|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Mon Apr 13, 2009 11:56 am
He walked quickly toward the street, toward civilization, toward safety. He looked about suspiciously, his nerves were getting the better of his judgment. A sound from behind made him jump and spin around all in one movement, but the motion threw him off balance and he fell backwards over a root. His head smashed into an old tree. He scrambled to his feet, feeling dizzy as his own warm blood ran down the back of his neck. He was already a mess and feared the reflection he would see when he got back home. He wasn’t sure how he ended up in the middle of the woods; he didn’t remember going there. He had woken up hours ago and simply lain there, in the middle of the woods in the rain letting his emotions run over him just like the pouring precipitation. He was soaked through and shivering now, all traces of his earlier peace gone. He could at last see the street lanterns and was following the orange light, using it as a beacon to guide him forward.
He tripped again into the mud and gravel, losing his shoe in the slime. He left it there, struggling to his feet again and pushing toward the glow again. He thought he heard something from behind again but this time he ignored it and pressed onward. The next thing he knew he was being thrown sideways until he slammed into a tree, his breath being pushed from his chest. As he pushed his crumpled body up, he felt something on his hand. He held his palm close to his face so he could see, it was blood but it wasn’t from his hand. He was now trembling with fright as he looked at the tree a little closer. He had already been here; the blood was from his head wound. His eyes darted around fearfully, but failed to focus on the dark that seemed to be moving in on him, surrounding him with suffocating denseness.
He slumped to the ground at the bottom of the tall oak, the darkness had pressed the fear of whatever had thrown him to the back of his confused mind. As he felt something brush his side it came back the forefront, shoving through the jumbled thoughts centered there. He turned his head and saw nothing. Shaking racked through his body, his mind was unable to focus on anything; jumping from place to place with his darting eyes. As he turned his head the other direction, there was a creature sitting on it haunches directly in front of him. He let loose a scream of terror and struggled to reach his feet, leaning and pushing his back up the tree’s rough bark. He failed though, his feet slipping on the rain-soaked grass, so instead he took the fetal position, rocking to and fro, trying to delude himself into thinking that the animal was not in fact two feet in front of him, watching without emotion in its deep, yellow eyes.
The creature, a striking silver wolf, sat silently, watching the boy undergoing his own mental crises, with knowledgeable, intellectual eyes. The boy continued to rock, but was not conscience of this or anything else around him; he had become a recluse hiding in his own mind. What he didn’t know is that even this place, the one place he thought secure was anything but. He was embracing the darkness surrounding him, welcoming it velvety texture and lack of everything. It just was, as was he. Then there was a ripple in the darkness, a disturbance to his personal hiding spot. Two yellow eyes, slowly progressing forward approached him. As the eyes came closer, he began to make out the form of the silver wolf, the Messenger. He heard a voice, a soft, soothing female, voice whisper “For now, all is well. You must come to me, I bear news for you.” He looked up and watched the golden eyes recede.
His eyes shot open, he was back in his physical body and the cold and pain came as a shock after the comfort and nothingness of the blackness in his head. The Messenger sat before him still, perched perfectly on its haunches, staring at him with serene, golden eyes. This did not startle him. He straightened out, unable to suppress the shaking, but attentive to the Messenger. The wolf padded closer to him and gently touched its wet nose to his forehead. Immediately, his eyes slid shut and he was immersed in the Messenger’s words. The words drifted silently into his mind, a steady flow of words from Hell. As he read them he struggled to separate himself from the touch of the Messenger but could not. Instead he read the words,
“While the moon is whole and bright, you will cause a terrible sight, bloodshed and death abound, not a living soul to be found. Their life-blood spilled all over your face, such a shame, such a disgrace. You heartless, mindless, and cowardly man, they are all dead by your own hand. The knife still dripping, hangs on your hip, you hear the steady ‘drip, drip, drip’, it drives you mad, your fury is untamed, you shall forever be a maniacal killer, unnamed. This is your fate, the path you shall choose, no matter how you try, against me you shall loose.”
His eyes snapped open. His teeth chattered and his body vibrated as his shivered uncontrollably from a mix of cold and fear. He looked into the eyes of the Messenger, who was now black, and felt a new wave of terror rip through his mind. The wolf turned and silently padded away. He then turned his attention to the sudden raucous noise above in the boughs of the oak. There he saw nine black ravens, their beady eyes staring only at him. He staggered up once more, set his bloodshot eyes on the lantern of his destination and stumbled forward.
When he reached the curved post on which the flickering lantern hung, he slumped to the ground. The ravens lighted beside him and began pecking at the sodden earth. His mind was a jumble, no coherent thoughts were possible through the overbearing weight of the horror and fear at what the Messenger had said. The words played themselves over and over in his head, driving him closer to the brink of insanity; he was nearly there. He began to crawl up the path toward the center of the village where his house stood among the others. He paused, wondering why he was going back to that empty edifice, there was nothing left for him there, his wife murdered, his daughter raped than having her throat sliced, his son, disemboweled, pieces strewn across the small kitchen floor. Too much blood had been shed there. Had the Messenger visited them too? Had they know that they would die while he was out late drinking with the local men? He would never know.
He could hear the men drinking at the pub again, the too loud laughter, the yelling and arguing, the drunken joy that permeated into the surrounding air. He flipped over onto his back, letting the fresh wave of sprinkling rain pelt his face and chest. There was nothing left for him, his life and joy had been taken from him. Why should they all be allowed to be happy? The ravens suddenly burst into a chorus of rasping caws. He took them to be agreeing with him. Two of the ravens hopped ahead of him, landing lightly on his own porch stairs, their black eyes staring at him incredulously. The remaining birds circled him, watching intently. Were these an omen from the messenger? They must be, he rationalized. He resumed crawling toward his house. The others would not be allowed joy if he was not. No, they would suffer too, endure the complete agony of loss that he had.
He reached his porch stairs and pulled himself to his feet. The ravens continued to stare. He went inside and took a knife from the kitchen drawer and hobbled back out the door. All of the ravens followed. He burst through the door of the bar and all the men went silent. He stood there dripping mud on the wood floor, drip, drip, drip…. He shook his head to return from his mental reverie. The men had returned to their tankards and cards, ignoring the insane man standing at the door, so he continued to the bar. The tender walked up to him and leaned over the counter. As the bartender began to ask what he wanted to drink, the knife came up from below, piercing through the bottom of the man’s chin and up into his skull. He pulled the knife back out as the merry drinkers nearby began to back away. He looked at the bloody knife and then at the dead man. Then something snapped, the last thread that bound him to sanity was severed and he whirled around to make sure no one lived to tell this tale.
….
….
….
The body of the man and his victims were found the following morning by the black Messenger. The ravens were long gone, having gorged themselves on the remains of the slain men. The wolf let out a rumbling cackle from her throat. She looked at the insane man, lying on his back with his knife protruding from his chest. Her muzzle allowed a slight grin as she turned from the scene to return to her master. She had more work to do. She had trapped this man in his own mind, she was the Omen of the Insane, the Bringer of Mental Turmoil. She was the Essence of Black.
Comment? My apologies for the somewhat Gothic Style of writing; i was in a bad mood... This was actually written for a contest entry and i was looking around for somthing to work on the other day and i thought i would get some comments on this and possibly toy with it some more.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Apr 13, 2009 1:06 pm
Hey, I remember this! I still have to say that I love the messenger's dialogue, it's really great.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Apr 25, 2009 5:33 pm
This was good, there were a few spelling errors, but it was good!
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
