Drake took me into his room. It was small, like mine, and a little lower into the floor than the rest of the house, like it was a cupboard under a stairwell without the stairwell. I couldn't imagine what he'd do if a flood happened. All over his walls were drawings, pinned up by tacks. Some were of him as a vampire, some as an astronaut, some of naked girls too crudely rendered to be obscene. In a lot of them, he was kissing the girls, and sometimes boys. It looked like he then added bows to the boys, to avoid suspicion from his parents. Directly on his floor was a bare mattress, with a blanket thrown on top. Scattered around it were small wooden cars, and playing cards. It looked like the bedroom of a little boy, not a thirteen-year-old.
I said, "You could use a bit of redecorating, huh? Get yourself a frame for that mattress."
He shook his head. "Fuck you, it's MY room. I'll do whatever I want with it!"
Drake dug through his dresser, and took out a bottle of scotch. Now that I knew what it was for, I knew that Drake had been appropriating it from his dad in secret.
"Are you offering? Because I'm not interested," I told him.
Drake casually opened the bottle, and it looked like he was going to drink. Then, in an instant, he lunged over and grabbed me by the waist, bringing the bottle up to my lips and forcing the drink into my mouth. I choked and spat it out, and it spilled on my shirt. He smiled at me, and tried to go for my neck. So I punched him in the face, as hard as I could. He staggered back, and slipped on a toy car, sending him backwards, and he hit his head on his dresser. He held it in agony, curled up in a ball.
"What is WRONG with you?" he cried. "All I'm trying to DO is SHARE with you, you BITCH! What do I have to do, pinkie swear?!"
I shook my head, pitying him. "You didn't ask, Drake. That's all you have to do, is ask. And when I tell you 'no', that's what I mean. It's not in code, I'm not playing games. I really do mean 'no'."
"Don't LECTURE me," he whined. "You're not my MOM, or my DAD."
"Good, I wouldn't want you to tell everyone I was dead," I growled.
"I never said she was DEAD, I just..."
"Let me BELIEVE it so you didn't HAVE to."
He was silent.
I sighed. "Do you remember in Grade Five, when that kid fell off the playground, and you rushed over to help, because he was crying and hurt?"
"No," he groaned.
"I do. See, I get hurt all the time, so I didn't think it was a big deal. I figured he'd get over it. But you got pissed off at me, you yelled at me, 'What's wrong with you? Can't you see that this kid is hurt?' And honestly, I couldn't believe the attention that kid got. People swarmed us, and a teacher even came over to pick him up and bandage his bruise, all for a little tumble off the jungle gym! And the whole time, I thought I was the jerk for not seeing how bad it really was. Everyone looked at me like that, too, because of how you yelled at me. Like I was some kind of... monster, without feelings."
"Yeah, that's about right," Drake responded. "All I'm trying to do is have fun, and you're the big dumb tank trying to stop me. Of course you wouldn't care if a little kid was hurt."
"But I'm not a tank, Drake. Haven't you heard? I'm The Grim Dragon. My job is to tell you when your time is up. To haunt your space, like a shadow of teeth and scales."
"I'm not dying," he laughed. "If anyone's gonna die, it's you. You can't kill me, not with my mom and dad here."
"That doesn't just mean dying – it also means when it's time to stop the fun and games, and take things seriously. What I saw in that moment was the preservation of youth, and a world without pain. That was why I couldn't sympathize – because I grew up a long time ago. And it's time for you to grow up, too."
Drake stood up, supporting himself on the dresser. "I AM grown up, YOU'RE the little kid!"
I leaned against the wall. "Look at your room, Drake. Look around you. Does this look like a grown-up's room to you?"
Drake looked around, seeing nothing. "It's fine! It's MY ROOM-"
I insisted, "Drake, LOOK."
And for the first time, he saw it. The little kid's dresser, painted bright green with flowers on the sides. The scribbled drawings. The toy cars, and the tiny mattress. Like a toddler's play-room. If he was trying to be Dracula, then THIS was the coffin he slept in, to hide from the sun.
His eyes went wide with shock, and he started to sob. He was beginning to grasp shame. Finally, something had breached his vaccuum seal. A new idea had found its way into his space, and he didn't like it one bit. "You can't- you can't say that about me, that's not fair. I don't go to YOUR house, and... and..."
I sighed, hands on my hips. I was done playing 'dark mistress', or whatever, trying to spook him into sense. I spoke plainly. "But I'm only here because you framed me. You brought me here, don't you get that? What you did at that game, where you pushed everyone around? That was worse than a little tumble. You HURT your own FRIENDS. That's not even STARTING to talk about what you did to all of those kids in the DARK. You think people don't go to JAIL for things like that? The only way you've been getting away with it is by smoke-screening with bible talk, and pinning the blame on ME. You asked for trouble, and so HERE IT IS."
"THEN GET OUT!!"
He jolted to the wall, and started tearing his drawings down, right off the tacks. He kicked his little cars into a corner, as hard as he could. He crumpled the paper into a ball, and threw it onto his bed.
Finally, Richard seemed to notice, and he burst inside.
"Drake, what's wrong? I heard screams, and banging!" He was genuinely concerned for his son.
Drake yelled, as hard as he could, "GO AWAY, DAD! I HATE YOU! I HATE ALL OF YOU! WHY DON'T YOU GO DRINK YOURSELF TO DEATH?!"
Richard wagged his finger at Drake, "Now, my boy, that's no way to talk to your father. You're lucky I don't intend to get violent with you, but that doesn't mean you're getting dinner if you keep this up."
That was when Drake took a matchbook from his pocket, struck a match, and threw it onto his bed. The flame caught the scribbled drawings, and ignited with a flash.
"What are you doing?!" Richard cried.
Drake smiled, as the flames consumed his bed. Smoke filled the room, and I squeezed past Richard to escape. Richard ran past me to grab water from the dish sink with a big pot, and he ran back to throw it on the mattress. It showered the flame, and the flame was extinguished. As steam rose from the smoldering bed, Drake laughed, his arms crossed with satisfaction.

I tried to explain it was all Drake, but Richard didn't believe me. He realized that I must have lied about being let out, and felt betrayed that I had shared dinner with them only to antagonize their son. Richard took me by the jacket out the back door, so Marya wouldn't see, and put me in his truck. He drove me back to school.
"It wasn't my fault-" I started, but Richard didn't want to hear it.
Indignant, he started ranting. "We fed you because we believed you could change, that no matter how bad you were on the outside, that you could be good on the inside. I see now we were wrong."
"No, sir, I just-"
"You took advantage of us, and you're a bad influence on my son. You belong in that room, locked away. And I'm never making you manti, ever again."

He threw me back in detention, where Jules was eating his last frozen yogurt. Richard had bound my hands with rope, to make sure I couldn't set anything else ablaze.
Jules looked at the booze on my shirt, and smelled the smoke in the air. He wafted it away from his nose. "That must have gone well."

So, I waited for Mr. Fly to return. He'd been at a conference. He looked me up and down, angry and ashamed. "I've heard what you've done. Sneaking out of detention to attack a troubled boy in his own bedroom... you're despicable."
"It was-"
"No, no more lies. You're going to be expelled," he stated with finality. "You bring shame to our Coach's family, your own parents, and the whole school. Maybe even the entire town. We'll be pressing criminal charges, along with the parents of your victims, as I mentioned. You should expect a STORM of consequences coming your way."
"I can explai-"
"Don't bother. You were caught in the act this time, you monster. I hope you get locked up for life."
"WAIT!" shouted Drake, bursting into the room. "I have heard your decree, my principal and superior, but I beg of thee by God, let us redeem him but one small ray of light in our Lord's hallowed halls, and let the PEOPLE decide his fate."
"What are you on about?" Mr. Fly demanded, frazzled by the sudden intrusion. "He tried to burn your house down!"
"Yes, his hellfire licked my shelter, and I forgive him. I understand now, that he is sick – his disease is the specter inside him, which compels him to act so heartlessly. Does not The Grim Dragon see life as no more than wheat in the chaff? And as a vampire, does he not see blood much the same?" Drake quizzed, dramatically.
"I suppose...?" Mr. Fly responded in confusion. "You mean to say..."
"Yes, Claude! We must perform an exorcism, to CURE the VAMPIRE SCOURGE! To RID his SOUL of the GRIM SPIRIT WITHIN!" He finished speaking, and huffed to catch his breath.
Mr. Fly scoffed. "I highly doubt he has any true supernatural ailments, and I'm certain that prison can hold him."
Drake shook his head vigorously. "No, no, no, Mr. Fly! We must know better, as men of God! This is the work of the Evil one, his horseman sent above to take this young boy's place! As we speak, his soul burns in Hell! But WE can SAVE HIM!"
"Horseman? Remind me why we're calling him both Death AND a vampire," Mr. Fly complained.
Drake froze. He concocted an excuse, out of whatever spare parts he had left from all his other ones. "Because... that's what vampires are, in a way. Skeletons, with terrible fangs, that drink you dry until they're flesh again. It makes complete sense when you think about it."
Mr. Fly cried, "Skeletons?! He's already flesh and blood! You're not making sense at all!"
"But does his father not have a skeletal disorder? That is what I heard. He said that his bones ache, and creak, is that not true?"
Drake looked at me, and I wasn't about to get involved. At this point, I was just waiting for both of them to go away.
Mr. Fly nodded. "Actually, I did read that in his file. I believe it was juvenile osteoporosis, if I'm not mistaken. You're suggesting that his son's blood-lust is related?"
Uh-oh. At that very moment, my knees started to hurt. I wanted to stretch my legs, but I also didn't want to feed them any more ammo. My pained expression worked against me.
Drake grinned, his newest plan starting to work. "Yes, yes exactly! Blood comes from the bones, as we learn in science! He must be drinking blood to try and heal his bones! All we need do is exorcise the Evil from him, and I bet his illness will fade in no time!" He was really excited, now.
"This is highly unorthodox, Drake."
"Nothing could be more orthodox, in my humble opinion." Drake bowed.
I facepalmed. "Just send me to juvie."
"You see?!" Drake cried. "Prison is no punishment for him, it is refuge among his kind. He is so young, Claude. Let's give him a second chance at life."
"I don't know..." Mr. Fly hesitated.
"If it works, we can save thousands of his future victims. That honor will fall to you from the very heavens, Claude... or should I say, Saint Claude Fly?"
Mr. Fly's gaze brightened, and he looked up out his window at the burning sun, which glistened at the snow below. "Yes... I have always been a man of God, hiding my faith for an ignorant world. It is time to save a soul."
"Magnificent," Drake grinned.
"Now tell me, what will you need?" Mr. Fly asked. "When should it happen?"
"We will use the stage, in the gymnasium, after lunch. When the evil is purged, I will ring the bell up top. He must be kept in place, or I fear he may grow feral."
"Understood. Then do what you must." Mr. Fly let Drake take me by the arm, out of his office. "I'll be there when it starts," he told us.
At that moment, I knew not even my parents could save me from whatever Drake had in mind. I told him to grow up, and he did – from a baby monster into a bigger one.

Drake took me to the gym, and had his bible flock help him set up. They pulled out a prop from their Salem Trials production – a burning stake, surrounded by cardboard flames. They tied me to it, and Drake laughed triumphantly.
"Perfect!" Drake declared. "That is how I like to see my harlots – in flames."
Some of the bible kids laughed, but I glared at them and they shut right up.
Drake came close, and whispered: "Your girlfriend is going to love me." He breathed a latent cloud of vodka and blood my way, left-over from an earlier drinking session on the surface of his tongue.
"What are you planning now?" I demanded. "If you really believed in Divine Power, you'd never get out of bed. Not with the blood on your hands."
"You don't get to know, sorry." Drake shrugged as he walked off-stage. His flock turned off the lights on their way out, leaving me in pitch black. I stared ahead, and struggled against ropes for an hour, unsuccessfully. My situation was looking hopeless.