since the pandemic, travis had felt almost invincible. he'd beaten the virus, as well as kept up with the sharp increase in clientele. what hadn't survived was his inventory. most of the coffins sold at king's funerals were hand-crafted, but he'd buried so many during that time that it exhausted his entire stock. he'd even had to outsource and buy a few, and he was still struggling to keep up.

with a little free time on his hands, he'd decided to work on his orders and fire up the ol' sander. a little time turned into a few hours, and before he knew it the clock read 2 AM.

he could hear the building's back door open and close, at first thinking nothing of it. it was bo coming in to clock out, or maybe lee had forgotten something. . . but steps started to slowly descend the staircase, and a thick, eerie presence weighed down the air around the mortician.

there was only one man travis knew that carried an energy this potently dreadful.

the footsteps neared, that draining feeling only intensifying until it peaked as the door to the cluttered workshop popped open. a tall, unsettling looking man with sharp features and unforgiving golden eyes stepped inside, not bothering with pleasantries. he was dressed in an expensive looking, exquisitely tailored suit, his hands tucked into the pockets. "mister king."

"mister morrison! you know, i've been so g'damn busy, i forgot to--"

"save it. i have no time for your excuses. it has been three months, mister king. you're lucky i have not shut your little sh*t show down," morrison practically hissed, taking a step closer. his eyes almost appeared to be glowing, gaze resting upon the other male's, waiting for him to meet it.

travis absolutely would not look him in the eye under any circumstances. he wasn't normally one to shy away from eye contact, but he had learned the hard way that this guy was. . . different. there was something about his stare. it was fire and ice. piercing. hypnotizing. it unlocked some ancient, primal fear within him, and he often found himself in a state of shock. trapped within his own body, unable to look away. he kept partially fixated on his work; any excuse to keep his head down, "yer right. m'sorry. i don't have all of it, but i got mo--"

"i am the r e a s o n you are here. i have made your dreams a reality. without me, you wouldn't be running this business. you would be buried here." another step closer, now only a couple feet away, dress shoe tapping on the concrete floor. his accent was strange. travis had never been able to place it.

"just wait here, elias. i'll go get--"

"you will go get a l l o f i t. do you think i'm an idiot? you somehow have all of this money for drugs. money to gallivant around to every bar in town. money to gamble away. . . where is my money, travis? look at me." burning golden gaze hadn't wavered. he hadn't blinked, voice dripping with rage.

"i'm only a coulpe thousand short," still absently sanding away at the side of a coffin, "if you give me 'til noon tomorrow, i'll drop it off to your assistant."

"I said look at me," tone had changed, now almost inhuman. it was as if a thousand screaming voices were trying to escape from behind it. a vice grip took hold of the mortician's arm and yanked him around so the two of them were face to face, his free hand balling into a fist that was driven hard into concave abdomen, just below his ribcage.

travis doubled over, wheezing, but he was brought back up by long, spidery fingers that gripped his face and drew him closer. morrison leaned in so closely that his lips nearly grazed his underling's ear as he spoke. "this is not the first time you and i have had this conversation. . . but it will be the last. tomorrow, at noon, if you haven't paid me. . . i am taking another toe -- in fact, from this day forward, in lieu of this same boring, repeated conversation, each time, you will lose another."

he still hadn't recovered from that first blow, having a hard time finding his breath, but he still refused to meet those eyes.

"keep that in mind, mister king." digits slipped back into the pocket of his slacks, wrapping around something concealed. he could feel the level of panic in his victim rise once he'd realized, but it was too late.

before travis could utter a word of protest, a stout knife had plunged into his gut and all of the air was sucked out of him once again.

elias released him, allowing his limp form to hit the floor, blade slipping out in the process. a puddle of blood was quickly expanding over the hard surface. the strangled sound his prey had made was almost a cause for arousal.  "clean yourself up, doctor," he spat, "i'll see you tomorrow."

with that, he made his exit, wiping blood away with a handkerchief, leaving travis to pick up the pieces.

at a very young age, travis became a protector. three days before his sixth birthday, his little brother franklin was born. he spent that weekend in the hospital with his mother, waiting on her hand and foot in his father's absence, listening to everything the nurses had to say about the new addition to the family. he learned how to mix the baby formula, how to change diapers, how to correctly hold him. . . it wasn't how he'd imagined spending his birthday. it was better. the nurses doted on him. such a good big brother, learning how to help with the baby. he ate more in those three days than he had all month, and received more praise than he had his entire life.

it was a short-lived vacation from the normal horrors. 

frankie wasn't like travis. he was shy. quiet. their father had always called him 'soft'. . . and they had always called their father a slave driver. it felt as if he'd only wanted kids for the free labor. most of the younger's care quickly became his brother's responsibility, and a lot of his time was spent keeping him alive and distracting their old man.

frankie made a mess? 
travis broke a window, and took the beating. 

frankie failed a class?
travis got suspended for calling a teacher a 'cock-nosed motherf***er', then throwing a chair at him from across the room,
and took the beating. 

the pattern repeated over and over, that old crotchety fart never seeming to catch on. . . or maybe he did, but didn't care. he just wanted something to hit, and travis (with his low pain tolerance) made enough of a fuss to give him his fix while his mother disassociated in the next room.

he saved food from his lunch at school, and stole anything he could from local corner stores to feed the two of them. if there wasn't enough, he went without. weekends were hard, but summers were the hardest. daddy was at work, the bar, the strip club, the casino. mommy wouldn't look at them. cabinets were kept locked. the boys disappeared for days on end sometimes; camping out in the woods, getting lost in the trees with their friends. . . the police would always eventually spot them and bring them back home, but they were out getting into more trouble within the hour.

those were the memories travis preferred to focus on.
telling dumb stories over a probably hazardous 'campfire'
climbing trees
collecting bugs
building forts out of scrap
stick-sword fights

but for some reason. . . trauma and negative emotion stick more potently than anything else.
fear
longing
hunger
the way his father grinned when he drew blood
his mother's vacant stare
violent bruises
the needle hanging out of frankie's arm when travis found him dead at twenty-three in their shared apartment
the stranger in the casket at his funeral

he felt like he'd lost a son that day, and he'd never been the same.  it had derailed his entire life and brought him down a dark path for years. . . but now it serves as a reminder.

the old man will drop whatever he's doing to help anyone in need because of that one time he didn't, and lost everything.