This is a story of utter sadness.
It reveals the true horrors in life.
Proceed with caution...
Hush - Nightmare #52:
What used to soothe her now became an unbearable current of pain to her ears – the crickets stirring up their racket; that dog yapping in a distant yard; even those bullfrogs by the pond would not stop talking, not for a second.
The day was slipping away and still those birds flew back and forth, back and forth, back and forth – their incessant chirping echoing like a grocery store check-out scanner.
All the sweet sounds of summer that used to comfort her now infuriated her.
It was because he was gone.
And what joy was there in anything now?
Krista wiped her eyes and stared-down two rabbits playing on the lawn. Their stupid game of cat and mouse annoyed her, and she was sure if she had to watch them for another minute, she’d go mad.
Or was she already mad?
Crazy, yes. But also angry. Angry that he left her here all alone. That he had lied to her, promising that he’d always look out for her. Angry at herself for loving someone so much.
Maybe she was just numb?
Had been ever since he passed on. Ever since that gunman snuffed out his breath. That's who she was mad at. That's who should be suffering. Not her.
She needed to go back inside. She shouldn’t have come out here to begin with - not yet.
It wasn’t safe.
She wasn’t ready - no matter what the therapist told her.
She ran to the door, slammed it shut and locked herself in.
Still, the buzzing in her ears wouldn’t let up, not even in the quiet of the house. She cried from the pain that resonated in her head; the ache that jutted down the back of her neck; she choked on the sadness in her heart; and she prayed for it all to stop ~ begged the God she was angry at to make it all stop. But the ringing would not let up, just kept on like a finger stuck to a doorbell.
It was all up to her.
She had to silence it.
With an eerie calm, she searched her pocket for the razor.
A tear of relief trickled down her face as her fingertips felt the cold metal shaver.
She pulled out the shiny object, stared at it and promised herself this would be the last time.
Krista started in the crease of her arm.
With each cut, the ringing in her ears got slightly softer; the tightness in her chest let loose.
She sawed and sawed at her skin - each cut deeper than the last - until she fell onto the tiled floor, like a drunk, broken after a three-day bender. The silence was golden. She sighed with contentment and sucked on one of her gashes - the taste of blood made her woozy.
“I miss you, Eric,” she whispered and licked another wound.
This is cute little tale of terror that I wrote a few years back.
I am a bit obsessed with blackbirds and their amazing little brains and their killer memory skills.
I am also of the belief that they may be more advanced than we even give them credit for these days. So, here's to the blackbird.
To their intellect; their fearlessness; and their dark side.
Long may they fly.
Double Take -Nightmare #68:
The two were inseparable.
That was the first thing Paul noticed about them.
His second observation was the way the two would communicate with each other. It was a specific low-moaned caw that intimidated him somehow; jerked at his nerves like the sound of fingernails down a chalkboard. But he didn’t let that stop him.
Retired and alone, he passed his days between lawn care, old reruns of westerns and this voyeurism. He was obsessed with these two identical blackbirds; planned his entire morning around the two conspirators. This was the only time they came to visit Paul and he was always ready, with his 6-pack of light beer and a bag of pretzels.
This is how he started his day ~ and he would sit out-back on his lawn chair, sip his beers, munch on his salted snack and follow their movements like a P.I.
If asked, he wouldn’t be able to remember his days before they flew into his backyard. In reality, it had only been a few months since they started coming to visit Paul.
And what Paul couldn’t see, even when he watched them frolic and hunt and kill for their morning breakfast; what he wasn’t able to comprehend as they flew by and soared high, squawking their song; and what he surely missed while he was choking down that last warm brew, was that they were watching him too…
It happened in the middle of July, early evening, as Paul sat down at his supper table to feast on some leftover chicken.
This last day, Paul heard a loud cawing echo from outside his window.
He studied the clock.
Way too late to be my buddies.
But it had to be…
In disbelief, he rushed to the kitchen window and pushed back the blind with the back of his hand. He saw only one of his blackbirds fly in and perch itself on his neighbors' shrub. It belonged to old lady Gibson who had been in the neighborhood long before Paul even took root here. The blackbird hopped a few limbs of the bush and stretched its neck to peer into the women’s window.
Odd, Paul thought to himself. And then instant panic rushed through him and settled into his chest; an immediate sorrow for the well-being of the second blackbird haunted him.
Why is there only one!?
And as if to answer, the blackbird turned to look at him, its beady eyes locked with Paul’s. The creature tilted its head.
And as Paul watched that blackbird from his window, it actually changed its form---
interchanged tail to head and back again ---while its buddy snuck in Paul's back door.
This is one of my favorite dark reads that I wrote.
What are your thoughts, Creepsters?
Downpour - Nightmare #157:
It was a good day for a storm. The clouds rolled in and hovered, almost like a spaceship, over the small, forgotten town. The late afternoon grew muggy and the air hung damp and electric.
Devin pulled the weathered hoodie over his head. It felt good on him, soft and familiar. He was relieved to find that he still appreciated something, even if it was for a brief moment. He checked the front pocket for his smokes and slammed the door shut behind him. He shuffled through the narrow hallway and down a flight of steps, the untied laces of his boots clinking against the chipped linoleum. Once outside, he breathed life into a cigarette and tossed the used matchstick to the wet pavement. It sizzled.
He pulled the strings on his sweatshirt, tightening the hood around his face - eager to hide his bloodied lip and black eye - and took off in a near sprint. He scurried down the street, wasn’t sure where he was going, but sure he needed to put as much distance between him and that shabby apartment – and his ridiculous father – as he could possibly put between them.
A slow drizzle blanketed the town; this added to his misery. The last of the sun was snuffed out by storm clouds and an insatiable rumble roared over the mountains. In the distance, lightning fell from the skies.
As he ran from one storm towards another, thoughts raged through his mind. How long would his father continue to use him as a punching bag? When would his mother come back for him? How much longer until he broke? How much more could he stand? Only a couple more years and he’d put this whole stupid town behind him.
“Only a couple more years,” he spoke the words out loud, trying to believe them.
On the outskirts of town, Devin finally paused to catch his breath, and coughed another cigarette to life. The rain came heavier now – turning into a deluge - and he fought with the ground beneath him as it turned from sidewalk to open field. He slipped a few times, almost wiped it once, but caught himself on the corner of a sharp turn sign. He chuckled aloud. It seemed he always had to fight to keep from falling. It was a constant struggle to remain grounded these days. And he wasn’t sure how much fight he had left in him.
He was so tired of fighting. Every single day there was a fight he had to show up for…
He had to fight his teachers because he could never clear his mind long enough to concentrate; had to fight his classmates because he didn’t have the right kind of clothes, the right attitude, the newest technology; had to fight his father simply because he continued to breathe. He was an outcast. And he was so tired of always getting it wrong, when everyone else always seemed to be getting it right.
A horn blasted him back to reality. Devin jumped as a dark-colored sedan flew past him. He tossed a middle finger behind them, hoping the driver would see it in his rear-view mirror, turn around and confront him. Then, Devin could put the boots to him.
And hopefully there would be a family in the vehicle and he could put the boots to them too.
All of them.
And if he failed? Even better. Then they could beat the shit out of him. Maybe beat him near death or even cause his death. Then, he wouldn’t have to hate anymore.
It seemed that’s all he could feel. All he could relate to these days. And the anger swelled up in him like a balloon taking on helium. It was the only emotion that killed the numbness.
He wanted to cry.
Wanted to break down right there on the side of the road.
Let it all pour out of him like a fevered sweat.
Perhaps someone would stop and take pity on him. See all the bruises he hid so well. Call him out and take him away from his asshole father and locate his mother. Then - with his mother at his side - all would be right with the world.
A long, deep-throated horn blasted past him again. Devin jumped higher this time; his heart racing with the speed of the coal truck as it whizzed past him. He threw his soggy cigarette at the back of the coal bucket, its tires kicking up shale and tossing dirt into Devin’s eyes.
He coughed the dust from his lungs.
Spat the dirt from his mouth.
And in that exact moment - for some reason announced only to Devin - he snapped.
He had had enough.
Enough of the damp air and the cold rain; the loud coal trucks with their filthy exhausts.
He had enough of people. Couldn’t understand them or their hatred towards him.
Had it with his dumbass father; his bleak future; his mother, who wasn’t coming back for him.
He lifted his face up and out of the hoodie, letting the cold April rain hit against his skin. It burned his fresh cuts. It stung, but felt good. He closed his eyes and nodded to an unknown accomplice.
He heard the roar of its engine. The banging of its bucket as it hurdled the potholes of the curvy roadway. He fumbled for his smokes; shook only slightly as he lit its end. He breathed deep, refused to cough and bellowed out a yell. He screamed out as loud as his lungs would allow him.
Maybe it was his one last effort to be heard.
Maybe he was just tired of holding it all in.
He could smell the diesel exhaust. It was close now. He hoped its driver wouldn’t grieve too long. He thought of his mother. Bet she’d miss him now.
The truck barreled up and over a slight embankment. Devin took one more drag from his smoke. He exhaled and stepped onto the road.
~ written by; Deevious ~
Thank you, Jane for the pic you shared at Morguefile. It was perfect.