Authors Note - please be kind, I'm not a professional writer I do this as a hobby - Leave a vote/comment if you enjoy as every little bit helps
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Chapter1 - The Bud - Beginnings
Lifehas a sense of irony, don't you think ? We spend so much of ourtime worried about death and yet our active lives are surrounded byit. This is fascinating, don't you agree ? The pet you have thatone day turns it's fins up for the final time. Or that furry littlebundle of joy who one day decides to cross the road just a fewseconds too late and ends up with their brains splattered across thepavement like one of those damnable street arts. Let's assume for asecond that as you're reading this you're a mite older andperhaps have a fond hate for all things furry, fuzzy or scaly. Yourexample, my dog detesters and cat loathers lies in the box sat sopolished up and looked after. The one you stare into for at leastfour hours a day. The television. The square eye maker. The idiotbox. Yes, your TV has more examples of how we're surrounded bydeath than anything else on the planet. People who have never owned atelevision but have seen the gruesome details of a murder first handhave still seen less violence than you see in those four hours a day.So many programs about 'real life murders', then all the shows ofdramatised killings and let's not forget the big old number one.The news is our top source of graphic, explicit and multiple deaths.Yet here we stand, cold and shivering at the very thought of our ownmortality, how easily our lives can be taken away like the snuffingout of a candle. It all depends, I suppose, on what you consider tobe life. What is life ? Is it the lungs that breath ? The mind thatthinks ? Or is it nothing more than the search for happiness ? Butthen this begs the question, what is happiness ? Is it a laugh ? Asmile ? A chuckle ? Or simply the conclusion your brain makes to tellyou that this is right or this is wrong ?
Perhapsthat is why I am here. As a kind of explorer of mortal vulnerability.My name is... hmm maybe it's best to leave my name for later. Allyou need know is that I am here. I am alive. I am real. And I amwatching.
I'venever fully understood people. There's aspects of my knowledge thatare missing. That's not to say I don't understand what sad, angryand happy look like, feel like, but there's so much more to themthan people give credit. It's not enough to only know what theyare. Our entire lives are to be governed by these flashes of oursouls. Wouldn't it be better if we could only experience thepositive ? I'm not suggesting the bad needs to be eradicated, farfrom it. But when you look into someone's eyes and can only see thepain, that's when action is called for.
Hencewhy I'm here now.
Standingmotionless behind a tree, its rough bark poking holes in my back. Itsleaves fall like missiles intent to scratch and cut me. I don'tblame it though. This is my shroud, cloak of the observer. And suchthings always come at a price.
Ipeer round the mountainous terrain of this tree, enough so I can see,just one eye. Barely half my face becomes visible in the moonlight.It can be seen to those who might care to look hard enough that is.It's more a case of if you're not looking for me then you can'tfind what lurks in the shadows.
Nota few metres away stands a girl lit by the amber glow of a poorlymade street lamp. She shakes in the bitter cold as I'm sure I wouldif I had not been so focused on her. She's tall, whether she isnaturally this tall or a pair of high heels are hidden among the massof layers to fight the mighty winds, I cannot say. Her arms arefolded which creases the fabric of her leopard print jacket and sheturns her head from side to side as if she's waiting for someone.With each flick of her head a shimmering flash is given off in theway the dim lights catch her silver earrings. She looks worried asshe paces a small, metre long track. Perhaps I've let mycuriosities get the best of me. What made me stop for this girl inthe first place ? It was a feeling I got from her, nothing more.Maybe a feeling is all I need for now. I think for a moment I'llkeep watch.
Shewalks over to a nearby payphone and begins pushing buttons anxiously.I lean in closer as if I'm trying to guess what numbers she may betyping. My foot slips on the dewy grass and for a second it feelslike falling. That is until I catch myself with my other foot bywedging it against a protruding tree root. My body falls flat againstthe tree as I stop. To me it's a loud thunderous thud, the trunkdoesn't move but the branches above certainly feels the impact.Their leaves scream and shake, some even lose their grip on theforked branches and spin uncontrollably on their way to the coldearth. To me it as if the tree had collapsed to the ground in all itsnoise. I look back to the girl. To her it was nothing more than arustle of leaves, as if the urgent wind had been caught by thereaching hands of the pines.
GentlyI push myself upright, keeping my foot firmly tucked. I never take myeyes off her.
Suddenlythe payphone buzzes. She pushes a button and puts it to her earroughly. If only I were close enough to hear what she's saying butI'm not. All I see is her mouth flapping like she's the dummy ina ventriloquist's act. Her eyes have widened and with every fewwords a large hand gestures follows. Swooping, sweeping and signingall manor of things that the person on the phone would be clueless todecipher. My guess is she's giving directions with her hands, nohelp to someone who can't see them and furthermore she seems to begetting frustrated at the person for not understanding what shemeans. This causes her to make grander and more elaborate ones tocompensate, again without realising that these offer no comfort tothe faceless voice on the phone.
Curiositygrabs me once more and I move a little closer. Edging slowly out fromthe safety of my cover. Leaving behind its jagged edges and odd shapethat might have confused onlookers into believing that I am simplypart of the shadowed figure, twisted and wild. I plant myself in abush a few metres forward, thinking nothing of the noise I mightmake. Being on the phone is much like being somewhere else, youbecome unaware of your surroundings and you don't notice the lionsadvancing.
Crouchingbehind this new blanket I notice things that would have goneotherwise unobserved had I stayed further back. For example she has amatching necklace to go with the earrings that catch the light soperfectly. The necklace however does not catch the light. In fact itis rather dull and faded to an almost grey colour. A sign that thispiece is something precious to her, something she rarely, if ever,takes off. It lays slightly to the side on her neck with a smallheart shaped pendant attached, the same faded grey as the chainitself.
Herhair is luscious and a bouncy brunette colour. It starts straight butas it descends it begins to flick out in all directions until itstops at the same level at which her pendant lays. She is quiteeasily describable as beautiful. Her face is strong boned and yet itseems to radiate a sense of warmth and invitation. A perfect face fortelevision you could say. She continues her hand dance until at lasta resounding look of satisfaction wipes across her face. They musthave finally understood her cryptic directions even without the aidof seeing her many and varied waving fingers. She hangs up the phone.I lean in closer. Finally I see something that should have beenapparent to me long ago. A name tag is pinned loosely to her coat. Inready printed bold letters it says: 'Hello My Name Is'.
Andbelow this, scribbled rather messily, is her name. 'Marie' itsays in black ink and curly letters. Not knowing where she works Ican only guess that if her work did indeed have a uniform she's notwearing it now. The name tag seems like the last remaining piece orif the case may be, the only piece of her work attire.
Withthe name tag as my clue I can only guess as to her occupation. Sheseems a simple girl, meaning no offence, so a plain job would suither well. A waitress would be my bet as judged by the lateness of herfinish. Whatever it may be she's certainly not content. It's thefirst thing I noticed about her. Our path's crossed and as if ledby my nose for intrigue, I was following her at a safe distance.
Westay like this for another ten minutes. Me in my bush. She in thelight of her lamp. That is until we're interrupted by what I canonly assume is the voice on the phone, in person. It's a tall man.He could tower over most, myself included. It's also clear that hehas a strong, muscular figure. Even through the many layers it'squite apparent. The way he holds himself gives it away. Standingcompletely straight from his heels to the tip of his scalp.
Theygreet one another with a smile and a hug that lasts just a fewseconds too long, suggesting they're more than just good friends.They break from their prolonged embrace. He takes a deep longbreathe, placing his hands on her shoulders. He says something toher, something I can't quite make out, that forces them to droptheir smiles. She adopts an angered frown instead, yelling andpunching him in a fit of her new found displeasure. He tries to stopher using his hands as padding for the incoming fists. Soon enoughher anger melts away, the punches becomes without conviction and shefalls into his chest, weeping. As his arms move to cradle her shebursts free from her tears and, like the last unseen wave of atsunami, she is screaming once again. Waving her finger and pointingfor him to go away. He tries one last time to soothe her. As he movesclose he's stopped by a fearsome slap across his face. Immediatelyshe withdraws, bringing her hands to her mouth in sheer disbelief.
Imove closer still but have to read their lips to understand the fadedmumble of their conversation.
"Marie,"he seems to be saying.
"Justgo away," she replies, her hand firmly pointing behind him.
"Marie?" He says again.
Onefinal attempt to appeal to her, unsuccessfully. She gives him a lastdecisive push causing him to stumble and almost fall over the firmlybolted leg of a park bench. He turns from her and begins to walkaway, a red mark on his face and a slight limp in his leg.
Mariedoes well to stay strong. Her position is unchanged until hedisappears from sight. Once he's lost into the night's darknessthe situation changes. She no longer needs to force her legs to keepstanding nor her eyes to stop from sobbing for a second time tonight.And so she collapses under the weight of emotional exhaustion,landing with a thud on the park bench. Her head in her hands and herhair flopping wildly around her which covers her expression. AlthoughI cannot see her face, her shoulders bob up and down as if she werecrying.
Iabandon the bush in favour of one closer, it takes me but a fewseconds to switch between them. Marie remains oblivious to mymovements, or my presence for that matter. I feel like an unwittingchild being tempted with the toy I've always wanted, only it restsjust beyond my reach. The feeling is almost palatable in itstemptations. The anxiety clearly matches the action. I'll move whenmy blood boils with curiosity and I can hold it at bay no longer.When she has shown me all she can offer then I will move to see allthat is left to observe.
Ilook up towards the sooted sky and breath in a sense of peace andharmony. Closing my eyes I can feel the stars shining on me. Theybring warmth to my body, serenity to my soul. Their silver sparksprovide illumination to an otherwise dead evening. I'm glad they'rehere, it's like they're watching me, congratulating me, cheeringme on from so far away. Nothing will stop me now that it has beendecided. Marie has shown me her soul. I open my eyes as convictionwashes over me like rain on dying crops. The choice is made.
Ilook back to her. She has removed the hair from her face and althoughher shoulders remain still, I can clearly see the tears welling up inher eyes. They roll down her cheeks like raindrops on a window. She'sstaring at me or rather past me. In that way we do when we'rethinking deeply or not thinking at all. I imagine her being describedas numbed with the pain. A feeling I have unfortunately experiencedmyself.
Everyminute or so she wipes away whatever salt water remain on her face,creating open passages for the new tears to travel down. Those whichhave left her face have fallen to the ground below adding to analready small wet patch in the grass, brought by the chills of thecolder months. She dare not move in case the silent tears shouldbecome more elaborate and emotionally filled as when they had firstbegun.
Ialso try not to move, not for fear of sadness, my empathy seemslacking, but for fear of my excitement getting the better of me. Shehas shown me such interesting things in such a brief amount of time.Worry as she waited, joy, anger and sadness. All such beautifulemotions. All such intriguing concepts for one, such as myself, toexplore. But I am greedy. I want more. So much more. There'ssomething however that brought me to her. I can't describe what itis. What is it ? What could it have been ?
Shecontinues to flick away her tears, sniffing while she does so. Shedrifts to the sky and I can tell her hurting thoughts have let go.They've begun to wander whether she's thinking of the man whojust left or not I cannot say. It seems that for the time being sheis at peace with herself. Me, I take refuge in the bush in which Idwell. Keeping myself still with the exception of two fingers which,as if separate from me, rub the leaves of the branch in front. I holdmy breath, instead letting the wind around me be my lungs. With eachshiver-worthy breeze comes the knowledge that I am closer to what Ineed.
ButI find myself asking the question again. What is it I so desperatelywant her to show me ? What is it I sense ?
Suddenlya searing pain in my head leaves me gasping. I look around me,slowly, as if someone has my head clasped firmly between their handsand is refusing to let go. Each degree my neck turns is a battleamong us. However nothing seems to have changed. The night was stilldark, the ground still moist beneath me. Marie is still sat, hunchedforward. It's only happening to me. The once soiled greens andbrowns of my surrounding begin to pixelate. Unable to move my headanymore, the clamp has tightened and my jagged movements become nomovements at all. I focus on something close nearby. A flower growingbeneath the arch of a root. It's small and fragile and easy to keepa target on. The pink petals look velvety to the touch. The windaround us makes it sway, not violently like with the tree's leaves.The root is has grown under seems to offer some shelter. It lets inonly the gentler of winds. Instead of thrashing the flower dances,left and right and at points I could have sworn it twirls. The pixelsbegin to creep in. Moving in perfect rows as if our world itself ismade of tiny squares.
Theflower is gone. The world around me is disintegrating one leaf at atime. As quickly as it had begun, the pain is gone. Replaced by alimpness which can only be described as having a dead leg and tryingto walk. The limb becomes nothing but malleable putty. That's menow, the splat on the ground. Without shape. Without control. My facemelded to the soil and grass. I shut my eyes wishing the helplessnessaway.
Whencourage finally overwhelms confusion I open my eyes once more. Mysurprise is insurmountable, indescribable. Not only have the bushes,trees and grass vanished, but they have been replaced by chair, wallsand wooden planks which are warming to the sight. It takes a fewseconds but as my strength returns I push myself up and look around.Had I teleported or found some other means of moving my body from onepoint of existence to another ? Before me is the room of what musthave been a barely adolescent child. A bed stands in the corner, itssheets dressed playfully in blues. Above this as I look up arestickers of stars and a moon, only a few inches big, taped to theceiling. The kind that glow in the dark and act as a nightlight. Allaround the floor are toys. Darted here, there and everywhere. Amyriad of imagination provoking shapes. From action man dolls tounfinished, jigsaw puzzles as well as a range of cars and vehicles.One of which catches my eye and holds me in place. I kneel down andpick it up. In my hand is a small three inch firetruck toy, the samekind I myself had in my youth. It is dented and coarse as I run afinger over it. On its side where once the word 'firetruck' wouldhave been written in white glossy letters is the bare inner metal ofthe truck's design, leaving behind only a few letters 'f tr k'in dull confusion.
"Iwonder if..." I say aloud to an empty room.
Iturn the firetruck over and on its underbelly is the symbol of aclock, its hands pointing to ten past seven. There's a creak on afloorboard at my back. I turn to see what it is. Behind me is nothingbut an empty wall with an oak door which is closed and locked,probably.
"Housescreak. Old houses especially," I say to myself trying to comfortwhat little of my logical brain I can.
Iturn back focusing solely on the symbol, when I am distracted onceagain by a noise. However this time it seems to be coming from infront of me. It steals my attention and as I look up surprise forcesme to jump back, dropping the truck to the mercy of the woodenboards. It hits the floor with a hearty bang. Myself, now one largestride away, am left bug eyed and speechless. The room which had onceonly contained the reminisces of life now homes two young boys agedtwelve and fourteen. I cannot seem to move. One of those boys is me.Myself at twelve years old with my older brother Jeremy. They'reboth laughing and smiling and playing with the toy cars. The ghostlyatmosphere has shifted, instead replaced with joy and life. One ofthem reaches for the firetruck I had dropped only moments before. Ashe picks it up, in a flash, it is as it once had been. The paintrestored, smooth and shiny again. The symbol of the clock engraved onit's underside has also gone, replaced with the original craftedmetal. They smile and drive it around themselves making the sirencall as they go. But the noise sounds muffled like I'm wearingheadphones. It sounds only half as loud as it should. One of themlooks at me, well through me it seems. Through me and to the door.The smiles drop. Very calmly, very quietly the younger me gets up andwalks towards the door. He passes through me as if I'm not worthnoticing or if I'm not here at all. As he does my body seems toripple like the small waves in a pond after a stone has been castinto its waters. I stand in puzzlement for a few seconds beforeturning. He walks to the door, takes a moment of thought, beforereaching for the lock. He turns it slowly, carefully. He holds thewood with one hand to keep the frame firmly shut and turns the lockwith the other until there is a small echoless click. He holds hishands flat in front of him and takes a step back as if he'sexpecting the piece to crash down on him.
There'sa sudden bang at the door that makes all three of us glare intenselyin its direction. I notice from the corner of my eye that Jeremy, whohas been standing behind me, begins to back away as far as he can.This leaves him pressed flat against the opposing wall.
"Howquickly the feeling in the room has changed," I think to myself.
Bothof them too afraid to make a peep. An eerie silence falls, filledwith the shouts of their apprehension. There's a second bang.Jeremy looks away and as he does he lets out the smallest ofwhimpers, no louder than the squeak of a fearful mouse. A third bangsoon follows. Then silence for a brief moment. I look to Jeremy and Ican tell we think the same thing. That perhaps it has gone, trickedinto leaving by our mute status. But hope is soon banished when,through the sturdy wood, comes a voice.
"Openthis fucking door," it says.
Itake a stuttered breath and as it releases a single involuntary wordescapes my mouth.
"Dad?" I seem to say in an air filled whisper.
"Iremember this," I say aloud with conclusion.
"Thisis my room. So long ago I had forgotten."
"Isaid open this fucking door !" With each of his words anothercrash, another siege against the barrier.
"Ihad forgotten," I say again.
Inexplicablythe bangs get louder. I back away almost as far as Jeremy.
"I'llteach you to fuck with me kid," he screams.
Therecomes a pin-drop ding and as I look over I see that one screw hasbeen forced from the safety of the top hinge. Now with every pushagainst the door a small gap appears in the top right of our barrier.
Theyounger me turns around and for a second I could have sworn that he'slooking right at me. I them remember the frightened boy coweringbehind me. Jeremy. He has since slumped to the flow with his chest tohis knees and is letting out a steady stream of tears as quietly ashe can. He looks up to the twelve year old me and finally understandsthe look he's being given.
"Run!" I had been mouthing for a good minute or so.
Hestands up and begins to pry the window next to him open. Thinkingonly of himself, through no fault of his own. Fear does strangethings to people. He gets it open, well far enough to squeezethrough, and starts climbing out with not a thought of how I orrather my younger copy would make an escape. It looks as though he'sabout to climb down when he glances up and gives a thoughtful stare.An apology for his cowardice.
"Go.Now !" The younger me urges him.
"Anddon't come back until I call you."
Thenhe's gone. Myself and my duplicate are now left in the room to stewin our terror. I'm not sure who's more afraid, him or me. Itseems that no one here can see me or touch me, but never the less Iam frightened more than I can remember being. He is the demon in thedark, incarnate. What do you do when the nightmare you tell yourselfisn't real comes knocking ? Who do you go to when that monster isyour parent ? The answer is nothing and no one. You're alone toface the fiend yourself. Armed with nothing more than thedetermination to convince yourself that it's not happening and anyminute now you'll wake up, cradled in the arms of what you arecurrently calling the monster at your door. Only you never wake upbecause you're not sleeping to begin with.
Anotherhorrifying bang followed by a second metallic ping as the middlescrew abandons its post. Now with each push against it we can see thehallway beyond the door. The twelve year old me backs to the windowwhere Jeremy had made his getaway and slumps down with his head keptupright. His eyes are wide, tears welling up in both of them. But hedare not blink.
"Iam going to get one of you," screams the voice.
Thena sudden pause as a second murmur begins. Each minute there'd be amumble of this other voice followed by a bolted scream of disapprovalfrom my father. I etch closer and shutting my eyes. I'm led nowonly by my eager ears.
"Pleasethey're only children. Don, honey please," a pleading voice says.
It'seasily recognisable.
"Mum,"I think to myself.
Hereplies without hesitation.
"NoBarb that is not a child in there. It's an evil little shit. It'sa fucking demon, brought here to ruin the life we've built forourselves,"
Shepleads with him again but her words fall flat, like the winds of agentle gust trying to shift the foundations of a great tower itamounts to nothing more than futile motions of non result.
Hereturns his attention to us in the room, continuing to pound down thedoor. There's the sound of a small scuffle. Best guess Mum istrying to stop him. A series of grunts and inaudible words are heardbefore there's a slap and a whelp as Mum hits the floor.
"Thisain't none of your concern Barb," he says.
"Viciouspig," I say aloud, almost relieved that he cannot hear me.
Onefinal push and the door gives in. Splintered, beaten and broken itlays on the ground. Standing in the doorway is my father. Tall and asbrutish as I had remembered him. Collapsed on the floor behind him ismy mother. Petite like a rabbit she covers her face, wiping away amixture of tears and blood before running down the hallway. Leavingus, me, with him. He's smiling but not for happiness rather foraccomplishment. He's won. He's in. And I am indeed frightened. Ican see it on the ever whitening face of my beaten down self. Fathertakes a step into the room and my heart stops. I fall to my knees,unable to gasp for any breaths. I simply flounder for a few seconds,stuck with the image of my father's smile. His feet walking closerto me before I fall on my face as I had done when all this had begun.
Ican hear each click clack step he takes towards me and with each onemy heart beats faster to the point I think it may stop for a secondtime.
Ican't move.
Thewooden boards shift beneath me. They move so gently, like a wavetrying to push through mud. My feet vanish first into the quicksandthat had been the floor.
"Evenif I die now," I think to myself.
"I'mfine with that. As long as it gets me away from here."
Islip into the waiting nothingness and pray for peace. I pray so hardthat I feel a trickle of water caress its way down my cheek.
Atlast I open my eyes and see the darkened greens of the grass where Ihad fallen. Looking up I see the small flower safely hidden in itsprotective arch. And as I pull myself up with a noiseless grunt, Isee Marie on her bench. What had felt like a few hours stuck in mydistant memories must have only been a matter of minutes. On my handsand knees I can feel them trembling, digging into the malleable dirt.I smile, a release of relief and let myself shake. My body longs tofall once again.
It'sa while before I can move freely and I'm almost happy to say thatMarie has yet to leave. She is taking one of those long pauses inlife, where what you've done and what you plan to do are pittedagainst one another and pros and cons are measured. I can't say forsure what she is thinking about. All I do know is it has given me thetime to recover from what was surely an abnormal experience. Anexperience which has provided me clarity of mind. The mist ofquestions has been fanned aside and at last I can see the goal.
Iknow what I want her to show me.
Sobeautiful, so young is Marie. She knows of sadness but tell me Marie,what do you know of your fear ?A calmness subsides the tremors and Istand.
"YesMarie," I say to myself.
"Showme your fear."
Iwalk towards her.
"Showme why you fear, Marie."