The Gloaming

A creative writing assignment involving a young boy and blood. Lots of blood.

 

With the chiming of the ancient grandfather clock in the corridor, the boy's breath freezes in his chest, his heart striking an anxious tattoo against his ribcage. He sits alone in the parlor, tongue darting out to pass over chapped lips as his eyes flick uneasily between the windows and the door. His mother has been absent – gone to turn away a late-night solicitor – for nearly twelve minutes, and he cannot imagine what could be keeping her. He is frightened by the furious storm outside, and starts violently each time the thunder rolls, shaking the windows in their panes. The chandelier above his head flickers weakly and he braces himself for the imminent darkness. Lightning flashes, casting the room in stark relief, and the electricity cruelly cuts off. Alarmed, the child hastily pulls his legs up onto the sofa, tucking his feet beneath him. Clutching his stuffed lamb to his chest, the boy whimpers softly, squeezing his eyes tight against the threatening darkness.

 

"Mother!" he cries helplessly. The thunder claps again, and his small hands fly up, pressing insistently against his ears. He cannot remember ever being so terrified in his short life, and desperately wishes he had his mother to cling to. And it is that thought that makes him realize it – he can taste blood. The scent of it hangs thick in the air, the sort of scent that bypasses the nostrils and goes straight to the palate. The boy retches, hands coming away from his head as he is given to dry heaves. The stench suffocates him, clenching at his throat and filling his lungs. He gasps, willing his spasmodic muscles to still. His ragged breaths rasp harshly against his ears, and his shaking fingers press against closed eyes, as if to keep in the tears he refuses to shed. Several uneasy minutes creep by before he hears it: a muted but insistent thumping emanating from the center of the room. The sound resembles that of a chair banging against the carpeted floor. Paralyzed by fear, the child squeezes his eyes tighter, trying – albeit futilely – to ignore the wild knocking of his heart inside his chest.

 

"Mum!" the boy pleads frantically. The thumping noise grows faster and louder before stopping entirely. The stifling blackness of the room is unbroken save for the moonlight streaming in through the high windows and the occasional lightning flash. His labored breaths echo hollowly in the room and a few terrified cries escape his lips. And then, without a discernable warning, the lights are switched back on, coloring the insides of his eyelids the threatening, viscous color of blood. Hesitantly, those gray eyes slit open, squinting against the forbidding light. Once the spots clear from his vision, what he sees before him causes a trembling hand to clap tightly to his mouth as his stomach rolls.

 

There, on the squat coffee table, is his mother, or the body of his mother, drenched in what appears to be her own blood. Her skin is pasty white, the delicate blue veins beneath visible with sickening clarity. Her dark eyes, once lively and mischievous, stare unseeingly towards the ceiling, and even the boy can sense the fear that has been captured in their depths. Blood seeps from the corners of her mouth, gleaming against her dry, cracked lips. He can see bruises the shape of fingertips and shallow bite marks staining her shoulders where her dress has been torn away. Hair pulled ruthlessly from her scalp leaves only tender patches of bare skin. However, it is the woman's slender neck that draws her son's gaze. The wound there is curved, as though made from behind, and jagged – the tear in her flesh clearly made with a mercilessly dull blade. Blood still streams from the slashed skin, and the boy can see the large vein, feebly pulsing, pumping the life from his mother.

 

Instinctively, the boy's small hand curls against his own narrow throat as he bends beside the table to vomit. Bitter bile sluices from his parted lips, and he watches with a perverse interest as it soaks into his mother's treasured Oriental rug. He exhales an unsteady breath, twisting his fingers in the threads of the carpet until his knobby knuckles blaze white. His mind refuses to acknowledge the (nauseatingly obvious) fact that his mother is dead. Defiled, mutilated, murdered. Her cold right hand hangs limply near his face, and, reluctantly, his curious eyes flit towards the graceful fingers. Blinking insistent tears from his lashes, he focuses on the silver chain wrapped securely around the hand; on the end of it, his mother's crucifix. Choking out a strangled cry, the child stumbles back, away from the table and away from this twisted corpse that wears his mother's face.

 

He must run. His mind screams at him to flee, to escape the unforgiving scrutiny of his mother's lifeless eyes. He takes a step toward the door before turning lithely on his heel and stooping to slide the crucifix from his mother's wrist. Reverently, he drops the chain over his head, tucking the heavy pendent into his shirt. He gets heavily to his feet; all it takes is a brief parting glance to forever burn the image of the body into his mind. Shaking his head, as though to rid it of the permanent picture, the boy turns and flees from the room, feet stumbling beneath him as he goes.

 

The rest of the house is dark, save for the strategically placed candelabrum his mother painstakingly lit each evening. The taunting ticking of the grandfather clock follows him down the corridor, almost mocking him as he reaches for the handle of the front door. The air outside is brittle, the rain refreshing to his nose, which still clings to the haunting scent of his mother's blood.

 

The child slams the front door behind him and stands on the covered porch, gazing into the storm. The rain falls harder than ever, as though in response to the evening's events. Steeling his courage, he sets off into the mud towards the main road, hoping he can flag down a car for help. He is miserable, soaked through and still shaking, aware of the uneasy state of his stomach. His skin is freezing through, and he thinks that if he does not find shelter soon, he will never know warmth again.

 

Down the lane, he sees the unmistakable hazy glow of headlights. Upon closer inspection, he finds it is a police car, stopped on the shoulder underneath a sheltering oak tree. Feeling the strangling hold on his heart ease, the boy hurries towards the vehicle. He pauses beside the driver's door, swiping rain from his eyes before rapping his knuckles against the window. His eyes narrow suspiciously as he peers in at the sleeping officer.

 

"Sir?" he calls hoarsely. He raps a little harder, "please!"

 

Nothing.

 

Swallowing thickly, the child glances up, then down the lane, but sees no one. Resolved, he opens the (thankfully unlocked) door, letting the weight of it propel itself open.

 

"Hello?" he asks softly. Reaching out a trembling hand, he roughly shakes the man's shoulder, desperately trying to rouse him.

 

"Please!" It is then that he feels the foreign slickness on his fingers, a different texture than the rainwater that encases him. His body already reacts, ahead of his mind, twisting the fist that grips his gut. Hand stretched before him, the boy lurches backward, his wide eyes fixed on the dark silhouette of the dead man. He knows he should turn and run, before –

 

But it is too late. Lightning flashes – closely followed by a low rumble – and the body in the seat illuminates. In truth, he does not need to look to know, but curiosity is a fickle temptress. In that brief instant, his eyes are trained on the broad neck, and he has a perfect view of the brand. The slice here is deeper, done hastily, and the child wonders how he could have missed the unnatural angle of the officer's head. The blood does not course from the wound as it had in his mother's, but has dried into a cracked, sticky mess at the base of the man's throat. The eyes are closed, though the mouth hangs slack, and the boy imagines he can see blood pooled there. He turns, breathing in the frigid night air, praying it will cleanse the night's bloodshed from his body.

 

A sudden gust of wind sweeps through the trees overhead, and the boy tenses, tears leaking from his eyes at the deafening squelch behind him. His logical mind begs him not to turn, to just leave it and go for help. His lust for knowing, however, has his feet shifting him back towards the car. At first, he doesn't see it. At first, he thinks that maybe he imagined the sound, that the night is playing tricks on him. It is when he takes a cautious step forward that his toes connect with something solid, something that had not been there a moment before. Before he can think not to, the child looks down and his eyes connect with those of the officer. Which now stare openly, as though the head is surprised to find itself detached and on the ground.

 

There is not enough air in his lungs to scream properly.

 

The boy staggers backward and loses his balance, scraping his face on the pavement. By the light of another strike, he watches, fascinated, as his own blood mingles with the mud below him. Terrified, he struggles to his feet and rushes away from the car and the decapitated police officer and the sinister stench of blood.

 

He shivers as he slows to a trot several yards down the highway. Tears flow freely down his cheeks, and he wraps trembling arms around himself. He cannot escape the blood. He has seen more blood in one short evening than he has in all his nightmares combined. The stench, the texture of it blankets him, heavy and dense. He cannot seem to throw it off, and though he is young, he knows it is in his mind, a bitter poison.

 

Briefly, the child leaves his thoughts to glance through the rain at his surroundings. He doesn't recognize the vast, empty fields, nor the sole building not twenty yards from where he stands. A barn. Shelter. Safety. Pressing an icy hand quickly to his eyes, he exhales sharply before sprinting through the tall grasses towards the barn. He can feel it; relief, however momentary, is in his grasp. He would like nothing more than to sleep for a hundred years, but knows that the moment he tries, the image of his mother's marred body will swim into view.

 

The barn is dry, though this may be the only thing it lends to its favor. It is musty, the stale odor of hay and animals permeating the humid air. Two brown cows occupy the far stalls, and they stare at him blearily and, were they not mere animals, the boy might say inquiringly. He trips into the open room, leaving the enormous sliding door partly open to let in some fresh air. Collapsing onto the hay-strewn floor, the child blinks slowly as painful gasps escape his lungs. It is only a few moments before he thinks that perhaps seeking silence and solitude had not been a wise move. The turmoil of the evening thus far has kept his mind from touching on what has happened. Now…

 

The boy weeps.

 

He must have fallen asleep, though he cannot fathom how. Wearily, he pushes himself up, squinting out through the barn door at the night sky. The rain has stopped. A tired smile stretches across the pale features; it instantaneously shatters. The events of the few hours before come flooding eagerly back into his head. A heavy hand settles on his chest, compressing, taking his breath, his life as he remembers. His mother. The officer.

 

The blood.

 

His stomach clenches angrily, and he moves to bend, to once again empty its meager contents on the floor.

 

He doesn't get that far.

 

As he moves, a rough hand grabs his neck, pulling him back and upwards against a solid body. Wet breaths puff over his clammy skin, and the boy tenses as the other hand covers his mouth. He can feel his muscles tremble and jerk sporadically in fear, his throat working in a silent scream. The first hand presses closer against his windpipe, and the boy sees blood. The blood of his mother and the blood of the man and soon the blood which now pulses frenetically through his own veins staining the earth. The hands of those who could not save them. Death is near, he can smell it, rich as all the life which has been spilt savagely, without cause. He quits his struggle, no longer wanting to fight against this end which has no escape. This end which will have him with his mother once again.

 

He is aware of the very second the blade is placed firmly against his throat. He can imagine the dried blood of the two who went before him covering the sleek edge, about to be blended with his own. He hears a sharp growl in his left ear, can feel each fleck of spittle as it lands on his hypersensitive skin. An incoherent word muttered as the blade presses in, breaking the white skin, the arm moving, swiftly, precisely –

 

When dawn breaks, unassuming and unaware, the air is still. No whispers of the nighttime horrors. No signs of the struggle of a young boy. But in a barn in the sparse countryside, the first rays of the new day streak accusingly over a small, mutilated body, suspended by its own entrails from the rafters. It sways gently, the unseeing gray eyes seemingly fixed on the pool of hardened blood beneath the little feet.

 

Author's Note

I, er, apologize if it's super lame.