I cocked my head back, and looked Dad in the eyes-his white, bloodshot eyes. A rope, wreathed around his neck, lead its way up to a rafter in the ceiling. It swayed in the wind that whistled through a crack in the roof window.
The window revealed nothing but blackness, rain, and her. This woman.
I stood up. "Who the hell are you?"
She kept watching the cars speed by, and just smiled. "Or how about the fourteenth of February, 1989?"
Anger caved into thought as the date echoed through my mind.
It was Sunday. The sun was out, but the cold of February was still about. I was sixteen; fatherless, motherless, and fortunate enough to have a loving grandfather. At that time, he wasn't the only thing that loved me. There was someone else. Crystal. Today, her name rings in my ear with melody, chimes in the wind. Back then, she was my goddess, and I didn't know a person more attractive-more beautiful. That day, we strolled on?a bridge above the metro, and picked a sturdy guard rail to lean up against. A small train whipped past,?beneath us, and a blast of air buffeted us. We laughed.
As we sat there in the chill air, words became fewer, and we got closer to each other. We got up on the rail and rested, hip connected to hip, hand to hand. I shut my eyes, as a grin spread across my face, and I released a breath of joy. Another harsh blast of wind hit us, but I didn't let go, and I didn't open my eyes. I didn't open them until her hand let go of mine, and her hip latched off of mine. I looked to the left-to the right, she had vanished.
Her scream split the air; split my soul.
The figure of a young woman plummeted down onto the rails below. She smashed into the steel, back first, and her spine snapped like a stick. Her eyes bulged, her mouth gaped open, and her body convulsed in erratic jerks. Blood seeped out in creeks along her chin, staining her golden-blonde hair. Her chest crested?and dipped down into a trough by her hips. Her toes curled in agony; her fingers twisted in pain. There were no screams, only the faint sound of grinding bone and gurgling hyperventilation.
A nightmare,?I thought.?It's all a dream; I'm not awake, and she isn't dying. She isn't dead.
I stumbled back in horror, tripping and slamming back-first into the concrete. My head rolled to the right. The pathway was empty, except for one woman: an elderly woman, who looked on at the gore below, grinning.
I stepped back. Her eyes drifted from the black street to me. She grinned. I walked away, against the stream of headlights.
She called out to me. "And what of your grandpa? October 12, 1999?"
The sky turned dark?
And it started to rain.
It pelted the side of the building, watery pebbles on concrete. It dribbled down the thin windows that lined the back: always constant, never diverting from its beat. People walked aimlessly, phantom-like amongst each other. The shells of people rarely spoke, only moved and swayed to the rain outside, its hypnotic rhythm guiding the ghosts of this place. When they passed, they gazed upon me with solemn stares; out of sorrow or pity of me, I won't know. They were all the same to me: automatons in a factory.
My subconscious guided me through the crowd of clones. I walked without thought-everything was nothing but mist, everything except for him. A clearing in my mind's fog opened up, and there he was; there, he lay. All about him was coated in black: his pants, his shirt, his coffin. A single rose placed on his chest radiated against the black of his clothes, but wasn't enough to still be drowned by the darkness all around it. In the end, he was swallowed by death, like the darkness suffocated the rose.
Something else broke the fog-it walked up to him. It looked upon him, then bent down towards his forehead, and kissed it. It straightened up, took a few steps back, and then turned. It-she-stared right into my eyes. Grey flowed behind her, and her eyes were gone.?Gone.?In their place, black abysses threatened me with eternal darkness, threatened me to join him. They swirled like black tornadoes, attempting to swallow my soul. They sucked the life from me: I felt the world being dipped deeper into haze. I couldn't pull away-she wouldn't let me. She only dragged me deeper into the blackness of her eyes; her hellish pits.
Eyelids sealed those gates to hell, and reality was restored. She walked on, becoming part of the fog again, and leaving me to myself; leaving me with him.
I know her.
I couldn't turn around-I wouldn't turn around. I didn't want to see her pools of black: once was hell enough.
I ran-my feet hit the concrete, harder and faster with each step. Eruptions of pooled?water blasted my legs, chilling them to the bone. Patches of sidewalk warped into yellow-lined asphalt as I veered off to the left and towards?the street, struggling to get away, struggling?to be free from her.
I slipped in the rain; I fell to my knees. I twisted around, and came to gaze into springs of white light, shining with the luminescence of the sun itself. It was pure, white, light-free from the black taint that stained that woman's eyes. Its radiance overwhelmed me with ecstasy. No other feeling was greater. I tilted my head back, and smiled-smiled when I felt my legs crushed, my spine snapped, my skull smashed, my soul shattered. ?I could taste my teeth; smell my blood. Best of all, I could feel her watching. I could see her black eyes relishing the carnage that I had become.
Through grey hair, she grinned.
* * * * *
My Dog
I heard my dog talk last night,
It was kind of subtle.
I listened to a faint whisper of my name,
Hissed at me from afar, like snakes,
Writhing snakes,
He called me from afar.
At first, I never raised my head,
Never turned,
Never cared.
And thinking the voice a dream,
I drifted into sleep.
But louder this voice continued,
Becoming a whispered screech,
Becoming more than faint.
My eyes did crack open,
And across from me, he lay.
Beads of black lay blank in his head-emotionless, mindless.
His face made no movement, he sat like a rock,
Just staring at me, breathing.
Or so I thought.
Its breaths grew deeper, closer, wetter,
I saw nothing with my eyes,
But felt on my neck,
the dampness of the breath.
I never watched it graze my hair,
Never squirmed beneath chill air
Never let out a breath; too scared.
Never knew its purpose there.
My dog watched,
Saw it move
Heard it breath
Knew it was there.
Which,
Was just fine with me.
* * * * *
The Darkness
Haze, emitted from spikes of orange blazes, fogged the eyes,?throwing the?world into a?shade of grey. Candles barred off all contact outside their ring-jail bars in an isolated cell. Although company was present, they were irrelevant. The few gathered?there with me?gazed through smoke without reason; their faces blank, frozen within time. They revealed no emotion, but rather, hid it beneath the surface of the skin. Happy, sad, enraged, it didn't matter; we were all here. Amongst the flame and fog, the flesh on?their bodies gleamed in a faint pale color, the flesh of a dead man.
Within?darkness and?silence we were submerged; no one dared to let even a shallow whisper slither from the depths of their throats. A dark act like this shouldn't spawn much conversation anyway. Stories had been dealt between us about the consequences; unreal folklore of what has occurred before our attempt. We could be wasting time-something short of epic could transpire. Unpredictable. It took a calm serenity, stable mind, and unwavering conscience to even?commence?the ritual. I happened to be the predestined leader.
I?brought my head up from observing an interior of a sand-sketched star and out of wandering thought?to make contact with?several glazed eyes. Inane, without intention, my hand flinched in rabid desire to sma
ck them into reality, to stop them from watching me, myself, and I. The eyes pleaded for attention; they pleaded for initiation. Not one wanted to light the fuse, strike the match, or even provide the fuel. So I did.
All 3.
The fuel was already prepared: next was striking the match. My hand reached out, groping for a fragment of glass set upon a flat pine board. I gazed into the clear of the cup and studied the dancing licks of fire shift back and forth, their playful gestures laced with ironic pain. They, like the rose, were both beautiful and harmful. My middle and forefinger came to rest on the slightest edge of the glass base. The chilled surface eased its way through the fingers and up the arm, tingling the spine, loosening nerves across quivering flesh. Too cold for September. As others preceded me and connected with the cup, thoughts loomed: What am I doing? WHY am I doing it? The unnatural spear of ice that penetrated my skin made my mind waver; it doubted this ceremony's sanity.
We talked amongst ourselves, deciding how we should begin. I spoke. "Is there anyone here tonight?"
We all held breath, hoping and fearing a reply. The autumn winds drifted by, rustling branches and making candle-lit fires dance with?ferocity. It whispered unseen voices, causing eyes to dart towards creeping shadows, whose dark?intentions lacked an animate channel.?The fuse had been lit-let it burn.
All eyes were?on the moving glass.
"What the hell,"
I was mute; only my eyes moved to follow the minute shot glass traverse the wooden board.
Glass grinding stopped.
We peered down into the glass to see a word. A single, confirming word. Yes.
All hands tore away from the board. Some wanted out right then; others wanted more. I kept hold of my silence, patient enough to wait out the slew of ridicule and persuading against those with uncertainty of continuing. When calm blanketed the group, we continued on with renewed awe, with renewed fear.
Maybe I should start with a simple question. "Do you have a name?"
The glass gave no response; that wasn't good enough. A demand now, "What is your name?"
The glass made no sudden leap. Instead, crawling its way across the wood, it left in its wake a faint sound of grinding. It ebbed its way across the crescent-bent alphabet, slowing, pausing on a letter of its choosing. Only resting for a second, then it was skittering onward. Nothing I had encountered in sixteen years of life could even compare to the wonder beheld beneath mine eyes. Fantastical, mystical-unnatural, horrific.
Fingers held fast to the planchette as it veered wherever it pleased it most, till still it sat again. We all had followed it, and all knew what it spelled.
M-A-N.
We scoffed at such a suggestion. Some of us laughed at the "spirit's" stupidity; others scolded the laughers, fearing unknown forces and their possible retaliations. As they argued over the mysterious Man, goosebumps pushed out from under my flesh, texturizing the skin. My heart pumped liquid ice through my veins. Mouth became desert; hands became sea. The spine tingled as unseen pins pierced the back, and muscles became rocks under the tension. Preemptive eyes darted in their sockets, scanning the black beyond me in anxiety. The instincts of the body succeeded the thought of the mind, but not by much.
Psssst.
The world was dipped in black; swallowed by darkness. Not even whirling wisps of smoke from extinct fire were quick enough to warn. I was cut short by sharp howling. The beast never ceased, and it only got more intense within the canals of the ear. It ricocheted against the interior of my head, and if it weren't for a whip-like mop of hair flailing without control on my scalp, I would have imagined whatever evil incarnate it must have been was nothing short of Lucifer himself. The wind raged on, making its presence known to all; knocking candles backwards and erasing the star and circle. Sand whipped up into faces, my own nostrils gathering small grains against its walls as they thrashed about. Agonizing wails from across the board gave evidence to both dread and pain. They too, had seen and heard what I experienced: a vortex, incarnated from nothing-coming from something. I peeled open my eyes, fighting the wind and grain, to see the smoke screaming at me: the wind was escaping its horrid, gaping mouth, while the eyes retained the black of the night.
It was there and gone: the wind tunnel, the howls, the wails, the smoke; they were no more. Us five erected to our feet. No words, just empty stares. Like a recap was needed.
* * *
The shovel split the earth beneath it, expanding an already gaping ditch. The small pot hole bled with water. I wasn't bothered. I really didn't care what happened to it after putting it into there. It could rot. I gripped the board with the pads of my fingers. I waved it around. Examined the back; screened the front. The outside revealed nothing-just a wooden board streaked with an alphabet, a smiling sun in the left corner, and a sleepy moon in the right. It was innocent; a newborn babe in moonlight. I knew better.
I flung it down, and it plummeted into brown water. It soaked up the liquid, and began warping. That was my last look at it.
I put the homeless dirt pile back where it was needed. I worked without thought, mind an empty factory. The shovel patted the ground level. Lying within a field of grass, the black of earth was prominent against the sun-reflecting green. Uneven, rugged, the texture was different to the surroundings. As it should have been.
I lingered away from the burial ground. Remnants of the night hung at my ankles, impeding movement. The whole evening, I had done everything: brought all of us together, guided us, started it, and finished. I was amazed, horrified, and struck silent. I had gathered fuel, struck a match, and lit a fuse, but never saw what I was igniting.
Hell.
Let it burn.
* * * * *
Reality
He swayed,
Silent,
Moving,
Back and forth.
In his mind, there was?nothing.
Nothing, but hatred, rage,
For the audacity
Of that atrocity.
Reality will slap you, she said.
You won't survive, she said.
And laugh she did.
He stared down at the note,
A hand scribbled, crumpled piece,
As beaten as he had been.
Ink strung words the way,
Wasn't much to say.
His skin was cold,
Chilled by the tongue of a witch,
That damn bitch,
He thought
He ought
To show the truth:
This is reality.
She realized this, when she saw him,
Swaying,
Silently,
Moving,
Back and forth.
Death has a way of empowering,
A point to be made,
Especially when it hangs from a rope.
"This is reality; how does it feel?"
* * * * *
The Bullet
Behold, the bullet.
Held in the midst of forefinger and thumb, the cold fragment of gleam-less steel sleeps dormant in my grasp. Like a cobra, it lies in wait, preparing to lash out at its next hopeless victim. The rounded tip-eager to strike its prey-pushes my finger in, begging to be used. The pinnacle of the minute murderer expands downward to create a broad level base, leaving in its trail metal, smooth as ice. The flat steel rests upon the plane of my thumb, the slight ridge in the bottom situating itself in perfect balance. I bring it up to my face, peering into its heart, hoping to see a reflection. None appear. The blackness of its soul radiates from within, blocking out all light that shines upon it, and revealing its dark intentions.
But, the bullet was not created to be examined and admired. And possibly every man, woman, and child knows this. Its purpose does not deceive us, yet its intentions are not fully realized until we stand opposite the barrel of its channel.
The gun.
Like the bullet, the gun is also a weapon of human conjuring-and human annihilation.
Their sizes and types range from concealable, silent killers, to unwieldy beasts of destruction. Of course, these armaments are not just "point and click" devices, causing spontaneous eruptions and punctures to splatter and speckle the battlefield. The vast assortments of bullets that fuel the engines of war are the undisputed cause of wrecked landscapes across the globe. It is not the gun that causes demolition, for they are mere mediums of something much more powerful. Without the bullet, the gun is inane-without the gun, the bullet is senseless.
The small fragment clinks into the chamber, echoing the sound of metal upon iron. The fate of the bullet is sealed, like a coffin shut upon a man. A dexterous hand maneuvers the fluent motions of preparation in fragments of seconds. The fingers slide down and curl themselves against stock and trigger, pulling the gun into perfect aim. Thin, sweaty fingers rap on the weapon once-the forefinger jerks.
Click.
A luminous burst of yellow flashes to red, melting away into wisps of gray smoke. The roar of the explosion trails, shredding silence and rupturing peace. The bullet emerges whizzing from the muzzle. It spirals like a savage tornado. A combination of aerodynamics and pyrotechnics, it slices apart the air encompassing it. The bullet draws ever near, yet all that can be done is nothing. The human soul exposes its greatest weakness: fear, binding muscles and freezing joints.
And contact is made.
The body is like wet paper; the bullet, a rock. The flesh bends into a trough with tremendous stress. Skin stands no chance. Its puncture is thorough, and a clean entryway is created. Arteries and veins entangle the foreign object, with no prevail. It snaps them like worms that writher and die, gushing blood. The muscle, brute and undeniable, is the body's last remaining resistance. But, the millions of muscle fibers don't even contain enough strength to withstand the steel fragment that blasts through at twice the speed of sound.
The body's defenses crushed, the bullet veers in the direction of the human's most vital and spiritual organ-the heart. Never speeding, never slowing, it hones in on its target. With relentless force, the bullet smashes into the chamber wall of the heart. A gargantuan explosion of liquid passion erupts in its wake, discoloring the vitals around it. It spikes its way out the interior of the heart, and tears and exit the same way it made an entrance: blasting through fibers, snapping arteries, and puncturing flesh.
The Darkness Page 2