Let’s paint a picture.
A picture of this place held so dear.
You are my subject.
This is your future.
You’re looking straight ahead. Relieved at having survived the treacherous climb along such hazardous paths. ‘Which path?’ I hear you ask? The path that you’ve chosen. Now, let’s concentrate. On the only thought that should cross your mind.
’Was it worth it?’
Though, I assure you, when your eyes survey the scene, all doubt will be eradicated in a puff of smoke, as fine as the powdery white which will have enveloped the head of the waning fences.
Your primary instinct will be to run your fingers along its surface, wanting to observe the snow when it embraces your hand with damp and cold.
You will continue your observation, watching, waiting for the powdery white to glide toward the ground. When it impacts, the chill you will surely feel, will seem like a punishment. For the disturbance of this crystalised stillness
At first, it will be damp. And cold. And uncomfortable.
You will be thinking ‘why me? Why am I here?’
Does the white powder you will have just disturbed, not remind you of times gone by?
In those times one kind of powder ruled your existence.
Here, a different powder will rule your cognisance.
In the wake of your destruction, you will be looking on, musing that frost bite has it’s name for a reason – winters way of biting back at anyone foolish enough to disturb it’s idyllic beauty – much as you will have done by now.
Will you have been brought here because you have been insane?
Will you have been brought here because you have all to gain?
Although, for once, the idea of being savaged is not a concern you will have. It yearns to be disturbed, dreams to be embraced, desires for your entry into the beauty of this place.
I’m certain – as you pause to deliberate these thoughts – bygone perceptions of doubt, and insecurity will rear their banners, championing the negativity their existence will have forced into your being. Once again.
Your paranoia will also return at this point. ‘Who are you?’ you will think. ‘Why me?’
I suppose asking for my identity is a rational inquiry. At this point I will not have told you who I am. As for why you?
In time, all will become clear.
Perhaps turning your rationality into fear.
You will drag those thoughts aside. Arrogant in your unnatural high. You will look around. Surveying. Watching. Waiting. Allowing the flakes, to fall into your face. Allowing the wind to flow through your roots.
Here, you are looking for someone. You will be looking for the voice. Looking for me. I will be there. No doubt about that. You will be looking, but in the wrong place.
You will notice the wind pick up. Thrashing into the trees, forcing the leaves to point towards your needs. You will take this as a sign. You won’t want to. But you will. Remember. In this place, you will be mine. Mine to command. To guide. To torment.
The gate will inevitably draw your gaze again. Only this time, your vision will drop, then narrow, then fix upon the handle. A hand will reach out, and clamp itself around the steel. Cold to touch. Painful to hold. As a sensation fires through your fingers and arm, the realisation will strike.
This is my hand. Showing me the way.
I’m sure that whatever happens,
I shall remember this day.
The gate will creak open. The volume of the creak will surprise you. It’s intensity, disturb. A couplet of clichéd crows cross your path. An urgent flight, an escape from this plight.
Squelch, squelch. Through the threshold you lumber.
Squelch, squelch. You look down to watch your feet drive through the mud.
Squelch, squelch. It will remind you of your last slumber.
Squelch, squelch. Yet you continue, fearing more than you thought you could.
As you walk. You will remember your dream.
You’re with your friend. High again. You go to a bar together. A few laughs, a few lies and a few charming words later, you and your friend are in. Not in the bar, you’d been there for hours at this point. But with the two blonde women, sat around your table, desperately clinging on to everything the two of you had to say. Your friend – as you sipped your Jack – watching on in dismay.
One for him. One for me. Or so a voice told.
Though soon, that thought would be shattered.
As your friendship and pride, had finally been tolled.
You were too high to notice. Too drunk to observe. Your Jack was bubbling, frothing. Another sip, and all went black. It wasn’t pretty. Your face hit the table. Your nose impacted with a sharp crack. Jack wobbled, Jack fell, Jack poured around your face. The girls looked on in disgust. Your friend looked on with a grin. The girls rose. He rose. Draped his arms around them. And strutted out.
No parting glance.
No parting word.
You, he thought,
are dead to the world.
Your eyes flicker. Your eyes open. The table’s brown covered in red. Your nose throbs. Your head aches. You drag a hand to your face to make sure everything’s in place. A tissue is thrust into your palm. With it, you cover your nose. Red meets white. You turn to the stranger:
”How did this happen, what did I do?”
”Your drink was spiked, I’m surprise you pulled through”
”But it was bought by my friend, how is this true?”
”Add one and one, it’ll leave you at two”
The dream had turned. Changed. Dreams are meant to represent your euphoric desire. You are angry now. Angry and confused. You don’t care why he did it. You don’t want answers. You just want…
You look around. The street is dark. The street is deserted. Rain lashes into your face. Your drunk face. Your broken face. Your eyes attempt to fix, to survey the doors.
8, 6, 4, 2.
You glare at the path. His garden path. His filthy overgrown garden path. You trudge. Your feet shuffle through the gravel, his gravel, on his filthy overgrown garden path.
Knock Knock Knock. No answer.
Knock Knock Knock. Not a sound.
Knock Knock Knock. Enhancing your anger.
BANG BANG BANG. Like a relentless hound.
You stop. You listen. The window above is open. His window. His bedroom window. The sounds spiral down toward your earlobes; screams, moans, shrieks and groans. Bastard. Snake. Degenerate. Judas cunt.
You attack the door. Kick. Thrash. Smash. For the second time this night, you’re in. In the house. His house. Up the stairs. His stairs. Onto the landing. His landing. Grabbing his baseball bat.
You listen again. Screams, moans, shrieks and groans. Coming from the door to your left. His door. A hand reaches out, and clamps around the handle. My hand. The door is pulled open, you enter the room. Bat in hand. Anger taking over. Your eyes lock. Three squirming shapes in the bed.
Silently you approach.
Silently you wait.
Silently you lift,
your instrument of fate.
You lift. They moan. They giggle. They fail to notice. You strike. You miss. You miss him. But not her. Screams of pleasure convert to screams of horror. No more giggling. No more movement. Just the three of them. One lay still. Blood pouring from her caved in face. Two lay shaking. Staring. Shocked. Scared. An angel in waiting, a devil in training. You lift. They scream. They beg. They notice, this time. You strike. You hit. Her. Tears slide, down his face. He’s shaking. He’s begging. “Don’t do this, we can work this out. We can hide them, both of them. No one has to know.” You consider. You nod. He relaxes, turns away, toward the bodies, to survey. You lift a third time. “Too late” you whisper, in frustration, in rage. He turns. You watch as horror finds his face, this devil in wait, for his inevitable fate. You strike. He goes, without a fight. You turn, you leave.
With no parting glance.
With no parting word.
They, you thought,
are dead to the world.
But what happens next? You can’t remember. You won’t remember. We won’t remember. Having ambled, deep in thought, dwelling on dreams, you will snap your senses back to my present. Your future. Again you will be looking around, an eerie still. The trees will be still, frowning upon your confused, motionless form. No more gales flying through your roots, no more snow gliding into your face. Just you and nature. In a choreographed still. A perfect symphony; of calm and silence. You will believe you have never been here. Never looked upon such a place of peace, serenity, beauty. You will survey again. You will notice a body of water, stretched out in front of you. As clear as the snow around your feet. As still as the leaves your absent minded body will be running your fingers across. A lake. You will want to sit, to rest, by this body, by this lake, but you won’t. You shall will yourself onwards.
It will ache to leave a place,
of such beauty and grace.
This such location,
exists only in imagination –
As you walk memories will flood, flood into your mind, to help with the grind. The grind along this extended path.
You are fourteen. A child, a minor. Still living with mother and father. No, not here. Please not here, you will plead. But you must remember, how it started. How you started. Along this path. This lonely path. Of serenity and redemption. Or something like that.
You move downwards. Down the stairs. Their stairs. Their creaking stairs. Screaming under your weight. Bellowing out your plans of escape. You press onwards, on tip toes, with scratches down your face – your Mother’s embrace – with bruises down your back, your Father’s attack. The tips of your toes plead with the staircase – “please, please, don’t give me away. I need to escape, on this very day.’’ You tread softly, lightly. You approach the bottom, the end. You’re off. You listen. You wait. You hear. You’re safe. You think. Your parents are screaming, shouting, bawling. Pots are flying, shelves are falling, hearts cracking, relationship breaking, breaking. You ignore it. You turn your attention back towards the door. Their door. The gateway to freedom. You fix onto the lock. Freedom. The key is still there, you reach out a hand and grasp. Freedom. You turn the key. Hear the lock click. You pause. You wait. Pots still flying, Shelves still falling. Parents still screaming. Parents still bawling. You grasp the handle. Push. Pause. Pull. Pause. Twilight strikes your face. Freedom. You walk, you run, out of the door. You’re safe.
You slow to a walk as you leave the street.
Towards the park, where your friend will meet.
You see his shadow, you run to greet.
Footsteps echo with the sound of your feet.
Only, as a hand clamps around your shoulder, you realise. It wasn’t the sound of your feet, echoing throughout the street. This dark, cold street. The hand pulls, spins you around. It’s him, your father. You want to fight, to stand your ground. But you haven’t a chance.
You awake. Blood still pouring from your face. You revel in the hatred of this place. It’s daylight now. The sun pours in from the open window, caressing your face. Your broken, mangled face. Nobody is in. Mother is at the office. At work. Father is at his office. The pub. Drowning his sorrows. But not himself. Unfortunately. You get up. You limp out of your bedroom. Limp down the stairs. To the door. The door is locked, the key is gone. You turn. You limp back up the stairs. In pain. You’re on the landing. In pain. You turn to the door. His door. Your father’s door. He doesn’t know what you do when they’re out. You crouch below the bed. His bed. You grab the bag. His bag. You spread the white powder across the table. You inhale. You’re numb. Worries gone. Pain fades away. You limp back into your room. And lay on your bed.
While you were lost within memory, your feet will have carried on, walking, wading.
Squelch, Squelch. Tears run down your face.
Squelch, Squelch. You increase your pace.
Squelch, Squelch. You feel some disgrace.
Squelch, Squelch. As you remember this place.
You are surveying the ground. The uneven ground. Your trance has ended. You are here. You are in this place. This is not your future. This is your presence. You have been here before. Digging. Crying. Digging. Crying. Burying. Three times. Two innocents. One devil. Or so you thought. Your drink spiked? No. I make this three innocents, one devil. You. Why are you doing this? You caw. Tears in your eyes. Blood on your hands.
I approach behind you. Dagger in hand. You fail to notice. You fail hear. You’re on the ground, crying in fear. I clamp a hand to the top of your head. Grasp at your hair. Your greasy, filthy hair. I pull your head back. I slice the dagger into your neck. You scream. You cry. You beg. I don’t relent. I drag it out, severing your windpipe. Ending your life. You fall. You bleed. I turn. I leave.
No parting glance.
No parting word.
You, I thought,
are dead to the world.
And good riddance.
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