Trudge Pt.2

Going to be posting pieces from this story every week. Feedback would be really appreciated.

The stone tiles gradually changed into barren, dusty path. The way winded past chain-link fences, crumbling stone houses, shanties built of rusting scrap metal, and abrasive flashing neon signs. She found it interesting how the middle class melted so quickly into the squalid slums in which she now dwelled.

 

As she passed by one of the many liquor stores on the East-side, it occurred to her that Abaddon did not frighten her. Even with the threats she faced as a lone woman walking through, she felt this was place far sadder than it was daunting. And even with prospect of mortal danger or robbery, she didn't worry too much. Most people who lived in these parts that saw her long, russet hair or her porcelain skin knew who she was by now. She didn't need to worry, for she was with Kelvin, and Kelvin was with Timothy.

 

The dim street was thick with subtle night sounds: hidden cricket colonies chirping, hushed voices conversing, distant dogs barking, bug zappers zapping, and street lights and lanterns blending their unvaried electric notes. There was a serenity she found in this place, even if it was, at times, very lonely here. Devoid of any breeze, the air smelt stale and heavy, tainted by atmosphere saturated with anger, alcohol, and lonely dreams. Such were the nights in Abaddon.

 

She followed the twisting road as it widened and straightened out. She had gone a few miles and knew there was still at least a mile to go. The house she had made her a home a few months ago was near the edge of town, and the edge of Angel itself. Truly, if she looked up and out she could see the edges of Joon and Zeda's thick bases giving way to the star-strewn sky.

 

Rosemary was minutes from her destination when she noticed she was being followed. From somewhere behind, a shadow fell across her path under the eerie, white light of a streetlamp. She twisted her neck slightly to catch a glimpse of her stalker.

 

He was maybe ten yards back from her, tall, slightly bent over, shaggy. Covered in different cloaks and garments, he looked like a tramp.

 

She wondered briefly if he knew who she was, who she was with. Hoping he would realize his mistake before it was too late, she quickened her pace, placing her hands over her bosom.

 

Thin dust veils rose out from under her sandals. Wearing nothing but brief and a wife-beater, an old man sat on his porch, sipped cheap bourbon from a bottle, and watched her go by, half of his face bathed in orange light from the old lantern that hung from his gutter.

 

He seemed none too interested in her or the man following her. She sped up just a little more.

 

Looking back once more, she saw that the stranger had also accelerated. She sighed and began to whisper prayers for forgiveness to gods whom she didn't believe in. She knew what was happening, and also how it must end. She began to slow down. And as she did, to her own surprise, she realized she wasn't really nervous. She felt ready, numb. But a three seconds later, she was already second-guessing herself.

 

After several seconds Rosemary came to a stop in the middle of the dusty road and waited. She could hear the slow, alert steps of the man as he came closer. His air brushed her back and a hand gripped her shoulder.

 

"Baby, what're you doin all al-"

 

Rosemary pulled the small, vicious knife from between her breasts, turned full-tilt, and drove a few inches of metal into the alien's chest. Before he could scream she placed a hand squarely over the matted hair covering his mouth and pulled out the biting metal. His stringy hair, his grimacing mouth, his rubbery lips; they all felt old, mangy, repugnant. Blood seeped out rapidly from his chest, some of it dripping off the short blade and onto her dress. With fierce speed, she dropped her hand low and spiked him again, this time driving the bloody knife into his gut.

 

He shoved her away hard and fell backwards onto the ground, his legs kicking the air and his arms reaching for nothing. She sat down hard from the force of the jolt, further dirtying her formerly pristine dress and bruising her buttocks.

 

The man, clenching his torso, kicked limply and cried lamely.

 

From the looks of it, she thought distantly, she'd stuck him. And she'd stuck him good.

 

Knife tight in her shaky hand, Rosemary pushed herself up, brushed herself off, and leaned over towards the tramp.

 

"You-you b***h," he moaned, trying to reach out and grab her.

 

She slipped away from his grimy, reaching hands, sandals kicking up dust clouds as she nearly fell back down. The intensity of the moment began to weigh on her. She realized that whether or not the tramp meant her harm - which she believed he had - she had probably done him in. Ended him.

 

"C'm ere!" he screamed at her, his voice cracking from the pain. "C'm ere, you b-b***h! I'll kill you if I get my hands on you!" He writhed onto his side and grabbed at his stomach.  

 

Her skin prickled with heat, and tears blurred her vision. "Yeah?" she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, "Well, now you're gonna die here alone!"

 

Tears burning her eyes, she swung around and began to walk her, her steps straight and brisk and angry and scared.

 

"Come back! C-come back, you f*****g w***e!" He rolled in the dirt, and his loathsome voice began to fade into abhorrent noise as she gained distance.

 

The hand that held the weapon, shook terribly, and it grew worse every few feet. Kelvin had given her the knife nearly three months ago, when she'd first moved in with him. Her pace seeming only to quicken, she held the knife up to her eyes, studying it, looking at the dark blood through her salty tears. He'd told her it was called an ear dagger. Its pommel, round and golden, lead up a thin, black blade to an acute point. Helve and all, it was no more than seven inches. But it was probably enough to subtract one tramp from the East-side.

 

Blood gleamed in the light of a passing porch, causing her to shudder. She lowered the knife and held it close to her. Looking around, she wondered if anyone had seen, if anyone had heard.

 

She hastened her steps. She knew she wasn't far now. She knew she'd be safe once she made it to Kelvin, to her boy.

 

The broken down houses became sparser as she went along. The mountain sides on either side of the broad shantytown began to diminish. Rosemary was nearing her target, nearing the end of Angel, and the end of the Angaloin.  

 

She stopped near the edge of mountain corridor. Stars blazed overhead like diamonds sewn into blankets of black satin. The road ahead ran ahead of her and sloped down into the miles of hilly fields - called the Freyla - characteristic of the Angaloin Territories.  

 

She gave the moonlit realm one fugitive glance, and then turned her attention to the house to her right. It was the last house on the dirt street. She had arrived.

 

The house was large, and the premises were spooky. At first glance, someone might mistake it for being abandoned. A white fence -broken at intervals- stretched across the front of the property, securing the border into the unkempt yard. Beyond the unpigmented barrier, a yard of stone crept up to the front of the house. Winding stalks of yellow grass reached through small fissures in the earth, while miscellaneous objects lay undisturbed around the stone court.

 

She walked past a grinning cow mailbox, and through the broken, latchless gate. Bottles, cans, a bike tire, and dozens of cigarette butts passed her by as she walked up to the house.

 

It was a monster. The aging structure stood three stories high and leaned hard to the left. But even looking as though it may collapse, she had learned the green and grey stones that formed this house were far stronger than they appeared. It would be some time before the house crumbled. Maybe even never, she had once mused.

 

There was no porch, just a few sunken steps onto a wooden platform that hung in front of the chipped, white door, which was just barely cracked open.

 

Even with the multitude of windows, there seemed to be little light coming from within. She wondered if anyone was home. And then she hoped that someone was home.

 

With the gory knife still held firmly in her grip, she ascended the steps. She felt the old slabs of wood push into the cinderblocks beneath. Reach for the door, she stopped, and for the what felt like the thousandth time, read the bulging, green letter spray-painted onto the door. "Sharks, stay away. F**k Blue Boys, Elves, and Chasers".

 

Shivering, she pushed the door inward and walked into a small, dark antechamber. She blinked hard trying to adjust her drying eyes to the darkness and find the door that led into the den.

 

Being familiar with the small, light room, she quickly found her mark, a heavy, brass doorknob. For whatever reason, she cracked the door only slightly and glanced into the adjoining room.

 

Soft, golden light immediately flicked into the foyer through the slit. The light made a long, thin cut down her face, torso, and right leg. She saw what she'd hoped to see.

 

She pushed the door open and, for just a moment, stood there, looking into the lounge.

The room was large. Broken bottles, scraps of plastic, and paper garbage lay dormant on random sections of the hardwood floor. A little passed the room's center, close to the wall opposite of her, a fire blazed lazily, eating twigs, a few logs, and the remains of a broken guitar.

 

A young man sat on a pee-green upholstery couch, which was set in front of the fire and against the wall. His eyes were fixed on the flame. Kelvin appeared to be deep within his thoughts.

 

Noticing the door open, he looked up slowly. Though at first a mask of lost indifference, surprise and then worry marred his rugged features. He saw the blood on her dress, and the knife in her hand.

 

"Rosy," he said he as he stood, moving quickly around the fire towards her.

 

"Are you all right? What happened?"

 

The handsome, young man moved in quick strides toward her. Concern shone bright in his eyes as his bare feet kicked away plastic cups and stepped over beer cans.

 

But then Kelvin stopped a few feet away from her, one hand outstretched meaningfully, and his eyes lingering on the knife's blade. He had been witness to more than a few macabre occurrences in the past. He knew it did well to be careful, even with those you knew, even with those you trusted.

 

She looked from the knife to Kelvin  and then to a rocking chair parallel to the fire where another young man - a goblin named Ariel- gazed on with curious, half-closed eyes. He leaned back in his chair, and when her eyes met his, he looked away.

 

Looking back to Kelvin, she said, "I think I just killed someone." The words slipped lightly from her lips, so impersonal, so detached. It felt as if the voice had come from somewhere far away and not from her own mouth. It was a sensation beyond what she would've called illusory or dreamlike. It felt dead.

 

The weapon slid from her small, cold fingers, dropping to the hard floor. In the near silence, the thud of metal against wood sounded like a hammer falling, jarring and explicit.

 

Crossing her arms over her stomach, Rosemary began to cry.

 

The small gap between the two - an unholy and lonely schism - was closed within fragments of a second by her boy. Kelvin held her close, the blood from her hands and dress smearing against his loose black pants and bare, tan torso.

 

"Oh, baby," he whispered to her, kissing her temple as she wept. "Oh, baby, what happened? Who?"

 

She struggled to speak through her tender weeping. "I-I don't know... There was this guy. He-he... just. Oh, God, Kel. Oh, f**k. I've-I've never- Oh, no. No." The more she spoke, the more her sobbing intensified.

 

In turn, he only held her tighter. He understood her fear, her pain. The wave that crashes over you when you snuff out another's light was, at least for some, a soul-wrenching experience. It was a terrible thing to know, and it was never to be forgotten. Kelvin knew this to be true.