael-Scott stumbled his way toward the middle of the table placing a hand on Lana's head as he stretched over the table to hold the knife in his hand. "See my pretty princess... This is going to cut that into tiny little pieces." He brought the knife closer toward the little girl, who was only about seven years old at the time. With that mad look in his dilated eyes, no one could anticipate his next move. Often in this state, Michael-Scott would not hesitate plunging that knife into something other than a dumb bird who had had the misfortune of ending up on someone's table for Thanksgiving dinner. And this fact shocked Benjamin all too much. With wide silver-blue eyes, Ben looked from his father to his brother; Dennis, as usual, sat with his head down earphones lodged in his ears blasting some reckless music loud as ever. But who could blame him, really? Michael-Scott had done far too much damage to ever earn the respect of his two sons; the girl was still innocent, but the boys would never let him lay a hand on her.
Seeing Dennis unresponsive, Benjamin stood up abruptly; instantly he could feel the eyes of his siblings fall upon him; shock and surprise laced within their features. "Father, I think that is quite enough. Your actions are inappropriate for a girl Lana's age." Benjamin spoke firmly; his newly toned voice rang clear through the silence of the house, reverberating about the empty halls and corridors locked within the mansion in Beverly Hills.
"Oho? Look who decided to step up to the plate. Benjamin Lloyd." Michael-Scott straightened his frame, his eyes grew darker by the second. He flung the knife around in the air. "Coming here with your fancy talk bullshit. Trying to make me look stupid. I'll tell you something boy... I'll teach you some respect..." He stumbled toward Benjamin with a knife still flailing about in the air, looking hungry for whatever flesh it could carve into upon the evening.
"I meant no disrespect father." Benjamin quickly added, dropping his gaze and instead allowing his eyes to wander toward the innocent frame of his sister, whose eyes were wide with horror. A tear was slowly starting to form in the corner of her baby blue orbs. Benjamin took in a gulp of air before he allowed his gaze to drift toward his father who had stopped a short distance from where the young teenager sat, he swayed drastically from left to right to left again. His face had suddenly turned extremely pale. He doubled over, and before anyone could have fled the room, a spurt of gold liquid and bile vomit was spewed from his alcoholic tainted lips. Not long after that, Michael-Scott passed out right there, on the dining room floor, leaving the four children in a stunned silence.
"Forget this horseshit. I'm outta here." A young Dennis sighed with exasperation dripping from his voice. With that he kicked back his chair and slunk out of the room and toward the front door, leaving to embark on his own Thanksgiving adventures within the night. For Benjamin and Lana, however, they could not escape so easily. Instantly, Benjamin left his place and went to his sister's side, placing a warm arm around her shoulder.
"How about we take all this food, call Remora and have a tea party in your room." He smiled down at her, rubbing her arm affectionately. She giggled and quickly darted out of the room. He could hear her footsteps drumming up the stairs and towards Remora's quarters. The smile did not fade quickly; instead it only grew as he gathered the knife, the bird, and the few bowls of salad and began to make his way up the stairs.
That night two of the Lloyd siblings enjoyed a Thanksgiving dinner unlike one that would usually be expected; Benjamin and the house nanny (Remora) sat around a small pink plastic table on miniature chairs surrounded by a gathering of stuffed animals and toys absurdly dressed that only a child's mind could find attractive. They laughed and shared jokes with one another, like any true family would; they expressed their sympathies for the passing of their mother and finally gave thanks that they still had each other in this dreadful world.
"It will all get better soon, my pets." Remora had said with a sad smile upon her aging lips as she dished up the deserts. "You will see; time will eat at your father and you two will grow healthy and strong, and will have the chance to get away from your father. When that time comes, you must take it and not look back." A note of seriousness hugged at her tone of voice, before a smile danced upon her lips once again as she shoved a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, laughing as some of it was smudged on her nose. Both Lana and Benjamin soon followed suit, smearing ice cream on their noses and sending out echoes of merriment that lit the gloom of the Lloyd house up like a Christmas tree; yet, little did they know, their shouts and laughter of glee had awoken the sleeping beast, the demon that was infested with a poison unlike any other. Michael-Scott's eyes whipped open quickly; his eyes looked around the room to find the food was missing and so were his children. He rose to his feet, slowly at first. The alcohol had not left his system; leaving him swaying and stumbling. He mumbled curses under his foul breath. His eyes were alight like wild fire left to spread over the woodlands; a heated anger had erupted within his belly like the volcanoes still active on the island, and the more laughter carried down to his ears, the more his head throbbed with fury. He staggered his way to the foot of the stairs, and was about to begin the ascent when he stepped on something hard and spiky; a howl of pain erupted from the drunken animal. Dazed and unstable, the director stumbled back, missed the footing on the stair, and found himself on the floor within the matter of a few short breaths. A growl erupted from his throat; his eyes saw red. "LANA. REMORA. GET DOWN HERE NOW!" He shouted as loud as house-quaking thunder. "NOW!" He repeated, pulling himself up, supporting his weight against the wall. He changed his course, limping toward the living room where a fresh bottle of bourbon stood on the mantle among two crystal tumbler glasses. He wrenched it open and took a swig from the bottle, not bothering to pour the strong alcohol out first. "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU TWO? I SAID NOW!" He shouted again, before taking another large gulp of the bronze-gold poison.
In a few seconds, Lana and Remora stood beneath the arch of the living room. Remora stood behind Lana with her head down and her hands neatly crossed in front of her legs. Lana, on the other hand, still held a large smile on her face. The ice cream still smudged across the tip of her nose. "What the fuck is that?" Michael pointed toward the white cream.
"It's nothing, sir." Remora hastily replied, wiping away the desert from the child's nose.
"It was something." Michael eyed her suspiciously, clumsily prowling closer to the duo that stood there.
"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" Remora asked genially, her gaze still averted so as not to meet the demonic eyes that glared at the two.
"Help me with? HELP ME WITH?" Michael began, the growl erupting from his throat again. "Do you know I almost broke my fucking ankle?"
"No sir. How did that happen?" Remora made the mistake of lifting her eyes, shifting her gaze to stare directly into the beetle orbs of the drunken man that forced her to call him master.
"Because you are not doing your fucking job." He hissed, leaning close to her. Remora put a protective hand on Lana's shoulder, pulling the child back and away from the stench of Michael-Scott's breath. "Lana leaves her toys all over the place. Leaves them for ME TO STAND ON." He lurched forward and grabbed the young girl's arm; he raised an open hand up.
Remora flinched, and cried out: "Please sir, don't. She's just a little child. She didn't mean to..."
"So who is to blame then? YOU? Do YOU need to be punished?"
Benjamin could hear the entire ordeal unfolding from within Lana's room as he started clearing away the plastic cutlery and dishes they had enjoyed their own Thanksgiving meal on; a frown licked upon his brow as he heard the dangerous note hidden within Michael Scott's growling voice that rolled across the hallways like thunder drummed against the sky when frightful storm was looming in the distance. Benjamin was rooted to the spot; his heart started to thump within his chest adding to the cacophony of noise starting to rumble from the downstairs area. A lump rose to his throat, one that would not be quenched by mere swallowing. His breath became shallow. After Michael-Scott's last words were spoken, when an unsettling silence fell upon the air, Benjamin could only conjure the darkest of images to mind, images that made him flinch from sheer terror. It was then that the adrenaline was injected into his system, that the urge of fight or flight settled within his body wreaking havoc on his conscious. Within a heartbeat, his mind was made up and Benjamin Lloyd found himself sprinting down the stairs in pursuit of the source of the deadly silence that had settled on the house. He stopped just short of the dining room that still stank of the alcoholic upchuck from earlier. A scream pierced the air followed by a loud thwack; Benjamin turned around and ran down the corridor before taking a right toward the living room. He came to a halt as he saw Michael-Scott standing over Remora with his belt raised high over his head. Shock froze his blood cold. His eyes were buried behind a scowl of contempt, resentment, disgust, and most other negative emotions associated with sheer hatred. He rushed forward and grappled onto Michael's arm as he was about to bring it down onto the poor nanny with an unforgiving force. "I won't let you do it." Benjamin yelled at his father, pushing him away from Remora and helping the matured lady to her feet.
Michael-Scott Lloyd, famous director, stumbled slightly backward. His eyes were glazed over; the bottle of bourbon lay on its side upon the sofa with liquid poison seeping into the cushion. The room stank of sweat and booze. A smirk twisted over his lips, a sadistic look that could make anyone's blood curdle at the very sight. "And here you are, m'boy. Here you are to interfere, like you always do." He slurred his words buried within the snarl that left his lips curling upward like a rabid dog's.
"Get Lana out of here, Remora. Both you and her, stay in Lana's room. Lock the door. Don't come out unless it's me." Benjamin whispered frantically to the nanny, his eyes scanning her visage briefly, taking note of the anguish clearly written within the lines of her face and the fear that shone bright as day within her eyes. She opened her mouth to protest, but Benjamin shook his head sternly. Lana began to sob uncontrollably.
"Come on dear." Remora took hold of Lana's wrist and pulled the young girl away from the corner of the room where they had been herded to by the deranged man. Lana stood her ground, refusing to leave without Benjamin. Tears stained her youthful face.
"Shut the fuck up, child!" Michael-Scott cursed, stumbling forward. "I'll shut your fucking mouth for you."
As he reached Lana and Remora, Benjamin lurched forward, pushing aside his father and giving the duo enough time to make their escape. "You disgust me." Ben spluttered through the anger that flooded his insides. His hands clenched into fists. "How can you say such a thing to a child. A fucking child." An tear slid down his cheek as he confronted his father, a daring feat that a boy his age had to undertake in order to protect the few remnants of his family. It was time for him to grow up, to call himself a man.
"You think you are strong enough to take me, boy? Where's your fucking respect for your father?" He spattered.
Before Michael-Scott could voice another word, Benjamin lunged forward with a powerful fist that connected square with the drunkard's jaw, knocking him back slightly. But this did nothing more than warrant the demonic beast to rear its ugly head with eyes furious and red. "Fucking idiot." Michael-Scott yelled before plunging into Benjamin with a fist of his own, one to the stomach, and one to the side of the boy's head knocking him back so that the sixteen year old staggered back and fell over his own feet, landing on the floor with a loud thud.
The wind was knocked from his lungs and he gasped for breath. Each intake was more excruciating than the next; but the young adolescent wasn't permitted a chance to catch his breath, Michael was on him. He pulled up the adolescent and flung him about, picked him up and drove him into the tables. The few attempts that Benjamin made to fight back were quickly over powered by the raw strength that the director had over his son. The final blow was perhaps the most excruciating of all. Benjamin had turned the fight around and had his father pinned against the wall, throwing punch after punch at the man's face; yet Michael-Scott was a crafty fellow for his fingers reached up to grope about the mantle, until they found the familiar form of the whiskey decanter. Michael smashed it over Ben's head; the liquid gold poured into the boy's eyes and made him yelp like a wounded hound. Instantly he released his father and shrank backward, staggering and stammering about the place, trying to relieve the gnawing sensation digging into his eyes. He rubbed them hard, smearing blood and booze across his face. In the commotion, Benjamin became disorientated; his senses were dulled and the adrenaline of the fight was steering him in a conflicting direction. Before he knew it, he was on his back. Michael-Scott stood knelt over him with a large crystal fragment in his bloodied hand.
"And now... boy..." He gasped. "Comes your lesson..." He pinned Ben's arms with the strength of his thighs while his free hand held tightly onto Ben's head, keeping it still. The crystal cut into the flesh, hacking, tearing, ripping away at the once flawless smoothness around his right eye. Howls of pain, whimpers and sobs escaped the teenager as he struggled against the sheer agony eating away at his very being. He tried to thrash about, yet, he was weak from the previous ordeal; his bones were shattered in a good few places; pain was his mistress. Michael-Scott stood up minutes later, a smug look evident behind the swelling eye and blue-purple patches upon his face as he stared down at the masterpiece created upon his son's now mutilated face. The cherry on top... well... that was the crystal fragment that remained locked within the torn flesh...
Ben continued to stare at himself within the mirror, the bowl of potato salad still clenched within his tightening fists as the events of that Thanksgiving nightmare came to an end within his mind's eye. His eyes focused upon the scar that remained upon his face, a reminder of the "lesson" that was to be learnt that night. He could feel his temper rising at the very thought. He could feel the pain that still sat within the bottom of his stomach, waiting to unleash itself when such memories were brought to life once again. He continued to stare at the scar, his eyes fixated upon it. Reality was distorting, and before he knew it, he was staring directly at Michael-Scott's reflection... A roar erupted from his throat. The potato salad was sent flying toward the wall where the glass bowl shattered into dozens of small, glimmering diamond pieces upon the immaculately clean floor. His breathing became shallow; a lump rose within his throat, and at that moment, Benjamin felt himself sink down with his back against the wall. He sat there, his head buried in his hands, while a silent sob consumed him whole...
Thanksgiving. A time meant to be enjoyed by families and friends alike; a celebration of gratitude for all things some entity has provided throughout the year. By definition, Thanksgiving is defined as an annual national holiday marked by religious observances and a traditional meal. A traditional meal. When was the last time Benjamin Lloyd was given the opportunity to take a seat beside his family members, enjoy the delicious tasting buffet cooked with tender loving care, and share in some laughter with those he called "close" to his heart? The answer to this? Never. Thanksgiving had always been a lie to the eldest of the Lloyd siblings, it was a figment of the imagination. From a young age he had watched those "feel good" movies themed around Thanksgiving, and from year to year, the illusion of the joy and merriment seemed to fade. Life was not full of smiles and laughter. It was filled with pain and a silent anguish. This was a lesson he had been forced to endure the hard way. He had to make his own happiness, he had to achieve it by whatever means necessary. But all hope had not been completely dashed upon the jagged rocks of misery and despair; with the escape from Beverly Hills and the readjustment to life outside the control of their drunken father, a new life had been breathed into the Lloyd family. It was a life unlike one they had experienced before. Of course they had their ups and downs, but at the end of the day, family meant everything. It had been his sister's idea to host a Thanksgiving dinner, to sit down as if they were a normal family without the treacheries of their past lives. She had seemed so bright eyed and eager to gather as a family, Benjamin could not deny her enthusiasm and so agreed to such an event. Dennis, on the other hand, was hesitant and stubborn. But at the end of the day, some convincing was enough to drag the tattooed Lloyd brother to the table; whether or not he would actually arrive at the mansion was another story on its own.
The aromatic smells of food being prepared wafted about the large mansion owned by the mysterious psychologist: Benjamin Lloyd. The young sophisticated man was putting the finishing touches on the gourmet meal he had prepared for his brother and sister to commemorate the start of a tradition he had hoped would endure throughout the years they were all alive. Family was important to him; it was the only source of disillusioned unconventional love he had left. Without them, he wouldn't have survived, and without him, they would never have made it out of that hell hole. He hummed a happy tune to himself as he carted the large stuffed turkey to the open-planned dining room set with fancy trimmings. The food was almost all transferred to the room. All he had left was the large bowl of his special potato salad that would drive the taste buds wild... But first, let me get the knife. He thought to himself as he rummaged within one of the drawers, pulling out a knife that looked identical to the one that was used by his father all those years ago. Yet, the thought only occurred to him when he passed by the mirror, catching a glimpse of his reflection, of the scar that had been etched into his skin. It was ugly. Pink jagged scar tissue had formed in an attempt to heal the old wound. Benjamin found himself rooted to the spot; his mind danced back and forth between the present reality and the past that seemed to be something out of a fictional horror. His thoughts flashed back to that horrid event, the very last Thanksgiving the Lloyd family had been forced to endure...
A younger Benjamin Lloyd could not fully interpret the necessity for Thanksgiving. Not during the year their mother had died. With her gone, things became more violent. Benjamin was often left bruised and bloody after encounters with a drunk Michael-Scott, a father who cared little for his children, who thrived off of controlling people around him and getting his own way. There was nothing to be thankful for; not in the eyes of the developing psychopath, at least. Yet, the family of four were forced to endure the company of one another. A young misfit, a drunkard, a little princess, and a brooding teenager all sat down for the first family meal together after the untimely departure of their loving mother. Silence settled over the table. None uttered a single word. Michael-Scott, the father figure that resorted to violence at almost every instance he could, swigged back another glass of golden whiskey, smacking his lips together once the liquid had been polished off. An unsavory hiccup perturbed his diaphragm; Benjamin greeted the notion with a look of disgust.
"What is it boy?" Michael sneered, his fingers reaching for the almost emptied bottle that was never far away. "Never heard a man's sound before?" His fingers closed tight around the bottle, drawing it closer to his body. Clang. Clang. Clang. The lip of the crystalline whiskey bottle was continuously knocked against the rounded tumbler attached to their father's arm. Eventually, the golden poison sloshed its way into the glass. "Now. Carve the turkey. Yes. Shall I let ol' Benny boy do the honors? Nah, I don't think so... He's not a man yet. He'll fuck the whole thing up, like he does with everything." A loud snorting chortle escaped his lips as he stood up abruptly from his seat, knocking the chair back. While he stood, he swayed slightly from side to side, the motions becoming more distinctive as each second passed. A sickened smirk twisted onto his lips as that menacing glimmer was found in those eerie black beetle-like eyes. A few moments later, once he seemed to have regained his composure, Michael-Scott stumbled his way toward the middle of the table placing a hand on Lana's head as he stretched over the table to hold the knife in his hand. "See my pretty princess... This is going to cut that into tiny little pieces." He brought the knife closer toward the little girl, who was only about seven years old at the time. With that mad look in his dilated eyes, no one could anticipate his next move. Often in this state, Michael-Scott would not hesitate plunging that knife into something other than a dumb bird who had had the misfortune of ending up on someone's table for Thanksgiving dinner. And this fact shocked Benjamin all too much. With wide silver-blue eyes, Ben looked from his father to his brother; Dennis, as usual, sat with his head down earphones lodged in his ears blasting some reckless music loud as ever. But who could blame him, really? Michael-Scott had done far too much damage to ever earn the respect of his two sons; the girl was still innocent, but the boys would never let him lay a hand on her.
Seeing Dennis unresponsive, Benjamin stood up abruptly; instantly he could feel the eyes of his siblings fall upon him; shock and surprise laced within their features. "Father, I think that is quite enough. Your actions are inappropriate for a girl Lana's age." Benjamin spoke firmly; his newly toned voice rang clear through the silence of the house, reverberating about the empty halls and corridors locked within the mansion in Beverly Hills.
"Oho? Look who decided to step up to the plate. Benjamin Lloyd." Michael-Scott straightened his frame, his eyes grew darker by the second. He flung the knife around in the air. "Coming here with your fancy talk bullshit. Trying to make me look stupid. I'll tell you something boy... I'll teach you some respect..." He stumbled toward Benjamin with a knife still flailing about in the air, looking hungry for whatever flesh it could carve into upon the evening.
"I meant no disrespect father." Benjamin quickly added, dropping his gaze and instead allowing his eyes to wander toward the innocent frame of his sister, whose eyes were wide with horror. A tear was slowly starting to form in the corner of her baby blue orbs. Benjamin took in a gulp of air before he allowed his gaze to drift toward his father who had stopped a short distance from where the young teenager sat, he swayed drastically from left to right to left again. His face had suddenly turned extremely pale. He doubled over, and before anyone could have fled the room, a spurt of gold liquid and bile vomit was spewed from his alcoholic tainted lips. Not long after that, Michael-Scott passed out right there, on the dining room floor, leaving the four children in a stunned silence.
"Forget this horseshit. I'm outta here." A young Dennis sighed with exasperation dripping from his voice. With that he kicked back his chair and slunk out of the room and toward the front door, leaving to embark on his own Thanksgiving adventures within the night. For Benjamin and Lana, however, they could not escape so easily. Instantly, Benjamin left his place and went to his sister's side, placing a warm arm around her shoulder.
"How about we take all this food, call Remora and have a tea party in your room." He smiled down at her, rubbing her arm affectionately. She giggled and quickly darted out of the room. He could hear her footsteps drumming up the stairs and towards Remora's quarters. The smile did not fade quickly; instead it only grew as he gathered the knife, the bird, and the few bowls of salad and began to make his way up the stairs.
That night two of the Lloyd siblings enjoyed a Thanksgiving dinner unlike one that would usually be expected; Benjamin and the house nanny (Remora) sat around a small pink plastic table on miniature chairs surrounded by a gathering of stuffed animals and toys absurdly dressed that only a child's mind could find attractive. They laughed and shared jokes with one another, like any true family would; they expressed their sympathies for the passing of their mother and finally gave thanks that they still had each other in this dreadful world.
"It will all get better soon, my pets." Remora had said with a sad smile upon her aging lips as she dished up the deserts. "You will see; time will eat at your father and you two will grow healthy and strong, and will have the chance to get away from your father. When that time comes, you must take it and not look back." A note of seriousness hugged at her tone of voice, before a smile danced upon her lips once again as she shoved a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, laughing as some of it was smudged on her nose. Both Lana and Benjamin soon followed suit, smearing ice cream on their noses and sending out echoes of merriment that lit the gloom of the Lloyd house up like a Christmas tree; yet, little did they know, their shouts and laughter of glee had awoken the sleeping beast, the demon that was infested with a poison unlike any other. Michael-Scott's eyes whipped open quickly; his eyes looked around the room to find the food was missing and so were his children. He rose to his feet, slowly at first. The alcohol had not left his system; leaving him swaying and stumbling. He mumbled curses under his foul breath. His eyes were alight like wild fire left to spread over the woodlands; a heated anger had erupted within his belly like the volcanoes still active on the island, and the more laughter carried down to his ears, the more his head throbbed with fury. He staggered his way to the foot of the stairs, and was about to begin the ascent when he stepped on something hard and spiky; a howl of pain erupted from the drunken animal. Dazed and unstable, the director stumbled back, missed the footing on the stair, and found himself on the floor within the matter of a few short breaths. A growl erupted from his throat; his eyes saw red. "LANA. REMORA. GET DOWN HERE NOW!" He shouted as loud as house-quaking thunder. "NOW!" He repeated, pulling himself up, supporting his weight against the wall. He changed his course, limping toward the living room where a fresh bottle of bourbon stood on the mantle among two crystal tumbler glasses. He wrenched it open and took a swig from the bottle, not bothering to pour the strong alcohol out first. "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU TWO? I SAID NOW!" He shouted again, before taking another large gulp of the bronze-gold poison.
In a few seconds, Lana and Remora stood beneath the arch of the living room. Remora stood behind Lana with her head down and her hands neatly crossed in front of her legs. Lana, on the other hand, still held a large smile on her face. The ice cream still smudged across the tip of her nose. "What the fuck is that?" Michael pointed toward the white cream.
"It's nothing, sir." Remora hastily replied, wiping away the desert from the child's nose.
"It was something." Michael eyed her suspiciously, clumsily prowling closer to the duo that stood there.
"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" Remora asked genially, her gaze still averted so as not to meet the demonic eyes that glared at the two.
"Help me with? HELP ME WITH?" Michael began, the growl erupting from his throat again. "Do you know I almost broke my fucking ankle?"
"No sir. How did that happen?" Remora made the mistake of lifting her eyes, shifting her gaze to stare directly into the beetle orbs of the drunken man that forced her to call him master.
"Because you are not doing your fucking job." He hissed, leaning close to her. Remora put a protective hand on Lana's shoulder, pulling the child back and away from the stench of Michael-Scott's breath. "Lana leaves her toys all over the place. Leaves them for ME TO STAND ON." He lurched forward and grabbed the young girl's arm; he raised an open hand up.
Remora flinched, and cried out: "Please sir, don't. She's just a little child. She didn't mean to..."
"So who is to blame then? YOU? Do YOU need to be punished?"
Benjamin could hear the entire ordeal unfolding from within Lana's room as he started clearing away the plastic cutlery and dishes they had enjoyed their own Thanksgiving meal on; a frown licked upon his brow as he heard the dangerous note hidden within Michael Scott's growling voice that rolled across the hallways like thunder drummed against the sky when frightful storm was looming in the distance. Benjamin was rooted to the spot; his heart started to thump within his chest adding to the cacophony of noise starting to rumble from the downstairs area. A lump rose to his throat, one that would not be quenched by mere swallowing. His breath became shallow. After Michael-Scott's last words were spoken, when an unsettling silence fell upon the air, Benjamin could only conjure the darkest of images to mind, images that made him flinch from sheer terror. It was then that the adrenaline was injected into his system, that the urge of fight or flight settled within his body wreaking havoc on his conscious. Within a heartbeat, his mind was made up and Benjamin Lloyd found himself sprinting down the stairs in pursuit of the source of the deadly silence that had settled on the house. He stopped just short of the dining room that still stank of the alcoholic upchuck from earlier. A scream pierced the air followed by a loud thwack; Benjamin turned around and ran down the corridor before taking a right toward the living room. He came to a halt as he saw Michael-Scott standing over Remora with his belt raised high over his head. Shock froze his blood cold. His eyes were buried behind a scowl of contempt, resentment, disgust, and most other negative emotions associated with sheer hatred. He rushed forward and grappled onto Michael's arm as he was about to bring it down onto the poor nanny with an unforgiving force. "I won't let you do it." Benjamin yelled at his father, pushing him away from Remora and helping the matured lady to her feet.
Michael-Scott Lloyd, famous director, stumbled slightly backward. His eyes were glazed over; the bottle of bourbon lay on its side upon the sofa with liquid poison seeping into the cushion. The room stank of sweat and booze. A smirk twisted over his lips, a sadistic look that could make anyone's blood curdle at the very sight. "And here you are, m'boy. Here you are to interfere, like you always do." He slurred his words buried within the snarl that left his lips curling upward like a rabid dog's.
"Get Lana out of here, Remora. Both you and her, stay in Lana's room. Lock the door. Don't come out unless it's me." Benjamin whispered frantically to the nanny, his eyes scanning her visage briefly, taking note of the anguish clearly written within the lines of her face and the fear that shone bright as day within her eyes. She opened her mouth to protest, but Benjamin shook his head sternly. Lana began to sob uncontrollably.
"Come on dear." Remora took hold of Lana's wrist and pulled the young girl away from the corner of the room where they had been herded to by the deranged man. Lana stood her ground, refusing to leave without Benjamin. Tears stained her youthful face.
"Shut the fuck up, child!" Michael-Scott cursed, stumbling forward. "I'll shut your fucking mouth for you."
As he reached Lana and Remora, Benjamin lurched forward, pushing aside his father and giving the duo enough time to make their escape. "You disgust me." Ben spluttered through the anger that flooded his insides. His hands clenched into fists. "How can you say such a thing to a child. A fucking child." An tear slid down his cheek as he confronted his father, a daring feat that a boy his age had to undertake in order to protect the few remnants of his family. It was time for him to grow up, to call himself a man.
"You think you are strong enough to take me, boy? Where's your fucking respect for your father?" He spattered.
Before Michael-Scott could voice another word, Benjamin lunged forward with a powerful fist that connected square with the drunkard's jaw, knocking him back slightly. But this did nothing more than warrant the demonic beast to rear its ugly head with eyes furious and red. "Fucking idiot." Michael-Scott yelled before plunging into Benjamin with a fist of his own, one to the stomach, and one to the side of the boy's head knocking him back so that the sixteen year old staggered back and fell over his own feet, landing on the floor with a loud thud.
The wind was knocked from his lungs and he gasped for breath. Each intake was more excruciating than the next; but the young adolescent wasn't permitted a chance to catch his breath, Michael was on him. He pulled up the adolescent and flung him about, picked him up and drove him into the tables. The few attempts that Benjamin made to fight back were quickly over powered by the raw strength that the director had over his son. The final blow was perhaps the most excruciating of all. Benjamin had turned the fight around and had his father pinned against the wall, throwing punch after punch at the man's face; yet Michael-Scott was a crafty fellow for his fingers reached up to grope about the mantle, until they found the familiar form of the whiskey decanter. Michael smashed it over Ben's head; the liquid gold poured into the boy's eyes and made him yelp like a wounded hound. Instantly he released his father and shrank backward, staggering and stammering about the place, trying to relieve the gnawing sensation digging into his eyes. He rubbed them hard, smearing blood and booze across his face. In the commotion, Benjamin became disorientated; his senses were dulled and the adrenaline of the fight was steering him in a conflicting direction. Before he knew it, he was on his back. Michael-Scott stood knelt over him with a large crystal fragment in his bloodied hand.
"And now... boy..." He gasped. "Comes your lesson..." He pinned Ben's arms with the strength of his thighs while his free hand held tightly onto Ben's head, keeping it still. The crystal cut into the flesh, hacking, tearing, ripping away at the once flawless smoothness around his right eye. Howls of pain, whimpers and sobs escaped the teenager as he struggled against the sheer agony eating away at his very being. He tried to thrash about, yet, he was weak from the previous ordeal; his bones were shattered in a good few places; pain was his mistress. Michael-Scott stood up minutes later, a smug look evident behind the swelling eye and blue-purple patches upon his face as he stared down at the masterpiece created upon his son's now mutilated face. The cherry on top... well... that was the crystal fragment that remained locked within the torn flesh...
Ben continued to stare at himself within the mirror, the bowl of potato salad still clenched within his tightening fists as the events of that Thanksgiving nightmare came to an end within his mind's eye. His eyes focused upon the scar that remained upon his face, a reminder of the "lesson" that was to be learnt that night. He could feel his temper rising at the very thought. He could feel the pain that still sat within the bottom of his stomach, waiting to unleash itself when such memories were brought to life once again. He continued to stare at the scar, his eyes fixated upon it. Reality was distorting, and before he knew it, he was staring directly at Michael-Scott's reflection... A roar erupted from his throat. The potato salad was sent flying toward the wall where the glass bowl shattered into dozens of small, glimmering diamond pieces upon the immaculately clean floor. His breathing became shallow; a lump rose within his throat, and at that moment, Benjamin felt himself sink down with his back against the wall. He sat there, his head buried in his hands, while a silent sob consumed him whole...