The Man Who Swallows Nightmares

writer's life | 04

Darlene

IT'S BITTERNESS THAT LIVES IN Malachi's soul. The eureka jolted me out of my bed. My brunette hair was knotted behind my neck. The old fashioned alarm clock with the two silver bells and two spade hands pointed to the numbers as it ticked. My eyes skimmed the time. From the way my heart was racing and the low natural light from outside, it had to be early morning.

I stretched over my mattress, arm extended outward and fingers reaching over. Paper. I needed paper. Without looking, I knew there was at least a journal or book to write down the thoughts. Any open space I could save these thoughts before they evaporated away. Air was what I grasped.

"Ugh, come on," I hissed to myself.

Shuffling from a laying down position to a sit-up stance, my body groaned at me as if to say: What are you doing? It's three in the morning! It's time for sleep. But my mind replied back: I need to write this down or I will forget.

Heartbeat increased. I didn't dare turn on the light because then I knew I'd be awake. Half of my body hung off the bed's edge. I extended once more, engaging my torso and shoulders; my fingers brushed against something leathersoft. Yes! Whatever it was, I knew I could jot down the realization. I got to glimpse inside Malachi's heart for a brief moment.

Wait, where did that thought come from?

My hand faltered. The item fell back down on my carpet. I groaned into my blankets. Back, shoulders, and torso were sore from the quick movement and intense stretching. The thought must've come from my dreams. Sometimes at night, my mind wandered through possible scenes in my writing projects. For the past several weeks, I've thumbed and reread notes in the journal. Lucy watched reruns of Merlin and Once Upon a Time while the journal was in my face. I worked my dayshift, drove home, and then went back to flipping the pages.

The crazy part was, there were only ten pages written in, but every time I read a note from my past self. My imagination recreated the scenes. Malachi's Gift Ceremony. How he trembled before the King and held out his hand before the King cut Malachi's hand. His Father held his jaw clenched. He saw his son tremble. Malachi straightened his posture. His broad shoulders became unmoveable. He put hours into building his muscles, well, he didn't have a choice in the matter. The blood was one drop. It was hard to see the drop because the amphitheater housed all citizens and visitors from far East, West, North, and South of the Kingdom. But I saw up close. I hovered over Malachi as he felt the swift sting of the dagger on his palm.

His year had twelve chosen to celebrate and anticipate a Gift. Malachi's was the last one. I could hear his thoughts, Please. Please Starlight. Creator. Let the gift be honorable. Not to hurt. Then his thoughts went to his fears, for a touch and taste to consume whatever was around him. A woman smiled at him in his thoughts, she touched his younger self's cheek. Her emerald and blue sky irises shined with joy. But someone grabbed her arm, tossing her touch away from Malachi; a hard stoic face glared at her and he started to yell at her. Malachi's memory faded. There he stood before the man who took away his Mother's touch.

Malachi stared into his Father's eyes. There was no recollection. He was a stranger. A stranger that took, and took, shaped Malachi's path, rearranged to his own liking from afar.

"My fellow citizens, it is with great pleasure that we get to witness a twelfth chosen. Malachi, Son of Ezekiel Thérond." The King was speaking in third person since he was Ezekiel. "Do you accept your Gift?"

I held my breath while I watched. Malachi's thoughts were spiraling: one after the other; intense emotions ranging from anger, disgust, sadness, and wanting to prove himself, all sensations balled up into a huge sphere. And before he knew what his Gift would be.