“I thought my parents were fighting.” Our pink tinted pixie says as the sharing continues. “They did that. A lot. Mom would say something to get him really sparked and it would go back and forth until she hit below the belt. Verbally. They never actually hit each other. Mom’s words did more damage anyway than any blow she could land. She was a peach like that. Dad would storm out and come back hours later, smelling of smoke and that same perfume that always caused him to smile. Mom never had a come back to that smile.”
“Anyway, there they were, Dad on top of her, holding her down and choking her. I thought, this was it. All these years, it has finally come to it. I was screaming for him to get off her and he kept telling me to go back to my room. “Go upstairs Amelia.” Just like when I was a kid and they would start in on each other. “Go upstairs, Amelia.”
Though I had just had the exact same dinner as she, I could not recognize the vegetative substance on her plate. Even as she used it to paint green abstract art style patterns, her eyes never focus. Not the way the eyes of everyone around her are now focusing. We stare at the small woman among us with unrestrained sorrow. When Evil dances with a male, it is more bearable than when it chooses such a partner as she.
“She was making these sounds and really fighting. She just couldn’t reach him no matter how much she struggled. He was just sitting there choking her as if it was the same as reading the Sunday paper. No emotions at all. I went and got the little gun Mom kept in her nightstand. I was just going to threaten him, like they show on those shows, and the man always backs down. He wouldn’t though. Just kept telling me “It’s not what it looks like.” “Go to your room.” over and over. I kept screaming for him to stop and he kept screaming at me to go. I don’t know how. It just went off. It was so fast that I didn’t even understand what had happened at first. He was yelling and then he was down. But it was OK. I was just protecting Mom, so it was OK. Till she started eating him.”
She stands up from the table, taking her new modern art piece to the sink and making Marxx wince with her proximity. Losing her own emotional battle, she still reaches out to comfort Marxx before turning to leave the room. Our gentle pink pixie is broken and retreating.
“He was never hurting Mom. I shot the wrong one.”
Chapter 19
The days at the cabin are mind numbingly uneventful. There are no more confessionals at dinner. There are times when the conversation lapses and those that have confessed their sins look to those of us that still hold on to theirs. We keep neutral faces as if oblivious to what they are looking for in us.
Then there are nights when I swear I can hear Lilly’s laughter. Her small feet dance across the wooden floors of the hallway in a swirl of white nightgown and blonde hair. Her tiny hands clapping along to a song only she can hear in her joy-filled moment. I watch her and my heart refills with hope. She notices me standing there in my silent worship of her and smiles at me with her shining blue eyes.
The room fills with the perfume of her baby shampoo and soap causing me to lose myself in the innocence of her. She never says a word to me, but her laughter fills conversations with my soul, and I forget how to breathe for a moment. I can feel her fragile hand in my own as peace with all that has happened begins to be wash over me. I want to stay like this forever, but even as I drown in the joy of it, I know something is wrong.
It starts so slowly. A small spreading of color against her all white floor-length gown that begins to take a life of its own. It coats her before dripping to the floor with a thick sound. Her smile never falters as her gown becomes soaked with the crimson. It never falters as her body crumples before me like a porcelain puppet with its strings brutally cut. It never falters as her baby blue eyes lose their light. It never falters as I wake screaming, still clutching her fragile hand in my own.
Some nights I scream her name. Other nights I just wordlessly scream. Every night I stare at my own hand, so empty now. Aimes is always there to talk me down. Lawless comes in some nights to hold me until I can sleep again. My tears become a lake of regrets upon his shirt as he shelters me in the strength of his arms. I become a small child holding on to the belief of magic, and I pray that he will keep the monsters away, while the sound of his heartbeat sings me to sleep. To their credit, they never ask what I see when my eyes close. They never question my demons. We just wait until the dawn comes to chase them away.
“Who do you think this place really belongs to?” Aimes asks from behind the wide-styled sunglasses that she swears is the rave of fashion. If bugs are now fashionable, then OK.
We are both wrapped in various moth-eaten quilts, trying to build a barrier against the battling weather, as we walk through the wooded paths before us. The sun provides the warmth of the last days of fall, but the wind holds winter’s vanguard with its chilling touch.
“You mean you don’t believe he kept this placed stashed in his pocket the whole time?” Lawless sways easily under low hanging branches of the trees before us with his normal ease of grace.
He is leading our little trio through the fall-kissed forest that surrounds the cabin we now call home. He turns to us with mock disbelief that we would hold J.D. in such a fashion before returning to the path. Our feminine laughter floats through the crisp air over the rustle of thick fall leaves under foot, causing him to smile at us.
“I just mean it is not exactly J.D. A little old lady J.D. maybe, but not this J.D. I mean come on, he is sleeping under a pastel painting of a barn. Pastel, people! Of a barn!”
We laugh over her punctuation. “He must have forgot to grab his pin ups on our way out of town. I guess you think you own the color pink now? Or is it barns?” Lawless teases her, tossing a handful of leaves in her direction.
Their ember hues float among her sharp contrast of white blonde and pink streaks, framing her in fall’s beauty. She returns her own handful, but he is too fast for her as the trees shield him from her attack. I watch the sun roll over his natural golden skin tone and dark close-cropped hairstyle. His lips hold their own soft colored hue of seduction with his teasing smile. He weaves in and out of the trees, taunting her with jests of girl aim and strength with faces to match, encouraging her playful wrath. Her mocking insults match his taunts until they are both using more laughter than words as the forest sky becomes a ballet of fall’s beauty with their mock combat.
I watch it all while selfishly holding my tongue. Their joy only reaches my surface, and I am envious of their abandonment in it. I am not sure when the numbness crept into my heart, and it is not even the coldness that scares me the most. What worries me the most, is, what if I can never find “me” again under the sun’s spying gaze?
I am lost in self-absorption when the first pine cone sails past me with a soft whistle. I look to see Aimes covering her face behind folded hands, holding her laughter at bay. Lawless is posed to throw the next cone at me with an exaggerated arch. I cannot stop the smile that slips over my face at his wiggling eyebrows and playful warning smile. I take a few steps back, pointing at him with the same mock warning as he tells me, “Better run, Hells.” I do.
My feet crash through the branch-bare forest. I can hear two other sets falling in fast behind me as we rush through the paths with child-like abandonment. Her laughter coaxes my own to come play with girl styled squeals. We slip and slide over the many leaves piled thick along the trail. I feel Lawless before I see him run past me. He pulls up short, spinning around to corner me, catching me in a giant bear hug of captivity. Kicking my feet, I am weightless in the air as we spin. The world tilts past me, lost in a smear of oranges and reds. His strong arms surround me and hold me close to his body as we spin. He heals my wounds with this time-stopping memory, and our laughter, but time always has to start again. It does for us with a scream.
Her scream is ear-shattering. The spinning stops so suddenly that we both have to stagger as our equilibrium attempts to catch up. Lawless pulls
me instinctively closer to him as his eyes scan for the danger that made her scream. Her eyes are cast on something we cannot see from our vantage point. Whatever it is it, it makes her walk in a sideways pattern to us, too afraid to turn her back on it.
Lawless pulls me behind him, kissing my forehead as I pass, before he walks to meet Aimes. Each stride pulls the strings of a mood swing from him until his face melts down to one of blank preparation to meet whatever is beyond the trees. He never missteps, leaning down to take the gun from the top of his boot under his loose fitting black jeans in one fluid well-rehearsed motion. The click of the safety reaches my ears with a finalization of reality to what is about to happen. He reaches her, swinging the gun around in an almost choreographed single dance movement when they pass each other. He never flinches at facing down whatever she is seeing before them.
With Lawless as her shield, she finally gains the courage to turn and run. I reach out to her, but her eyes change from relief to panic as another scream escapes her very pink lips. It is she who now grabs me, pulling me to her, guiding my steps further sideways to the cabin’s path. I do not want to look. I want to stay in my ignorance, but as he begins to squeeze the trigger filling the very forest that was just our playground with echo after echo, I do.
We had allowed ourselves just one unguarded moment of happiness. We had been lured to an apathetic attitude about our safety with the amount of uneventful days having passed. The days began encasing us with a refusal of admittance to the events happening around us. They allowed us to be untouched by any more of the horrors that show on the small screen of the den with growing details. We are a cocoon of our own making: safe, secure, and turning into something beautiful with our new little family. Now surrounding us are the consequences of that in the forms of shambling shapes, and glazed eyes that are rimmed with hate.
Risen of various persona have filled our playground. They trample through our imaginary swings and pretend slides invented to stir childhood glee. They bring us childhood fears as the wind brings us their inhuman eagerness to come play. Some amble towards us as torn remnants of what they were in life. The missing flesh or limb tells their own horror stories.
Some have no marks upon them, and other than their glazed eyes, one would almost think they were still human. If you did not notice their graceless steps, their ignorance of any harm occurring to them. If you do not see their many layers of stained and torn clothing. Or, hear the sounds coming from somewhere deep inside them being inspired by the sight of us. No matter which group you see first, there is no confusion in either group’s ambitions.
His gun follows his eyes with a motion of memory synchronization while slowly walking back to us, one firmly placed step after another. The trigger squeezes and Risen twitch, falling as he already is picking his next target. He is trying to keep the edges from spilling around us while randomly aiming for the center cone at the ones nearest. His mouth moves with each squeeze in a silent whisper.
He is counting backwards, keeping track of exactly what is left in the clip. Keeping track of how long until we need to panic. The more that fall, the more that seem to materialize between trees in a horrific game of hide and seek. I do not know how many he has felled. I only know it seems to be hopeless, and when I hear him say to us “Move,” I know it actually is.
Aimes and I run together as our forest takes on a new, darker feeling. The leaves underfoot only hours ago that felt of Fall’s glory, now crack like brittle bones. Branches that we weaved through before, now claw at our hair and faces, trying to slow us down for their new friends to find us. The wind that brought winter’s greetings, now steals the breath from us with its bitterness. Even our once playful Lawless, now randomly stopping to send an echo through the trees, encourages us to move faster and faster until the cabin appears before us. Its occupants spill out towards us with rushed movements hearing our arrival.
They had already started prepping for our arrival when the first echoes reached them. Chapel and J.D. are pulling the last of the bikes around to the back door when we burst through the tree line. My own private warhorse is lined up with the length of the side windows and its chrome gleams like bared teeth. The steps are removed from the porch, leaving a shoulder high gap of space to overcome. Rhett and Marxx are kneeling with outstretched hands, encouraging us to jump. I slow to allow them to pull Aimes up first. My boots slip on the carpet of leaves under me with my sudden reverse of speed. Lawless steadies me, helping me with the motion of jumping into the waiting hands, before he lifts his own body up on the porch.
J.D. bars the door after we spill into the small main room. The men take formations, peering through aged curtains and chambering ammo in various dark barrels. Their metallic clicks and slides somber the room quickly. Chapel stands by the back door, keeping watch over what may become our only exit while keeping an eye on our room too for guidance from the one man Hell made for these situations.
“We should go. We should just go now!” Chapel shouts from his spot.
“Now just hold on, Son. Hold on.” J.D. says in his calm voice. “We just gonna sit tight and see exactly what is out there before we go running off anywhere.”
“How many are there?” Rhett asks with a sly grin, finally enjoying the thought of action while chambering the various black hand guns placed among the windows.
“A few.” Lawless answers, reloading his empty clip.
Aimes makes a baffled noise from our spot on the rug where we lay fighting to reclaim our stolen breaths. He smirks, inserting his clip and chambering his own gun. “A couple more than a few.” He shrugs, smiling at us.
J.D. lets out a sharp whistle, titling his head towards the front windows. He motions for Aimes and I to turn the lights off in the cabin. Night has crept its cloak over the area, allowing the perfect back-drop for Evil to make its way to our paradise while we were waiting. Aimes and I creep through the cabin turning off lights and pulling tight curtains with a deluding sense of covering our movements with such thin material. They never ask us to glance out the windows, or to keep watch. Sometimes it is good to be a girl.
The first shot is from a high-power rifle, and it rocks the cabin with its force. The shadows begin to shift at once with a silent mutual agreement to head in the direction of the noise. We share our own mutual agreement, heading to the side of the cabin where my warhorse is waiting.
There, in what has served us as our room, we find the many bags piled high by the window waiting for us. As the shots begin to ring out in closer patterns, we begin to gently toss the bags into the long bed of the truck. The after-market lining allows us to slide the bags in an OCD fashion of packing as we keep our minds busy, avoiding the truth of the monsters lurking in every shadow around us.
Chapter 20
Truth does not like to be ignored. It will wait until you think you are safe before it creeps up on you with its jagged blade. A blade so sharp, that it slides into your flesh without any notice at first. The jagged edge doing so much damage, that the scar will forever linger to always haunt you with the memory.
Truth takes no prisoners. It has no interest in your longevity. It only wants acknowledgement in the moment to satisfy her bitter needs. Then, it will wait, as you grow lax, needing reminding yet again of its potent poison.
Our truth comes slipping around the corner in the dark. It is watching, waiting for Aimes to be the most extended from the window, allowing her to be the most vulnerable for his attack. We are on the last of the bags when it decides to strike. Her white blonde hair shines brightly in the night air as she leans under the window, reaching for the next bag that I am waiting with for her. I see her jerk backwards into the darkness beyond the plaid-framed window. Her eyes grow wide with the sudden movement forced upon her, she turns, and we both become acquainted with the level of horror that the monsters are capable of holding.
The truck is sitting so close to the cabin that it leaves only enough sp
ace to spare her paint. By the warm safe rays of the sun, this made perfect sense. Now that the darkness of night, with its cold sightless moon is upon us, there is no sense to be had. The male once had dark brown eyes, almost black, but now they are the color of dried mud. The left side of his face is sheered down to the bones. Wet gore drips from the raw wound splattering the dark thickness upon his body.
His chest is torn and tattered, exposing layers of glistening tissue that shine under the silver rays of the moon. He is so eager for her that he has forced his body into the thin space between the truck and wooden planks of the cabin’s wall. Since neither side of his captors were willing to give in to his demands, the wood took its vengeance on his soft, rotting flesh. Now he stands before us, holding on to Aimes with the only arm he is able to raise, with his body weeping its fluid upon the ground.
I cover her mouth with my hand as her lungs fill with air. If she screams, it will cause the shift of shadows to head our way, possibly blocking our escape. Most likely, it will also cause our deaths. Her hot breath screams into my hand as she watches the Risen try to tear at her flesh. She continues to tug against its hold, gaining no freedom, but the constant movement causes it to miss its mark as its body is wedged too tightly in place to gain any vantage point for its attack.
My hand fumbles with the sheath of my hunting knife. Its latch is catching, but it is refusing to unclasp, as I focus my coordination on keeping Aimes from harm. I remove my hand from her mouth praying she instinctively understands the importance for her silence. I need my body separated from her so I can firmly undo the stubborn metal snap that mocks me in my time of need. The risk of her screaming outweighs the thought of her coming to harm for me, even if it does mean my death.
I take the risk, and as luck would have it, she does not scream, but continues to fight maniacally against the dripping nightmare holding her. I am able to undo the closure, and firmly grasp the handle of the large gleaming blade, with memories riding my sanity with their own pointed teeth.
The Risen: Dawning Page 10