Dark Circles

Day three, I couldn’t sleep. I lay there on my king sized mattress staring up at the ceiling. Pitch black, I could feel my pupils dilating; desperate to find anything in the darkness, a moving shadow perhaps. There was nothing, just pitch black. I rolled my head over ever so slightly and then let gravity go to work as I felt my head dropping to its side until my eyes were level with the clock on my bedside table; three in the morning. It’s funny how everything moves much slower when you want nothing more than for it to speed up. It’s as if everything around you sensed your anticipation and fed off it. I was so tired! Day three, I couldn’t sleep; I needed coffee, what better way to put yourself to sleep than a glass of nice warm coffee, or was that cocoa? Mustering up all the energy I could I sit up on my bed. Deep sighs, that’s all I could do, I couldn’t move a finger. Day three, I couldn’t sleep. Sitting up was equal to running a marathon, my god my head was splitting open! I look at the clock again; a minute past three. Finally I get a hold of myself and stand up, my balance slightly impaired as I walked crossing one foot in front of the other, like a drunken supermodel wearing glass stilettos. Pitch black, nothing in sight, yet somehow I was sure where I was headed too. Instinct moved me. It’s surprising how much the human body can adapt to in matter of just days. I never turned on the lights for the last three days but still I just knew where to move. Maybe me having lived in this house for ten years had something to do with it, or was it twelve years. When did I move in here?

 

            Unaware, I find myself in the kitchen, the refrigerator popped wide open; the yellow light drove into my dilated pupils sending a searing pain through my already exploding head. Day three, I couldn’t sleep. There was barely anything in the bright-like-the-sun, migraine inducing refrigerator. Squinting, to clear my vision, all I could see was a carton of milk, half a loaf of bread and some canned beans. What the hell had I been eating for the last three days? Reluctantly, I picked up the carton of milk, popped the lid open and took a sip. The rotten taste! I could feel it inch its way down to my stomach. How long had that been in there? Stupid products, I thought milk was supposed to last for at least two weeks in a refrigerator. The kind of crap they sell these days. I placed the milk back in the refrigerator where it had decided to rot instead of stay frosty. I was about to close the door when curiosity slowly crept through me. Like most of my thoughts, this too came all of a sudden, no rhyme or reason, it just did. Day three, I couldn’t sleep; I had no train of thought. I picked up the milk carton and checked the expiry date; I didn’t need to squint, my pupils had managed to shrink back to regular size and were now at comfort with the bright-as-the-sun light from the refrigerator. This was supposed to expire only on the tenth of the month. Day three, I couldn’t sleep. I had bought this milk three days ago. God dammit! They weren’t going to take this crap back now. Another few good dollars spent on third rate merchandise. Just my fucking luck. Disappointed, I trot back to my bedroom, now a drunken supermodel wearing sneakers. I take a look at the clock, its red light glowing, mocking me; seven minutes past three. You have got to be kidding me! I was just about to head to the washroom when something caught my eye. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. The date on the clock, it showed the twelfth of the month. Impossible! It had only been three days, I couldn’t sleep. I remember the date specifically; third of the month. It happened on the third of the month, my sleepless, wasteful nights began on the third of the month. Day three, I couldn’t sleep; I had lost all track of time; the expired milk and the clock both telling me the same lie…but its only day three, I can’t sleep. Or was I lying to myself all this time? Could it be that this is not day three? If not, what happened to all the days in between? How can someone lose days, literally? The clock now showed four in the morning. Sudden thought number two arrived at precisely four in the A.M.  There on my bedside table, lying next to the clock was my digital hand-watch. My earlier drunken model on sneakers now became a proper, predominantly male walk. I reached the table and picked up my watch; a minute past four on the twelfth of the month. I took two deep breaths. Day nine, I couldn’t sleep.

 

            Knowing there was nothing I could do, I surrendered to the situation and plopped my behind back on my king size mattress. I did nothing. Day nine, I couldn’t sleep. I watched as the red light from the clocked mocked me, second by second, minute by minute until a ray of sunlight somewhere around thirty-seven minutes past fives cracks through my blinds. I turn around and watch the sun rise, slowly and gradually into the sky; king of everything its light touches. I think to myself, it’s the perfect time for a nice glass of hot cocoa…or was it coffee?

 

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

            Day eighteen, I couldn’t sleep. Cars passed by, daylight, people bickered on their phones, traffic lights switched between red, yellow and green; I stood there at the crossroads and watched the commotion of a normal day for normal people who slept through the god damn night; a perfect eight hour shut-eye. At the crack of dawn all these well-rested, mud-for-brains commoners woke up more dead than I was. Every single one of them, clear-eyed monkeys trained to follow a routine throughout their daily lives. Wake up at the first buzz of the alarm, shower, get “dressed” for work, eat a good breakfast, it’s eight in the a.m. catch the bus, cab or walk or whatever to work, suck up to your bosses, try to prove you’re just that little inch better than the next monkey that sat next to you chewing gum in that same stupid cubicle, pencil in his ear, talking loud and making jokes about every other monkey chewing gum in their own cubicles. God damn freak show.

 

            Maybe it was the last four-hundred and thirty-two hours without sleep but somehow my perspective was much clearer, much clearer. The point I realized was that the sleeplessness allowed me to view time in a whole different light. Ideally a new day starts when you wake up from the doctor-recommended eight hour shut-eye. What if you never slept? Then you never woke up. If you never wake up, then the perspective of “a new day” doesn’t exist anymore. The sun rises and the sun sets but the only amount of difference that made in my life over the last eighteen days was as if there was a power outage every twelve hours for twelve hours. Aside from that nothing changes. You sit awake through the night and you realize how useless everything is. The cynicism justifies itself. Every show on the tele is just the same nonsense with just a little twist; every news channel gives us the same information, yet we have a hundred of them. Everything is the same with a different face. Your house never changes, your neighbors don’t change, conversations always end up either where they started or just nowhere at all, people look the same, places look and feel the same. Nothing moved; you didn’t move. Day eighteen, I couldn’t sleep.

 

            So it’s two in the morn and there I was strolling down what would be the busiest street in precisely six hours. But at that moment it was dead. The eerie silence, it’s colorful, fake-smiling mask torn off to show the underbelly of the beast it actually is. It’s one of the beauties of sleepless nights; you really begin to appreciate things in their true form, the form they take in the dark, symbolizing just how menacing and deadly anything and everything really is. Nothing shines in the dark, absolutely nothing. Everything crawls back into the shadows until there’s just a hint of light which they can reflect and say, “This is me, I’m bright and alive” but that isn’t the truth. Nothing is bright and alive; everything is bland, tasteless and hidden away. It’s when you strip every ray of light off of anything that you really begin to see what it really is; its inner beauty, no personification, no shame, nothing; just an empty shell like the rest of us.

 

My feet were hurting, the leather stung. Was I bleeding? How long had I been walking? What was the time? Puzzled and dazed, I look around and I couldn’t place where I was. Twelve years you live in a place and you can’t recognize where you stand; that shows human incompetence. In the dark I wandered a familiar place, yet totally new to me. I pull out a cigarette pack from my jeans pocket. How long have those been in there? I shrug, pull out a stick, smooth and white and place it gently between my lips. My right hand lunges for the other pocket as if it knew before me that there was a lighter in there. Everything was involuntary; I had no control over anything. My hands moved around as if it was second nature and lit up the death-stick that lay slender between my lips. My chest heaved and I saw the red tip burn a few millimeters of the perfectly smooth white paper as light-weight smoke filled my lungs; and then breathe out. Wisps of smoke left my mouth, staggering and forming random shapes, swaying to the side of the gentle breeze. Eventually we all join the band-wagon, just like the smoke moves with the breeze we move with the flow. Resistance is futile. Day eighteen, I couldn’t sleep. Which way did the wind blow for me? I had no clue, yet I chose not to resist. It was easier not knowing. I flip open the pack of smokes in my hand, it was empty. I turn around and there, like a trail of bread crumbs, tiny red lights accompanied with small wisps of smoke emerging from the ground showed me the way home. Suddenly my chest felt heavy; I coughed, profusely. At the end of it all I was pretty sure I tasted my own blood. When did I start smoking? Day eighteen, I couldn’t sleep.

 

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

 

“We’ll start you off with a small dosage” she said, seated straight in her leather armchair, her notepad resting on one of the arms of the chair, twirling her curly hair with her left hand her right hand holding the pen firmly over the notepad. Day twenty-seven, I couldn’t sleep. I had lost my job, my home was a mess, a clutter of random objects strewn about, eating only one meal a day and drinking close to four cups of coffee overly sweetened by the excess sugar. In short, my life was a mess. All this information gave my shrink the brilliant idea of medication. I meant that in absolute seriousness, the idea was brilliant. All the sugar and sleepless nights would have become a lot less had I thought of consulting a shrink. But, I guess when it comes down to it, your brains’ processing ability just goes haywire once you stay without sleep for as long as I have.

 

“How powerful is this medication?” I asked, slowly, as if picking every word after a very slow and inefficient search algorithm. I hadn’t noticed that it took me over two minutes to say this. The shrink, still twirling her hair, meeting my eyes dead straight, noted this down in her notebook. “Not very, it’s very mild. The idea is to slowly get you back to sleep. You’ve been off it so long your body may not react well to sleep. So we start mild and move from there” she said, finally stopping the twirling of her hair. I simply shrugged; she was after all the expert. I was stupid enough not to do the research so I might as well be stupid enough to go blindly with what the good doctor tells me. She smiled and pointed at the clock; my session was over. She handed me the prescription as I stood up to leave. Day twenty-seven, I couldn’t sleep.

 

Ten minutes later I was seated in my car, I had no clue how I had arrived and parked. Every piece of me moved separately as if it had a mind of its own. There was no coordination. I was finding it incredibly hard to do any two things at once, even simple tasks like changing the channel while sipping my overly sweetened coffee. I had effectively lost complete control of my body. My back hurt constantly and there was always a ringing in my ear. My vision often became hazy and what timing, just as I was about to get on my way home. I blinked fast around ten times and then felt my left foot hit the clutch my right hand shifted the stick to first gear, my left hand gripped the steering wheel and before I knew it I was inching forward. Each of these simple, normally simultaneously doable tasks, were now done with a clear time difference. My brain was arranging everything stepwise, unable to multi-task at all. I had become a very useless machine unable to process even simple tasks simultaneously. As I continued to feel sorry for myself, I realized I was now at my driveway, parked neatly. I guess I didn’t give myself enough credit. Day twenty-seven, I couldn’t sleep.

 

I unlocked my house door and walked in, very consciously taking each step; first left foot and then right. Once inside the mess made it even more difficult for me to feel relaxed. Everything was haywire, clothes strewn about, the sink overflowing with unwashed utensils, chips and pieces of junk food laying randomly across the floor, empty booze bottles neatly piled up in the corner of the living room. At that moment my roommate arrived from his bedroom; Tom was his name. “Hey roomie” he said beaming. Tom had moved in three days ago, as I had lost my job and had absolutely no interest in finding a new one. I figured the rent he pays would keep me afloat. What I didn’t do was interview him. Tom was broke. He was wanted in two states for trafficking drugs and was also a party-animal, so to speak. That explained the white powder I found neatly lined into sets of three on my dining table. I won’t lie, I had the occasional snort as well. Helped with the sleeplessness. I smiled and nodded at Tom and moved to my bedroom. We hadn’t spoken much since he moved in. I don’t even remember why I agreed to let him stay knowing he was broke. Well at least he was some form of company.

 

I was standing in my washroom, also a hellish mess, staring into the mirror. My eyes were completely bloodshot and shrunken. There were very prominent dark circles around both eyes and two eye-bags hung low on my cheek. My lips were cracked because of the excessive smoking over the last week. My face was hollow, eating only the one lousy meal a day. My skin was pale. There was a glass full of water right in front of me, clear and still. In one hand I held the pill the good doctor had offered me in exchange for my ever depleting money. I continued to stare into the mirror. I slowly placed the pill into my mouth below the tongue, I picked up the glass of water and was just about to sip it when suddenly, “I wouldn’t do that cappy, if I were you”; it was Tom. He stood behind me leaning against the wall, shirtless and what looked like white powder lined his nostrils. He took a strong sniff, “The good doctor give you those?” he asked. I nodded, I didn’t know if I should’ve freaked out at this not-so-subtle invasion of privacy or blown my top off. Finally I did neither and stood there staring at him, “Yeah, the doctor gave me these, so?” I said moving the glass towards my lips, “I wouldn’t do that cappy. That shit is not good for you” he said sniffing some more and smiling, baring his sick yellow teeth. “Not good for me? That’s rich coming from a snort fanatic like yourself” I sniggered. He simply smiled, “When I snort the result is, I let my mind free, I let it open to imaginative possibilities the normal, average human could not understand. I force my mind to expand beyond a reality that is in our reach. I set myself free. This pill that the good doctor gave you” the pill now in his hand and not under my tongue anymore, How the fuck did he do that? “This shit controls your mind my friend. This shit shuts you down, it blocks the imagination and forces you to believe in a reality that is socially accepted and considered the norm. Is that what you want cappy, your mind controlled?” he was waving the pill in front of my face, the blow obviously giving him his rush. The glass of water in my hand was empty now. For some reason, I agreed to Tom. His argument could not have been more questionable. He was laughing, waving the pill at my face, then with one quick stroke he launched the pill straight into the toilet. I closed my eyes for a second and heard the flush do its work, sending that little, very expensive, medically acclaimed pill into the abyss of the city sewer system. He was right, I shouldn’t close my mind. I should expand it. Was indulging in drugs the way though? Day twenty-seven, I couldn’t sleep.

 

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

 

Day thirty-six, I couldn’t sleep. God only knew the time. I had successfully managed to shut myself in my own messed up home. Everything seemed to move. The clutter was never the same for two consecutive days. Nothing was ever where I left it. Everything moved. What I realized was that Tom never slept too. There we both were on the maggot infested couch of mine, unshaven, sleepless and lost in imaginative realities which constantly changed like a bad picture. Nothing made sense anymore, thirty-six days without sleep and counting I was sure at least ten percent of my organs had failed to function. Food was consumed only out of absolute necessity and we never factored in the quality of the food consumed; rotten or fresh nothing mattered anymore. I decided to skip out on my shrink appointment. I watched as Tom flopped his head up and down to a beat that wasn’t playing. I could feel a drop of blood trickling down from my nostril and moving along to the edge of my lips. I found a crumpled piece of paper lying on the ground, picked it up and wiped the blood off.

 

“It’s time” Tom said. I looked at him, a quizzical expression on my face, “It’s time to face the world cappy. It’s been long enough that you’ve kept running away, stop running. Expand your mind” he said, bearing his yellow teeth. I continued to stare at my roommate of twelve days. What the fuck was he talking about? As if he read my mind, “You know what I’m talking about? You KNOW! Stop running away man! Stop the running!” he started screaming, pulling his hair, throwing a hysterical fit. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t place where all this anguish was coming from, “Stop running” he finally panted and dropped to the ground. I stood up, what seemed to take ages for me; I felt old and unwise – not a good combination. I stared at his skinny frame lying on the ground among the garbage that summed up the total value of my pathetic existence. There was a glass of water on the table, clear and still. I poured that over him; no reaction. Is he dead? I could feel my heart rate increase, in a very beautiful and gradual way. My eyes widened, could he have died? At that moment he moved, shaking his head on the ground he stood up, grabbed my collar and said, “Let’s go for a drive” beaming his yellow, moldy teeth at my face.

 

I was unable to speak, I had choked. Words filled my head but none left the tip of my tongue. He dragged me flopping, attempting to stand on my own two feet to the car in the driveway. He pulled open the passenger seat and threw me in. he moved around to the driver’s side, pulled open the door and took his seat. Before I knew it the car screeched as it sped in reverse through the driveway almost banging the nearby dumpster and we began speeding off into the night, “How long are you going to run?” he looked at me, his yellow teeth shining, sweat dripping from his forehead, his arms shivering from the snort, “Huh, how long are you going to run?” he asked again. I could only stare at him; the intensity level was borderline insane. He laughed hysterically, a wide-eyed, yellow-teeth-baring, drool-leaking laugh. It howled through the night. When I managed to face the road we were on, I realized that the road was very familiar. Why is this so familiar? I couldn’t place it, shit I’m too high for this, why was this road so familiar? Then it all came back to me. Could it be? How could Tom know? “Yes, how could I know?” he said smiling at me, an eerie, dark smile. I watched him closely and saw his face change into mine; I was now staring at myself and moments after that I was staring outside the passenger window, I was holding the wheel, I was driving. What the fuck just happened to Tom?

How could’ve he possibly known? There’s just no way! Too many thoughts ran through my head and before I knew it I was at my driveway, parked. I was still shaking from what I had seen, there he was Tom, driving and laughing like a maniac and suddenly he disappears and I was driving…the whole thing made no sense. Day thirty-six, I couldn’t sleep.

 

There at the end of my driveway was my old-fashioned mailbox and written on it was the name “Tom .N .Hicks”, but this was my house…unless, but that would be too crazy. Before I could even gather myself, the door to my house opened and there I stood at the doorway and inside my car. I freaked out. I got out of the car and yelled, “Who are you?!!” he simply smiled and said, “Why it’s me cappy your roomie Tom”, but there was no yellow-teeth. There at the doorway I stood smiling back at myself on the driveway, and here I stood on the driveway, in the true sense of the word mind-fucked, staring at myself standing at the doorway smiling. “Now you can stop running my friend” he told me and casually walked back into my…no his…no our home. All along I was Tom and he was I. that’s how he knew I was running from something I had forgotten I had been running from. The shock was overwhelming, I fell to my knees and crashed face-down onto the driveway nearly breaking my nose. My eyes, they still wouldn’t shut as the images of that night flashed through my mind a single tear slipped from my eye and down my cheek and with it brought a wave of relief. It all happened on the ninth of September ninety-nine. Day thirty-six, I couldn’t sleep.

 

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

September - 9 -1999 09:00:

 

            It was a cold morning, a bad morning to be hung-over. How much did I drink last night? My head was splitting. Coffee, I needed coffee…yes…that would be the right pick-me-up to start a new and awesome day at work. We had just won an unbelievable case. Sometimes, you can’t help but believe in miracles. Small man versus the big business tycoon, bringing in the right witness at the right time, proving the case beyond doubt; even a bought judge couldn’t have stopped us from winning. When reputation is on the line everything else means nothing to those fat-wallet monkeys of the independent judiciary system. What a façade. I moved out of my bed and into the kitchen where I brewed myself some old-fashioned strong coffee. As was my custom I turned on the news; it’s good to keep up to times with the latest especially in my profession.

 

            I sat on my couch sipping strong coffee out of the mug slowly when I heard the reporter going on, “Last night, at close to three-ten in the mooring a nine-year-old girl was run over and killed on the spot. When we asked the parents what their daughter was doing outside at three in the morning, they responded saying that she had a sleep walking problem and that she always stayed within the confines of the house and this is the first instance of the girl leaving the house. Experts say she may have woken up somewhere nearby and not realized it and so got lost into the streets…” something about that story made me stop sipping my coffee. Three-ten was around the time I was on my way home from last night’s booze party celebrating the success of our case, but I failed to understand why that freaked me out so much. There was a slow nervous tension building up inside me. I shook my head, shrugged off the feeling and continued sipping my coffee. I checked the clock that hung above the television and realized I would be late for work if I didn’t leave soon.

 

            In a jiffy, I got ready to leave for work and was on my driveway when I saw something that made me sick from the insides. There on the front number plate of my car was, I was certain of it, bloodstains. My heart started racing. The words the reporter was saying just kept playing over and over again in my head, “…nine-year-old girl…run over…” My God, what had I done? Was I really that drunk? I rushed back into my home, “…nine-year-old girl….run over…” I raced to the bathroom and puked into the sink. I could feel the alcohol of last night burning the inner walls of my throat as it gushed out. My head felt light, but my body felt heavy. Two parallel thoughts were running through my head constantly interrupted by, “…nine-year-old girl…run over…” should I run or should I confess? I was in a serious dilemma. If I confess I stand to lose everything that ever meant anything to me!

 

            Ten minutes later I was scrubbing the number plate and hosing the underneath of my car. I watched as the red water gushed out into the lawn and hid itself among the grass and sand. I took a look at my car from the front, it looked clean. After all I had been scrubbing the plate for over twenty minutes. I had to be sure. I took the car out to the road where that girl had been hit; an image flashed through my mind, music playing loud in my car, my eyes shutting and opening at irregular intervals and suddenly there was a thud. I couldn’t figure out what that image was about, what the thud sound was. I kept driving into the distance, how far off had I gone? But, instinct was telling me I was nearing the place where it had happened and another image; loud music, eyes irregularly blinking, the thud sound and the clock in my car showing the time around three-thirteen. The thud was much clearer this time. My head was racing, my heart was pounding against my chest trying to break out and run away from me. The images kept coming back each time they got clearer and the thud much louder. Finally I reached the spot, I knew because I could see the blood dry on the road, a lot of blood. My whole body began to pulsate, what have I done? “…nine-year-old girl…run over” my hands began to shiver and an icy chill ran up my spine. Every hair on my forearm was standing and a very loud ringing filled my ears and eventually my whole head. I was breathing heavily and the final image came to my head; I was driving, I was totally drunk, my eyes blinked irregularly, I took a look at the clock – three-thirteen and I looked down at the radio to change the channel and then it happened there was a loud thud ... my car swerved a bit…I knew I had hit something…my head was still down looking at the radio….I took two deep breaths and ran away from the scene without even looking back.

 

            I sat there in my car, staring at the blood stain. Why didn’t I just look back? Why? Why? WHY? I felt a cold rise inside me, I felt numb and dead. My head was pounding now ten times faster and harder, my heart had lost all control of itself…I was parched but couldn’t even swallow my own spit. From the blood something rose up, a pretty little nine-year-old girl stood holding a sunflower in her hand smiling at me…

 

            I woke up panting on the cold marble floor of my house. Was that just a bad dream? I stepped outside and there my car stood, parked neatly. The time was exactly three-thirteen in the afternoon – coincidence. I figured there was no point going to work anyway as I was way too late. Just as I was about to call my boss and let him know I was taking a personal day the television switched on and once again the news reporter said, “…nine-year-old girl…run over…”

 

            I sat at home the whole day trying to figure out what had happened last night, how I had got home. Nothing was clear. I had lost all track of time. My house seemed like a dark place. I was dead on the inside. Day one, I couldn’t sleep.

 

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

 

September – 9 -1999 00:00:

            John stood across the room at the corner, smoking a cigarette, holding a glass of very expensive scotch. Everybody was wearing a suit. It was a big day for the firm. They had just won a huge case, the kind of case that put their firm among those that closed the biggest deals. Now here they were partying, a special private party for all the hard work they had put in over the last four months. Of course the key player in all of this was Tom .N .Hicks. The guy was simply amazing. He probably blew the jury’s mind open with just his opening statement. It’s no wonder he was the guy having the most fun. This case was his baby. We raised it, but it was his baby. Probably means he’s going to get promoted soon. A lot of publicity went into this case.

 

            The night went on in its gleeful manner, well dressed lawyers losing their inhibitions with each drink. Music playing at just the right level in the background, people shouting “Cheers!” at every possible opportunity. Life was good. But at the end of it all we had to head home and go to work the next day. The time was two-fifteen when the last man, myself, left the late night bar. I hopped in my car well above the legal alcohol limit. The irony of it all, men who use the law to supposedly benefit society, breaking the very laws they work so hard to uplift. At the end, it’s the error of being human. We are all hypocrites. Cruising along the road I caught up to another car ahead of me. It didn’t take a junior lawyer like myself to recognize the big fish’s car. That was Tom .N .Hicks car.

 

            He must have been really drunk, his car was swerving around, somehow staying just within the lane. He was speeding too. I leveled with his speed maintaining clean distance. Never follow too closely a drunk driver. Suddenly something ran in front of Tom’s car. He hit whatever it was, he screeched his brakes and I stopped a little away just to see his next move. The bastard ran off. I had lost all respect for the man. There was nothing more disgusting than a man who runs scared. It is too pathetic even to care about. The time was now blinking at around two-thirty five. I slowly moved towards what Tom had hit and run and there on the road, bleeding profusely lay a stray dog. I turned on my parking lights and moved the dead animal from the road leaving a trail of blood all the way to the edge. Tom was a pathetic man. It feels very hurtful when you watch your hero go down the drain.

 

 

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

 

            I lay on the driveway, famous and unbeatable lawyer Tom .N .Hicks, beaten by his own doings. The one tear drop that rolled down my cheek now a million as I drooled and cried what I had suppressed for over thirty-six days. I just wanted to close my eyes. I just wanted to close my eyes. Gently I could feel my eyelids shut and I felt myself being swallowed into an abyss. A deep and dark hole, where only pain prevailed, “…nine-year-old girl…run over…” But at least there was relief. At least there was relief that I knew what had happened to me. I wept with my eyes closed for what felt like hours and finally, my eyes opened again and everything went dark…

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

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…”

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