Reflections

I was the shadow presence he always felt behind his back, the lingering gaze to haunt him late at night, the darkness filling his room and his life. I was the one to guide that pocket knife across his wrist, who filled him with rage and fury. I watched him hold the same blade he used to harm himself in an attempt to harm another. I drove him to strike out at that student, to draw blood, to nearly kill. And oh, how glorious it was.

            His mind was all too open to me as his parents yelled, their anger matched only by his own. "Nothing but trouble," they'd called him. “A problem child.” They finally followed through on those countless threats of military camp. I was all too eager to whisper to him. They don’t care about you. They want to get rid of you. They don’t love you. No one does. And he was all too eager to believe. Within the first week of camp, I’d been able to make him even more miserable than before. I followed him. Every act of kindness meant nothing. Every smile and laugh was forced. Nobody cared about him, and he cared about nobody else.

I kept him up one night, taunting him with memories. He wanted to cut. Wanted to die. He scratched at his wrist, driving his fingernails in as deep as he could manage. I smiled. The time was coming to end it all. As he marched to the dining hall the next morning, I directed him to a glinting shape in the grass. I watched as he stepped out of line, bending down as if to retie his shoe. A guard yelled at him, opening the floodgates of hatred and anger my boy kept stored up in his mind. He didn’t speak. I watched my boy slide the shiny object into his uniform jacket sleeve. A large piece of mirrored glass. He thought again of cutting. Finally, he could do it properly. He carried the glass around all day and I listened to his thoughts, interjecting my own when Hope began to appear. This camp sucks. I hate it. I hate everything about it. Nobody cares, nobody even sees me. I just want to leave. I want to die.

He tripped in the barracks that night on a loose floorboard. As another guard screamed in his face, he noticed something silver in the space beneath. I heard him make a note of it in his thoughts, reminded him of it later. At night, we waited until the guard wasn’t watching, distracted by some noise outside. My boy crept over as quickly and quietly as he could, pushing the floorboard away. Beneath it, a small silver flask. He opened it, smelled the contents. Vodka. I listened to him wonder how it came to be there. He imagined another camper sneaking it in, stealing sips whenever they could. Poor boy. He couldn’t possibly know the truth. He’d had alcohol before, thinking it could drown out my voice, but it only allowed me to shout louder. He snuck back into his bed just as the guard returned. He turned the flask over in his hands. I stood beside his bed, watched as he opened the top and filled his mouth with the liquid. It burned in his throat and in his stomach. He took another drink.

“You wanted to die, didn’t you?” Only he could hear my voice. “You’re a failure. You can’t do anything right. Nobody would miss you if you were gone. The world would be better that way.”

His thoughts were silent, his gaze fixed on that flask.

“It’s not poisoned. You wish it were, but it’s not.”

I just want to get it over with. I want to die.

“You have that glass in your pocket. Take it out.” He followed my orders. “Set it against your arm and pull. You know how to do it.”

He hesitated. I don’t have to stop at cutting this time.

I smiled. “No, child. This is what you’ve been looking for.” I tilted the flask against his lips again. He gulped down the burning substance.

I don’t…. I can’t die here…

His thoughts were beginning to blur together. I laughed to myself. “Think of it. All the wrong your parents have done you. All the terror and pain you’ve caused. All the people who walked by without so much as a glance.”

Anger began to swell up in him. His thoughts became rage. He set the glass to his arm.

“Just pull it. Keep going until you feel dizzy, lightheaded. You’ll fade out of consciousness. Slowly and easily. All of this will be gone.”

I took his hand, guiding it vertically across his arm. “Like this.”

He took the glass in his other hand, crossed the other arm on his own. The anger and pain continued to flood his mind, blocking out the sounds of the guard coming over. He panicked as he saw just how much blood spilled onto the bed. I sat down beside him and stroked his hair, coaxing him into a deep, a final sleep. The glass lay on the bed beside him. I picked it up, looked at its surface. The face of a demon stared back, crooked grin spread across his face. The guard had called for medical assistance, but they couldn’t come in time. My smile widened. If only he’d looked. He might have seen our reflections.

A Letter...

"Tell me all about your foreign wars, and all about the photographs that line your drawers, 'cause I know a lot about closing doors, but not enough about what opens up yours..." -Andrew Belle

I suppose you wouldn't like that I don't open up much. Some symptom of trauma, you'd say. And you'd probably be right. But I still don't want to believe it. You've always known me far too well to believe even for a moment I'd accept something like that. I looked through your photographs again today. I know I shouldn't see some of those things again. I know what you'd say. But I missed you. I always miss you. And they may be the only thing I can have from you soon. There's talk of putting me in some home. They say the therapy isn't working well enough that I need to socialize more. They say I'm retreating into myself, getting depressed, relapsing. But I know they just want the house. They want the money. I'm no invalid. They talk about me like I'm not standing in the kitchen right next to them. I may not speak, but that doesn't mean I can't listen. I'm a human too. God, I miss you, Jeanne. The things you would say if you were here, if you could see those greedy little ingrates staring me down and hoping each bite, each breath, each beat of my heart is my last..... 

Those photographs in your desk. There's one of the two of us after I proposed. You look so happy. That's how I remember you now. You're that beautiful, joy-filled young lady who snatched my heart away. I like that image better than the one etched into the background of my mind.... all those months at the hospital, trying to hide your pain... You were still so beautiful. You told me you'd lived a full life, that you weren't afraid to go, that we'd grown old together the way we always wanted to. I should be content with that. But it seems I'm more selfish than you. I never wanted you to leave. I wanted to keep you for myself... 

I wonder sometimes why you keep all those photographs mixed up together. Ones of us on top of ones of battle fields on top of ones of our children on top of ones of the piles of corpses I built and burned... A soldier and a photographer. Who'd ever have guessed? Aside from my platoon, I mean. And probably the rest of the military, too. My men saw the way I looked at you, the way we talked when we could. I've told you before it was one of my men who convinced me to ask you on a date after we were both home, between the wars. I almost didn't. You were far too beautiful to ever say yes to me. But you did. Thank my lucky stars, you did.And then, some time years down the line, I found myself married to an angel, living a normal life, anchored to the ground by my beautiful love. It's gotten worse now that you're gone, you know. The nightmares. The visions in broad daylight again. All it takes is a loud noise and then... well, one day soon I may follow in your footsteps. 

Do you know how incredible it would be to be next to you again? I think that's what keeps me believing in an afterlife, believing that you can still read my letters. Just to be next to you again, my angel. To be with you. 

I have therapy again in an hour, but I wanted to write to you first. They're making me go nearly every day now instead of twice a week. Not Sundays-- they're still closed on Sundays-- and Saturdays are only for high risk and emergency patients. I suspect I may get one of those slots soon too if our kids have anything to say about it. Always acting like they know what's best... But don't you worry, my love. I'll be alright. Always have been, always will be. You're the love of my life, Jeanne. There's no one out there like you. Believe me, I've been close enough to all the edges of the world to see it. You were an angel among men and now... well at least now I know you're where you belong. With all the other saints and angels. With all the other stars. I'll leave your letter in the back of your drawer with the others. Tied up with twine like back in our army days. Try not to look at the war photographs when you get this. I'll leave the ones of us on top.

Always, Forever, and with all of my love,

Your Husband

Black Fox

T'was a fine spring morning as we began our hunt. The weather was fair and I hadn't the slightest cause for unease. Yet as I climbed atop my mount, unease did begin to grip my soul. I attempted to brush aside those beginnings of dread and rode off alongside my fellow huntsmen, though I know now I should never have done so. The foxhounds ran ahead, seeking the trails for which they had been so excellently bred and trained. The hour drew late into the morning, yet we found no quarry. The hounds had picked up neither scent nor sight of prey, despite searching with all the fervor of any beast so dedicated to their task. Even their excitement seemed to diminish as the time passed by and my company swore at the forest. The horses, too, stamped their feet and snorted in impatient  irritation. The master of the chase cursed at the ground withholding our prey. 

"If only the devil himself came by," he cried, "We'd run him such a race."
Suddenly sprang up a black fox from his hole, which the dogs had not been able to find. He paused for only a moment, staring at us men with his ember eyes. The hounds began their pursuit, letting up such a cry it seemed to fill the whole of the forest. The midnight prey bolted, hounds following closely behind. We chased that fox over the valley and the southern field. The horses sweat and the dogs panted furiously, but the acursed fox ran on as though he had not tired at all. We followed as far as the riverbank just north of the great ridge. He had gained a lead on us and we could scarcely see him as he leaped into the water and swum to the other side. 

Upon reaching the other bank, he stopped and turned back toward us, shaking the water from his dark fur. The dogs, nearly a third of a mile ahead, skid to a halt at the edge of the water. The master huntsman shouted and cursed at them to cross and claim their prize, but they only bayed in reply, pacing at the water's edge. The horses, too, when we reached the water, pulled at their reigns and tenaciously refused even to set foot in the water. All the while, the fox watched from the other side. To this day, I can see him, almost as if he were smiling. Upon seeing the reactions of hounds and horses and upon seeing the rising frustration among we men, he began to laugh. It was an awful, chilling, alien sound that proceeded from his mouth, resonating so loudly that the greenwoods trembled. The dread which I had so carelessly disregarded that morning again caught hold of me, twisting my stomach and squeezing my throat. The fox set one forefoot before the other and bent low, as if he might have been bowing. As he straightened, a low, grating voice came from the beast's mouth.

"Ride on, my gallant huntsmen. One day, I must come again, for you should never want for a fox to chase all over this glen. When your need is greatest, simply call upon my name, then I shall come and indeed we shall have the very best of sport and game."

I could scarcely believe my eyes and ears. Although I did not see them, I am sure all the men must have looked on with the same horrified wonder as I. Even the boldest of hounds ran back, cowering behind the horses, who had also begun to shy away. The fox again smiled and turned to the Devil himself, only the water creating a barrier between. We men, our hounds, and our horses all went flying back to the nearest town. Despite exhaustion from the prior chase, this new terror urged each soul swiftly onward. Behind us, I heard the laughter again. I know not how I gathered the courage, but as I turned to look back, I saw hard on our heels the little black fox, still bellowing out his laughter.

"Yes, ride on, my gallant huntsmen!" He cried. "Surely, I must come to you again. Else you may find yourselves wanting of a fox such as I to chase across this glen. When you find your need greatest, only call on Lucifer's name, then I will answer and we shall indeed have the best of sport and game!"

Author's Note: Unfortunately, I can claim no credit for the plot of this story. I based it off of a song that I stumbled across several months ago (linked below).I only wanted to tell the same story in a different way, so here we have this. I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to comment below. Thanks! 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9pUR9oxXDMA

Monsters

He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He could hear them fighting again, their raised voices slipping through the crack underneath the door. He was supposed to be asleep, but how could anybody sleep through this? He pulled his stuffed bear closer to his chest.

"It's okay, Yellow," he whispered. "Don't be scared."

Something shattered in the kitchen. He cringed. More shouting. Mostly Daddy's voice. The front door opened and slammed shut. A car started up and drove away. The only sound now was Mommy, crying. He held Yellow tighter. He hated it when mommy cried. He hated Daddy for making her cry. He listened to her tiny noises for a long while, waiting to hear the front door open again. When he was sure Daddy was really gone, he took Yellow and rushed to his door. He paused again at the hallway, listening. Mommy was still in the kitchen. He ran toward the half-open door. She sat there against the kitchen counter, head buried in her hands, shaking. Broken glass lay to her side. She looked up as he opened the door more. Her eyes were red, her hair hanging down in her face. She tried to smile for him, even though he could see the red marks on her arms.

"Don't come over here," her breaths shook even as she spoke. "There's glass."

"Mommy?" 

"It's okay, sweetie. Daddy got... upset again. It's okay now."

Slowly, she stood and walked toward him. He held up Yellow.

"He wants to help make you feel better."

She smiled at both of them and knelt down. She took the the stuffed bear and held out her other arm. He hugged her, held her, the same way she always hugged him when he cried. He could feel her starting to shake again, the breaths less and less stable. He felt her tears falling against the back of her shirt. He stayed there for a long time, playing with her hair like she did with his. When her tears finally stopped again, she took him gently away from her. She looked at him as if she hadn't seen him come in before. 

"Aren't you supposed to be asleep?" She kept her voice gentle, not like Daddy. Daddy would scream at him, yell at him, tell him how he was a stupid, worthless little boy and couldn't do anything right. He looked down at his feet. Before he could answer, he heard a car door slamming just outside. Mommy's whole body tensed. He could feel his heart beating faster. His breathing ran with it.

"I'll talk to Daddy, okay? Run back to your roo--"

The door opened. Daddy stood there, hand on the doorknob, staring at them both.

"Why aren't you asleep?" His voice sounded like thunder.

"He just couldn't sleep. He--"

"I wasn't asking you." The thunder deepened.

"What? He wanted to come in here and comfort his mommy? He wanted to tell her that everything would be better?"

Mommy was crying again.

"Well maybe things would be better if he'd never been born."

Mommy's hands started shaking again, "He couldn't sleep. He was--"

"There's... there's a monster.... in my closet," he could hear the shaking in his own voice, but tried his best to be brave. He had to be Mommy's strong little boy.

"There's no such thing as monsters," Daddy growled. Daddy started walking toward him.

Mommy stepped between them. "He's going back to bed now," she turned around and handed Yellow back. "Right?"

"Right." He clutched Yellow to his chest and stepped hesitantly backwards. Mommy tried to smile again, tried to let him know everything would be okay. He tried to smile back, to tell her the same, then turned and ran all the way back to his room. Even as he ran, he could hear them talking again.

"Please don't be mad at him, it wasn't his fault."

"The little bastard should have stayed in his room."

He closed the door behind him, hoping to drown out the voices, but it didn't work.

He crawled into his bed, pulling the covers over his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Don't say that." Mommy was pleading, begging. He wished the pain in her voice would hurt Daddy the same way it hurt him. He wished he could hurt Daddy, the same way Daddy always hurt them.

"If we didn't have to take care of that stupid kid, we'd be a lot better off. All he does is waste space and money. And all you can do is feel sorry for him, treating him like a baby. He's gotta grow up to be a man, and since all you can do is try to protect that worthless piece of trash, then maybe both of you are better off dead!"

He and Yellow huddled together under a blanket. He pulled the pillow over his head so he didn't have to hear Daddy's words any more. He tried to calm down, tried to remind himself to be strong, but he couldn't. He shook and cried and thought about how Mommy had shaken and cried too. He held Yellow as tightly as he could, burying his face in the soft body.

"Daddy's wrong," he whispered. "There is such a thing as monsters. Just... sometimes they look like humans."

Click.

Breathe… Click.

Do you know who I am? You thought you did. But you’ve never had any clue. You never cared enough to know me, never wanted enough to try. Satisfied with that ghost of an image you constructed in your head. That ashen idol living in your mind. I’ve been a shadow. A monster. You said it yourself. You made me believe it.

Deep breath… Click.

Do you know what I’ve done? Of course you do. All the things you blame me for. All the things you hate me for. Everything you’ve ever told me I did wrong. The opportunities I’ve wasted, the situations I’ve ruined, everyone I’ve hurt and abandoned. But I was only doing what you taught me. I was only following you.

Close your eyes… Click.

Do you know how I feel? Ha. You pretend to. Just like you pretend to care. Just like you pretend, like we all pretend, that everything’s okay. Nothing is okay. You haven’t hurt like I have, you don’t know the darkness marred by crimson lines. The shadows. The demons. The pain. All I ever wanted was for you to love me. All you ever wanted was for me to die. Well don’t worry.

Brace yourself… Click.

Do you know why I’m here? You've always said it’s for nothing. Worthless. Useless. Better off dead. All in good time. You made me believe I had no purpose. But my purpose is to kill, to hurt, to slaughter the innocent, shatter emotions, and break people down. For that, I commend you. You trained me well. So congratulations. Enjoy what I've become.

Calmly, slowly… Click.

Do you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking about you. Your face when you find this. Find me. Horror? Shock? A smile? I wish I could see it, but you can’t see anyone from Hell. I’ll tell you what I’m doing. Hint: the tearstains on this page are already dry. Hint: it’s been a long time coming. Hint: you’ll be the happiest person in the world.

Six chances.

One bullet.

A one-player game of Russian roulette.

One life at stake.

One cylinder left.

I hate you.

Bang.

Exciting News, Guys!

NANOWRIMO IS HERE, EVERYONE!!!!

Do you know what that means? No? Well, shame on you. National Novel Writing Month is a challenge for writers everywhere to join together in a quest for awesomeness. People all over the world enlist in this wonderful journey. Our goal? To write a 50,000 word novel in one month. Difficult? Yes. Time consuming? Of course. Dangerous? Very likely so. Worth it? Always.

So, as you may have guessed, I'm in. I've grabbed my coffee, pen, laptop, and creativity and I'm ready to go. My novel is called Ashen Lion. It's a semi-philosophical story based on what could have been true events. It's my first time trying out realistic fiction, so I'm apprehensive, but it'll be a good experience. And guess what I couldn't do it without? That's write (hehe, that's a pun). Nanowrimo.

In honor of this great program, and the month of November, I'm changing my font to this. And I'm fundraising. Nano is run by a nonprofit called The Office of Letters and Light. They rely on donations to keep NaNoWriMo running, and I've decided to help them out. For more information about my fundraising and goals or to donate, go to stayclassy.com/nanoashenlion. I'll also have updates on my novel progress there, a link to my official Nanowrimo page, and other stuff. If you don't go, don't worry. You'll probably just crush my spirits and make me cry. And I'll probably never write ever again. So no pressure.

Thanks guys! I'm super excited about this month. Ima rock this thing!!!

Leaena Tigris