One Cried For the Beast

She sat knitting her way through the day

The old lady in a town far away

All the while thinking, of moments past

A long dark shadow it cast

“Oh, the good days when you were here” she whispers

Now alone in a home broken

She wept for her guardian angel,

Everyday from dawn to dusk

She leans her head back

And the rocking chair creaks

She remembered,

She was not senile like all believed

Oh his grace as he ran through her fields

His dark eyes

His forgiving ways

All the old woman had to do was put food in his plate

Then the dark days came

The air was thick

The sky was black

But he stood by her side brave

As men unknown, with their pitchforks held high

And torches lit, came bringing with them their rage

He was afraid, the Old womans guardian angel

But he shivered not

For no matter what fate had for all that day

He stood baring teeth and claw

Willing to die to protect his loved master

He saw red

Then the battle began

Man and beast, blinded by rage and love

“Alas had I been stronger” she whispers

But he asked not of it

He never asked anything of her

His loyalty never stray

In all days they had together

He questioned not anything

He was injured, his eyes showed pain

But he made no sound

His will, to protect his beloved master

Stronger than ever

As the wild men approached the tame beast

With pitchforks and torches held high

He but bellowed a howl

To the full moon glowing red in the sky

“Alas had I been courageous” she whispers

But he asked not of it

He ran ahead, knowing the odds

He feared not his fate

“Off with his head” the wild men yelled

“Please, he was protecting me” said the woman, not so old then

But they paid no heed

To them He was a beast

Oh and the Angel fought

He braved on, the wild men began to fear

He had not a weapon, he had not a gift

He had only his spirit and his will

The woman tried but failed to make a sound

As her guardian took down half the wild men

Her love for him grew stronger every moment

“Alas, If only I could save him” she whispers

But he asked not for it

He went forth breaking the spirit of the wild men

Injured, though he was, bleeding

He refused to back away

Oh and he fought,

His will to protect his beloved master ever so strong

But he grew weary

For he was not as young as he used to be

A coward among the wild men

Raised his dagger from behind

And stabbed the Angel

The Angel’s eyes wide, realizing his fate

The woman wept and wept tears of blood

The Angle limped back to his beloved master

In his final breath, all he wished for

Was her warmth

He lay spread on all fours in front of her

She, unable to move, just stared from above

He asked not for anything

His eyes, in his final moments, bright and loving

The woman found herself

She knelt before him and stroke his head

The Angels eyes slowly shut

Calm he seemed

The old woman fell into deep slumber

The valiant sacrifice of her beloved Angel

To this day unforgotten and grateful

She remain to her dear Wolf

************************************

In Shackles

He knelt on the floor, head facing down and hunched over. His bare back facing the ceiling of the dungeon he was imprisoned in. Sweating and bleeding from the daily abuse, he knelt exhausted on that cold stone floor. He could not, for the life of him, remember the days when he was out of that wretched dungeon; the days where his bare feet stood on soft, green grass and the sun shone off his body. For so long had he been trapped, in those heavy, iron shackles in that dungeon with its cold stone floor. The darkness enveloped him, ate his being. He felt years older than he was in reality, he was weak and hopeless now. Worst of it all was the small flash of light he saw through the cracks on the walls of his darker than dark dungeon. It was the only way he understood the passing of a day. Oh, how he missed the sun; its rejuvenating light warming his every cell, bringing him back from the dead again and again and again. Where had that virility gone? Why could he not remember the day he was imprisoned? Who had done this to him and for what? He had not the answer, he had only the suffering.

          He had tried time and again to break the shackles. His wrists had bled, the rusted iron piercing his soft skin, the friction burning the flesh until all that was left was bone. The shackles were stronger than he had expected. They were old and rusted but still tough. Every day it was the same thing, kneeling on that cold stone floor, watching days pass by through the cracks on the ceiling. Occasionally he would see people, people who would wander into that dungeon. They would stand outside his cage and point at him, gawking and mocking his sorry existence. He did not care for their sympathy; he had no need for it. His only need was aid. He would call out to those standing outside his cage and ask feebly, “Help, please.” But, they never gave a second glance; they simply waved his plea away, turned heel and walked away. The point of his existence seemed bleaker by the day. Why must he continue fighting? Why must he continue to put up with this torrid abuse? Why was he alone in that dungeon, the walls of which laughed at him as his blood and sweat sprayed across it? He could see it, so clearly he could, his death; his meaningless death. This dungeon was his grave; he was going to die in those rusted, heavy iron shackles. There was no way out. There was no light at the end of this tunnel, even if there was he could never reach it. His life was darkness, he couldn’t remember light, and he couldn’t remember the glow of the sun. He was as good as dead.

          He was smiling one morning…or night. It was cold; so cold his frail body shivered. He kept smiling; it was here finally, the end to his misery was here. He was welcoming death, no matter how painful; it would release him from his shackled existence. It was then that he heard a soft whistling in the cold breeze. The cold was not as intense anymore, the breeze turned warm, comforting his torn flesh and broken spirit. He raised his head in the direction of the whistle and standing in front of his cage was a man, but he was not like any other. There was a mystique that he could not explain; it brought about unexplained calm and peace in his mind. The pain disappeared. “Son,” said the strange mystical man, “why do you stay?” The question could not have been more obscure. “Sir, I am not here by choice. I have been bound by these shackles. I have been here long and not a single soul has attempted to aid me. I am stuck in this pit and I wait here silent and alone for death to swiftly take me away” he said baring his shackles to the mystical man. The mystical man smiled and whistled again; the calm it brought…ecstasy. “Son, I see no shackles. Do you remember how you came here?” the mystical man said and continued to whistle. “I do not remember the sun. I feel I was born here and this is my home. I do not remember the sun but I know it is there. I do not remember it” he said tears swelling in his eyes. The mystical man began to dance, bobbing his head from side to side and whistling that calming tune, “Remember!” he said, “think, remember.”

He closed his eyes and he tried; he had to have come here somehow. It suddenly hit him, he was free, he could see the sun, better yet, he could feel it! He was a boy running wild and free among the trees the flowers the animals. He kept running. But, the grass did not feel soft, it pricked. The sun, he wanted to hide from, it burned him. He was upset! But, what was it? He could not remember. All he remembered and could feel was that he wanted to hide from the sun. He kept running. It appeared in front of him, the dungeon. It wasn’t there but it appeared! He ran in, he needed to hide from the sun. He didn’t want the sun, the soft grass or the forest. He wanted the dungeon. He ran straight into it, the dungeon. He kept running, till he reached the end. There in front of him it lay, shining silver; shackles! He remembered now. It was he who had locked himself in those chains that had rusted over the years. He had wished to forget the sun. He was the reason he was in chains. All along it was him! He opened his eyes and the mystical man was gone, he stood on soft, green grass and the sun, directly above his head, fed him joy again.

He was free!

*******

His Broken Mirror (Alternate Ending)

Note: The story is the exact same as the previous attempt (here). I have just altered the ending i.e. the last section (Thirteen Years Ago) as I wasn’t satisfied with the ending. If you have read the initial draft, please forward through to the last section. If not, enjoy.

            The things he had seen were beyond his own wildest imaginations. Luke was gone, finally. He was relieved and yet he was also morose. Luke was his best friend, his confidante. He had protected him, always. Now, he had run away. With Luke gone, he felt lonely. A part of him was lost and it left an enormous, gaping hole in his brittle heart. Could Luke have been saved? That was a question he would never be able to answer, not anymore, not since Luke left his side. As he sat in his dingy room, lights out, he reflected upon Luke and reminisced all their inglorious moments together. They said he was insane. Who were they to mark him as anything, let alone insane?

********

Three months ago:

He lay wide awake staring at the blank ceiling. It was another wall to him, another boundary, another way for a world full of unimaginative mongrels to strap him to an unjust and ubiquitous reality. They said he was deranged. They said he was retarded. It was they who were retarded and deranged, oh yes, it was they. What did they know? They couldn’t possibly comprehend his world. Who were they to mark him as anything, let alone insane? He lay wide awake staring at the ceiling; just another wall that trapped him, he smiled ear-to-ear at the thought. He was strong and courageous, he was invincible. They could lock him away in a box for as long as they wished but he would not, for the life of it, admit defeat. He hadn’t blinked in hours, his eyes burned; the pain demanding he shut them despite which they were open and they would remain open. He would keep them open else they would win, he couldn’t have that – no, they couldn’t win, shouldn’t win, they wouldn’t win. He was not going to allow the oppressed to rule him, his freedom. He was free and they would never be capable enough to rip him of it.

His head turned right and there too was a wall, its resemblance to the ceiling uncanny. It was the same white, made of the same stone and equidistant from where he lay to that ceiling -- another wall which trapped him. “Just” he said taking his time between each word, “another wall.” His head turned left, there it was again; the same white wall made of the same stone but, this was closer and he could see the shadow of his weak soul on it, staring back at him. The wall nearly kissed his face; he could feel the heat in his breath as it ricocheted off the wall and slapped his face hard. It was his third day lying awake in that same room, with those same walls. The stone, on which he lay, was cold and dry. He shivered as it sent repetitive lacerating chills up and down his spine each time with increased intensity, each time numbing his senses momentarily, but the cold never bothered him – he was fearless. He was free, oh yes he was, and no one was ever going to take that away from him; his wings may have been ripped off his back, and his back may have been broken but he was free and he would stay free. 

He continued shifting his head; facing the ceiling then the right wall and then the left wall as the clock sung tick-tock, mocking him as the walls ate away his life. He tried moving his arms; they had been too still for far too long and they rested cross on his chest, as he lay wide awake staring at the walls, eyes dry and burning in that same room, for the third day. He stretched but his hands would not release from that crossed position. They seemed tied down. He grew agitated. The oppressed, unimaginative mongrels had tied him down. How dare they? He attempted to stretch his hands again but they would not budge. He was free though, he had to be free, else what was the point? No, no, he was free; he was that black bird flying through the night sky undeterred by even the light of the moon. These beasts wouldn’t have it, not his freedom no! Who were they to break him? Who were they to rip his wings? He thrashed in protest, jerking his arms violently as he did so, attempting to move them. They wouldn’t budge. “I am free” he whispered to himself, “I am free.” He continued thrashing, rolling left to right as the force of his arms dragged him. “I am FREE!” he began to yell as he thrashed fiercely, the rebel in him growing stronger as blood pounded in his head; so hard it hurt him. He began to laugh hysterically but softly. As his fervent thrashing grew stronger, his laughter grew louder, drooling from the sides of his mouth -- his dry, burning eyes – tearing, oozing partially dry mucus through his flaring nostrils. “I AM FREE!” he yelled again.

There was a bang and suddenly he saw dark figures above him; the shadows of them; those who tied him down, the ones who took away his wings. “NO!” he yelled, “You will not! Not again!” he bellowed, as he continued his hysterical laughter, echoing off those walls – the walls that trapped him. One of the shadows held him down with a force he never knew existed and the other had an object in its hand. “NO! NO! NO!” he protested, vigorously shaking and thrashing to break free from the grip of the monster that held him, as he knew that object in the other shadows hand, he had seen it one too many times before. It was all they had against him, all they had used to rip his wings apart, to break his back and to paralyze his arms. It was all they needed to rip his freedom from him, like tearing flesh from bone; it was the knife, that same knife they used to cut pieces of his life apart, the one they used to tear his wings, the one they used to rip his arms off. He was free, he would rebel, he would give them war; he would die fighting. They can tear his wings, his limbs and they can even rip his mind into mere fragmented shreds of flesh but, they could never rip his spirit for that was free and if he needed to forsake his body to protect it, he would do so – gladly. He kicked, screamed and yelled. The shadow holding him down now intensified his already dominating and powerful force. He choked on his mucus, on his drool, on his tears -- his breath unable to come clear through the passageways of his diminishing strength. He spat and the specks flew across the room in all directions, he needed air, he needed to breathe to be free, they were choking him, they were choking the freedom out of him, those foul shadows! His face now wet with his own mucus, tears and drool -- he was helpless, he was not free. The shadows, they owned him, they owned his being, and they had succeeded in imprisoning him in entirety. He gave one last effort, he kicked and screamed but it was in vain, the shadows were too powerful, too dark for his deliberately diminishing light. The other shadow brought down the knife and plunged it into his chest, right through his heart, so deep he felt his soul twinge. He screamed as the pain seared through his chest into his very bones and spread through his weak and already disfigured body. Yet he was not dead. His breathing became softer and the blur began to clear. What was this? What was this place? What were they doing to him? Where there were shadows now stood two people, they were wearing what looked like nurse’s uniforms and one of them held a syringe loosely dangling between her fingers. Over the pounding in his head, he heard one of them say something. He couldn’t grasp the whole statement – too weary for that -- but he was certain he heard, “Doctor…patient…needs rest…” It couldn’t be. He was free! He was supposed to be free! What hell had they brought him to? He was the bird, that black bird that flew through the night sky, undeterred by the light of the moon; or was he? Now, he had lost his wings but, did he ever have them? He wept as he came to terms with his reality; he was and henceforth would never be, free.

********

Three days ago:

            He watched keenly as they frolicked around. The game room was full, as usual, between the hours of four-thirty and six-thirty. It was the only time any of them really saw any of the others. Some had made associates, others accomplices to their vivid imaginations, and others still (very few of them) made friends. The institute had now become his home and all those in it were his “family”, or so they wanted him to believe. He found it difficult to associate himself with any of these ludicrous monkeys as they yapped about rainbows, attempted to predict the weather, read books in groups or played a hand of poker. The lack of sophistication at any level was disturbing and abusive to his senses. No, he was not one of them. He was unique and special. He knew that, for it was certain, he could feel it in his blood. He was above the whimsical fancies of the common lunatic. He had been deemed insane by the insane; just as expected from an unaccepting society.

            “It’s your turn mister” said a kind looking nurse. One of the very few people he respected. There was an elegant aura that surrounded her which enticed him. It reminded him of Sarah. It was in the small things, the way her hair was neatly strapped, the way she consistently-- without fail, everyday-- organized the medicine, the way her uniform was always neat and tidy but, most of all, it was in her tone. She was genuinely kind. He rarely disobeyed her orders. As she had said, it was his turn, so he simply nodded and stood up to follow. She led him through the game room, past the visitor hall and took a right to face a wooden door on which the plaque read: “Dr. Janice Brody”

            “Come in” ushered Dr. Brody as the kind nurse knocked the door. “You’re five-o-clock ma’am” she said, her right hand holding the door knob and her left pointing, respectfully, at him. Dr. Brody nodded and he walked straight in. He took a few moments to stare around the office, absorbing the minute details – the color of the tables, the seats, the lines of books shelved neatly. The room even had a window, cheerfully lighting the floorboards with the evening light. “Please have a seat” Dr. Brody insisted. He liked her tone; she too had similar qualities to the kind nurse. He did as she had kindly pleaded, perching himself on the comfortable leather cushion.

            “So, how’s your stay been so long?” she asked beaming at him, her perfectly aligned teeth, reassuring him that he may trust her. He gently nodded and replied, “Pleasant.” It had been anything but pleasant. The bathrooms constantly reeked of urine, and the food was miserable, the beds were but made of bricks. Yet, he chose to be polite to someone with Dr. Brody’s charm. “Good, good” she said and began to flip through a series of pages inside a folder on her lap. Her smile began fading as she read through each page and just about disappeared as she reached the eighth page. He wasn’t sure what was bothering her and so he obliged himself to be courteous, “Anything the matter Miss?” She stared at the page for a few more seconds before replying, “No, everything’s just dandy.” He could literally smell the strain in her voice. She was lying to him.

            “My dear, old pal, she knows about us” said Luke, “I can smell it!” he was angry, Luke was always angry. “We don’t know that” he told Luke and forced a smile on his face. Dr. Brody stared at him with a rather quizzical expression on her face, vaguely searching the room. He did not appreciate it. Maybe Luke was right, maybe she did know about them. “I’m telling you, she knows!” Luke repeated. But he wanted to be sure. He needed to be sure. She continued staring at him, her eyes now showing slight signs of worry. He bent down, curling his hands over his head, “This isn’t the time Luke. Nothing has happened.” Luke laughed, the laugh echoed in his head, the pitch increasing, “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb…” Luke began to sing. He couldn’t take it, not that song, “STOP!” he yelled covering his ears. Dr. Brody reacted to the shouting, she cowered. “You see friend, I told you, she knows! Would you like her to dig deep, find out about how bloody the lamb got?” Luke asked. Luke was right, there was too much she might know but, he had to tread carefully.

            “Mister…” Dr. Janice began but he cut her off, “Oh, please continue.” She seemed a bit distressed. Could she know? If so, how could she know? He had to be certain. “Let me out!” Luke demanded. He remained silent, ignoring Luke and his paranoia. “I’m just curious, I heard you talking to Luke. Who is that?” she straightened herself on her seat and smiled as she asked the question. “Oh no, no, no doctor.” He replied clicking his tongue while shaking his head – slowly-- a demonic, evil sparkle in his eyes. “I told you she knew!” Luke said venomously, gritting his teeth. “Not yet Luke” he said patiently in a menacingly calm tone as he watched the color drain from Dr. Brody’s face. The doctor was perplexed, she had treated similar patients before but, there was deep malignance in his words; it was effervescent with death. “Ok” she squeaked, the fear in her voice was so eminent even a three-year-old boy would have sniffed it out, “Let’s talk about Sarah then.” The name sparked a dangerous rage in him, his eyes turned blood-red, and his breath hot and his body so tight, he thought it would snap. “How do you know?” he asked, shivering in fury. She moved uncomfortably in her chair, outbursts of anger were common in therapy but this was beyond normal; it sucked the warmth in the air and gave birth to an icy chill, “It’s in your file.” She said.  “I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! It’s her isn’t it? Sarah, it’s her playing games with you my friend” Luke voiced out. He couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be, or was it? How was he not seeing it? Luke had seen it; he had seen it much before anyone else. How?

            “Is everything ok?” she squeaked, her pitch higher this time. “It can’t be!” he said. But, Luke was right; it was her all over again. It was Sarah! The fuel kept pouring into the flame, the rage now so hot he was sweating, his face livid; he saw red. Within an instant he had lunged from his seat, his hands outstretched as he landed square in front of her and clenched her throat, squeezing it, feeling the blood in her veins pulsating against his hands. She was frail, she was weak. What could she do? His force was tremendous and his anger even greater. “That’s enough Luke!” he said but Luke wouldn’t stop; the squeezing just got harder, her face almost blue. She got bluer as the seconds ticked by. Luke was laughing, that same laugh that echoed through his head. “Let her go Luke!” he demanded but Luke remained vengeful. “Mary had a little lamb…” he began to sing as he choked her, watching the life drain from her eyes as her pupils contracted to a dot. Her nostrils began to bleed, and Luke laughed even harder, menacingly, it tore through his head, echoing bouncing off the walls of his skull. “Luke STOP!” he yelled and finally Luke let her go and she dropped to the ground. He stood over her, sweating, hoping beyond hope that she would be fine; she was breathing. Luke simply laughed and continued to sing, “Mary had a little lamb…” The malevolent laughter resounding in his head as he fell face-flat next to the good doctor’s feet.

            He woke up after what seemed like hours in a room, staring at the ceiling, unable to move. He was groggy; Luke always made him weary and frail. “Just another wall” he said to himself, taking his time with each word, as he fell back to slumber; the laughter now a distant echo in his head. “Mary had a little lamb…”

                                                                        ********

Three Years Ago:

            The little girl sat in her room, playing with her dolls. Her favorite was the Mary doll with her little, fluffy lamb -- lying across the room. She crawled over to the doll and began to play, all the while singing her favorite song, “Mary had a little lamb…” when all of a sudden she heard a deafening scream. The shrillness made her quiver with fear, her skin riddled with goose-bumps. She held Mary close to her chest, hugging the doll hard, hoping for some form of comfort, which chose to elude her. She heard the scream again, the voice – why was it so familiar? She heard the front door of her house burst open, failing miserably to muffle the scream, and a dim light grazed her window. She was drawn to it, for an unknown reason. She moved towards the window, the dim yellow light beckoning her. She climbed the stool nearby and peeped outside the window. The screams grew louder and the voice more familiar and she saw it, the source of the screams. There on her front yard was a woman, on fire. On the ground she rolled in an attempt to douse the flames, screaming and screaming. The little girl was scared, but she couldn’t avert her eyes. Something was drawing her to that burning woman; she felt a gut-wrenching urge to help the woman ablaze. One last scream before the woman stopped moving and the flames continued to burn through her flesh, now effortlessly. The little girl, clutching her Mary doll ever so tightly, realized why she was drawn to the burning corpse. It was her mother. Another voice became clear, a man’s voice, her father’s as he yelled, “No! Sarah!”

            He was devastated. Why had she done this? Sarah had seemed out of sorts for a while, but he had never known her to be capable of such atrocity. He sat there, on his porch, staring at the burnt corpse of his beloved wife as the neighbors peeped out of their windows, through the blinds, at a distance. Nobody seemed to be doing anything about it. “It was all for the best, my friend” said Luke. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend how it could have been for the best. All he could see was the flame, the bright light as it ate away her beautiful skin, her flesh, slowly turning her bone to ash. “It was all for the best” Luke repeated. “How is this for the best?” he retorted. “She knew old pal” Luke said, “She knew too much. It had to be done!” Luke’s voice remained cold and menacing. “You did this?” he asked. Luke remained silent. “Answer me!” he couldn’t shout, he was too wrapped in grief and he had not the energy for it. “Yes. This was my work” Luke replied, his tone bereft of even a hint of remorse. “Why Luke why?” he cried, hoping the answer would bring him some solace. “She knew too much my boy” Luke replied, the tone remaining cold, “she had to go!” the answer brought him no peace. He couldn’t understand the threat. Luke seemed to understand – Luke did understand, yes. Luke must be right. Sarah had to go. Luke had never failed him, had always looked out for his best interests. His freedom must have been on the line, hanging by a thread. She was extra weight, a burden unnecessary – he saw it now, he comprehended. He grew relaxed, “Now you see, don’t you my dear friend?” Luke said, his pitch growing higher as he began to laugh. He couldn’t laugh though, not along with Luke, he loved his wife but, as Luke had said, she knew too much. As the peace crept in through the labyrinth of his pain, he heard a small voice behind him, “Daddy…”

            She watched her father; talking to the one he called Luke. She had seen it before, many times. Her father turned around slowly, his eyes visible over the hunch of his shoulder, ‘Yes, little girly” he said. It was her father, but the voice was unfamiliar. She clutched the Mary doll even harder. The air was chill, ice-cold. She looked around the hall and saw scorch marks everywhere. “You called me?” he said, with the same ice-cold tone. She could not find the words to speak. “Daddy…” she said simply, clutching her Mary doll and wept quietly.

            “Come here child” Luke said. He was too devastated to bother about his own daughter. Luke would take care of her, he knew it. The little girl continued sobbing at the bottom of the stairwell, holding her Mary doll. “It’s ok.” Luke reassured her, his tone remaining cold. He wished he had the strength to comfort his daughter, the only remnant of his wife – she had her eyes. “Come to daddy” Luke said, his arms outstretched, laughing menacingly. Luke would take care of her, he thought.

            Her father beckoned her, but something deep inside her held her from reaching out. The voice, it was disturbingly cruel. He laughed, as if the smell of the smoke and burnt flesh made him happy. She slowly stepped back. “She knows!” she heard him yell as he stood up with a sudden flash. “Luke no!” she heard him say. It was all too much for the little girl, she broke for her room. All the way up the stairs she heard her father yelling, “Luke stop” and then laughing that menacing laugh, “She knows!” She was almost there, her safe haven, her room. There she would be safe, that’s what her mother had told her. She would be safe in her room. She ran with all her might, her father fumbling on the stairs behind her. She couldn’t scream; the fear and commotion choking her.

            “She knows!” Luke shouted as he made for the top of the stairs. “Luke, please, she’s a little girl. She won’t say anything!” he tried to stop Luke. Luke wouldn’t have it. Luke looked down from the top of the stairs, “Maybe now, my friend. What about when she grows old? Huh! Do you think she’ll stay quiet?” The question perplexed him. Could that sweet little girl – the one with his wife’s eyes -- be a threat? Could Luke be speaking a truth he was incapable of understanding? Lost in thought he suddenly realized, Luke had reached his daughters room. “Come here girly!”

            Her father had burst through the door, taking slow steps towards her, his smile ear-to-ear. At least the laughing had stopped, she was thankful. “Daddy…” she said, whimpering, hiding herself behind her Mary doll. “Yes child, daddy’s here” he said and began laughing again. It tore through her, the laughter. The fear clouded everything. “Luke please no. PLEASE!” she heard him say. “My friend, I’m doing this for you. Where would you be without me?” she peeped from behind her Mary doll and saw her father facing the door, “Luke…” he said. Suddenly he turned around, with that same wide smile, his eyes each facing opposite directions, he began to sing, “Mary had a little lamb…” as laughter filled the room, the house and the streets, she finally found the strength to wail.

            “…the neighbor’s said they heard a girl screaming. Looks like a real scene. Go check it out” the woman voiced over the radio. Officer Reynolds was hoping for a peaceful night. However, duty called. He followed the instructions and reached the location. In the yard was a burning body, he snapped into his senses. The whole house was dark, except for a single light emitting from a room on the first floor. He screeched to a halt and jumped out of his car, flashlight in hand. He approached the house carefully, afraid of the possibilities. The stench of the burning body filled the air but, the air was chill, too cold. He made his way to the front door, already open, he pushed it in gently. There was nothing there, he moved towards the stairwell, towards the only room with the light on. He was on the top step when he heard it, two voices, both male. “Luke...why?” said one and the other began to speak, “She knew, my friend. She knew!” he said. The second voice sent a chill down his spine. The air grew even colder. He reached the front of the door and kicked it open, gun out. There he was, weeping on a child’s bed and in his hand he held what looked like a fluffy toy. He wasn’t even remotely shocked by the entry Officer Reynolds made. He sat there still and slowly flopped backwards and the toy fell to the ground. It looked like a lamb, a fluffy lamb. It was a while before Reynolds figured it out, the strangeness of it; the lamb was covered in blood.

********

Thirteen Years ago:

            They were a poor family. They lived off in the corners of the town where they could not be seen by those who walked around in suits and smoked pipes; next to a graveyard. Their house was small and reeked of urine that drunks spread across their walls. The little boy sat in his room clutching on to what would appear as a rag to anyone else, but to him, was his best friend. It was a partially burnt doll with button eyes, one of which was absent; a one-eyed partially burnt doll was his best friend. He would fondly play around with that doll; tell it his secrets and his woes. The doll was his only friend, the only one that would listen to whatever this little poor boy had to say.

            Every night, before his mother came home from work, he would take his little doll around for a walk. Where else could these sad, lonely souls go but the graveyard around the corner? The little one was not afraid of the graveyard, he lived there after all. The eerie nights, with a full moon were his favorite. He could see silver moonlight, shine off the headstones at a distance creating long shadows that stretched across the other headstones; so beautiful. They had a spot, he and his doll. They would frequent a particular headstone ever so often. It was farthest from his home and he could visit all the dead people before he arrived at their favorite spot. His mother had once asked him about his friends and he had told her they were all dead and lived very near-by. His mother often left home early in the evenings and would arrive well into the night, reeking of alcohol, smoke and sweaty. The little boy just imagined his mother was a hard worker. He pondered on a strange conversation he had with his mother where he had asked her what she did because one of his dead friends had asked and she had replied, “I work with very hard things” and began laughing in alcoholic stupor. He simply shrugged and continued playing with his doll.

            It was almost time for him to leave on his daily walk with his best-friend the doll to meet all his other dead friends. The moon was full and yellow; so beautiful. He stared, standing outside what he called home, at the yellow glow of the gigantic ruler of the night sky and smiled. Alas! Dark clouds approached and covered her beauty and lightning struck. Thunder roared as a furious, cold breeze blew by almost blowing his home away, shattering the windows and nearly caving in the roof. Then he heard it, little trickles of rain drops approaching from a distance, the sound becoming louder and louder. Then he saw it, sheets of hail banging the ground hard and they kept getting nearer. Before he knew it he was struck by the cold hail, it pricked and bruised him. He ran inside his home for cover and found a dry, stinking corner and sat there clutching his best-friend close to his chest, a broken piece of the roof his only protector from the angry ice that fell from the sky.

 He began to weep at the thought of the hail ruining his night outside. The moon was so beautiful that night. Why did it have to rain?  As if the night couldn’t have gotten worse he heard the door blow open and she entered, drenched from head to toe, her clothes torn. Even with the growing storm, the smell of alcohol and smoke that emanated off his mother was pungent and the heavy breeze managed to carry it well everywhere inside his home. She walked into the house, “Where are you my son? Mommy’s home” she said, her voice at a disturbingly high pitch. He didn’t like it; he squirmed in the corner he sat trying not to make a sound. He didn’t want her to find him; it was one of those nights. He hated them. She squealed again, “Where are you my boy? Mommy needs you. Where are you?” he remained silent, clutching the doll to his chest even harder, trying to control even his breathing; fearing the consequences if she found him.

He was poor, and their house was small. It didn’t take his desperate mother too long to lift the broken part of the roof and find him lying there in there in the corner, clutching his best friend. “There you are boy. Come to mamma” she said her arms outstretched. He shrunk even further into the corner and barely whispered, “No.” She began to get furious, the alcohol wasn’t helping, “What did you say?” her voice was cold and dangerous, “You dare disobey me boy. I said come here now! Mamma needs you” but tonight, he wasn’t going to take it. He decided to fight back and said once again, “No” this time ever-so-slightly louder. She had a shocked expression on her face which disappeared instantaneously and was replaced with hate. “How dare you?”  She said and the fight began. She dragged him by his hair all the while yelling about how he should take care of his mother and how he was a nuisance and how he was the reason his father had left and they were in this spit-worthy situation. He could feel only pain. The hail fell through the broken part of the roof smashing into his face, her hand gripping his frail hair and being dragged across the floor which had broken shards of glass. Through her rambling his hand caught a sharp broken piece of the window and he stabbed it into her hand. She fell back screaming. He quickly got up, ran to the corner where he had taken shelter from the abusive storm, picked up his best friend and ran for the graveyard, the place where his friends rested.

            He stumbled as he climbed over the small gate that guarded the cemetery from the rest of all that was wrong. His friends were waiting, beckoning. He knew where he had to be; his spot. He could bleakly see it at a distance, through the sheets of hail that were landing hard on his head. He broke into a run, faster, faster, and faster he went, speeding along the numerous other dead friends. He needed that one, the one under the dead tree, the one where the moonlight was most prominent yet the grave remained in the shadows, and the one where she would never find him. It grew larger and clearer, his destination. The hail was so strong he was bleeding now. Run, run, run. It was all he was thinking; run! Finally he was there, the heavy headstone providing a delightful shadow, the dead tree branches giving him a sense of calm. He rested at the grave laying his head at the foot of the stone. The hail finally calmed down and the breeze was not as furious. Soon it was all over. He was there and the yellow moon shone light off his favorite headstone. He was cam. He was free, yes, he was.

            As he lay there under the headstone, he felt a gentle wind caress his forehead. It was a funny feeling. He couldn’t place it. The wind kept caressing his forehead, suddenly he heard it, very subtle it was, a whisper in the wind. Was the breeze talking to him? He lifted his head and looked around, no one was around. He heard a whisper again, this time a little louder. He couldn’t make out what was being said. He looked at the headstone, on it etched the name “Luke” nothing before and nothing after. “Wake up!” a loud voice inside his head said. There was laughter, menacing laughter. It was all inside his head. He could feel his thoughts tear apart. His head hurt, the laughter continued, piercing his ears; it was all inside his head. His body was burning. He writhed on the ground, the mud from Luke’s grave filling his nostrils as his face was planted deeper and deeper into it.

            He woke up at the foot of the door to his shattered home, his head ringing. His best-friend was nowhere in sight. He could faintly remember screaming, a woman screaming. He managed to stand up with all his strength and stood in front of the door to his home. He pushed it open and walked in. there lying in front of him was a shattered mirror, his face’s reflection split among the many pieces. For a brief moment he noticed that in one of the pieces his eye was red. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t his eye at all. He turned around and there was no one to be found. When he looked back he couldn’t find it. He lifted his head a little and there he saw it, the body of a woman; his mother. She lay there eyes wide open and throat slashed.  He stood astonished. There was too much for him to process. He heard a voice, “She knew too much!” it was the same voice that he had heard in the graveyard, it was Luke! “Run my friend, now you must run” Luke said and the little boy turned around and ran into the distance. Just as he left he saw his mother’s face, one eye was missing and the other had a button stitched on it. All the while he could only think where had his best friend gone? He sped off to nowhere to a cold tune in his head, it sang “Mary had a little lamb…”

********

Edge of Tomorrow: An Article As Pointless As the Movie

Disclaimer: This is not a review. It is a metaphorical take on the entire movie. The whole thing may be pointless and I have just written this for the heck of it. If you don’t like it, you’ve just wasted precious minutes of your day. If you liked it, you’ve still wasted precious minutes of your day. You have been warned! Seriously, it is absolutely pointless.

From a very personal point of view the movie Edge of Tomorrow was disappointing. While I must admit, the concept is very unique the movie in itself was stretched and boring, barring a few scenes though. For those who have not watched this movie, basically it’s about a soldier who gains the ability to reset time every time he dies and restart the day. A series of events unfold and he saves humanity…typical. It is important to note that the protagonist is able to remember the events every time he wakes up at the beginning of the day once he has been killed.

I’m not going to waste precious fake pages on the story and what-not of the movie. I’m simply going to focus on the concept and take it a step further. Here is the thing, take any individual, any average person and record the events of his/her day. Now give that person the opportunity to live that same day again, wherein the same set of events unfold, like a re-run of that day. Let’s define event here, so that the remainder of this pointless thought process gains some perspective. An event is defined as the basic act at any given instant of time during aforementioned repeatable day. For example, eating breakfast is an event but not eating a specific cereal for breakfast, that is what describes the event. To be clear, whether the person ate cereal for breakfast or toast they have done essentially the same thing; eating breakfast. I hope I’m being clear (if not, screw this article, it’s pointless anyway).

Here’s what I found worth taking away from Edge of Tomorrow. Any average person runs through a day having a set of specific events. At the end of the day he/she “kills” themselves and resets the day to do the whole thing again; the exact same events but, there is a very real possibility of making a different choice with regard to a specific event. Now let’s say on the first run of the repeatable day, person “A” had cereal for breakfast, on the next run person “A” may or may not have cereal, he/she may have toast or eggs or whatever the heck it is people can possibly eat for breakfast. Similarly every event that runs through the twenty-four hour long day has various possibilities and results based on that instants specific choice. Basically what I’m saying is that the day in essence remains the same, it is nothing but a sum total of a series of events. What we choose with regard to those events creates a very not-so-optical illusion that it is unique. It’s not unique; you’re doing the same thing and fulfilling the same purpose. We all are. We excite different taste buds with different foods, but does that make any difference to why we eat? Absolutely not. We eat to kill hunger, we sleep to kill exhaustion and we drink to quench thirst and/or alcoholic desires. Yes, we are all sorry suckers who are doing the exact same thing every freaking day to meet the same ends. We only think we are doing something unique but we aren’t. I write to pass the time as a hobby, someone plays sports, someone eats, and someone sleeps. The purpose of all the above though is to pass time. There is nothing unique about it.

What does this have to do with the movie though? The protagonist keeps dying and waking up to do the same thing again just a little differently, with the end result being him ending up killing himself. Now, let’s bring into the picture that this protagonist can remember the day that was before it repeated. So he knows how the events are going to play out and tries something different again and again and again until he can predict almost everything and walk through that day to achieve whatever he wants to.

Let’s bring that perspective to our regular person. He/she is able to remember the events of the previous day with exemplary detail. The result of which would be he/she making a different choice forcing the day in a different direction, or – more appropriately -- apparent direction. He/she would still end up living through the exact same events again and again and again, it would just excite different parts of the brain creating the illusion of moving in a forward direction with regard to a specific day. Basically making re-run 456 different from every other re-run. What’s the point? Absolutely nothing. At the end of re-run 456 our average person still ends up “killing” himself and performing re-run 457 when he wakes up.

Let’s push this concept a little further. Let’s say that average person is incapable of remembering the events of the previous re-run. So when he/she wakes up basically they think it is an absolutely new day with entirely new possibilities. Here’s what can happen in this case. In the previous case memory of the events of a previous re-run allowed the current re-run to play out apparently differently. However, in this case, the possibility that our average person could end up doing the exact same thing, running through the same events making the exact same choices again and again and again, essentially even killing the apparent direction in which his/her life was apparently moving in essentially creating an infinite vortex of repeatable choices along with repeatable days. Before the set was exhaustive, after a countable infinite number of re-runs that average person would have to create a new “event” altogether in order for a feeling of “unique”. However, in both cases, there is absolutely no point in waking up again to experience the same events again and again and again.

The idea that time is playing this sick joke on us is scary and at a very psychotic level comical as well. It’s brilliant! The joke is always on us. We think the dates of the calendar are moving forward but they aren’t. we are and have always been stuck in that same god damned day and we keep creating new ways and “solutions” to make ourselves feel that “yesterday” is gone, “today” is here and “tomorrow” is yet to come. We are living all three at exactly the same time. We don’t age, we are supposed to evolve. We claim we have “new” experiences, we don’t; we perceive the same experience differently every time. But is it possible to do something to break this shitty cycle? Or are we forever doomed to live in this bullshit circle of “today” again and again and again.

What about growth, what did we do to grow physically, mentally, emotionally etc. What did we do to reach where we are? Have we reached anywhere? I think I can safely say (solely based on the assumptions made through this pointless article) that we can and we have grown. The thing we forget is that every time we add a new “event” in our lives is when we actually move ahead. How exactly we can do this, I have no clue. One possibility seems to be that we have to exhaust every re-run of the same day before we can actually create a new event in order to apparently experience an apparent unique. We are equipped with memory, so this is possible. But, anyone would agree that a lifetime is too short for this to happen. I call bullshit on this. We do create new events every day, its part and parcel of evolution. We don’t realize their existence. Hence, we remain stuck in a cycle and complain about it.

What? That’s it. The end of my pointless article. If you enjoyed it, you have just as much free time on your hands as I do. If you didn’t, please read the disclaimer again. For all you neutral people, I really don’t care. Have a nice day (Pun majorly intended)! Ciao suckers.

********

Shed Light on Blood

The wise folk of the village spoke of a terrible tale. Once every century, a sleeping beast would be woken to terrorize the village. It was the curse that had befallen our otherwise calm and beautiful place. It was that time of our century, the year of the beast; the hideous monster that seemingly appears out of nowhere and sheds blood. He feeds on fear, death and anguish. No one had ever seen the beast, but tales from ancient folklore describe it as an enormous, dark wolf. Its eyes red gleam in the moonlight and its black fur stained with the blood of its victims; its teeth as sharp as the sharpest blades and a filthy rotten yellow. Its breath could burn the hearts of children and its roar could deafen anyone who merely picked up on that horrendous sound. 

“The savage is here!” she screamed. The whole village was in commotion; men, women and children alike running for nowhere. There was no escape; the wrath of the beast was omnipotent. The village soon filled with the shrieks of the helpless. It was at this moment that the army of the forsaken stood affront, pitchfork and torches in hand. These were men with no cause; they enjoyed the opportunity to kill. They stood valiant at the gates of the village, waiting anxiously -- while others ran for nowhere -- for the beast to appear. “We the men of no cause have no fear!” yelled their captain, raising his torch high facing his men. His army began to roar in unison banging their weapons on the cold, dry ground. The dust began to swirl slowly. The moment would have been a glorious one had it not been for the howl. It appeared from behind them.

All the men turned around in one swift motion and there stood the monstrosity, its eyes closed, and head facing downwards. “Why do you beckon me forth?” it asked, its grey, icy breath caressing the already shivering men of the forsaken army. “We call you forth so we may destroy you beast!” shouted the brave captain. “Silence!” it roared, “Do not question fear my wasteful foe. Do not deny the death you see standing before you. I am the violence you seek. I am the king of doom!” with those words the beast had lunged into battle, ripping limb from limb of every man it brushed passed. Its feet were drenched in the blood that flowed like a river beneath it. It in itself was unharmed. The torches, pitchforks or swords could do nothing against it. It was impermeable, invincible; last stood the captain of the forsaken army, quivering and bleeding. “You dare challenge me?” the beast threatened, its breath burning the man’s skin. It roared loud and thunderous raising its paws to slash the man’s throat when appeared another voice a woman’s. “Stay” she said. The voice brought warmth to the air that seemed all but lost for the ages. The beast stopped instantaneously and put its deadly, blood-stained paw down. “Come to me” she said. There was no one around but the beast was facing a particular direction, its alert ears now pointed downwards. It was subdued. As the beast moved closer to the sound, the form of a woman became more and more clear and where there was just a voice stood an angel. The fur of the beast turned white as he moved towards her, his blood red eyes turned jet black, his rotten teeth now not rotten, his hot breath now calm and peaceful. “Why must you hurt yourself so?” she asked caressing the beasts head. his eyes shut, his ears down and he whimpered. All the anger suddenly gone, he sat himself at her feet and continued whimpering.  He howled to the full, bright moon, now brighter than the sun itself and the dead soldiers rose to their feet, the blood on the ground turned to water and all was well again.

The angel laid her soft hands on the now majestic beasts chest, his heart beat steady and calm and all watched in wonder as it turned into a frail man kneeling at her feet. As I watched from a distance I had to know what coy this was, “Who are you mighty angel? Who are you, the one who has tamed the beast?” I asked. She looked at me, a simple smile on her face, and said, “I am the one who sees no beast. For what lies beneath your fears and anger is a child. I am the mother of everything” and in a bright, brilliant light, they disappeared. The tales of old still remain a mystery to me.

*******

The Ocean at a Distance

He knelt at the banks of a gushing river; the gentle sound that arose from water crashing against the rocks, the foam that arose from the uneven flow was beauty unmatched. The beauty was an illusion; it hid the mighty force of the river.  At the far end he knew the river would meet its maker. The enormous ocean stood still, waiting patiently for the rivers to arrive to their final resting place. He knelt at the banks, gazing away into the distance, picturing the ocean. He was not far from meeting his maker either, death could not be eluded, and he knew that. He smiled at the thought of how no matter what path the rivers took, they always reached the ocean. It was true with all natural beings; each defines a purpose and strives to achieve but in the end there is no individual or a purpose. What then is the meaning of purpose, if at the end we are united with nothingness and every “different” man becomes united in a giant ocean, which remains uniform and simply exists, unchanged or marred by anything? He began reflecting on his own life. At a time so close to death, so close to the ocean, the journey seemed a haze. Worst of all it seemed pointless. Why must the river flow so forcefully, attempt to break anything that stands in its way, erode all that it touches to reach an eternal state of calm? The very idea that everything must be experienced in order to reach nothing drove him crazy. He had struggled, cheated, sacrificed, earned and worked all for nothing, a state of nothing. The journey, at its end, became clear and it laughed at him. It mocked him for believing in anything tangible. Everything that was real, now just appeared real. We live a full life to become empty at the end. What was the point? Why must the river flow? Why must it crash? Why must it rise? Why must it twist and bend? Why can’t the river, a spawn of the ocean, replicate the ocean and stay still? Why are we all running to the place we came from? Why are we aiming to go back to how we were before existence? If it is the natural order of things to return to their initial state of nothingness, then existence in itself must be an illusion, to exist must be devoid of “life”. Maybe, the river understands, maybe it sees through the veil, through the wholesome abundance of existence and hence is driven to move towards the ocean, understanding that it has been stripped of its life and asked to live. Could it really be that simple? Could nothing in our life matter? Is there a possibility that death was indeed life calling us back and not the end of life as we assume it to be? Should death be welcomed?

His breath began to fade slowly; he could feel the world around him shrink with his fading breath. It was nothing as he had ever imagined, the call of death was a loving one. There was no pain, it was easy, simple. He smiled as his eyes shut; the darkness was even more calming. He felt his body dwindle away from his mind, flopping forward into the river. He did not choke, for he was not breathing, his eyes were shut and his body disconnected. He felt movement, the speed ever increasing until finally he was surrounded by it, that calm and peace that he was searching for in the non-existent world where he had served death. Here he was alive and powerful. He was free in the truest sense of the word.

He welcomed life.

********

His Broken Mirror

            The things he had seen were beyond his own wildest imaginations. Luke was gone, finally. He was relieved and yet he was also morose. Luke was his best friend, his confidante. He had protected him, always. Now, he had run away. With Luke gone, he felt lonely. A part of him was lost and it left an enormous, gaping hole in his brittle heart. Could Luke have been saved? That was a question he would never be able to answer, not anymore, not since Luke left his side. As he sat in his dingy room, lights out, he reflected upon Luke and reminisced all their inglorious moments together. They said he was insane. Who were they to mark him as anything, let alone insane?

********

Three months ago:

He lay wide awake staring at the blank ceiling. It was another wall to him, another boundary, another way for a world full of unimaginative mongrels to strap him to an unjust and ubiquitous reality. They said he was deranged. They said he was retarded. It was they who were retarded and deranged, oh yes, it was they. What did they know? They couldn’t possibly comprehend his world. Who were they to mark him as anything, let alone insane? He lay wide awake staring at the ceiling; just another wall that trapped him, he smiled ear-to-ear at the thought. He was strong and courageous, he was invincible. They could lock him away in a box for as long as they wished but he would not, for the life of it, admit defeat. He hadn’t blinked in hours, his eyes burned; the pain demanding he shut them despite which they were open and they would remain open. He would keep them open else they would win, he couldn’t have that – no, they couldn’t win, shouldn’t win, they wouldn’t win. He was not going to allow the oppressed to rule him, his freedom. He was free and they would never be capable enough to rip him of it.

His head turned right and there too was a wall, its resemblance to the ceiling uncanny. It was the same white, made of the same stone and equidistant from where he lay to that ceiling -- another wall which trapped him. “Just” he said taking his time between each word, “another wall.” His head turned left, there it was again; the same white wall made of the same stone but, this was closer and he could see the shadow of his weak soul on it, staring back at him. The wall nearly kissed his face; he could feel the heat in his breath as it ricocheted off the wall and slapped his face hard. It was his third day lying awake in that same room, with those same walls. The stone, on which he lay, was cold and dry. He shivered as it sent repetitive lacerating chills up and down his spine each time with increased intensity, each time numbing his senses momentarily, but the cold never bothered him – he was fearless. He was free, oh yes he was, and no one was ever going to take that away from him; his wings may have been ripped off his back, and his back may have been broken but he was free and he would stay free. 

He continued shifting his head; facing the ceiling then the right wall and then the left wall as the clock sung tick-tock, mocking him as the walls ate away his life. He tried moving his arms; they had been too still for far too long and they rested cross on his chest, as he lay wide awake staring at the walls, eyes dry and burning in that same room, for the third day. He stretched but his hands would not release from that crossed position. They seemed tied down. He grew agitated. The oppressed, unimaginative mongrels had tied him down. How dare they? He attempted to stretch his hands again but they would not budge. He was free though, he had to be free, else what was the point? No, no, he was free; he was that black bird flying through the night sky undeterred by even the light of the moon. These beasts wouldn’t have it, not his freedom no! Who were they to break him? Who were they to rip his wings? He thrashed in protest, jerking his arms violently as he did so, attempting to move them. They wouldn’t budge. “I am free” he whispered to himself, “I am free.” He continued thrashing, rolling left to right as the force of his arms dragged him. “I am FREE!” he began to yell as he thrashed fiercely, the rebel in him growing stronger as blood pounded in his head; so hard it hurt him. He began to laugh hysterically but softly. As his fervent thrashing grew stronger, his laughter grew louder, drooling from the sides of his mouth -- his dry, burning eyes – tearing, oozing partially dry mucus through his flaring nostrils. “I AM FREE!” he yelled again.

There was a bang and suddenly he saw dark figures above him; the shadows of them; those who tied him down, the ones who took away his wings. “NO!” he yelled, “You will not! Not again!” he bellowed, as he continued his hysterical laughter, echoing off those walls – the walls that trapped him. One of the shadows held him down with a force he never knew existed and the other had an object in its hand. “NO! NO! NO!” he protested, vigorously shaking and thrashing to break free from the grip of the monster that held him, as he knew that object in the other shadows hand, he had seen it one too many times before. It was all they had against him, all they had used to rip his wings apart, to break his back and to paralyze his arms. It was all they needed to rip his freedom from him, like tearing flesh from bone; it was the knife, that same knife they used to cut pieces of his life apart, the one they used to tear his wings, the one they used to rip his arms off. He was free, he would rebel, he would give them war; he would die fighting. They can tear his wings, his limbs and they can even rip his mind into mere fragmented shreds of flesh but, they could never rip his spirit for that was free and if he needed to forsake his body to protect it, he would do so – gladly. He kicked, screamed and yelled. The shadow holding him down now intensified his already dominating and powerful force. He choked on his mucus, on his drool, on his tears -- his breath unable to come clear through the passageways of his diminishing strength. He spat and the specks flew across the room in all directions, he needed air, he needed to breathe to be free, they were choking him, they were choking the freedom out of him, those foul shadows! His face now wet with his own mucus, tears and drool -- he was helpless, he was not free. The shadows, they owned him, they owned his being, and they had succeeded in imprisoning him in entirety. He gave one last effort, he kicked and screamed but it was in vain, the shadows were too powerful, too dark for his deliberately diminishing light. The other shadow brought down the knife and plunged it into his chest, right through his heart, so deep he felt his soul twinge. He screamed as the pain seared through his chest into his very bones and spread through his weak and already disfigured body. Yet he was not dead. His breathing became softer and the blur began to clear. What was this? What was this place? What were they doing to him? Where there were shadows now stood two people, they were wearing what looked like nurse’s uniforms and one of them held a syringe loosely dangling between her fingers. Over the pounding in his head, he heard one of them say something. He couldn’t grasp the whole statement – too weary for that -- but he was certain he heard, “Doctor…patient…needs rest…” It couldn’t be. He was free! He was supposed to be free! What hell had they brought him to? He was the bird, that black bird that flew through the night sky, undeterred by the light of the moon; or was he? Now, he had lost his wings but, did he ever have them? He wept as he came to terms with his reality; he was and henceforth would never be, free.

********

Three days ago:

            He watched keenly as they frolicked around. The game room was full, as usual, between the hours of four-thirty and six-thirty. It was the only time any of them really saw any of the others. Some had made associates, others accomplices to their vivid imaginations, and others still (very few of them) made friends. The institute had now become his home and all those in it were his “family”, or so they wanted him to believe. He found it difficult to associate himself with any of these ludicrous monkeys as they yapped about rainbows, attempted to predict the weather, read books in groups or played a hand of poker. The lack of sophistication at any level was disturbing and abusive to his senses. No, he was not one of them. He was unique and special. He knew that, for it was certain, he could feel it in his blood. He was above the whimsical fancies of the common lunatic. He had been deemed insane by the insane; just as expected from an unaccepting society.

            “It’s your turn mister” said a kind looking nurse. One of the very few people he respected. There was an elegant aura that surrounded her which enticed him. It reminded him of Sarah. It was in the small things, the way her hair was neatly strapped, the way she consistently-- without fail, everyday-- organized the medicine, the way her uniform was always neat and tidy but, most of all, it was in her tone. She was genuinely kind. He rarely disobeyed her orders. As she had said, it was his turn, so he simply nodded and stood up to follow. She led him through the game room, past the visitor hall and took a right to face a wooden door on which the plaque read: “Dr. Janice Brody”

            “Come in” ushered Dr. Brody as the kind nurse knocked the door. “You’re five-o-clock ma’am” she said, her right hand holding the door knob and her left pointing, respectfully, at him. Dr. Brody nodded and he walked straight in. He took a few moments to stare around the office, absorbing the minute details – the color of the tables, the seats, the lines of books shelved neatly. The room even had a window, cheerfully lighting the floorboards with the evening light. “Please have a seat” Dr. Brody insisted. He liked her tone; she too had similar qualities to the kind nurse. He did as she had kindly pleaded, perching himself on the comfortable leather cushion.

            “So, how’s your stay been so long?” she asked beaming at him, her perfectly aligned teeth, reassuring him that he may trust her. He gently nodded and replied, “Pleasant.” It had been anything but pleasant. The bathrooms constantly reeked of urine, and the food was miserable, the beds were but made of bricks. Yet, he chose to be polite to someone with Dr. Brody’s charm. “Good, good” she said and began to flip through a series of pages inside a folder on her lap. Her smile began fading as she read through each page and just about disappeared as she reached the eighth page. He wasn’t sure what was bothering her and so he obliged himself to be courteous, “Anything the matter Miss?” She stared at the page for a few more seconds before replying, “No, everything’s just dandy.” He could literally smell the strain in her voice. She was lying to him.

            “My dear, old pal, she knows about us” said Luke, “I can smell it!” he was angry, Luke was always angry. “We don’t know that” he told Luke and forced a smile on his face. Dr. Brody stared at him with a rather quizzical expression on her face, vaguely searching the room. He did not appreciate it. Maybe Luke was right, maybe she did know about them. “I’m telling you, she knows!” Luke repeated. But he wanted to be sure. He needed to be sure. She continued staring at him, her eyes now showing slight signs of worry. He bent down, curling his hands over his head, “This isn’t the time Luke. Nothing has happened.” Luke laughed, the laugh echoed in his head, the pitch increasing, “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb…” Luke began to sing. He couldn’t take it, not that song, “STOP!” he yelled covering his ears. Dr. Brody reacted to the shouting, she cowered. “You see friend, I told you, she knows! Would you like her to dig deep, find out about how bloody the lamb got?” Luke asked. Luke was right, there was too much she might know but, he had to tread carefully.

            “Mister…” Dr. Janice began but he cut her off, “Oh, please continue.” She seemed a bit distressed. Could she know? If so, how could she know? He had to be certain. “Let me out!” Luke demanded. He remained silent, ignoring Luke and his paranoia. “I’m just curious, I heard you talking to Luke. Who is that?” she straightened herself on her seat and smiled as she asked the question. “Oh no, no, no doctor.” He replied clicking his tongue while shaking his head – slowly-- a demonic, evil sparkle in his eyes. “I told you she knew!” Luke said venomously, gritting his teeth. “Not yet Luke” he said patiently in a menacingly calm tone as he watched the color drain from Dr. Brody’s face. The doctor was perplexed, she had treated similar patients before but, there was deep malignance in his words; it was effervescent with death. “Ok” she squeaked, the fear in her voice was so eminent even a three-year-old boy would have sniffed it out, “Let’s talk about Sarah then.” The name sparked a dangerous rage in him, his eyes turned blood-red, and his breath hot and his body so tight, he thought it would snap. “How do you know?” he asked, shivering in fury. She moved uncomfortably in her chair, outbursts of anger were common in therapy but this was beyond normal; it sucked the warmth in the air and gave birth to an icy chill, “It’s in your file.” She said.  “I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! It’s her isn’t it? Sarah, it’s her playing games with you my friend” Luke voiced out. He couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be, or was it? How was he not seeing it? Luke had seen it; he had seen it much before anyone else. How?

            “Is everything ok?” she squeaked, her pitch higher this time. “It can’t be!” he said. But, Luke was right; it was her all over again. It was Sarah! The fuel kept pouring into the flame, the rage now so hot he was sweating, his face livid; he saw red. Within an instant he had lunged from his seat, his hands outstretched as he landed square in front of her and clenched her throat, squeezing it, feeling the blood in her veins pulsating against his hands. She was frail, she was weak. What could she do? His force was tremendous and his anger even greater. “That’s enough Luke!” he said but Luke wouldn’t stop; the squeezing just got harder, her face almost blue. She got bluer as the seconds ticked by. Luke was laughing, that same laugh that echoed through his head. “Let her go Luke!” he demanded but Luke remained vengeful. “Mary had a little lamb…” he began to sing as he choked her, watching the life drain from her eyes as her pupils contracted to a dot. Her nostrils began to bleed, and Luke laughed even harder, menacingly, it tore through his head, echoing bouncing off the walls of his skull. “Luke STOP!” he yelled and finally Luke let her go and she dropped to the ground. He stood over her, sweating, hoping beyond hope that she would be fine; she was breathing. Luke simply laughed and continued to sing, “Mary had a little lamb…” The malevolent laughter resounding in his head as he fell face-flat next to the good doctor’s feet.

            He woke up after what seemed like hours in a room, staring at the ceiling, unable to move. He was groggy; Luke always made him weary and frail. “Just another wall” he said to himself, taking his time with each word, as he fell back to slumber; the laughter now a distant echo in his head. “Mary had a little lamb…”

                                                                        ********

Three Years Ago:

            The little girl sat in her room, playing with her dolls. Her favorite was the Mary doll with her little, fluffy lamb -- lying across the room. She crawled over to the doll and began to play, all the while singing her favorite song, “Mary had a little lamb…” when all of a sudden she heard a deafening scream. The shrillness made her quiver with fear, her skin riddled with goose-bumps. She held Mary close to her chest, hugging the doll hard, hoping for some form of comfort, which chose to elude her. She heard the scream again, the voice – why was it so familiar? She heard the front door of her house burst open, failing miserably to muffle the scream, and a dim light grazed her window. She was drawn to it, for an unknown reason. She moved towards the window, the dim yellow light beckoning her. She climbed the stool nearby and peeped outside the window. The screams grew louder and the voice more familiar and she saw it, the source of the screams. There on her front yard was a woman, on fire. On the ground she rolled in an attempt to douse the flames, screaming and screaming. The little girl was scared, but she couldn’t avert her eyes. Something was drawing her to that burning woman; she felt a gut-wrenching urge to help the woman ablaze. One last scream before the woman stopped moving and the flames continued to burn through her flesh, now effortlessly. The little girl, clutching her Mary doll ever so tightly, realized why she was drawn to the burning corpse. It was her mother. Another voice became clear, a man’s voice, her father’s as he yelled, “No! Sarah!”

            He was devastated. Why had she done this? Sarah had seemed out of sorts for a while, but he had never known her to be capable of such atrocity. He sat there, on his porch, staring at the burnt corpse of his beloved wife as the neighbors peeped out of their windows, through the blinds, at a distance. Nobody seemed to be doing anything about it. “It was all for the best, my friend” said Luke. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend how it could have been for the best. All he could see was the flame, the bright light as it ate away her beautiful skin, her flesh, slowly turning her bone to ash. “It was all for the best” Luke repeated. “How is this for the best?” he retorted. “She knew old pal” Luke said, “She knew too much. It had to be done!” Luke’s voice remained cold and menacing. “You did this?” he asked. Luke remained silent. “Answer me!” he couldn’t shout, he was too wrapped in grief and he had not the energy for it. “Yes. This was my work” Luke replied, his tone bereft of even a hint of remorse. “Why Luke why?” he cried, hoping the answer would bring him some solace. “She knew too much my boy” Luke replied, the tone remaining cold, “she had to go!” the answer brought him no peace. He couldn’t understand the threat. Luke seemed to understand – Luke did understand, yes. Luke must be right. Sarah had to go. Luke had never failed him, had always looked out for his best interests. His freedom must have been on the line, hanging by a thread. She was extra weight, a burden unnecessary – he saw it now, he comprehended. He grew relaxed, “Now you see, don’t you my dear friend?” Luke said, his pitch growing higher as he began to laugh. He couldn’t laugh though, not along with Luke, he loved his wife but, as Luke had said, she knew too much. As the peace crept in through the labyrinth of his pain, he heard a small voice behind him, “Daddy…”

            She watched her father; talking to the one he called Luke. She had seen it before, many times. Her father turned around slowly, his eyes visible over the hunch of his shoulder, ‘Yes, little girly” he said. It was her father, but the voice was unfamiliar. She clutched the Mary doll even harder. The air was chill, ice-cold. She looked around the hall and saw scorch marks everywhere. “You called me?” he said, with the same ice-cold tone. She could not find the words to speak. “Daddy…” she said simply, clutching her Mary doll and wept quietly.

            “Come here child” Luke said. He was too devastated to bother about his own daughter. Luke would take care of her, he knew it. The little girl continued sobbing at the bottom of the stairwell, holding her Mary doll. “It’s ok.” Luke reassured her, his tone remaining cold. He wished he had the strength to comfort his daughter, the only remnant of his wife – she had her eyes. “Come to daddy” Luke said, his arms outstretched, laughing menacingly. Luke would take care of her, he thought.

            Her father beckoned her, but something deep inside her held her from reaching out. The voice, it was disturbingly cruel. He laughed, as if the smell of the smoke and burnt flesh made him happy. She slowly stepped back. “She knows!” she heard him yell as he stood up with a sudden flash. “Luke no!” she heard him say. It was all too much for the little girl, she broke for her room. All the way up the stairs she heard her father yelling, “Luke stop” and then laughing that menacing laugh, “She knows!” She was almost there, her safe haven, her room. There she would be safe, that’s what her mother had told her. She would be safe in her room. She ran with all her might, her father fumbling on the stairs behind her. She couldn’t scream; the fear and commotion choking her.

            “She knows!” Luke shouted as he made for the top of the stairs. “Luke, please, she’s a little girl. She won’t say anything!” he tried to stop Luke. Luke wouldn’t have it. Luke looked down from the top of the stairs, “Maybe now, my friend. What about when she grows old? Huh! Do you think she’ll stay quiet?” The question perplexed him. Could that sweet little girl – the one with his wife’s eyes -- be a threat? Could Luke be speaking a truth he was incapable of understanding? Lost in thought he suddenly realized, Luke had reached his daughters room. “Come here girly!”

            Her father had burst through the door, taking slow steps towards her, his smile ear-to-ear. At least the laughing had stopped, she was thankful. “Daddy…” she said, whimpering, hiding herself behind her Mary doll. “Yes child, daddy’s here” he said and began laughing again. It tore through her, the laughter. The fear clouded everything. “Luke please no. PLEASE!” she heard him say. “My friend, I’m doing this for you. Where would you be without me?” she peeped from behind her Mary doll and saw her father facing the door, “Luke…” he said. Suddenly he turned around, with that same wide smile, his eyes each facing opposite directions, he began to sing, “Mary had a little lamb…” as laughter filled the room, the house and the streets, she finally found the strength to wail.

            “…the neighbor’s said they heard a girl screaming. Looks like a real scene. Go check it out” the woman voiced over the radio. Officer Reynolds was hoping for a peaceful night. However, duty called. He followed the instructions and reached the location. In the yard was a burning body, he snapped into his senses. The whole house was dark, except for a single light emitting from a room on the first floor. He screeched to a halt and jumped out of his car, flashlight in hand. He approached the house carefully, afraid of the possibilities. The stench of the burning body filled the air but, the air was chill, too cold. He made his way to the front door, already open, he pushed it in gently. There was nothing there, he moved towards the stairwell, towards the only room with the light on. He was on the top step when he heard it, two voices, both male. “Luke...why?” said one and the other began to speak, “She knew, my friend. She knew!” he said. The second voice sent a chill down his spine. The air grew even colder. He reached the front of the door and kicked it open, gun out. There he was, weeping on a child’s bed and in his hand he held what looked like a fluffy toy. He wasn’t even remotely shocked by the entry Officer Reynolds made. He sat there still and slowly flopped backwards and the toy fell to the ground. It looked like a lamb, a fluffy lamb. It was a while before Reynolds figured it out, the strangeness of it; the lamb was covered in blood.

********

Thirteen Years ago:

            The schoolyard was his favorite place. Not during recess though, he hated his peers. They were unimaginative, too locked down by the rules set by those inferior to him. The evenings after school, that’s when he loved it, the empty swings, screeching away in the breeze and everything else stood motionless, for the most part. The noise was gone and silence took over except for the slight wailing of the wind as it passed the trees that lined the borders of the playground. He would sit there every day, delaying his return home to even more unimaginative dimwits with low reality standards.

            On one particular evening, he sat on the swing which creaked because of the rust decaying at its joints. He sat alone for a few minutes envisioning his own utopia, where everyone had their own choices and free will. While he fascinated himself with the ideology, they arrived; right on cue. He wouldn’t spend more than half an hour at the park because that’s when the drunkards would arrive, wailing at the top of their lungs ruining the perfect harmony he would set himself in. That day, he felt differently about leaving, he wouldn’t have it, the reckless mindlessness of a few drunken bastards ruining his solitude – NO! In order for his utopia to ever materialize into reality he would have to stand up to these felons. So he tried to confront them. He walked over to the drunken slaves of a false reality and told them to march away or they would have to face dire consequences. He expected them to leave, he expected them to cower in fear of his demand and respect him for his courage. But, they didn’t, before he knew it he was on the ground, head bleeding. One of the bastards had smashed an empty bottle on his head. He was weary and too weak to stand up, and he blacked out.

            The next day, he sat on the same swing, his head bandaged by the school nurse who happened to be passing by. He respected her; she had a calm demeanor about her that enticed him. He clutched an old newspaper in his hands, sometimes enjoying a good read, no matter what era the writing belonged to. As he had expected the drunken bastards returned pointing at him and laughing. One of them laughed so hard he puked. Enraged he was at the sight of uncompassionate mongrels that ruined the everyday lives of the few who still enjoyed their leisure. Today he would stand for his beliefs. Today he would fight back. “Look, look, the little man wants another stitch on his head!” one of the boys said and they all began laughing in chorus – slaves, they were slaves. As he marched forward he felt a hand on his shoulder, it gripped him hard and he heard another boy say, “Wait!” he turned around and saw a tall, skinny boy, with one broken tooth. “You don’t stand a chance against them” the skinny boy said. His eyes were gaunt as if he hadn’t slept for days. “Let me handle them” he said, his skinny hand gripping his shoulder even tighter. What could this skinny boy do? He didn’t look remotely tough. He looked so worn out that even a gentle breeze could have blown him away. But, his eyes they showed strength beyond his physical demeanor. His grip was firm and strong, his voice filled with hate, born from the pits of hell. He could clearly see that this skinny boy meant business. “Why don’t we do it together?” he asked the tall, lanky boy. At this he simply laughed and forced him to the ground. He watched as the tall, lanky kid walked up to the drunken bastards, all the while whistling a cold tune. The drunken bastards pointed at him and were laughing. The tall, lanky kid simply continued whistling, walking with a small spring in his step.

            The tall, skinny kid reached the drunken bastards and waited for a while. In front of him lay a broken bottle, the one which they broke on his head. He watched as the skinny kid picked up the broken bottle and in moments, slashed every one of the drunken bastards’ throats. At first, he was shocked, but then he began to calm down, after all they deserved it. Five drunks fell to the ground, blood gushing from their throats staining the skinny boy’s shoes. He stood over them with the broken bottle in his hand, laughing over their mindless suffering. It was their fault. They should have left him alone! They deserved it. The skinny boy made his way back to where he was squatting on the ground, where the skinny boy had forced him to sit, like a loyal pet dog. Throwing the bottle aside, the skinny boy stretched his hand out and he grabbed it and helped himself up. “This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, old pal.” He smiled and asked the skinny boy, “Your name?” the skinny boy took a few breaths, crushing his hands with a grip that almost broke his fingers and said, “Luke.” They skipped away hand in hand, whistling the same cold tune and laughing as they told each other the tale of the dead drunks again and again and again.

            The janitor, Bruce, stayed late one evening. He saw the boy again, sitting in the park, on that same swing, as it creaked gently. He smiled at the thought of playground joy. He never had much of a childhood, part of the reason he even became a school janitor. The vicarious pleasures of watching the children shout and whistle and sing around the merry-go-round.  Bruce waited for the boy to leave the swing before he began cleaning the playground. He began to rake the leaves that lay on the ground, dry and brown when he came across an old newspaper the boy had dropped. He picked it up, randomly scanning through the page. At the right corner was an obituary post. It was a bout a twelve year old boy who died a miserable death. The year of the paper was 1932, rather old, thought Bruce. He looked at the picture of the boy, his gaunt eyes, and his smile with one tooth missing. He was skinny too. He read the name of the boy, Luke; it just said Luke. He shrugged and threw the paper into his pile of leaves, figuring he could burn it with the dead, brown leaves he had raked up. A cold breeze passed by his left ear and he heard a whisper, of a boy, “You know too much!” he whispered and all went black for Bruce…

********