Fissure.

A short story where a man struggles with reality and balance in this dark thriller

       It was a cold winter night, there was at least three to five inches of snow on the ground. Roads were slushy and trees were bare. Leonardo was out on the streets. The last couple of days were Leo’s worst. His delusions have been taking control over his reality. Usually he would have bad and good days. But for now he was stuck in the endless cycle of voices and delusions. With each day that passed he got more and more out of touch with reality. Today would make day ten of him being on the streets. Though the first two days he would always remember to return home. Shower and change his clothes. But when the next day would roll around he would wake up and do it all over again. It was at this point that his beard was full and thick. His hair was longer and curled onto his forehead. He was dirty, cold and hungry. His skin had a few cuts and scraps. 

       As he walked down the empty streets he kicked an empty can around. He was muttering some unintelligible words. He would shutter from unseen things. Scream in the face of a shadow that only his hollow and distant eyes could see. There was a moment of peaceful silence until he heard something behind him. His ear twitched. His senses heightened. Shoulders stiffened.  His eyes scanned the world in front of him as he looked for a place to hide from the unknown behind him. A sickening shiver went down his spine as his mind tricked him into hearing his name. He shuddered as it sounded like a hiss, a sin, like his name was a calling card for immorality.

His breath was coming to him in short dry puffs as he settled behind a dumpster. His eyes had a wild, yet, empty look to them as he scanned for a weapon. 

       “They found me, they found me, they found me…” he muttered under his breath as he clamped his eyes shut.

 His body was shivering from the cold - it didn’t help that he was sitting on a huge pile of snow. It didn’t help that his blood ran like ice through his veins at the very idea that something unholy was chasing him down. Calling him by name. Of course he didn’t understand that none of this was real. To him it was very real. His mind has captured him and managed to hold him hostage. Using his delusions against him. Making him feel numb to the very idea that the situation he was in wasn’t actually happening. That he is Leonardo DeLaurentis. An ally to the mafia. If he could think clearly then he would see the irony of it all. Maybe even accept it as a punishment for all of his sins. Maybe he was cursed with this disease as a way for the universe to continue with balance. His sanity taken for all those he murdered..for those he watched take their last breath with joy. For those he would lower his head for just as they inhaled their last desperate breath. Just so he could breath in when they exhaled their last. Literally taking their last breath into his lungs and he would hold it and let it out as if he were smoking. All those times he would get ‘high’ from the whole experience. So, yeah..if he were in the right mind, he would say, “This is what I get”.

       

       “Prepare yourself…” he thought to himself as he picked up a shard of broken glass.

  His thoughts were running rigid through his mind as his brain formulated an endless cypher of 1’s and 0’s. Because to him, at this very moment, it was all about binary code. The next second the thought was gone and his mind was too wild to hold onto thought as he struggled to think straight. There was nothing. No numbers or frantic thoughts. His mind was an abyss. Leo brought his knees to his chest. Placed his hands on his ears as his left was still holding the shard of mirror. He clenched his eyes shut and grated his teeth. 

       “2, 5, 4, 2, 5, 4, 2 ,5, 4…” he rapidly repeated while he rocked forward and backwards. 

       This was a coping mechanism he did on instinct or when he would feel how truly desolate he was or became over the years. When he felt void of thoughts, emotions or even a soul. He continued to mutter “2, 5, 4” for a few minutes until he got a random burst of energy and stood up. Arm extended and the shard of mirror pointing at what he believed was the thing chasing him. He gripped the piece of mirror so hard blood began to run down his hand, painting the snow crimson. He took a deep breath as his eyes adjusted to the dark. But there wasn’t anything to see. There wasn’t anything to hear or to fight. It was just him. It was always just him. Something he never will realize. 

       

       “Coward!” he yelled into the night air.

       Leo turned to face the dumpster, his heart still racing from previous events. He dropped the piece of mirror and ran his bloody hand along his forehead. Not noticing the blood. Leo then abruptly turned on his heels. Making a beeline to cross the street. With no thought in mind. No plan. Just a feeling of determination. It wouldn’t make sense to a sane man. But for now it made all the sense in the world to Leo. A barefoot stepped out onto the cold concrete. The piercing sound of a car horn echoed throughout ears. His head snapped to turn and look at its source; his pupils retracted against glaring headlights. Then there was a sickening sound of metal meeting flesh. Air was ripped from his lungs as his body slid against the slushy pavement. Mind rattled. Heart racing.

The tiny hairs rising on the back of his neck. His skin was too cold to feel the impact.

Car doors could be heard slamming shut but frantic words fell on deaf ears. Leonardo rolled over on his side to catch his breath. The air wheezing in and out of his lungs were cut off by an agonizing groan. He presumed one or two of his ribs were bruised if not broken. 

“..Fu-..” words were barely whispered painfully under his breath.

A shaky hand rubbed snow and dirt from his eyes as unknown hands gripped his shoulders. He stiffened. The hands were now trying to pull him from the ground. His chest clenched as his tried to recoil from the others grasp. His brain still trying to catch up and comprehend the panic filled words of, “Are you okay”, being spoken by the figure in front of him. Icy blues scanned the man in front of him. Then over to the woman who was still in the car with her phone pressed against her ear as she called 911. Delusional eyes couldn’t see husband and wife. Instead they saw demons laughing and taunting him. Schizophrenic mind reacting to the site in front of him. Once again his chest clenched but with fear. Heartbeat racing. These people were demons to him. Monsters that needed to be put in their place. He then jerked out of the man’s grasp. Blue eyes met green. 

“D-demon” he whispered as he scrambled away from the other.

 For two heartbeats neither man knew what to do. The man tried to reach out towards Leo, his hand outstretched but cautious as if he was a caged animal. Out of reflex he smacked the hand and took a small step back. All the pain he was feeling vanished as his adrenaline started to kick in. 

“DEMON” He shrieked this time. The sound horrible. Rough. Scratchy.

Green eyes flinched back from the sound. He turned his eyes back onto his wife only to see her busy with the 911 operator. He swallowed and looked back at the man in front of him just as he jumped to his feet. Green eyes jerked back from the quickness of Leo’s movement. An eerie silence fell between them. The man didn’t even realize he was holding his breath. Neither of them knew what was going to happen. The husband grew weary with each second that ticked by and hoped his wife would stay in the car. He slowly backed away from this stranger in front of him with his wife in mind. Slowly making his way back to the car himself as he kept a steady gaze on the stranger in front of him. He felt trapped, as if any sudden movement would send the man into a fit. Just as he turned his back the man jumped onto him.

Dirty hand clamping the husbands mouth shut as an undignified shriek left the other “Silence!” His grip tightened. 

“You do not get to express your fear -the fear you give others.” Leo lowered his head to whisper in the man's ear.

“You take away from others and make them weak with terror” He yanked the husband's head back.

“Now, under the order and presence of God” his voice rising with each word, “it is my duty to take something away from you..” 

In a quick movement he took the others ear in his mouth. Biting down on it and began to grind and chomp on it until he finally managed to symbolically rip it off completely. The husband struggled as his gut wrenching screams were muffled by the others’ hand. Hot tears ran shamelessly down his cheeks as he dropped to his knees as if the weight of the other man finally was too much to bear. The screams of his wife could be heard as she jumped out of the car. Almost like she wanted to help her husband but clearly unsure of how to do so. Leo then turned his head and spit the hunk of flesh on the ground. The strangers blood pooling and dripping from his mouth as he stood up from the other and turned to face the man's wife. 

Her eyes wild and frantic. Tears hung in her eye lashes like a forbidden kiss. Her shaking hand covered her mouth and another gripped tightly at the fabric covering her chest. Her breath coming in rapid and shallow. Her body shivering with fear at what the stranger before her would do -could do. The unknown of what else he was capable of had her frozen where she stood. Leo’s lips slowly spread into a smile. Blood stained teeth made him look diabolical like a walking sin. An anomaly. It made him look like the demon he accused her husband to be. His eyes never left hers as the silence was thick and unknown. Still keeping eye contact, the man slowly crouched down beside her husband. The women held her breath as his hand moved to hold her husband's head. Warm blood seeped between his fingers. Two fingers dipped into the hole where the man’s ear used to be. Pulling them back as the dark red fluid ran down his hand. He carefully made his way to the wife with his arms out implying that he is no threat to her. A gentle hand laid upon her shoulder.

“I shall cleanse your sins with the blood of your husbands.” Words were soft and smooth like honey. Yet, grave with his intentions and “truth”.

He took his blood covered fingers and began drawing a cross on her forehead. 

“Don’t fret my dear” Their eyes met.

“Your husband shall be seen anew.” He smiled, “Washed clean of his sins, just as Jesus cleansed ours.”

“He is refreshed...as are you” He put a comforting hand under her chin. “And now you may rest in everlasting paradise.” His words descending into a whisper.

The touch soft and caring. He watched as the woman's lip quivered with her tears. With her silent prayers that they get out of this alive.

“Shh..” he soothed as his arms wrapped her in a warm and gentle embrace. 

His actions almost childlike with his innocence. His hand rubbing her back soothingly. The women broke down and wept uncontrollably in his arms. This was mistaken for gratitude and repentance. In reality, the man was the monster he claimed her husband to be. Soul full of sin - heart full of love -mind full of good intentions -body set to cruel actions. Eyes...eyes were warm and yet full of arctic chaos. His essence was havoc and confusion. Yet, so beautiful with his innocence like a rare crystal encased dagger. His life was a contradiction. His existence was a proclamation of yin and yang. He was balance and unbalance. A soul forever fighting for control over his mind and body.

Author's Note

Please, pleaseee feel free to review!!

Reviews

[JayG]

Well, you did ask, but take a deep breath, because this may sting just a bit.

But first: Nothing I’m about to say has to do with your writing skill or talent. It’s about a problem you share with pretty much all hopeful writers, and it is curable.

To understand the magnitude of the problem think back to your school days, and to the ratio of reports and essays to assigned fiction-writing. That will give you a feel for the kind of writing you were being taught.

Think of how much time was spent on how to handle dialog, how best to use tags, and even such basics as why a scene almost always ends in disaster for the protagonist. Or…the number of hours spent on the major differences between a scene on stage and screen and one on the page, and the elements that make it up. And think about it. If you don’t know what a scene truly is and what it does for you, can you write one?

Problem is, we all miss a couple of critical points. First, we forget that all professions are learned IN ADDITION to The Three R’s we’re given in school, and that Fiction-Writing is a profession, and not all that easy to master.

The second point is that it’s reasonable to assume that since the profession is called Fiction-Writing and the skill we’re given is called writing, there’s a close relationship, based on the word “writing.” But there’s not. Yes, we learned to write, but were given only the skills of nonfiction—reports and essays, whose goal is to inform—because our future employers need us to write reports and essays. Fiction, with its goal of entertaining the reader, has a very different methodology, because the goal is so different.

In reports we write in a fact-based and author-centric way. Paragraphs are filled with declarative sentences. Look at your first paragraph. True to your training, there are sixteen declarative sentences ABOUT the situation, but none from the protagonist’s viewpoint. In paragraph two, it’s twelve.

In other words, the author, acting as narrator, is explaining the story’s events to the reader. And that’s every bit as exciting as reading any other report. So, to avoid that, fiction’s goal is different. Instead of our telling them a story, our goal is to make the reader feel as if they’re living that story, as the protagonist, and in real-time. In fact, you’ve experienced that, and it’s the reason you love to read, though as in all professions, as they say, “Art conceals art,” and you never notice what the artist is doing to create the effect you adore.

But assume you’re reading a horror story. Do you want the author to tell you the protagonist feels terror? Or do you want them to terrorize YOU, and make YOU afraid to turn out the lights? It’s the last one, of course, but how much time did your teachers spend on the emotion-based and character-centric skills needed to do that? How much time was spent on the nuance of presenting the protagonist’s viewpoint?

The answer to that is, zero. But viewpoint is the difference between fiction and nonfiction. To better see why it matters so much, try this article:
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/the-grumpy-writing-coach-8/

Like the rest of the articles in my writing blog, it’s meant to give a feel for the difference between fiction and nonfiction, and show why it’s necessary to add a few of the tricks the pros use, and that readers expect to see in use. A reader might not know what those tricks are, but they do react to them. As Sol Stein observed, “Readers don’t notice point-of-view errors. They simply sense that the writing is bad.” And that’s what you need to fix.

After all, like everyone else you know, you’ve been choosing only professionally written and prepared fiction since you learned to read. So spending a bit of time, and perhaps a few coins on acquiring those skills makes a lot of sense, right? And if you are meant to write, the learning will be like going backstage at the theater: fun.

The local library’s fiction-writing section can be a huge resource, and time spent there is time wisely invested. I won’t lie to you, though. The goal—to add some professional skills to your toolbox—is simple. But simple and easy aren’t interchangeable words, so there is a lot of study and practice needed before the skills of fiction seem as intuitive as the nonfiction skills you practiced through school. But that’s true of any profession, so it’s no big deal.

For a better idea of the differences between our schoolday writing, and that of fiction, you might want to dig around in the other articles in my blog. But in the end, of course, you go to the pro. And given where you stand, I’d suggest you pick up a copy of Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict. It’s a warm, easy read, like sitting with Deb while she talks about writing. Or, you might try James Scott Bell's, Elements of Fiction Writing.

But whatever you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/

[Nefertiti Virtudes Ahmes]

Thank you for the review!! I appreciate your insight and kind words.