Rebecca

It’s the type of deep night that feels powerful. The streets and sidewalks are deserted but for a chilled, biting wind. This arctic draft, bites, pries, wriggles its way between layers of clothing, and numbs the things it can catch hold of. Every breath becomes a swirling gust of fog before you. Streetlamps illuminate cone shaped halos of cold darkness in a hazy yellow glow.
Everything is coated in a thick silence. It is as if silence floated from the sky in heavy snow and gently rests on the surface of the city. The murmur of a footstep echoes in obvious contrast to this snowy soundlessness, appearing to be amplified. Every time he brings his shoe in contact to with the grimy, ice, speckled pavement he feels as if he is disturbing an overall, understood quietness, a soundless peace. As if he is intruding by making even the feeblest of noise.
He moves deliberately down the stretch of sidewalk, every step is placed cautiously, to make as little a sound as humanly possible. In between streetlights he quickens the pace, fearing the unknown which rests notoriously in shadow. It is safer under the blossom of luminosity, which splays under each lamp. Shadows dance on the corner of his vision, teasing, daring.
He is Theo. A fragile, quiet man who keeps to himself. Theo’s family has all either passed away or left him. He has never had a lover. His best and only friend is a dainty black cat called Anthonette. Theo is alone, and has always been such. This does not mean he doesn’t long for company, for that is not the case. Theo is simply used to being detached. As a living he writes books that no one will ever read. It is rare to find a person that would recognize his name or face. Theo is misunderstood and overlooked. He is nobody, one of six billion. Someone who will pass away and disappear, from history, from memory. Born as an accident, born to fill space, consume, and die.
His apartment is small, but suits him well. It has a kitchen, a bedroom, a bathroom, a living room. The living room is Theo’s favorite place. Decorated solely by a lengthy fainting couch, which sits comfortably under a window, he spends the majority of his time there. Theo watches people in the street below and lets words slip from the aging, silver fountain pen, which is the only utensil he feels comfortable brandishing. He prefers not to leave the apartment when the sun is out, disliking mingling with groups of people, or really any people at all. Instead he moves about the world at night. It was on such a night as this, where Theo was strolling through a puzzle of roadways and avenues, when he saw her.
She had been running from him. Hands curled into fists, pumping forcefully at her sides, gulping at the frigid air. Her lungs sting, complain, burn, eyes brim with tears. Fear threaded hysteric energy into her weakened legs, demanding her forward. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Keep going. Faster. Faster. Her thoughts were frantic. She ran for her life, the will for survival driving her forward, commanding her limbs to reach miraculous feats. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.
They had been happy once, although it was a very long time previous. Paul and Rebecca, the perfect couple. In those early days he really had cared for and loved her. He used to stare into her eyes for minutes at a time without speaking, as if gazing through her and reading her thoughts. Then he would pull her close and whisper sweet, soft things into her ear. Stroke her hair with gentle fingers. They had rushed to marriage, foolishly, blinded by the thick emotion that clotted their brains. Rebecca had overlooked the flaws in him, eager to settle and live the dream life.
It had taken only months for him to change. Like a mask gradually being torn from his face, bit by bit. First was his serious alcoholism. Paul turned out to be quite different from the sweet man she had seen before. She stayed with him in the hopes of saving him and bringing the old Paul back to the surface. In the desperate hope that their love would sustain. This choice had cost her everything. He stopped holding her, stroking her hair, whispering. Paul turned bitter, often snapping at Rebecca and ordering her around. However, this was but the mere tip of an iceberg protruding from murky waters.
She remembered distinctly the first day he ever struck her, the memory branded into her head like a hot metal to open flesh. It was a Friday night. Paul had been disappearing a lot lately, without a clue to where he was going. Rebecca was not permitted to leave the apartment or to use the telephone. She had been gazing absently into the screen of a fuzzy t.v. She heard the whispery scratch of a key rubbing on the doorknob. Seconds later, Paul staggered across the threshold patently drunk, intimidating. It was late, or rather very early in the morning, some time near three. Rebecca stands, looking for the courage to face her husband and finding little.
“Where have you been Paul?” her words are firm but behind them lurks apprehension.
“Go to the bedroom. I’ll meet you there in a minute.” His speech is slightly slurred, yet final. His eyes skip around, never focusing on one thing for that long.
“Paul, you don’t control me. You can’t just order me to do whatever you want. I’m not a slave!” she gasps, Rebecca knows better then to stand up to this man, especially after a few drinks. She watches his cheeks flush in anger.
“You never talk back to me. I think if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be moving your ass into the bedroom right now.” His eyes bulge with fury. She staggers back a bit, recognizing the crazed look in his eye. Her bottom lips tremors with a hint of trepidation. She doesn’t move. She can’t move. By the time she realizes he’s stepping forward, the handprint on the side of her face is already beginning to blossom a bright scarlet. The sting of his fingers remains long after. Outliving the mark of his hand on her cheek by a long shot.
Convinced that his love for her was genuine, she lived with him for months after the first night. She became accustomed to his violet and aggressive behavior. Rebecca learned how to live in it, to simmer down his astounding acerbity. Despite it all she remained faithful.
Slowly but steadily she diminished into a withered shred of the woman she once was. Every action was made to prevent one of Paul’s breakouts. Every word was spoken with obedient caution. As time progressed she became of littler and littler interest to him. Rebecca evolved into the rug underneath his boots, the bed from which he could return to at his leisure, the lamp in the corner of the living room. She was nothing of value to him any longer. Paul used Rebecca, beat her, broke her. Months passed. Then one day.
She had long blonde hair that fell to her shoulders in perfect coils. Her eyes were soft green, her lips a flawless shade of coral pink. Her figure was faultless, the proportioning just right. She had smooth pale skin that was entirely blemish and scar free. One night he brought her home. Her name was Julie and she was his paradisiacal girl.
Suddenly, Rebecca was the maid. It was apparent that compared to Julie, she was a peasant. Therefore, she was used for everything that needed tending to, everything that needed to be done. Rebecca took her new role like a slave. Her only objection was the tears that trickled from her eyes without end.
“Take out the trash Rebecca! I can smell it from the bedroom.” Julie’s shrill call plagues her tender ears. She says nothing, instead moving methodically into the kitchen and lifting the overflowing trash bad from the bin. She steps down the stairs and outside to the trashcans without thinking. Disposing of the garbage is a regular routine for her. She pauses for a moment, staring up into the vast night sky above in awe. She envies the endless freedom of night. The stars twinkle down on her.
Rebecca looks down again. Her mind is blank, thoughtless, hollow. Her eyes wander down the road ahead. The darkness welcomes her. With one single motion she begins. Her feet finding the road below, her legs moving with rhythm. And so Rebecca runs. Without destination, without purpose. She runs from him, them, she runs from the life, which has killed her. Each step brings a wave of emotion. Fear mainly, but also a strange satisfaction. She is escaping.
The hole would appear obvious in sunlight, easy to avoid, nothing unusual. About half a foot deep, it’s not very wide or long. However, the blackness of sundown obscures it. Her foot falls easily into the depression, catching her ankle. She looses her balance, body twists, ankle cracks. Pain shoots up her leg. She lets out a faint cry. Tumbling downwards, the ground becomes so large. Rebecca flaps her arms desperately, she squints her eyes shut.
If Rebecca had happened to fall to the right, she would have survived with a broken ankle and possibly a sprained wrist. Unfortunately for Rebecca, her body had twisted left. The side of her head came in hard contact with the corner of the pavement. Blood exploded from her temple her skull fractured. The pain was absolute for a split second before she was thrown into an unconscious state. Blood flows inside her skull. Pressure builds within her head.
It is approximately one in the morning. By one forty five Rebecca is dead, her body limp, lifeless, and blood coated. She lays in wait of discovery, the night rests still.
He advances toward her, and after he becomes close enough, kneels down beside Rebecca’s corpse. The cold has kept the smell of death partially at bay, but he can smell her blood, metallic and bitter. The left side of her face is soaking in a puddle of crimson wetness. Her eyes are rolled back within her head; her hair is thick and matted, sodden with the sticky substance. Theo observes that her ankle is severely crooked and her skull is enflamed and red. A lone tear slips down his cheek for her.
“Hello.” He whispers warmly. “I’m Theo. Everything’s going to be all right. I’m here now.” Blood trickles from her ears, mouth and nose. He wipes it away with the sleeve of his jacket as best he can. Theo smiles down at her. Taking in her sunken cheeks and fragile anatomy. “Come with me.” His words are sincere and kind.
He stretches out his arms and begins to wrap them about her. One hand lifts under her knees, the other under her neck. Her sticky blood absorbs into his jacket, thick and clotted. He murmurs affectionate consolations to her. Blood leaks from her as they move, creating a thin trail behind them. Together they walk down the barren street, under the smatter of sparkling stars.
Theo has difficulty balancing her and opening the door to his apartment simultaneously, but he manages to step inside with her still in his arms. Moonlight glimmers through the little window above the pale feinting couch. He lays her down upon his favorite piece of furniture. Her body slumps, unable to support itself, but he lays several pillows under her figure to keep her upright. Theo directs her head to the side so that she can stare out the window. “Beautiful isn’t it?” His voice does not ask for an answer. “It’s going to be okay now. I promise. Your safe with me.” Anthonette appears from under the sofa and begins to lick up the droplets of scarlet from the polished wooden floor. Her tail flicks back and forth.
“I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.” He stares at her soft face. “Such a long time.”

speak.
but your words must immerge through a veil
as thin murmmers
as cautious whispers
they must tread lightly, gently
leaving only hints of footsteps in their wake


move.
but your motions must be fluid
have a purpose, destination, plan
be soundless
be casual
flow like water
carve simple paths, travel silently
create things they will notice, appreciate
behind you leave grand canyons and beautious landscaping

dont leave scars or nightmares as you pass
only memories and art


written december 12 2008

dont cry
or the world will overcome you
seeping in through open tear ducts
dont cry

dont laugh
or your happiness will run away
escaping from between your lips
dont laugh

dont smile
or they will enter your head
sift through your thoughts, tamper with emotions
dont smile

keep silent
and things will stay
nothing in or out.
you will be safe, guarded, whole
stay silent
you wont be hurt



written december 12 2008

the snow has melted
day has claimed it thrown through the frost
the leaves stir in a frigid winter breeze
morning grew to midday, Autumn is lost
gangly, crooked sticks remain of the trees
the beauty of snow has arrived with a cost
flowers lay dead under skeleton leaves
change comes even to things we value most
the snow has melted
a day to remember



written december 14 2008

morning sun
sky is a pastel painting
cold accumulates abroad my body
it feels as if my ears are wilting
birds cry out in fresh melody
the world is hidden in dew
sidewalk untouched, bare
a day just starting, the world anew
the scent of smoke thickens frigid air
the sun has yet to appear
through a veil of coloured sky
and what a fretful fear
that the sun may never rise
morning run
morning sun
night fades slowly until its demise

fall entry

fall appears to be slipping from underneath us
a biting cold has mixed into the air
nipping at exposed flesh
unguarded noses
wiggling its way up your arms
into, under your jacket
the sky had taken up a certain cloudiness
regardless of whether the sun is out or not
blotches of uneven yellow are becoming more obvious
in every stretch of grass
frost rests on everything in the mornings
coating the world in a blanket of frigidity
tiny critters slink underground
desperate for a warmer place
birds have packed their bags
now they ready chilled wings
the trees yawn, wooden mouths gaping wide
as the last of their hair flutters from tangled branches
to litter the sidewalk in a crunchy variety of autumn shades
the little people bundle in downy jackets and thicker socks
resembling shivering herds of coloured penguins
winter sieges fall
the last of autumn is slipping from underneath us
as the carpet of season is pulled from beneath our toes

written sometime around fall 2009

Underneath The Skin

Frank staggers out the neatly painted, white door. A wry grin sprawls across his face. “Free, free, freeee!” he shrieks at the starry night sky. “Free at last.” His voice trails off. He glares behind him at the bleak building that has held him for so long. A friendly looking sign above the entrance reads Sunnydale Insane Asylum. The structure grows smaller and smaller as Frank stumbles away. The blank double doors still swing slightly in the distance.

Tina struts out the front door of the diner. It slams violently behind her. Her scarlet stilettos click loudly on the grimy sidewalk as she steps. Tina’s boss Garret had been keeping her way past her hours repeatedly for the last week. Her grandma (who she is living with do to a lack of money for a nursing home) is sick and home alone. She can’t afford not to work, but with her boss Garret forcing her to stay after her hours lately, Tina is seriously considering quitting.

She tilts her head back gently to look up at the sky, dark and gloomy. Looking down again, Tina gropes around in her bright red apron pocket for a cigarette. After searching for several seconds, her fingers curl around a slender stick. She pulls out her last smoke. Sighing angrily she lights it and takes a deep drag. The thin line of grey smoke trails behind her as she exhales, contrasting with the dark that arrived with the setting sun. Tina click-clacks down the street, exhausted, upset, miserable, and completely unaware.
He has walked for hours. Civilization is almost within his reach for the first time in years. Frank’s feet are sore,legs weakening. The silhouette of a little house appears through the nighttime haze. Frank’s face is contorted in a sinister smile; eyes dilated, dart from side to side, focusing on something only for a fraction of a second before jumping away. “Freeee!” he yelps. “Free at last. And now Frank is gonna have some fun, fun, fun!” his shrill, high pitched voice sends shivers down the spine and raises tiny goose bumps on those unfortunate enough to hear it. The shack-like residence that Frank saw as a silhouette before is now in front of him. The back door is open and somewhat askew. “Fun, fun, fun!” he calls out into the darkness.

Tina takes her last long breath of cigarette and flicks the faintly glowing, stub into the gutter. She has at least a good 45 minutes until she will reach her home. Her fit of anger has simmered off to a desolate depression. Her pace has slowed, her arms hang loosely at her sides, lips slightly parted, her eyes have taken a somber grey color. She feels crushed, overwhelmed, broken, alone.

Frank holds the dead woman gently in his arms. He is shaking, eyes are wild, he feels insecure, uncertain, hysterical. The lady is old, that is made obvious by the sea of wrinkles and liver spots coating her skin; but besides that he knows nothing about her. Briefly he wonders what she was like, then he throws her away in disgust, as his mood violently swings, anger overcoming him.Her fragile figure hits the floor, there is a few muffled cracks as she lands, then she slides, her limbs bent at odd angles. A trail of blood streaks the floor behind her. Frank jumps from his chair, knocking it over with a crash. He leaps into the kitchen and begins to rummage through several drawers and cabinets. After a few minutes he carries a terrifying array of knifes and cutlery in his arms. Frank hobbles over to the old woman and arranges the blades beside her mangled corpse, humming a pitch less tune to himself.

Tina’s mouth stretches open in a mighty yawn. “Only two blocks left Tina.” She mutters groggily to herself. Her eyelids droop and the sides of her mouth point downward in a fatigued expression. “You’ll be home soon.” She whispered comfortingly. “You’ll be home soon.”

It’s littered with holes and tears, and some parts are much thicker than others, but Frank is proud of his work. He is completely, entirely soaked in blood. His arms, hands, face, chest, legs, feet are all stained a dark red. Bits of flesh, hair, clots of blood are crammed under his fingernails. His eyeballs dance and skip around, different parts of his body twitch randomly. His plain white clothing is torn, ripped, cut, and died a murky crimson. Before him swimming in a pool of shimmering red liquid is what’s left of her flayed body.

Tina fumbles with the keys. They tinkle, chime as they knock against each other. Her eyes are closed, she has barely any energy left to fight the need for sleep that plagues her mind. Somehow she manages to open the door, and drag herself through the doorway. She doesn’t open her eyes as she enters the house, or even when she slips (she doesn’t notice that the floor is wet) and almost falls. Her thoughts have before she drops onto the bed.

Frank starts sharply as the door is pushed open. Grandma’s foreign flesh feels heavy on his shoulders. Blood leaks out the holes where eyes once were, and spills from the parted lips like a stream of scarlet vomit. Tiny droplets well on what used to be the old woman’s earlobes. Frank is silent, unmoving, crouched like some sort of demonic creature anticipating the right moment to pounce.

The girl that stumbled through the door lies fully clothed on the bed. She’s wearing a short, bright red dress and red apron. Frank stands over her, staring intently at her soft, sleeping face. His thoughts churn and tumble around in a tormented, frenzied mind. The knife gleams in the dim light produced by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. The girl’s breathing is slow, steady. Out the filthy window, night is beginning to fade gradually into dawn.

Frank rests the point of the weapon on her exposed throat. One fluid swing, her neck gushes scarlet. The yellowing blanket beneath her is red in a flash. Her eyelids never even flutter. Her breath stops silently. On her face is stilled a look of solace. Finally the girl is at peace. She will never worry again, cry again, fear again. Although she will never laugh, smile, or dream again either.

The dress is held together by a line of buttons that runs up the front. After being worn and abused countless times, it doesn’t take much effort for Frank to pull the garment apart. Frank feels powerful and dangerous holding the knife in his hand. It’s not far off razor sharp, and cuts through skin well (as he discovered with Grandmamma). The blade slides down the middle of her exposed torso. The flesh peels away from the edge of the knife. “Let’s play dress up!” he cries. “I love dress up.”

Through the widow, the streets are barren, deserted. The sun has yet to make an appearance, but the sky is milky and streaked with pastel blue, pink and orange. Street lights litter the sidewalks, still bright as if caught in the last moments of night. The air is still, the scene soundless. Misgiving, unease, dread hover above the town, waiting for the dreaming, sleeping people to awake.

Her skin was easier for Frank to separate, to peel off than the old woman’s. Of course, the girl’s bleeding was much more excessive than Grandma’s, so this made it more difficult, but Frank enjoyed it all the same. He especially liked that her skin was still warm as he slipped it over his own. Grandmas hadn’t been very heated to begin with, and by the time he had finished removing it from her carcass it was frigid, icy, cold.

Blood cakes the girl’s pasty white cheeks, the soft rosy tint that was once there is forever gone now. Her skin weighs down on his shoulders, almost as if he was wearing a wet coat. Bits of gore and layers of blood spill from her eye holes, ear holes, and mouth. Frank can hardly see, breathe, or hear. The stench of death and decay waft off of him. “I like playing dress up!” he cackles to himself ominously. “Fun, fun, fun!”

Several doors down from Frank a woman sleeps alone in her bed. She quivers, shakes, cries quietly as a vicious nightmare holds her consciousness. Suddenly she awakes and sits up. Tremors course through her anatomy, down her spine, shortly followed by waves of tiny goose bumps. The tears that lined her face are beginning to dry, her breathing is unsteady. She feels something is wrong; uneasiness hangs in the air so thick, almost tangible. Without knowing why, she begins to clothe and ready herself. She wipes her face with a towel and pulls her hair back into a loose bun. As a last minute thought, she slips a pocket knife into the side of her jeans. Then she steps out the door. Without knowing why, she heads for the run down house that sits on the outskirts of town, home to an old woman and her granddaughter.