BlOOD DÉCÈS

Prologue

A young boy no older than 15 walked through a maze of deserted streets, his mind was haunted by the images of a blood bathed room and two lifeless corpses; corpses who were once known as 'mum' and 'dad'. Light from a flickering streetlamp spilled over his tired form, creating a halo around his feather blonde hair. He was an angel, a boy clinging to the rim of manhood, yet still spoiled with the cherub like innocence of a child. His freckled cheeks were flushed and his liquid blue eyes glazed over in animal lunacy. 

He was frantic, searching for something.

"I need to go- I need to leave."

Panic began to swell in his chest, as the memories of his dead parents played over and over in his mind. His mother's rust coloured hair was soaked in red, sticking to her porcelain skin. It left a trail of wet prints on her cheeks. His mother was full of laughter, someone who always had a grin on her face. She no longer resembled the living embodiment of love. Her rosy cheeks were paper white, her eye's glazed over like a waxen doll's, her mouth slightly ajar. There was blood everywhere, all over her torso, over her white hands, over her bare toes- who did this? Who soiled his mother?

The boy ran, he ran to forget. To forget everything he had seen at that house of evil. He ran and ran, afraid of nothing but those sneaky memories. His only companion through the nightmare street was a silhouette of Indian ink, one that disappeared every so often- hiding in walls, dark corners, almost as if it were afraid of what was to come. It mimicked each wobble, stumble and trepid step that the boy took as he struggled through the darkness. Run. Stumble. Fall. The shadow doppelganger was twisted and broken, an epithet of darkness. It was something that the boy was determined to purge.

He caught sight of his midnight cohort and shrank back, he confused it for a bystander. It was too early to be caught, it couldn't end like this. He screamed at his shadow, his voice echoing in the still streets. It sent a searing pain to his temples, but he bid it farewell and sprinted through the night. He screamed again. And then he ran. His feet moving in a zombie like trance, searching anywhere and everywhere for some kind of miracle.

Every corner he turned he wished for his mother, he prayed she would be standing there, her arms parted in a welcoming manner- her lips pursed as she bit back tears; her voice cracking as she yelled at him for going out at night, yelled at him for making her worry. He became anxious as the 'what if's and maybe's swarmed his mind. What if he hadn't played football at Tomas's house? What if he had gone home early? Would he too, fall victim to that monster?

"You should never let 'what if's' and 'maybe's' cripple your mind son. Leave your mistakes behind and move forward."

His father's wise words echoed in his head. His father was a funny man, a juxtaposition; a comedian whose face was set in a permanent scowl. He had thick black hair on every surface of his skin, beside his head and any mention of his hair would be answered by a tight lipped retort

"Son, you do realise in a few years you'll be just as bald as I am. Mark my words young man, you won't be laughing when you're 18."

His father was a marvel, someone who everyone respected. A man of honour, of faith- a man who didn't let his failures define him. He wished his father were here standing beside him. His mouth twisted in a half smile, his thundering laughter echoing in the street after reciting a terrible 'dad' joke. He wished his father would hold him again, would ruffle his hair and teach him the dying art of funny. But he knew his father would never do anything of the sort again, because his father lay beside his mother, bathed in a mixture of his blood and hers, his face carved like a Christmas turkey, no longer resembling anything human. His beady eyes were now two gaping wounds on a red face, his trademark scowl carved over and over into a Cheshire cat grin- drawn half-heartedly by the monster who massacred his family.