A WARNING:
The following post is extremely graphic. I really hope it achieves the goal I have in posting the story. And that is what it is – a fictional story. I originally completed it in Sept ’09, but I find the timing of publishing it now is good.
I am undertaking a process of cleansing. If you have read any other posts of mine or my bio on the blog, you can see that I experiment with my life all the time and I am on an incredible journey right now (as I write).
There are several reasons why everything is done as it is, so …
Please forgive me if I offend you in any way at all. As well, I hope that you understand on a deeper level of my writing this piece of creative writing.
I will let you know this though, it will become more apparent in this coming year as I commit myself to public speaking and publishing a book.
So, on with the show …
…
Heard from the summer hot barn, the piercing wails mercilessly caroms off the dusty walls, and the sting of his own screams shoot right back to the heart of the little victim.
With his eyes held tightly closed, all he wants is the stabbing pain to stop; he wants the musty foreign smells to go away; he wants the gurgling heavy breath to tell him to run away and go home. Yet it doesn’t … it just won’t … end. Then a pause, and a bright flash and a quiet zeeeeeeee fill their little hideaway.
The boy, no more than eight years old, resigning himself to however worse it was going to get, begins to pray. He can feel himself moving towards that godly place to seek refuge from the terror in the hope of hopes that maybe at least He could help – at least that’s what his parents always told him so.
“Our Father, who art in … am I going to Heaven?” whispers the boy to himself through his sniffling.
Suddenly, the boy feels warm and the hair on his arms stand up – a gentle wave of trust rushing through his trunk and extremities. In calm wonder – he feels himself slowly drifting high above the terror. He could see the large black mass, and it seems like he could almost reach down and touch … the … boy; and there is this sudden amazement to see it was he himself being inflicted with gross indecencies that he could not even possibly understand. Now there is no longer pain … there is no longer feeling … there is nothing but a total relaxing numbness that convinces him to survive the ordeal. … And again … another bright flash.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughs the Voice. “If there’s anyone in Heaven right now kid, it’s me, not you.” The Voice laughs, groans, then laughs again.
No longer with the urge to cry, that inner voice again. Always wondering. “Then I am not dead?” The echo of the laugh in the barn bellows shamelessly as the Voice works furiously to finish his work.
The poor broken boy, lying on the table in a sea of sweat and blood, resembles nothing of the sweet and innocence that brought him to this hell-hole of terror in the first place. His still trusting eyes, now circled with dark blue bruises, are unable to look behind him to see who could do such things – to make him feel such pain. His tiny wrists, tied to restrain any bodily movement, are burned and bleeding as he struggled in vain to fight the onslaught of new pain. A thousand knives jab him inside over … and over … and over again. Even with his eyes closed, the boy sees another bright flash.
With the exception of heavy wheezing, there is an unusual silence – no crickets, birds, or passing cars blaring the latest pop hit. The dusty and oily-smelling barn seems to be transported to another universe.
The boy peers his eyes open and shifts them stealthly from side to side. If not for another time and place, all he sees is the warm afternoon sun slicing between the decrepit walls allowing the slices of dust to dance aimlessly free in the air; and it would get sticky inside his wet nose.
A few seconds of waiting for something to happen makes the boy’s heart race even faster. He wonders and waits. Another bright light makes his body jump like a paddled cardiac patient. He begins to whimper again.
The cool edge of a large and shiny blade presses against his face and reflects the outside light into his eyes. The Voice leans into him and all the boy smells is the overpowering odour of stale sweat, urine, and alcohol.
“What do you think I should do with you now, little boy? Should I cut your throat or set you free?”
“Please let me go? I won’t tell anybody. I promise mister, I promise.” The boy could no longer stop himself from crying. His big chestnut eyes begin to spill forth tears like a broken dam.
“I know you won’t tell, little boy. If I let you live, you’ll never tell. I know your mother, your father, and your two sisters. I know everything about you and your family.” The Voice lets the boy digest his words. “If you ever even think about telling, I can easily come back and kill your whole family. But you know that, don’t you little boy?”
The Voice chuckles to himself. “You know kid, maybe it will be better if I do kill you – you know, to save you the memories of today – because you will probably never forget this day. Not next week, not next year, not even when you are a grandfather. You will always remember this day because you will always wonder ‘what if …’. Every time you are with your girlfriend, your wife, your kids – you will wonder. So the question to you, little boy, is whether you want to live or not. You tell me.”
“I want to live – please!” begs the boy without hesitation.
As fast as a magician’s hand, a ‘sing’ of the blade set the boy’s wrists free from its bonds. The Voice looks down at the boy on the bench and smiles a long, satisfied grin. He brings an instant camera to his face and takes a photo. Without moving from his position, the boy watches the Voice adjust himself. The Voice throws a soiled rag on the boy’s bleeding body and takes one last photo.
“Sure, little boy” replies the Voice. “I’ll let you go because you were my best in a long time. You were wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
And without another word or sound, the Voice disappears. It is so sudden, the boy isn’t even sure whether he has actually left. He waits for a moment and then decides to look around. When he’s sure he’s alone, the boy slowly lifts his painful body from his fetal position.
On seeing the large knife, he reaches over and inspects the razor-sharp edge closely. He realizes how this powerful and intimidating knife held his life in the balance – and just a kid, too. In this case, it set him free.
He is free.
The boy takes a deep breath and pauses; and then slowly and gently, he lies down on his back. First from his left arm and then from his right; rich, dark blood rhythmically spurts in an arc above him. He closes his eyes and waits for freedom to slowly take him to Heaven.
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