The Laughing Parade
Chapter One: Lazarus (Or The Dead Girl)
The dead girl tells no lies. And why should she? I hear her voice speak louder than words. Even louder than bombs. Everybody looks at her and sees a lifeless husk. Not me, I see it all. She stands over her body, looking down over it as it grows colder and colder by the minute. She looks around at the hustle and bustle of police and coroners. Her face has a frantic look painted on it. No one sees her anguish like I do. Her eyes dart around the huddled masses. They're standing solemnly in the rain. They don't see her now. They see what she was. And she dances back and forth, like some macabre stage play that no one can see. No one except for me. The coroner zips her body up in the bag and put in the ambulance. It drives away with the sirens off. There's no rush for this girl tonight. She's gone. Just dust in the wind. The city doesn't care. It has another victim tonight. The police ushers the crowd away. "Nothing to see here!" the fat cop belches out. Everybody grumbles but they move away from the scene, just as they're told. I move back towards my car across the street. No one will notice me here. I don't stick out like a sore thumb and neither does my car. Now, I just wait.
It usually only takes an hour for everyone to leave. And soon, the crime scene is vacant. Except for her. She lingers, staring blankly at the spot she died. The rain begins to wash the blood away, as if she was never there to begin with. I move closer. The dead girl begins to weep. It's an unearthly sound as if she's muffled somehow. As I get closer and closer to the crime scene, I can smell the scent of blood. It smells like a bathtub full of wet pennies. Just broad smelling copper. She sits facing away me from staring down the alleyway. The chalk outline is being washed away. It mixes with the blood forming a strange looking concoction. I move closer to her and reach out to her. Normally, no one would be able to touch her, not me. My hand practically shivers at the touch. It feels like frostbite. She turns and looks at me. Her face looks gaunt and empty. She's only been dead for three hours. I knew the exact moment she died. The exact second. I lost all my breath and fainted. Blood poured from my nose. I knew where the spot was where she left one life and headed to another. I drove there in the blink of an eye. Even in this cold city, that spot felt white hot. She looked at me, with her emptiness and sighed deeply. "What's your name?" I ask very quietly as if this was the first time I've done this. She whispers her name, "Julie." Spirits like her don't have much energy, they can't really communicate effectively. That's why they move things back and forth. To try and speak without words. Nobody listens because no one knows where to look. I do, I see it all. And like that, I know everything. This girl, Julie. Her mother, alone and dying. She'll see her daughter again, soon enough. But she didn't want to see her like this. She wants her memories. Smiling and full of life. The little girl who wanted to be a ballerina. This girl who desperately wanted a kitten for Christmas. All gone, all done. Struck down in the prime of her life. She was in college and now all that learning is just dead air on the radio. I see her mother and I see her home. I make my silent vow to stop him. This maniac, running rampant in the night, using all his monstrous strength on this young girl and girls just like her, the police are clueless. He takes their identification. He takes their identities. They're no one else's but HIS. I can't find him. But I'm trying. Every time he strikes, I'm there. But his victims they can’t tell me. They can't remember. They lose their memory quickly. I'm trying hard to find this maniac in a city with no face. This is my curse. I speak to the dead. I find them in the darkness and try to guide them home.
Chapter Two: Departures and Paint
Agnes, the dead girl's mother, lives in a non-descript building at the edge of the city. I walk up to the building. It's trashed. Discarded food containers and beer cans litter the walkway. A small child's tricycle sits in the mud sinking deeper and deeper. I'm soaked to the bone, and my clothes have become impossibly heavy. I trudge up the rotting stoop leading to the building's door. My eyes glaze over as I read down the list of tenants; most of the names have rusted over. I scan and scan and finally I see the name. I press the buzzer once, and then twice. Silence for a good minute or two....then, "Hello?" in a throaty, husky voice. I speak in a whisper, "I'm here to talk about Julie." Silence, then "What about Julie? Is she alright?" She can barely speak. "Ma'am, I'll tell you everything you need to know. But right now, it's raining cats and dogs and frankly I'll catch my death if I don't come in." A beat. She begins hacking and coughing. Lots of silence, then..."What's your name?" she presses. "My name is George. George Book." I can see this faceless woman up in her crumbling ivory tower just pondering, wondering if she should let me in. After all, I could be the monster that steals innocence away in the night. I could be the vampire of the city. Buzz! The door opens and I enter the building.
The lobby has a hazy shade of yellow cascading over it, whether it is the lights or the walls, it looks as if someone vomited in a bucket and they painted the walls with it. The television sits up perched high above the lobby floor. It sits locked in a cage. I'm not certain why anyone would want it. It's a model that went out of service in 1977 and I'm certain every channel is the static channel. The elevators sit at the far end of the empty lobby. I make my way to the elevators. I press the call button. It seems like forever before the car comes. I look off to my side and see an elderly security guard napping in an old wicker chair. He's so out of it, a fly could fart in his face and he wouldn't stir. The elevator finally reaches the lobby. The doors open up and I step inside. It's decorated with a disgusting red design. There's no muzak as I ride up to my destination. Just that echo-y, metallic sound of the elevator climbing upwards. It finally reaches the top floor. Number 13. I shudder at the thought and make my way towards this stranger's apartment.
Apartment 1313. I stop outside the door. I can faintly make out the noise of a breathing machine kicking out its quiet hum. Reminds me of my aunt. She would puff her way through a pack of cigarettes while she was on a breathing machine. I reach out to knock but....then...I stop. What do I say? I'm going to be the first one to tell this woman about her daughter dying. Murdered. This isn't a formality like a layover. This is blood and guts reality. I knock softly. One, twice, three times. I hear the sound of a walker scuffling along the floor, coughing all the way. "Who is it?" I clear my throat. "Ma'am, I'm George Book. We spoke a few minutes ago, in regards to your daughter." I can hear her unlocking the latch-chain to the door. She opens the door and I see her face. It's weathered and dark. I get hit with the smell of Vicks Vaporub and Werther's Originals. The walls are painted hospital green and flat out splattered with loads of religious iconography, such as crucifixes and tacky oil paintings of Jesus. She offers me a seat in a rickety rocking chair. I take the seat. She sits across from me and turns off the television. “Mr. Book, what’s going on? What’s happened to Julie?” I sit and my eyes dart around the room. I see pictures of Julie and her mother. Smiling. Trapped in these memories from long ago. Frozen looks. I finally look at her mother and say, “Agnes, I need to tell you that Julie was….” I trail off. Is murdered the right word to use? Killed? I’ve done this so many times. Why is this time the hardest? “Julie was murdered. It happened about four hours ago. I’m not sure how but I know it was quick.” Both of those things were lies. She suffered greatly and I knew it. The look of despair was washing over her face. That slow agonizing realization that this was it. You know, that feeling you get when you have a knot in the pit of your stomach? This was her body. I hated telling her that way. But matter-of-fact is the best way sometimes. “How do you know this? How do you know if the police don’t?” she asked. “Because I spoke to her only briefly, mind you. I know it sounds crazy, but all things are true.” She leaped to her feet and pointed to the door. “Please leave now!” I stand up obliging her. “I understand. I know this sounds crazy. Believe me, I feel crazy saying it. But it’s true. I spoke to her. She told me your name, where you lived.” She sits back down, defeated. Tears begin to flow from her eyes in a flurry. I don’t reach out and touch her shoulder for comfort. I remember what happened last time I did that. I sit here in silence while she lets the tears roll. Finally, after about five minutes, she finally calms herself. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you.” She wipes her tears away. “I wish there was something more that she wanted me to say…but there’s nothing.” She looks around the room. “Is she here now?” I soften my stance. “No, ma’am, she’s not. I just speak with them after it happens. I don’t know where they go.” She steps into her kitchen and grabs a pack of cigarettes from under the fan hood over her stove. She grabs one out and lights it up. She gestures towards me with the pack. I decline. She inhales the cigarette deeply like she’s surfacing from under water. “Y’know, it’s been about five years since I had a cigarette. I hide them from my nurse. I figured today would be the day I went ahead and broke the glass.” She puffs her way through the cigarette and lights another one. “I haven’t talked to her in so long. She disappears for so long that I sometimes wonder if she would turn up dead, and she did. Now, what? What else is there? I sit here waiting. And I’ll see her again.” I stand up and turn to leave, so she can grieve privately. “Do you see more people? Like her, I mean.” She didn’t want to say it. G-g-g-g-ghosts. “I do. All the time. They’re everywhere. This city’s haunted by them.” She looks at me, puzzled. I get that look all the time. “Please don’t leave. Not just yet anyway.” I oblige and sit down on her rocking chair. “How long has this been happening? I don’t mean to be intrusive, mind you. I’m just curious.”
I lean back in the chair. Nobody’s ever asked me that question. It’s always in and out. “About eight years ago, I was in an accident. I was driving with my wife off of Winding Mill Road and that night, I remember, it was snowing. It was snowing so much more than I had ever seen in my life. And this truck was swerving all over the place. And I pulled over to the side of the road to let him pass. He never passed, he drove headlong into us. It seemed like we fell forever. I sat there unable to move. I had to watch my wife die. My Olivia. It’s a horrible thing, watching someone die. It’s like catching a butterfly in your hands and clasping it tight, and then you let it go. I was rescued about an hour later. That’s all I remember. I woke up three months later, and I couldn’t walk. I was stuck in a hospital bed for about six months. I had this fear in my heart that I would never be able to walk again. But I did. But during that time, I sat in the bed. I started seeing things. Spectres. Things I couldn’t fathom, y’know? They just stand there doing nothing. Like waiting for a bus that never comes. And eventually, I walked up to one of them. And they needed help.” I take a deep breath and stand up. “So, I came here to tell you this. To help you move on. ‘Cause I’m not sure when…” I turn and leave the apartment. I hold my breath the entire time I leave. I keep it in and when I finally reach the front entrance to the apartment, I burst through the doors and lose my lunch. The rain beats down on my head and I exhale. “I can’t do this! I can’t! I keep helping them and it never happens! I’m tired of this!” I collapse to my knees and give up.
Chapter Three: Blood and Paper Scraps
For a brief moment, as I look into the girl’s eyes….I feel remorse. I’m not used to this feeling. It feels sticky. Unclean. I plunge the blade into her chest and complete the cycle. It’s over again tonight; it’ll have to happen soon. As I reach up towards the sky and the let the rain wash the blood away, something happens. A sharp bright pain hits me in my heart. It starts to pool out towards my hands, my legs and my head. What is this? I steady myself and open my eyes wider, but it keeps happening. I need to finish the act but it just does not seem to be happening. I begin to stab wildly in the air, and exhaust myself instantly. Not tonight. But, I assure myself, I’ll just start the cycle quicker next time. I wash the blood off of my blade in a nearby puddle. I stand up and run away. There’s a nearby phone booth. I slide the door open and step inside. The dim light illuminates the disgusting phone booth. I pick up the phone and press nine-one-one. Part one completed. The black and whites will be here soon. Blue will paint the sidewalk.
I wait in my car. Inside, I have pasted pictures of all my girls. They’ve lost their smiles but here I keep them safe. They won’t remember these times but I will. I see it all. The pitter-patter of the rain starts to feel like someone drilling into my head. Like a slug slithering around in my brain eating the soft, gray flesh. My head is rotting. My teeth are rotting. My car smells like a meat market on a hot day. I sift through the newspapers sitting in the seat next to me. The headlines scream about the monster in the night. This full blown creature of the night. A chill runs up my spine. I’m ecstatic. No one sees me. I’m a blank where a place should be. I see in the distance a car pull up. It idles for a moment and finally the driver kills the engine. Huh, kills the engine. I do so love irony. Who is this person? Why isn’t he running over to help her? He’s waiting like me….why? Dissolve to: the police eventually showing up. Blood spills and the sharks stay away, what a strange world. I see them hustle over and see her dead. Gloriously dead. I see the faceless man in the car get out and walk over. I step out and slink towards the gathering masses. People poke their heads out at the sight of death. Vultures…The oinkers push the people back. Screams rise through the quiet din of the crowd. As soon as everyone sees my work, they know who it is. I close my eyes and feign terror. It’s the most human thing I can do, ‘cause I’m definitely not. My eyes wander over the crowd and I see the man. He’s looking directly at my girl’s body. But, he’s not looking at her visage, he’s looking upwards…near her. The blue man tells us to go away. We oblige. I go to my car and he goes to his. Everyone leaves. Not him. So, I wait. So, he waits. Guess this is a waiting game. So, we wait then, huh?
Eventually, this sad looking fellow walks towards my killing ground taking long strides. He stops at the crime scene tape. It flickers in the wind like a ribbon without a purpose. He stands there staring like a chimp at the wall. He reaches out and touches air. What? Is? This? I can see his lips moving. He moves away quickly back to his car. He gets in and drives away. I start my car and follow him closely. Well, stranger danger, I guess I will follow you into the dark night. And when we get there, your flesh will taste my blade.
Chapter Four: The Screaming Owl
The night doesn’t sleep. It stirs restlessly. The darkness is a loud, interrupting belch of fire in the sky. Even in the daylight, the city looks pitiful. But that doesn’t matter now. Tonight, it rains. Just as last night has and every night for as long as anyone remembers. I’ve seen war after war in the streets. You’d think after all this time, we’d be swimming in blood but strangely, we’re not. We stand here in an uninterrupted loop of madness. We’re watching and waiting. For what, none of us are sure. We’re stranded like a burned out car. We have no direction home. And after what I saw tonight, we might have no hope. No end in sight,
Some nights, I like to float above the city. I see the decay rotting out in all directions and the source of the rot: is the park. Have you been in the park at night? It’s a cesspool. Filth piled on to filth. Disgusting miscreants and that’s just the police. Children used to play in the park…but not anymore. It isn’t even safe during the daylight…when that happens. So, I trace the rot around the city and I fly farther and farther around to see if there’s any hope. All I see for miles and miles are crumbling people living in crumbling buildings. And their fear of the darkness that comes and the blinding blade that comes with it. A monster, no, death stalks the streets like a jaguar after a raw steak. He’s not human. He’s a thing wrapped in human skin. I’ve seen him kill thirty people in the last month. People are clueless. I walk alongside this thing in the daylight and scream in his face but he doesn’t hear me. I wish I could stop him but I can’t. It’s getting to the point where no one can. This cancer will grow larger and larger until someone steps up to remove it. The last time he took a life, I saw it. It was an excruciating experience, an experience I can never un-see. I won’t tell you what I saw because, frankly, no one should have to see and suffer what she went through, let alone hear about it. But something struck me about this last time. I saw a man come up and talk to the dead girl. Where do I know him from? He looks so familiar. After he speaks to the girl, she dissipates and vanishes. And for a brief moment before he walks away to his car…he stops and looks at me. Maybe, he looks through me. Maybe not. But, the thing I know when I see him….the one certainty I feel in my skin…is I know that’s my George. My sweet George that I died with, in that brief moment….
Chapter Five: The Meeting of the Meat
I sit on the stoop of Agnes’ apartment building. The rain splashes down on me. It feels cool and nice. I look around the courtyard and it’s empty. Feels like my head after one of these encounters. My limbs feel numb and tingly. I start to roll my fingers and toes. The sensation starts to return to my toes, and then my fingers. I stand up and stumble slightly. I need to shake this off. My eyes begin to adjust. This feeling is strange. I start to walk back towards my car. I step through puddles and the water splashes all over clothes. My socks are soaked. I reach my car and stand there for a moment. The air smells strange. I inhale deeply. It’s that metallic smell. That smell of the dead girl’s crime scene. My eyes begin to dart around the block. It’s empty (like my mind). Except for one lone car and mine. I feel a sense of dread wash over me. I begin to walk towards the car. My footsteps echo on the lone street. Clip clop, clip clop. There’s an empty basketball court with a lone, deflated ball sitting at the three point line. My heart begins pounding harder and harder as I get closer. And closer. The car is an old ’87 Buick Skylark. It’s tan and non-descript. There’s a spider-web crack along the left side of the windshield. All I can see from the outside are a few old newspapers and pictures pasted to the paneling in the car. It’s a little too dark and I can’t see anything else…but the car is empty. A crack of bright lightning reveals the contents of this mystery vehicle. To my horror, I see blood. So much blood. How does this person even drive this around? And then, it clicks in my brain. The smell, the pictures, the blood. This is him. Like the proverbial light bulb, it hits me. I start hyperventilating. What do I do? I back away from the car, never removing my eyes from it. I find my resolve and run back to my car. I open up the door and get inside. I fumble with my keys and put them in the ignition. And it hits me. Why didn’t my light turn on? The smell is strong. Almost overwhelmingly off-putting. And then feel the cold steel hit my neck. And that raspy voice hits my ear. “Who are you?”
Chapter Six: The Dark House
Because of the crazy man sitting in the car behind me, and due to the knife at my neck, I’m apt to listen up and listen up good. “Who are you?!?” he spits out. I can smell his rot. “My name is George Book.” I can feel him loosen his grip and relax his hand. The knife moves from my neck. I start to turn my head. “DON’T! Don’t look at me. Eyes front.” I oblige. He lets out a disgusting sigh. “Alright, George Book. Who are you? You a cop?” I want to chuckle out loud. But I might die. So, I stifle it. Me, a cop? “No, I’m a photographer. I was staking out the crime scene. It’s what I do.” My eyes roll to the rearview mirror. Is he buying it? I WAS a crime scene photographer before my wife died. Now, I snap birds and old people at the park. “Where are your cameras? Huh?” he sneered. “In my trunk. It’s where I keep my cameras.” He’s thinking it over. He digs into his nose and picks out a booger with his knife. This is the monster we fear? He flicks it off towards my back. “Show me.” he says in a very blasé manner. “Alright…” I open my car door and then I step out of the car. He exits the vehicle and stands very stout. “Show me.” I walk around to the back of the car, the knife jabbing me in the back. I put the keys in the trunk and open it up. It’s dark inside. He moves around me and reaches deep into the trunk. He pulls up an old SLR camera. He starts examining it closely, like a child. And that’s when I strike. I slam the trunk lid down on his back. He collapses and hits the ground like a wet potato. He doesn’t know what hit him. He rolls over and reaches for his knife. I kick it away. Not this time. I punch him in the face so hard; I swear it feels like I broke my hand. I throw him into the trunk and slam the lid down. Not anymore, this monster will be silenced tonight. I hop in my car and drive away. And I’m so thankful I went to the park today to shoot photos.
There’s an old house I usually drive to when I need to get out of the city. Sometimes, the city can be a bit too much to handle. It’s an old Victorian mansion over-looking the city, almost like Dracula’s castle. I keep it cleaned and ready for when I need a quick escape. There’s an old man named Mister Walters who helps clean the place. He’s not here now. He doesn’t come out here often. I pull up the winding, wooded driveway. My headlights cut through the swath of darkness over the house. I stop at the front door to the home. I turn the car off and exit the vehicle. The rain is pouring even harder now. The noise it’s making is loud. This is perfect. I open the trunk. My prized possession is conked out in the trunk still. I pick him up and drop him to the ground. This doesn’t stir him one bit. I smile. I know what’s in store for him. I drag him through the grass and mud. Tonight’s the night.
The last thing I remember was holding a camera. It was garbage, the kind of thing you want to show off to people. Look at me! I’m a photographer. I take professional shots! Pssh. And then I went down. The lights went out. Now, everything is blurry. And pain-y. I’m in some house. It looks dank and cavernous. It smells like paint thinner in here. There are a few candles lit around the room. Where’s my blade? I can feel my ropes rubbing raw against my skin. I hear footsteps behind me. They sound annoying. Loud and clumpy. I wish this chump would show himself. My brain begins clicking repetitively. My feet feel loose and crunchy. I struggle against the ropes and feel them digging in. I begin to bleed. I inhale deeply. Blood smells so strange when it comes from other people; but when it’s your own, it’s fantastic. I begin to swoon. The pain of the ropes cutting deeper and deeper into my skin feels like an orchestra in my heart. I can feel the rope cutting against my bone. You know the feeling of gritting your teeth? That whole feeling is coursing through my body. I can feel the rope begin to become frayed. I’ll make my escape and this man will pay.
I stand in the bathroom. Candles are lit all around me. I hold that monster’s blade in my hands. I feel a strange sense of power rolling over me. It’s like holding Excalibur and I had to pull it from a very gruesome stone. Now, I sit here waiting for the moment and I will strike. I’ve waited breathlessly for this moment. Patiently, like a mouse. And now, I will end the monster. I look in the mirror. Or am I the monster? If I take his life, will I lose myself? I stare into the mirror. I stare through the mirror. Is this what I want to be? And then I see her…my wife. All I can see is her dying. I close my eyes and push away the pain. Not now, I beg. I see her face surrounded by a pool of blood. The darkness swarming in. I didn’t scream in that moment. I sat frozen. It took her an hour to die. The crew arrived moments later. I mean, I’m talking the moment between inhaling a breath and exhaling a breath. My whole life has been centered on that second. Would my life be different from this point on?
Chapter Seven: Dance of Death
Free at last. I run through the darkness of the house. I’m unfamiliar with this terrain but it’s easy to turn the tables on someone. Anywhere at any time. You need to find that spirit inside you. That eager beaver spirit. I find the kitchen and start frantically opening drawers. Nothing. Not even a spork. I stop at the sink. There’s a window looking out towards the city. That dankly lit metropolis. My home. And suddenly, it all seems so lucid, so false. I’ve been dreaming the dreams of liars. I’m caught in the web of freedom. This guy doesn’t know my name, he knows my face…but it’s broken. Shattered. I could just leave. I could be one with the wind. I choose from this point on. I could be a bleeding hulk of a monster. Storming the streets. I stop myself. As I sit here in my quiet resolve, I hear the footsteps. I turn around and he’s reaching out to strike….with my blade! As the blade reaches my heart, time just stops. The whole room turns white and blurry.
I see myself at the age of fourteen. I used to drive a beat up old truck. It was red and had torn and sun-parched leather seats. My little brother used to call it, “Rusty.” My father gave it to me one Christmas. It was a used truck he bought from the old crazy man and his three legged dog. It was something he bought me to try and change me….it didn’t. It changed me. One night, I was working out in the garage underneath the truck. My dad was drinking again. I could tell because he was honest. He wasn’t dodgy or lying, just honest. That scared me. He moved the jack out from under the truck and a tire nearly crushed me. He sat there telling me how I disappointed him. How I could’ve been better than him. Now, I’m just a broken mirror reflection of him. He pumps the jack up and pulls me out. He begins to cry. He reaches out to hug me. My head goes dark. My nose begins to bleed. I grab a tire iron and put it through his eye. It pops like the sound of a crushed grape. He collapses in front of me. I push deeper and deeper until I reach his gray matter. I wonder what life looks like with a broken brain. Maybe, it’s like a video tape without tracking. I walk into the kitchen. My mother is standing in front of the window washing dishes. I walk up and she hands me a knife. “Can you put this in the block for me, sweetie?” I put it in her neck. She falls face first into the sink. Blood is all over my hands and face. I walk into the romper room where my little brother is watching television. He turns towards the doorway. The bean bag he’s sitting shifts slightly. He stares at me in awe. I walk over to him. “Come on, we’re going to go for a ride in “‘Rusty.’ ”
The ride is mostly quiet. He looks out the window intently. At the neighborhood kids playing stick ball in the streets. I pull down a country road. The trees cover the road like hands pushing out the sun. We called it “the cave.” At the end of the road, I pull the truck over. There’s a creek bed. I wash my hands and face off in the cool, crisp water. My clothes aren’t so bad. A little bloody but my shirt was red. My little brother is aimlessly throwing pebbles into the creek. He looks up at me. “Are we going camping? Where’s mom and dad?” I kneel down in the dirt next to him. “Buddy, we’re not going camping. Mom and Dad aren’t going to be here anymore.” I feel a little teary-eyed. It’ll be the last time. “I have to go now. I won’t see you again. I’m changing my face again.” He looks confused. I stand up and dust my pants off. “When I drive off, I want you to walk into the woods and never look back. Do you understand?” He starts to cry. I shake him. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!? NOD IF YOU UNDERSTAND!” He nods and the crying becomes full blown sobbing. I turn and walk away. I start up the truck and it rumbles to life. I pull away from him. I look in the rear-view mirror and see him running into the woods. I drive through the cave and when I reach the other side….I’m not me anymore.
Chapter Eight: Whispers (Exodus)
I slash the blade across the monster’s face and he moves quickly out of the way. He’s slimier than before. I grab his head and swing it around; he socks me good in the bridge of my nose. I drop the blade and we begin to scrabble violently on the floor. He smashes my face into the cabinet door. It feels like a typewriter with all of its keys punched in. My brain feels scrambled. He pushes me to the wall and I kick him in his teeth. He stumbles and backs up into the doorway. He stands there for a long moment. Blood is dribbling down his mouth. He looks at me for a long time. I stare at him. I leap up at him and he throws me through the table. Glass shatters all around me. I fall down and hit the ground. He kneels over me and raises his blade. I grab the blade and we begin to struggle. Light and dark. He pushes harder and harder. My eyes begin to hurt. My heart begins to hurt. The blade pushes into my skin. The pain becomes searing. I cry out in pain. The blade goes deeper and deeper. I can feel it scraping past my bone and muscle. The room starts to grow dim. Blood begins to pool in my throat. He’s hit my heart. I know it. The room goes black. My arms go numb. This is last call….the room is spinning, round and round. It all goes black.
Chapter Nine: The Evil Escapes
After killing the man with my blade, I stopped and actually contemplated my next move. That weak man slowed me down, sure, but I’ve never really thought about what’s next. I guess I’ve always been fight and flight. Now, I’m sitting here in the backyard of this house I’ve never been in watching the sun come up. And it looks beautiful. I feel the rabies running away in my brain. It’s not killing me so bad. I have been stuck in this mind space for so long and now I have the opportunity to be free. I breathe in the air. It’s crisp and clean. I feel newborn. I look at my blade. Do I toss it away? Start anew? I put my blade in my coat. It’s probably best not to drop it yet. I need my detachment first, and that my friends, is going to take a while. I go back into the kitchen and stand over the dead man. He’s starting to stink. I feel like I’m going to retch. I start patting his pockets down. I grab his wallet and pull out all his cash. I look at his I.D. This sad sack’s name is George Book. Hmm, I guess it was always meant to go down this way. I grab the keys out of his pocket. I look at his car. My getaway. I start the car up. It begins to warmly idle. I turn the radio on. It’s meaningless talk radio. Guess that’ll do….I roll the windows down and let the sun beat down on my face. This feels nice. I drive down the road. I begin to smile for the first time in a long time. I look in the rearview mirror. “George. George Book.” I let the name roll over my lips several times. Yeah, I think that name will do just fine. I smile and close my eyes. The monster is gone.
Maybe….
Chapter Ten: The Song of Death
Awake. The kitchen is empty. The monster is gone. The light through the windows is bright. It’s almost overwhelming. I move through the bright, white light. It washes over me. I stand there trying to make out the images…and it becomes clear. I’m in the woods. I remember this day. It was the day my life changed forever. I see my brother. He always wore that ugly shirt. I never liked that shirt but he loved it for some strange reason. He’s walking to his truck. I’m trying to remember…didn’t I have a name for the truck? Ronald? Rusty? Anyways, he left me here. I can’t remember his voice. I just remember the words he told me. Run away. That’s stuck in my head forever. I never saw him again. The grown-ups sheltered me from what happened that day, but I know. My brother murdered my ma and pa, that’s the sick, sad truth. I see my younger self walk off into the woods. Into that deep darkness. And then, it rewinds. I begin reliving that day. My brother dropping me off and leaving me for dead. Why? I feel a heaviness in my chest. I touch my chest. I see blood. My hand is stained red with blood. I feel woozy. I begin to follow myself into the woods. My breathing becomes labored. We reach a clearing. I stop and kneel down on a log. In the distance, a glowing white mist begins floating towards me. As it reaches me, the fog begins to clear. And in that moment it becomes clear. Olivia, my sweet girl. She walks up to me and touches my chest wound. “If you’re here, and you’re seeing me, it only means one thing…” I close my eyes and feel her essence. “It means I’m gone. I’m nevermore.” Tears begin to roll down my face. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. It feels like being washed in white noise. It feels strange.” Olivia kneels down next to me. ‘It’s only like that for a little bit. Soon enough, you’ll feel light like air. It’s great. It’s endless.” I begin to stare into the distance. “What do we do here? What’s next?” She smiles. “It’s whatever we want. You and me with our backs to the world.” She grabs my hand. “There’s no more sorrow. No more worries.” I stand up and look her in the eyes. I caress her face. “Promise?” She crosses pinkies with me. “Promise.” I watch my younger self walk off into the woods, out of my old life and into the next, and for the first time in my life since that day…I smile.
The End.
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