The heavy death metal coming from his headphones, would deafen a weaker man. But this was Zax life. He lived it, and loved it. The whole idea of the music, the scene, the outside world having a voice. That was Zax through, and through. That’s what he told himself, at least.
Zax was 30 years old now, and still stayed in his mom’s basement. She needed the extra help these days, with his dirtball father gone. Mom was old now. Menial tasks became a challenge. Zax helped, so she loved having him there. She had no problem with it. Though she noticed how closed off he was, but not much else. Zax was different. Always had been, but now that school was out of the equation, he felt more like himself.
Zax never had a girlfriend, got an A on a paper, or had a real friend for that matter. He was broken, and everyone knew it. Even himself, but he wouldn’t let that keep him down. He felt valuable, but the world was yet to see it. Soon enough, more than the world would know Zax, God would know him.
The blaring music increases speed as Zax continues his nightly rituals. The painted pentagram on the floor, followed by candles, and of course his satanic bible. The music was turned down once these preparations were finished. For the next three hours Zax prayed to his lord in his mother’s home.
It was always the late hours when mother was asleep that this would take place. He feared her irrational judgement, due to her Catholic worship.
He honestly didn’t know what it was he was doing, or if it was being done correctly. He proceeded anyways, every night. The outcome would haunt poor Zax forever.
Zax started to hear voices inside his music, and it wasn’t the singer. He would feel his neck hairs stand, and cold air when it was hot. He had a guy feeling something was wrong. He didn’t want to tell anyone though. He knew what they’d all think. Even though he was sure they already thought that.
He tries to avoid his nightly rituals. It seems like he’s forced to now. Even more than before. So he continues, deep down knowing what’s happening.
Zax start to hear the voices so clearly now, that he knows what they’re saying “Run” over and over. They repeat it. It’s no longer a single voice. “Run” being screamed by a choir almost. He doesn’t know why he should be running. So Zax doesn’t heed the warning.
A few days have passed since anything as obscure as the voices has happened. Zax continues his rituals even. He isn’t happy though, he would rather be fearful of these things then for them not to expose themselves at all. His night comes quickly. So he prepares to set the stakes as high as possible. This night was special to him. It was his birthday, what better day to soon a demon. So Zax prepares all the usual ritualistic items. Placing them inside and around the pentagram painted on the floor.
He begins praying to his book with his eyes slammed shut. Tonight he will take a risk, with hopes of rewards. So Zax takes the sharpest kitchen knife he found, and slits his wrists. The draining of his veins fill the pentagram, covering the book, and even splashing out candles. Zax never opened his eyes. Not that night, not ever again.
His mother was wheelchair bound, and couldn’t get to his bedroom, ever. She merely thought he was keeping to himself, as he usually did. She eventually phoned a terminator herself because of the smell. She thought raccoons or something died in the attic. Later she finds out it was her son rotting away from his bleak choices.
Zax was cremated, and scattered in his back yard, since his mom couldn’t travel much. It was his childhood home anyways.
So as Zax peered out the door window at his mother scattering his ashes by a broken swing set, he knew all hell was about to break loose.