April 16, 1996 (Sneak Peek.... Again)

I posted this like a week ago and took it off. I put it back on and there's a little bit more now.... this is part of a biography I'm writing for my character, Joel Widow. It's still under production.

Death. It was the only name I could give the damn thing. The cool stroke of his scythe formed ice along my body's spine as it tried to hold on to dear life. My body was afraid. I was afraid. Afraid and alone. My mother's corpse rested with a scream in her eyes on the floor beside me, black tendrils pooling through her open chest and feasted on her organs that once breathed so lively like any mother would after being told she got a promotion at the business she wanted so badly to burn to the ground. My father was in the other room. He shared the same fate. All sensation in my body was gone, evaporated like the water from the puddle of tears on the ground beside me. A corpse of what I once was with a few last gulps of life laid on the ground, waiting. Waiting for everything to turn right-side up so it could fall forever and not have to die on a concrete floor with a pool of blood staining its pale skin.

It was me. I was dying. I didn't really know it, but it was true. You can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy when your worst nightmare grabs you by the throat and tells you with a calm voice to open wide. My jaw couldn't move. It was frozen shut. Frozen by the horror of what I wished could remain an undesired fantasy become reality. Frozen by the trepidation that pinned me down with invisible chains and collars with spikes poking at my skin like it was made of paper.

Death just laughed at me.

Fantasy should never be reality.  All it will do is toss you in the dark and produce walls around you that you can't push away, leaving you to cry yourself to death as all the blood drips from your eye sockets onto the moldy and cold concrete floor.

I just wanted to cry. I wanted all of the tears my body would produce in its lifetime to flow from me in crimson tides and drown out all the apprehensiveness and trepidation I was faced with, but I couldn't. I was numb throughout and my eyes were drained dry. It felt like I was already dead and I'm being forced to watch everything on the highest definition TV on the planet. I watched this creature torture me with every emotion in the book. I couldn't take it. I was only six. No six-year-old should ever have to deal with Death.

Even though I couldn't do anything. My mind went to work and created illusions for me. Happy illusions. Illusions that took me away from everything. Illusions that would surprise anybody and make them look at it and go, “What the......”

The room filled with lava. Death, the bodies of my parents, and myself all burned in an agonizing quick inferno of liquid heat. There was no more pain. Only blackness reigned supreme, not life or death.

It was a peaceful and pleasurable illusion, but only a hoax.

Death's cold breath kissed my neck lightly, turning my blood soaked fur into solid ice. It gave a hearty laugh, although short and deep, and cupped a hand underneath my chin. My eyes gazed down and saw what looked like shadows stitched together into what was supposed to be hands, but looked more like disfigured claws. I gave what sounded like a simple whimper, but in reality was supposed to be a loud cry for help.

I miss my mom and dad dearly.

“Why won’t you cry for me?” I heard its voice ask. I couldn't answer. I didn't know what to say. This monster killed my parents and had me trapped in his grasp. What else did it want? I gave a whimper to delay myself. Again, it wasn't supposed to sound as quiet as it was.

“What… don’t have any tears in there?” It laughed and rubbed one of its claws at the bottom of my eye, creating suction on my skin. I could feel tears form. They started flowing from me. Slowly at first, but they grew. Soon, I couldn’t stop. The sobs echoed through my head as they killed off all of the life I had left in my grasp. I turned into nothing but a fountain for Death to drink from. “There we go.” It laughed again, but more slowly, drawing out its demonic voice through my ears.

“Please…. st… stop…” I cried, trying to form words with my broken teeth and burnt tongue.

It grinned as it glided to my side, still resting its clawed hand under my chin like it was glued there. “Look. Isn’t it all beautiful, Joel?” He gestured with a wicked wisp of his hand, finally removing his touch from my muzzle. Tendrils snaked across my home, breaking through the walls and pulling things together like a spider web. “The sight of innocent slaughter always amuses me.” It added. Now I looked at my mother. That last scream she gave echoed in my thoughts. They still echoed in her eyes. Her beautiful, dead crimson eyes.

Death’s head hovered by mine. He whispered, “Remember, Joel. Remember her well. It’s the last time you’ll see her.”

 

*****

 

                “Mommy, where are we going now?” I asked the woman sitting beside the man driving down the highway. She turned around and looked at me with the happiest of smiles. Her long, blonde hair reflected the sunlight like diamonds, sending streaks of light in all directions for anybody to gaze at with awe.

Back then, I didn’t know it was all fake. My parents were moving again. This was the third time in the past year. I always thought it was because that was what ordinary people did. You live somewhere for a little bit, then you move on to another home. I saw birds moving all the time, although I’m talking about the ones in the sky, not one of my old neighbors.

“We're just going to a new home.” She finally responded.

“A new home? Already?”

She nodded, looking back to her husband with a sigh.

“But why?” I asked. “I… I like our old home. It is big and white.” I stretched my arms out wide to show how big the house really was. I couldn’t really show the white part because my fur was red, but I think she understood the concept. My mother couldn’t help but laugh at how I sounded. For somebody who was only four, I had a funny accent. It reminded me of someone who inhaled a bunch of balloon air and their voice turned into a high pitch siren.

“The owners of the old home were mean. They wanted us to pay them extra for the home.”

“Then give them some of… some of the paper from that book you have.”

She laughed again. “You mean a check.”

I nodded.

Another laugh. “It doesn’t work that way, sweetie.”

“Why not?”

Suddenly, the car stopped. My father opened the door and said, “I’ll be right back.” With a kiss on her cheek, he departed. My mother turned back to me. “Because, dear, it just doesn’t. I can’t tell you why. It just is.” She reached back and petted my head, curling her fingers behind my ears. I loved that. It always brought happiness my way.

Author's Note

Viewer's discretion is advised.

Reviews

[cmwelsh]

Extremely well written and interesting.