They could see the light through the fog, flickering ahead in the distance. They knew that they shouldn't be this deep in the swamps, but something kept drawing them deeper and deeper. They shivered as they walked on, despite the warmth and closeness of the atmosphere. There was something more, a presence that caused a deep sense of unease.
Above the sounds of their footsteps and labored breathing, they heard a noise from up ahead. At first, they were not positive that they truly heard it, or if it was nothing more than a trick of the swamp playing with their ears. As they pressed onward, the sound became distinct - a low moaning or sorrow and pain. Their unease grew, yet they could not turn back, no matter how much they wanted to.
Finally, they came to a dry area, an island above the stagnant pools of water. Low stunted trees grew from the mud, twisted into shapes that mirrored the oppressive feeling about them. The light suddenly blinked out as they climbed above the moor. As the light vanished, the moaning increased in intensity, reaching a crescendo that hurt the ears. Suddenly, without warning, it stopped; the abrupt silence seeming to be deeper than normal.
They became of movement nearby, realizing that they were in fact not alone on this patch of mud above the waters. Again, they shivered uncontrollably, as though the presence they sensed brushed against them. They saw something moving, and headed towards it, unable to control their feet.
Sitting beneath one of the stunted trees, they saw a little girl in a torn and dirty white dress. The dirt on her face was streaked with tears, her eyes were wide and staring. She rocked back and forth, her arms linked around her knees as she sat huddled in misery. She ignored their questions, and just rocked back and forth, apparently oblivious to their presence. They reached out to her, to comfort her, when she moved away. Standing up, she walked a few feet away and motioned for them to follow her.
Deeper into the swamp she led, their footprints and labored breathing again the only sounds. The fog grew closer and deeper, until it almost felt like a physical barrier trying to keep them away from what awaited ahead. Paying no attention to their questions, the girl led on, heading along a path that seemed to exist only in her mind. When it felt as though they could walk no longer, she led them to a copse of twisted and stunted trees. A broken stone wall stretched along the ground, blocking what lay beyond.
She dug at the roots of the trees as they stood motionless, paralysed by something that they could not explain. Finally, she straightened up. Moving off to the side, the pointed down into the hole. The spell broken, they moved forward; curiosity overriding the foreboding that they felt. Looking down, they saw the body of the young girl, her white dress torn and covered in dirt.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Tuesday
This is a short story that I wrote a while ago. I figure this works as a good starting point for the blog.
We sat in the dimly lit room, the curtains closed against the outside light to help with the mental expansion she was going to swear she enjoyed. She lay upon the couch, propped up upon one arm as she mixed her death until it was liquid. I sat at the kitchen table with a steak knife in hand, stabbing around my fingers as quickly as possible, not caring if I missed as the pain reminded me that I lived still.
I heard her strike the match as she held it under the spoon, heating its contents. The smell of sulphur and heated metal permeated the small apartment, adding their odors to that of the vomit and stale cigarette smoke already present. The she swore as the match burned down to her fingers and the flame touched skin. She dropped the match on the carpet and stuck another, thins time watching it's consumption more carefully. I watched as the carpet began to smolder and casually wondered if I should tend to it. I dismissed the thought outright and continued my game with the knife.
Finally, she shook out the match, dropping it next to the other one on the carpet. With a grace that she seemed incapable of, yet borne of repetition, she removed the cover to the syringe with one hand while making certain not to spill her escape. I stabbed myself in the hand, so I put the knife down and watched her as the blood ran down my arm. It was something to do.
Once she had the spike filled, she tied her arm off, searching that scarred flesh for a vein that she could still use. Unsuccessful, she switched arms, awkwardly working the point into her flesh left-handed. Finally, she found what she had sought, and injected herself with the one thing that still mattered. I picked up the knife and began to stab between my fingers again, wondering if this would be the dose that killed her, or if I would have to do that for her as well.
We sat in the dimly lit room, the curtains closed against the outside light to help with the mental expansion she was going to swear she enjoyed. She lay upon the couch, propped up upon one arm as she mixed her death until it was liquid. I sat at the kitchen table with a steak knife in hand, stabbing around my fingers as quickly as possible, not caring if I missed as the pain reminded me that I lived still.
I heard her strike the match as she held it under the spoon, heating its contents. The smell of sulphur and heated metal permeated the small apartment, adding their odors to that of the vomit and stale cigarette smoke already present. The she swore as the match burned down to her fingers and the flame touched skin. She dropped the match on the carpet and stuck another, thins time watching it's consumption more carefully. I watched as the carpet began to smolder and casually wondered if I should tend to it. I dismissed the thought outright and continued my game with the knife.
Finally, she shook out the match, dropping it next to the other one on the carpet. With a grace that she seemed incapable of, yet borne of repetition, she removed the cover to the syringe with one hand while making certain not to spill her escape. I stabbed myself in the hand, so I put the knife down and watched her as the blood ran down my arm. It was something to do.
Once she had the spike filled, she tied her arm off, searching that scarred flesh for a vein that she could still use. Unsuccessful, she switched arms, awkwardly working the point into her flesh left-handed. Finally, she found what she had sought, and injected herself with the one thing that still mattered. I picked up the knife and began to stab between my fingers again, wondering if this would be the dose that killed her, or if I would have to do that for her as well.
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