Siberian Breaks

September 25, 2010
By spleenless322 BRONZE, Plymouth, Massachusetts
spleenless322 BRONZE, Plymouth, Massachusetts
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

It hurt a lot, this time even more than the first. You look around with an uncertain grimace on your face, afraid that someone will come and rescue you. Sitting here in layers of decadence and self mutilation, you wonder when the rush will kick in and the memories of that terrible night will fade into the abyss. Each time the cold steel slices against your unblemished skin, an involuntary gasp of air escapes your taut lips. But still you beat on; hoping that this cursed blood will be enough to satisfy the beast who lies within.

You look around for a second, taking in your surroundings. There was the bleak stone wall, about eight feet high which spanned throughout the entire property. It was rather worn down, various sections needed to be cleaned and re-grouted. The worst section was located in the encroaching twilight of a weed infested excuse for a backyard. Grizzled trees swayed somewhere far off, nearby lights flickered out as the day drew to a close, and the muggy sky proved bare as usual. At one time, strewn books and rubbish had served as careless landmarks, illuminating a distinctly forgettable atmosphere to this shelved aroma. You stare blankly at the wall, remembering the happy days where you all used to climb it and jeer at the girl with the pretty little skirts and pink floundering ribbons nestled in her soft blond hair. But, amid these happy memories, you continue with this twisted ritual, instantly incoherent when it comes to the pleas of the so called “loved ones.” You wish you could retain some small validity about the signs you try to read, that you wouldn’t so consistently find yourself unsure whether they were your own invention, or something more. The last time you considered this, you were sitting in an overstuffed beige leather couch in your therapists office. Looking up at the ceiling, you told her about the dreams that grip your mind, how her face never goes away. You start to go into the details of that horrible night, but something always holds you back. You can see your psychotherapist now, grinning to herself as she tells her obese husband she loves him, patting him smugly on the back while she continues to carry on a fantasy with the dim-witted pool boy. You can also hear mother and father say to each other that they “still loved you,” despite the accident that robbed your parents of their only daughter. Priests, teachers, friends, therapists, even lawyers have talked to you about love in the past year. But how do you begin to separate fact from fiction? And do you even want to? The blade never felt this good. It sinks deeper into your flesh.

The windswept landscape told a bleak story and a few crows circled the house and eventually perched on the wall. They knew what was coming. You do too. A collective breath rose and fell from the giant stone wall with each drop of bloodshed, but soon enough it quieted. In this brief repose, slim cracks appeared upon the wall’s surface. The emergence of these hidden openings proved nearly as frightening as somewhat enticing. It was at this point that the wall began to speak to you again. This time there were no instructions on what to do or what to say. The only words it offered today were ones of comfort. With each syllable it uttered, you can feel your etched scars knit together like Velcro, the little droplets of blood slowly rescind into your veins and the beads of sweat running down your forehead stop cold. You listen quietly for the fated calling of your name, your attention instantly sapped. Your polished eyes seem to gaze longingly into the secret passages and tunnels that only you can see. The nearby horizon instantly turned black as the world began to spin. Round and round and round your head whirls as your body becomes rigid, ready for the backbreaking terror that is about to infiltrate every orifice of your body. The blade clatters to the ground and your pursed lips open just enough that you are able to utter two words.

“Take me.”

For some reason these words just feel right as they escape your lips. Your mind is split. It knows what is going to happen next, hates it, and loves it. Now you realize the blood has not quenched the monsters undeniable thirst. Your soul is about to go on the same trip that it did exactly seven years ago, when your first discovered that the wall could talk. Invisible ropes tightened around your torso, each breath becomes a struggle. Yet their marks, however firmly framed and mounted, will soon be forgotten as the wall opened up and the secrets flowed like lava that only you could touch. Each move you make feels less stable, as if countered by the vengeful beast in front of you. Or behind you… Or nowhere. Goosebumps ripple across your flesh each time you see her pale white face, her ghastly expression locked into your own, the kiss of death still fresh on her lips. But where there was once only room for one, lay room for another. The wall had to say no more. It had already been said. You take the instructions given to you and walk away, becoming increasingly edgy as each terrifying moment passed. You wish that you could just control the walls overflowing temperament before it controlled you. You wished just once you could do the right thing, that such an accepted idea could make sense to you, and not feel so utterly foreign. After going inside to grab something to eat, your placid expression catches the eye of your father. “Andrew!” he exclaims, “What's wrong with you?” “Nothing father,” you mutter, with dismayed affection, mustering up a half baked smile. He glares at you for a minute, not sure if he should question you more or just let you be. “Ok son” he says as he returns to his television and whisky, “You just look like you went surfing in Siberia.” You grin to yourself as you finagle the wire in your pocket. “Yes, something like that.”

The tragic streetlamps loomed in forgotten corners over the bricks and cobblestone alleys that the beast was so fond of. This time though, you are completely alone. After the first episode, when your hands so willingly pushed her over the edge with not so much as a tremor, he was certain you would be able to complete your task. You approach the young boy silently. He does not notice the foul stench that you have taken on. His shiny black hair sways back and forth as he swings carelessly. The playground is empty except for him. Perfect. Clenching your teeth, you continue forward, getting closer to your prize. So close you can feel his heart mesh with yours, each beat you liken to a tribal drum, the ceremonial march of death becoming easier with each passing moment. Pretty soon you are close enough to reach out and touch him. You can sense the layers of thin restraint unravel until they are no more. As the swing slows down you reach out and grab him by the collar.

Usually, a scream would have erupted somewhere, possibly the horrid noise of a crushed skull or a collapsed windpipe. But that was seven years ago. Now your strength was overpowering. It wasn’t even a fight. You watched the life slip away from him as a little trickle of blood collected by the corner of his pale blue lips. Every sound, sight, and smell fell away as the beast inside of you rejoiced. Trumpets flair and golden hued carpets unraveled in your mind as he paraded around gleefully. Evil has triumphed, good has been vanquished.

He was heavier than you thought. You carry the limp lifeless body two whole blocks until you reach the wall. Disheveled and sweaty, you dump the sacrifice on its doorstep. Slowly, the cracks in the wall mend together until it looks normal again. The endless wormholes and alternate realities ceased to exist. A vindictive explosion of fiery red outpourings erupted before anything else could be revealed. And in the end, that was all there was.

The author's comments:
This is fiction.

This story is about whatever I wanted it to be about.

Either drugs or the devil.

But is there a differnce?

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