So a few weeks ago (I’m a slow starter these days) I mentioned an idea about a story, inspired by the lines of an old poem
I started writing it today.
I was supposed to be writing about mental illness and suicide, but I’ve got time.
You can read the first part of the story I wrote over at JESSICA’S SITE – I’ve decided all of my new fiction will be going there, while I will leave this place for all things Helena & Penny etc…, and past projects like the Weltschmerz Collection, Cyanide & Cherries, etc..
If you can’t be bothered, I’ve copied and pasted the story here… but after this, you’ll have to go to http://www.whoisjessica.com to read new fiction. Go FOLLOW. Or get notified by email or whatever.
The Girl Who Wasn’t There (Part I)
as she gets up from the floor
You can hit me all you want to
but I don’t love you anymore
Lou Reed – Caroline Says II
The voice was a harsh whisper, spoken from its own hiding place. The floorboards creaked, each sound like a screamed warning, but the herald’s voice was always in vain. Thick fingers attached to monstrous hands like bear’s paws always found their prey. Michael scrambled, pushing himself further under the bed, praying that the bedroom wall would open up like mother’s arms, enveloping and protecting him, but there was nothing there but cold plaster. Angry hands swiped at his feet, and the growling and cursing scared the boy so badly that his bladder let go. His father, finding his sleeve suddenly soaked in urine, went into a rage, pulling back and slamming his hand on the bottom of the boxspring. Howling in fury, he lifted the bed up with one arm, revealing the cowering child beneath. Hiding was instinctual, but only delayed the inevitable — Michael knew he couldn’t hide forever, but secretly hoped that one day his father would just give up — that he would at long last win this game of high stakes hide and seek.
“Get up out of there,” his father said, breathing heavily, teeth clenched, his brow furrowed, turning his face into the fearsome visage of a wild predator. “Get up out of there right now, or so help me Jesus…”
Michael’s legs wouldn’t move at first. They felt like dead wood. He wanted to move, but he hesitated, not sure if he would make it past his father’s legs without being struck on the way by. Instead he sat looking up at the man in the dark blue jeans and faded football jersey, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose, huffing and puffing like an out of shape wolf in a dark fairy tale. He was holding the cheap metal bed frame up with one hand and wiping his angry red face with the other, and Michael thought that he might be able to sneak by him if he was quick. In order to catch him, the old man would have to let go of the bed, and Michael was small, and could be quick if he needed to be. Sometimes being quick meant the difference between taking a backhand across the face or on the shoulder; between being picked up by your hair or by your shirt.
Michael leapt, and whether his father’s fingers slipped — they were slick with sweat — or if he dropped the frame, no one can say, but instead of sliding under the frame and past his father’s waiting feet, his head went over the top, just as his father brought the boxspring and mattress, along with his own bulky frame, down on top of his son’s head, crushing it. Michael’s head made a sound like a rotten melon splitting, and if his father heard the other voice in the room screaming, he didn’t seem to register it — instead, as if waking from a nightmare at the realization of what he’d just done, he fell to his knees and began to weep. He lifted the bed and ran his hands through the gory mess that was his child’s hair, kissing the straw-coloured hair, now spoiled and bloody, and saying over and over again how sorry he was, how he never meant to hurt him, how if he had just eaten his dinner like he was told, this never would have happened.
Downstairs, Michael’s mother was on the phone, crying for help.
“He’th finally done it,” she moaned, lisping through cut and swollen lips. “He’th finally done it.”
From the man’s own lips, the monster’s moan of regret and remorse.
From the closet, the screaming faded into a whimper.
On the stairs, the sound of footsteps, coming closer.
to be continued…