Describing the indescribable. It seems to work fine for H.P. Lovecraft. The trick is letting one's imagination fill in the gaps of what horrors the characters are encountering.

ajrfanz

• 39 reads

ARMS

In my mother's arms

I'm just like a child

In my mother's arms

I don't have to hide

In my mother's arms

I can show my weaker side

In my mother's arms

I feel safe once again

In my mother's arms

I feel at peace

In my mother's arms

There is a wordless promise that she will stay,

That everything will be ok

Now my mother's hands are crossed, one over the other

She has lost her color

I long for my mother's embrace

I no longer feel safe

I no longer feel ok

A pair of arms wrap around me,

But they are not my mother's

I only want her's

I want that promise that everything will be ok.

Tears fall as I struggle, these foreign arms, they hold me tighter.

There is no escape

And I feel nothing but this strange emptiness

Hands stroke my hair telling me 'It will be ok'

And oh how I want to believe them.

But these arms don't feel the same.

The Kincade Chronicles

Chapter 37 of 52

Danceinsilence

The Kincade Chronicles

Chapter 37 of 52

Danceinsilence

Chapter 36: Fires, Isolation, and Freedom

Early December 1870

Maria lay still on her lumpy hay mattress. After a few years of thinking, she felt no remorse for what she had done. Images of what little innocence she had left being stolen from her flashed through her head often, making her more bitter with every passing second.

She was in her own solitary cell now. It took months of planning, but she had killed all four guards that had entered her cell that night.

She was not allowed to leave, there were no windows, and time seemed to drag. She was rapidly losing her mind. Meals, the only thing that even provided some sort of measurement of time, were scarce and, though she could not be certain of it, given at random. The only thing she knew was that it was one meal a day for her. It was as if they were purposefully attempting to push her to the brink. As if they wanted her to go insane.

“What sick game are they playing?” she often said.

But she had a plan. They never checked on her. That would mean breaking the illusion. Using her long, yellowed nails, she had scratched a detailed plan into the walls and floor. Planning was the only thing that kept what little sanity she had left intact. She would escape. She did not know when, but she knew it would be soon.

As she began to review her plans, she heard keys jangling outside of her cell door. A twisted smile grew across her face as she heard the platter of food drop to the ground just outside of her cell.

Late February 1871

“Colorado sounds like a beautiful place, Oliver,” Flower said, setting down the excerpt from his most recent project. “Your descriptions are breathtaking. One day, before I die, I would like to visit. To experience the Colorado Rocky Mountain high that you have written about.”

“Thank you, Aunt Flower,” Oliver said. “I am touring the country once more; that is why I am here. I am looking forward to heading to Chicago! I’ll be traveling there twice, in July and October.”

Samuel walked onto the porch and smiled at his grandmother. He set down the large bag that was in his hands and said, “Well, this is it. This is my last bag, and then I’m off to Wyoming.”

Flower wiped tears from her eyes. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. Ma wanted to see me off. James will be meeting me at some point along the trail. He wants to make sure I make it there safely,” he replied.

Flower’s eyes lit up at the mention of James. “Is there enough room for me to pack a few things and tag along? I wish to go to Colorado before my death.”

“Oh, yes! And it will be nice to have some company on the first half of the journey,” he answered enthusiastically.

Later that evening, with the sky a deep pink and the grass swaying in the cool breeze, Hope walked up to Samuel, who was looking at the horizon with a gleam in his eye. “Is something bothering you?” she asked.

“Yes, many things, actually. I would like to apologize for the things I did in the past. It—I was wrong. I don’t want to leave this,” he said, motioning to the house, “behind without mending things. I don’t say this enough; I don’t recall ever saying it, actually—but I love you, Ma. After all you have gone through, after all that I have said to you…you still love me. And you seem to have forgiven me. And—and” tears began to stream down his face, “…to thank you, I’m leaving. I—I’m sorry.”

Hope, now crying as well, embraced her only remaining child. “You don’t have to be sorry, Samuel. Follow your heart. This is all I have ever wanted. I love you. Don’t leave here thinking that I don’t. Don’t leave here thinking that I haven’t forgiven you.”

Hugging and crying into each other’s shoulders, they stood there until the sun sank below the horizon.

March 10, 1871

Etta sat on the couch relaxing and reading a book that she had purchased not long ago. Chadlynn was in her room, sleeping peacefully.

It had been a long time since she had been alone. She could not decide if she liked it or not. The silence felt eerie. She could hear every creak that the house made, and the clacking of… What is that? she thought to herself. The hooves grew closer.

There was no way that this was James unless something terrible had happened. Etta stood up and retrieved the dual-barreled shotgun from above the fireplace. She heard the horse slow to a canter, then its snorting and shaking its head as it was brought to a stop.

As rapidly as she could, she loaded her weapon and slowly approached the door.

Peeking out of her window, she noticed a man slowly, cautiously, approaching the door. He had a revolver in his hands, a bandana over his face, and a hat tipped low over his eyes.

“I suggest you go back from where you came,” Etta called out.

“You ’spect me to listen to a woman?” he replied.

“Maybe a woman with a shotgun aimed at your chest,” she responded, crouching to the ground, and pointing the weapon at the door.

A bang erupted from outside, and a bullet shot through the door and hit the ground next to Etta’s feet. Her stomach dropped. Reminding herself to be calm, she put her finger on the trigger.

“Mama? What’s going on?” Chadlynn asked with a tremble of fear in her voice.

“Nothing, hon’,” she called back. “You go back to bed, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The door began to open. Etta shot twice, first at the door and then to the right of it to make sure that he was not opening it from the side.

She heard a groan and the horse taking off.

Reloading as fast as lightning, she stood up and approached the door. She cautiously stepped outside, looking to her right, then at the ground in front of her.

A hat sat neatly on the doorstep with several small holes in it from where her bullets had managed to hit its mark. Just then, the door slammed shut and she was punched in the jaw. Her shotgun fell to the ground, causing it to fire, and Etta stumbled backward. When she finally regained her balance, she looked into the eyes of a redheaded man with crooked teeth.

With his revolver pointed at her head, he grinned.

It was mid-April when James and Flower finally neared the Rockies. Though he longed for home, he wanted Flower to see the mountains more than anything. He had met with Samuel and, together, they travelled by train and horse to Wyoming. In Wyoming, Samuel and James split apart and James began to return home with Flower. Though it was faster to keep away from the mountains, he traveled through them with Flower. James never saw her happier.

They sat one evening on a blanket, eating what little food they had left, and watching the sun sink behind the mountains. Flower was resting against a tree staring west with tears and a gleam in her eyes.

“It’s even more beautiful than I would have ever imagined,” she gasped.

There they sat together, admiring the mountains, until Flower nodded off into a deep, peaceful sleep from which she never awoke.

She was buried under that tree with a flower carefully planted above her. James doubted it would live long with it being directly under a tree, but he smiled at the thought of a pasture of flowers spreading all around the tree within a few years.

Having paid his dues, he set off toward home. In memory of Flower, he continued to travel through the mountains.

Late April 1871

Dear Anna,

It was awful. Terrible. Not sure what I am going to tell James when he returns. I am no longer home. After the incident which I don’t wish to share too many details about occurred, an Indian man came to see if I was safe. Apparently James had requested them to keep watch, though they were not present when I needed them.

When they arrived, I was on the floor, shaking. The man had just left and Chadlynn was by my side, trying to make sure I was okay. They picked me up off of the floor and clothed me. They sent men to find who had done this to me, then they took me to their colony that isn’t far from where we live.

I feel so…violated! So ashamed. So embarrassing. No one deserves something like this to happen to them. No matter the crime, no matter how evil they are, no one is deserving of the humiliation that follows.

I fear I may be pregnant with that evil man’s child; I know it. I feel it. I wish I could say it was James’s but saying that would be lying. I don’t know what to do, Anna.

Etta

Early May – Navajo Village

James watched without saying a word as his Indian brothers separated flesh from bone and the redheaded man screamed obscenities.

He would never let her know how Jeb Andrews died, only that he was dead, and she would never have to worry about him ever again. Lord knew she had already gone through so much as it was. Last thing she needed was a reminder.

But watching him die slowly gave him great piece of mind and for the first time in years he was glad to watch someone suffer as much as did Etta.

The Memoirs of Oliver Kincade

July 15th, 1871

I was touring for my book in Chicago, finally happy to have it finished and published, when I returned to my hotel. The Clifton House, where I was staying, is quite nice. I had the pleasure of meeting the son of our 16th President: Tad Lincoln. It is this meeting that I am writing this entry in my memoirs for, as I am not supposed to tell a soul about what I saw that day.

My day had been incredible. I sold more books than I sold at any of my previous presentations, and I visited with an old friend of Owen’s.

Upon returning to the hotel, after an exhausting day, I—quite literally—bumped into Tad. My papers spilled all over the floor, and he helped me pick them up.

“Thank you,” I said.

“It is my pleasure. I read your book and attended the presentation this morning. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you working on anything else?”

I told him of my expedition to Colorado and how it inspired me to write [note to self: insert title here next year when you have it finished]. I told him enough of the plot to whet his appetite, but not enough for someone who was eavesdropping to steal my idea before I have the opportunity to finish it. I asked him about his father, his mother, and his siblings, among other things.

After a long talk, we parted ways. I noticed something lying on the ground. As I bent down to pick it up, several men walked past me.

It was a pen. It wasn’t there before I met up with Tad, so I figured that I would return it to him. I figured another conversation wouldn’t hurt. I turned around and saw one of the men who passed me choking Tad, while another was making sure he didn’t escape. There was also a constable and three doctors watching it happen. The constable noticed that I had seen what was happening, and he approached me. Scared, I avoided eye contact and ran to my room.

Locking the door behind me, I sank to the floor, breathing heavily. After a few minutes, I heard a knock on the door. After knocking three times without an answer, he called, “Kincade, I know you are in there. Please open your door and let me in. We need to talk, and I assure you that you won’t be harmed.”

Reluctantly, I let the man in.

“Sir,” he said, “I need you to keep what you just saw today secret. If anyone asks, he died from tuberculosis. If you mention anything, you will be killed. Someone famous like yourself isn’t that hard to track.”

He left me to sit in my room and think. Though no one will know what I witnessed today by hearing it from me, upon my death, my memoir will be published. It is then that the truth about the death of Tad Lincoln will be revealed.

I know that I was told I would be safe unless I spoke up, but I cannot help but feel as if I am being watched as I ride on this train to my next touring location. Not to mention the fact that the man in the fedora across from me is definitely not reading the newspaper he is holding.

August 1871

Samuel sat on his property, happy with how far his homestead had been developed. He was all alone, and isolation was something he enjoyed. He had a moderately sized farm with a small barn. On top of his farm work, he hunted frequently. In fact, which was what he spent the majority of his time doing: hunting and tending his farm. Due to this, he rarely needed to go into town.

Though the beliefs and works were a few decades old, Samuel had discovered transcendentalism. He did not believe in it, though he did think that something good could come from isolating himself. He wanted to find himself. He often wrote about his day before going to bed, a habit he tried to form but could never fully commit to for one reason or another.

He wrote to his mother often, happy that the relationship between them was being mended after all of these years. She longed to see him, and though he wanted to see her as well, he told her frequently that he could not yet visit. Not until he had found his purpose. Not until he had forgiven himself.

He was always thinking. His thoughts seemed to race a million miles a minute, sometimes leaving him behind. One day he would find himself.

One day…

October 8th, 1871 – Chicago, Illinois

Oliver ran into the burning building as the cries grew louder. He heard someone scream, then the smack of someone jumping out of one of the upper story windows and falling to the ground below. He had to find the child that had run in after his mother.

“She’s stuck!” he had said, running back inside.

“Please don’t let that have been his mother,” Oliver said, remembering the scream of the woman who had committed suicide only seconds ago.

Who could blame her, though? Her choices were burn or jump.

Oliver coughed. He was inhaling more smoke than he would have liked. He heard sobbing and whispering up ahead of him. He turned down the hall and saw a sad sight. The boy was kneeling next to his mother who had been pinned beneath a fallen rafter. Her body rapidly melted away, leaving a black, barely human-shaped lump underneath. Oliver wrapped his arms around the boy’s waist, picked him up, and began to run his way back to the exit.

“MOMMY!” the boy screamed as the ceiling behind them collapsed.

An explosion sent the two flying through the wall to the right. Fire surrounded Oliver; the boy was pulling himself off of the ground.

The boy began calling out to Oliver, but he could not hear him over the ringing in his ears. His mouth tasted like copper. Blood dripped from a gash in his forehead. The boy continued to shake and call for Oliver.

When another beam fell from the ceiling the boy pulled Oliver’s arm, hoping to help him up.

Finally gathering his senses, Oliver stood up and began to limp toward the exit. All he could think about was Azalea.

December 25th, 1871

Dearest Azalea,

I am glad to hear that Oliver made it home safely! You will have to tell me more about Jeremy when you have the chance. It is horrible that his mother died in the fire.

Was there a father? Regardless, it is admirable of you to be taking him in with your four kids already. Tell Oliver that I agree with you: after that endeavor, he needs to stay home for a while. Not to mention, we will be coming to visit soon! However, that is not why I am writing to you on Christmas morning.

Today, he was born. I don’t know how to feel about it. He has been born, and he is adorable with his red hair…but every time I look at him, I just see the man who raped me. I look at him and see pain, so, so much pain…

I want to raise him as my own, as he is my flesh and blood, but at the same time, I don’t want to keep him at all. My emotions are confusing me. I love him and I hate him. In a month, I will be deciding whether or not I am to keep him. Hopefully by that time I will be able to sort through all of these unusual combinations of emotions and feelings.

When James came home, he was furious. All he could do was think about killing the man who had humiliated me. But, alas, he calmed down after a month and has shown nothing but love and care toward me since. He did inform me, though, that the man who did this to me is dead. James is by my bedside now, checking up on me and asking me if I’m all right. Chadlynn has no idea, and I plan to keep it that way. She knows something happened, and I’m sure she’ll put two and two together as she gets older, but at the moment she thinks that Scottie is James’ son.

Etta

The breeze felt good on her face. She had not felt it in so long, she did not care how cold it was. She licked the blood off of her lips and admired the bloody mess on her hands.

Maria had completely lost it. She knew it and did not care.

“How many guards did I kill again?” she asked no one as she began to walk forward through the snow. She stuck the gun in her pants and began counting on her fingers.

“I don’t care! I am free!” she spun around, arms spread wide, as she walked across the yard.

As she stepped through the front gate, she was greeted by a guard.

“Ma’am, I am going to have to ask you to stop right there.”

Maria smiled and batted her lashes. “Sure, sweetie.”

He grinned.

“Come a little closer,” she said with a wink and a kiss.

He lowered his weapon and walked up to her. She wrapped one arm around his neck and leaned in to kiss him. Just before their lips made contact, a shot was fired.

“Men,” Maria said, kicking his body to the side and continuing her journey.

Early March 1872

Azalea, Etta, and Anna sat at the table, sipping tea, and talking. They were happy to finally be able to meet again, after so long. Oliver was still home and did not plan to leave any time soon, though he was hard at work in his office, writing. Lately, Azalea said, he seemed to have hundreds of projects that he was working on simultaneously.

“Once,” Azalea continued, “he came into the living room nearly in tears. He told me that he had written something beautiful; one of the best chapters he had ever written. He flipped through the previous chapters and realized that, not only did he use the wrong names, but he had also combined all of his previous stories.”

The girls began to laugh hysterically. James and William played with the children in the front yard. Jeremy ran past the window, laughing while being chased by William.

“What’s his story, Azalea?”

“Whose?”

“Jeremy’s,” Etta said, gazing into the distance.

“Of course, his mother died in the fire, and he said his father died before he was born. He has had a hard life. It seems tragedy is waiting around each corner for him, much like the Kincade’s. His name is Jeremy Riordan. We decided that he can choose if he wants to change his name to ‘Kincade’ at some point down the road,” Azalea summed up. “What about you? What made you keep Scottie?”

Etta was slow to answer, but at length she said, “I love him more than I hate him. Though I doubt that I will ever not see him as a reminder of that awful night, I love him too much to let him go. How is William?”

June 1872

Dear Mother,

No, I have not found myself yet. I have begun to make peace finally, so there is some progress there, but I have not yet discovered who I am. I do not plan to return to civilization any time soon. I also have found that I like it here…I like being alone.

For personal reasons, I will not be leaving my land, but I am open to visitors. Tell whomever you would like; you are the only person I keep in contact with anyway.

You asked if I was looking for someone to marry, and that you were “patiently” waiting for grandchildren. There has never entered a woman into my life whom I genuinely love. Sure, I have seen pretty girls, but looks aren’t everything. I have given up on love, and I don’t plan to marry. I am sorry if that disappoints you; I just do not feel the need to marry in this life.

I have made progress. I know that I have been gone for nigh two years, but progress is better than nothing. I hope to see you soon, Mother, whether it is because I have recovered or because you have come to visit.

Your loving son,

Samuel Kincade

Written By: CalebPinnow

Chapter 45 of 48

Chapter 45 of 48

things that find their way to the shore

when you let yourself feel devastated

and forgive yourself for it,

hope seeps in

— Heather Havrilesky

She sits on the sofa, covered loosely in a blanket, a cup of still-warm tea nestled in her hands, mind in so many places at once. Shivering a bit as the cool air drifts around her ankles, somehow masterfully slipping between the woolen socks and worn-out sweatpants that she has on today, causing goosebumps to explode on the skin like tiny fireworks, the hairs on her arms lifting instantly. The old windows, miserably failing to stop the cold from coming in on a frigid day like this. The heaters, not making that much better job at keeping her warm. Unless she would consider clinging to them directly from floor level and with high levels of affection. Well, something to think about. Shrinking a bit, she wraps the thick rust-colored blanket tighter around her, making a face as the over-sugared liquid slips down her throat. Then she sighs, staring numbly at the darkening room. Feeling too tired to even get up and turn the lights on.

Yesterday proved to be a very long day, not just for her but also for Charlie. Funny enough, her collapsing in public and then later exposing herself emotionally on the roof didn't even prove to be the hardest or the strangest part of the day. She looks down at her hands, the fingers still wrapped around the chipped, red ceramic cup, wondering how much crazier her life could still possibly be. There really was no answer to that. All she could do was square her shoulders and soldier through whatever the world had in store for her.

Slowly, her mind returns to the cafeteria and the plastic chair that got more and more uncomfortable the longer she sat there alone, waiting for him. Arms crossed, and her back shoved into the seat as if she wanted to sink into it and blend with its structure until she would disappear altogether. Time, the surroundings, and the people around slowly blurring away, fading into oblivion as everything inside her became loud. So loud while lost in the soundless world that held her in a tight, nearly suffocating embrace. Destructive tenderness, and cold fingers against the skin, that were calling her home. A home that nobody wanted. A home that scorched and burned until there was nothing left.

Lost in your thoughts, stranger?

She remembers flinching and then looking up a bit dazed until her stare had gained some focus, eyes meeting his as her muscles lost some of their tension.

Concentrating, she slowly makes the rest of the scene come back to life, playing out as if she was there again. The past and present blending together as she holds the cup tighter in her hands. Her mind, settling all too easily in the conversation they had. Breathing and inhaling each word as if it was all happening now. His question, still vibrating in her ears.

You could say that. All gloom and flawless skin in one. Always some upsides to every situation.

She had tried to add a smile to her words, but it came out crooked and mangled somehow. Not that she was surprised much. One could only pretend so long before everything started to fall apart.

Yes, there are always some.

He said slowly and then tilted his head, his hand resting questioningly on the chair opposite to her.

Can I join, with the threat of my head being chopped off by any uneasy topics?

She stared at him for a moment, getting herself together, and then outstretched a hand with ease as if she wasn't really strained or bothered by the whole situation. As if there weren't any chunks of ice swimming in her veins, making her body become unnaturally still. She wanted to act naturally in front of him, yet each physical action felt like moving through rust. Just rust and countless wholes.

Go right ahead. I won't stop you.

He nodded and then sat down slowly, the chair's metal legs making a screeching sound that made them both flinch painfully.

Sorry about that.

No worries, it's my daily soundtrack in here.

She tapped a finger at the side of her forehead, trying to bring some comic relief, but it only made him frown more.

I wish you wouldn't have to go through all of this.

His voice had been soft and gentle and made her even more uneasy than before. Receiving comfort and affection was still a rather alien concept for her. Before Charlie came along, she had many dark months to go through, her soul or whatever was left of it at its lowest. And now, all those weeks later, she was still baffled that all that warmth was meant for her. Still looking at him almost suspiciously whenever he spontaneously did something nice for her, feeling like a wild animal that was brought into the house. Or a beaten-up dog that was doing its best to figure out all the new surroundings. Not knowing how to react to all the good that was coming its way. Rolling into a tight ball somewhere in the corner and only very gradually getting used to the kindness that was being given away so effortlessly, it seemed.

I think I lost you again.

His voice made her snap back into reality again.

Just for a moment, but I will always come back to you. Promise.

I know.

His voice became gentle, and she inhaled deeper, watching him tap against the table a few times before looking up at her again.

I'm not any better at picking at an awkward conversation than you are, trust me.

Her forehead creased automatically at the words.

Oh, I could argue with that.

I am aware, after all, arguing is your favorite activity at the gambling table.

Slowly, her eyebrows lifted then, the corners of the mouth shifting into a faint shadow of a smile.

You're not entirely wrong there.

She smirked a bit. And this time, the smile felt less broken.

Well, I will take that answer as a win. Hopefully, not my last.

She inhaled quickly and spoke before her old patterns caused her to stretch out the conversation, only sliding past the surface and not cutting anywhere deeper. Not touching the layers that were covered in cement and rubble of her previous life.

I had someone very close to me, someone I loved so much that it brought me pain. The good kind, the kind that has no explanation that could ever be put into silly, meaningless words.

She said with surprising calm, things that stirred in her mixing with the ones that felt relieved that she could finally let go of some of her burdens. Observing as his vibrant blue eyes became slightly bigger. But beyond that small change, he remained calm as well, not even moving or trying to speak. She nodded, mostly to herself. A sort of reassurance to continue.

It wasn't an easy kind of love to live with. It was chaotic, unpredictable, and not possible to put, in any kind of frame. It brought the worst and the best in me at the same time. It made me stronger, but it also made me more vulnerable, weaker to what could come. Because when you love like that, there aren't that many places that you can hide to avoid the grief and pain that would come when it's taken away from you.

She had taken a slow, steady breath and marveled at how strangely easy those words flowed out of her. Words she thought that she had thrown away on her darkest day just to remain breathing, but now realizing that they had never left her. They clung to the skin and wrapped themselves under the muscles, mixing with the oxygen that colored her lungs so well. It was at that moment when something in her shifted and bend unpleasantly. Her chin raising, and the jaw clenching, knowing what had to be said next.

But unfortunately, that day came sooner than I feared it would, the empty prayers that I whispered every day proving to be just that. Just empty things.

She swallowed as a sad smile appeared on her lips, and he outstretched a hand automatically to soothe her pain. But she just shook her head and quickly moved the fingers away, crossing her arms tightly over the chest.

I loved him, Charlie. More than anything in this world, it seems at times, but that wasn't enough to keep him alive... with me. Because one day someone decided that his life was no longer worth the while.

She looked to the side and stared out the window at the thick clouds coloring the sky with deep greys and shades of purple that brought some unexplainable beauty to the picture. Yet, her brain decided to ignore any form of such comfort, her fists clenching until the knuckles became white. Not that she cared much. The only thing that mattered to her at that moment was to let it go. To shed some of the layers that no longer served a purpose. Almost like a snake trying to wriggle itself out of its old, dead skin. Even though the process proved to be rather brutal.

Like at that moment, inside the cafeteria. On those two plastic chairs and the big table between them. The silence, separating them physically, with all the words that still had to be said, making them even further away. And she didn't want that gap to grow. No, that was something that she could no longer allow. Sometimes you just have to forgive yourself, or it will drag you down under all the dirt you were already under, but this time there would be no air left to breathe in between.

The softest of inhales. Say it. She urged herself in that second that somehow seemed like the most fragile second in the world.

Dan. That was his name.

She whispered and heard his chair scrape a bit against the linoleum floor. After a few seconds, she glanced back at him, fingers unclenching slowly.

You see, Charlie, Dan tended to have a talent for making bad decisions. Repeatedly, somehow never learning from his mistakes. And I was there to see him through all the storms and fires he recklessly jumped into without a second thought. At most times, he was lucky. Dangerously lucky.

Her eyes searched his for a moment, and then she pointed a finger at him, almost accusingly.

But you know how it is with luck, don't you?

He nodded slowly, cautiously, apparently sensing a shift, and her smile grew heavy and dark. Thick and black, like tar that drips down your fingers. Deadly, slow calmness.

Yes, exactly. Luck runs out, even for the dark horses of the race.

Silence swelled in around them as the people in the cafeteria kept on talking. Plates and cups, shifting, hushed conversations filling the vast space. So many worries in one room, it caused her a headache. Unfiltered sadness, and anger sipping into the brain, pulsating accusations and dread she could not block, throbbing whispers tightening around her. Just another day in hell, nothing else. She exhaled and put her hands on her lap, rubbing them slowly against the knees in thought. Memories flooding her slowly but with power as she put the physical pain away, separating from it for now. Only one destruction at once, God. Something in her smiled in a bitter way. She wasn't even sure if she believed in any higher power, and yet she begged for its mercy at times like these. She tilted her head slightly and let out a breath, eyes gliding numbly over his worried face.

So, one day he didn't come back. I wasn't really surprised that much as he had episodes like those before, drifting away from me for a day or two. Sometimes even three. Once again handling, another new lucrative business that "this time will work for sure".

For a second, she heard Dan's voice as if he was right there with her. This time it will work, baby. This plan is bulletproof, I just feel it. She breathed out and tried not to taste the bitterness on her tongue and instead just continued, her voice becoming dull and empty.

But it never really did. And on that day, instead of seeing his tired, mangled face, which somehow always had a smile reserved for me. Just for me...

She inhaled through her teeth sharply, and without warning, the wounds opened up again, catching the light and gushing blood all over the table. The motion nearly too painful for her to swallow, her throat tightening. But she fought it and clenched her fists again. It's just pain, it's nothing you haven't felt before. Get a grip on yourself. Finish something for once. She told herself with sternness, trying to replace the ache with anger. Grabbing her side as if wanting to stop the invisible bleeding and barely stopping herself from growling as the pain became too physical, too real.

But I didn't get to see it. Instead, seeing a different face and different eyes. Those eyes were serious and respectful. The officer that I had opened the door to; surprisingly gentle as he explained to me that the person most important to me, someone I could not imagine breathing without - not fully, anyway - was gone. No longer... here.

She stumbled on the last word like there were pieces of shredded glass in her mouth. Feeling the ice in her veins, stirring and covering the spaces between the ribs as her chin lifted slightly, back straightening in the plastic chair. The urge to disappear in it was gone. All she felt was her muscles thickening and beginning to settle like concrete. Matching the texture of her bones as the next words felt out of her mouth like tiny sharp pebbles, covering the floor with dust and rubble.

Murdered coldly in some dark, disgusting... sickening alley.

She looked up at the ceiling, letting the light from the lamps blind her a bit as her shoulders rolled slowly. As if she was trying to make her body move. As if she was trying to remember how it was to be human again.

The officer said a fight must have had broken off between him and the attacker. And the other person had no trouble taking one step too far. These things happen more often than one thinks, apparently.

She said in an empty voice, sarcasm coloring her words and seeming to be the only audible shade of life left in her on that day.

Hey, but what to expect when drugs and gambling issues are involved, right? Some people are just problems from the beginning. And society doesn't like that, Charlie.

For some reason, her voice managed to turn sweet as her tongue ran slowly against her teeth, threateningly sweet. As if she had been hanging on the last thread that kept her from tasting insanity fully. Tasting it and enjoying it.

Did you know they found cocaine on him? I mean, beyond finding a wide, gushing gap in his chest? Mmm, not the prettiest sight, in my opinion.

She hadn't looked his way as she asked the question. Lost somewhere between the past and what was actually going on around her. She felt disconnected from everything and didn't have any will to resurface.

He lost so much blood.

She murmured it very low, making it sound more like rusting leaves than actual words.

Whispering them almost to herself as if she was the only one in the room.

But there was nothing they could do when he was found. Nothing to be saved. It didn't matter though, as he was left there to rot there the entire night. They found him early in the morning. On November 12th. The policeman knocked at my door a few hours later. It was 9:32 a.m.

She faintly heard the voices return, creeping into her head and bringing tension under her forehead. She couldn't care less.

9:32 a.m. It's funny how a human brain can recall such small details. Don't you think?

Her voice trailed off, and she shivered after a moment, somehow smelling the snow in the air. Even if she was inside, sitting in warmth. Maybe it was because of how frozen her body felt against her numb thoughts. Or perhaps she remembered how the air smelled when she had to go in and identify the body. And feel the cold skin of his cheek as she stroked it for the last time, in that soulless room with fluorescent lights and metal, shiny surfaces everywhere. Standing there, feeling like being inside a freezer. But then again, since that day, everything felt cold to her.

Suddenly, she felt gentle fingers wrapping around hers as he pulled a chair next to her and sat down, not saying anything. Just being there and coating her with a soft warmth that she needed so desperately.

It's okay. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere.

She stared at her hand in his, not looking at him until he reached out with his other hand and lifted her chin lightly. A kind smile that brought some light to her state and gradually melted the ice covering her skin. Just like the winter sun as it allows the Spring to shyly creep onto the stage. Slowly for now, but enough to let some hope to seep in. A trace of waking up life.

Is that where you were last week, Nora? Honoring his memory? Dealing with the date?

He asked after a few seconds, but to be honest, it might as long have been hours or days, for all she knew. Time felt like a very surreal thing to inhale and breathe with on that day.

You don't have to answer now. I'm sorry, that was probably a bit insensitive.

She shook her head slowly as his hold was still on her. Smiling a bit at him, his fingers on her chin seemed to burn right through the flash. It was a good burn.

No, it's okay. And yes. I went to visit him at the cemetery.

It must have been a rough time for you.

You have no idea.

He nodded and let go of her chin, letting her lean in and rest her head on his shoulder, as his arm wrapped around her body, his other hand still squeezing hers reassuringly.

I can only guess all the things you have been through in the last couple of years. But I"m here for you, whenever you need me. I mean it.

I know... I know.

It was then when he rested his chin against her head, and her body nestled itself into him. As always, somehow so naturally as if she had known him for years and not just a couple of months. But she didn't fight it as much as in the beginning. No, at that moment, she just let herself sink into him and forget that anything existed, apart from here and then.

_ _ _ _ _

She shakes her head and comes back to reality unwillingly, as the cold of her flat and the empty couch without another warm body against hers hits her harshly. Less than 20 hours, and she already missed him and his presence. And there was less and less in her to fight that feeling. She wraps herself tighter in the rusty color blanket, and sinks deeper into the pillows, letting her body fall and roll into a ball, the street lamps coloring everything in shades of orange and gold.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

Previous chapters :

42. https://old.theprose.com/post/441074/between-the-corridors-of-fragile-things

43. https://old.theprose.com/post/442704/doctor-issues

44. https://theprose.com/post/444836/eventually-everything-resurfaces

SharondaBriggs

• 41 reads

Free Book True Story

I am putting my newest book "A Gift Of Life" on Kindle and Ebook FREE UNTIL

SUNDAY CLOSES.

A Gift of Life is a true story about a woman getting a Kidney transplant and the things

that occured. It is only free until Sunday. Please go to Kindle or Ebook and take advantage of this true story.

Let me know how you like it and please share it or tell someone that has to get a kidney to read it. I hope this will help someone.

Merry Christimas from me and Happy Holidays to all.

Huggers:)

For those who don't know Huggers is my way of saying much luv.

Link:

A Gift Of Life by Sharonda Briggs https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09LYKM677/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_Q9RRKJGKASTH6N1Y617S via @amazon

Cover image for post A Slice of Life, by Danceinsilence

Danceinsilence in Journal

• 36 reads

A Slice of Life

Now and then, when the mood, moment, or memory flashes before me,

I shall do A Slice of Life. Some you may find interesting,

some you may not. Depends on the moment I guess.

This may also mean reposting a few other things

I have written pertaining to life in or

around myself and family.

**********

It never dawned on me until tonight that the anniversary of John Fitzgerald Kennedy (JFK) was assassinated (November 23, 1963) in Dallas, Texas. I waqs all of about 15 when that took place. But this isn't about his death.

Thinking back on that, my mind wandered further back to October 1, 1960. Funny how some things you never seem to forget.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and thousands of people awaited JFK's arrival. I believe the entire city was made up from Demorcats. The day was somewhat cool, and I, like my mother and many others, dressed as warmly as we could. My father took a few Kodak videos of us standing next to each other before he left to find a better spot to video JFK.

Two hours or more we waited. before someone shouted they could see the motocade arriving. When the third car was in sight, even for as cold a day as it was, there sat JFK on the top portion of a back seat waving to the crowd. My mom was super excited, but that was when she went nearr insane with excitement.

Just as his car was about to pass us, she reached out with her hand, and JFK took but a second, but he leaned over to her, grabbed and shook her hand and gave her his best Catholic Irish smile. I thought my mother was going to faint.

Once it was all over, and we were back at our apartment. aqnd JFK shaking her hand was all she could talk about. It was a crazy time for all of us I would now believe, but here is the kicker to this story.

It took five weeks, but finally my father had the video that was transferred from camera to a 16mm reel and we were able at long last to see once more what we had seen in person.

The very first thing we saw was the two of us standing side by side and I blurted out, "Look, mom! I'm taller than you!"

Yes, we watched the reel, also saw things my father captured we couldn't see, but at that moment my first thought is that I was taller than my mother.

Go figure.

And before you ask, I was four inches taller. She stood at 5'1". Yeah, in my own mind, I was a giant!! Grinning.

**********

** My mother, Violet, and our first ever dog, King.

gemnahmaleybray

• 32 reads

Doors or windows

I’d pick windows.

Maybe I’d regret that but

I’m too tired to think about the thought of what I’d think after having thought which I’d have chosen.

Is it interesting that my thought is that I need windows because I need light but if I had only doors I could leave to go outside and see it?

Light has such power.

Or is it darkness that pulls the strings?

For me, the hero is light and the darkness, the villain.

But if I’m honest, I know they’re both one in the same. I know they’re both me.