Wednesday, April 04, 2007

"you know we love you very much"

"Oh come on, say it!"

Father looks up from the report he is typing with a touch of impatience, but a smile on his lips - and stares into the pretty eyes of his daughter. She has her mother's eyes, he thinks.

"Just talk into this mic over here, it's really easy."

She continues trying to get her father to comply even though she knows that he doesn't like being disturbed when he is working. But this is important. Mother comes into the room carrying a tray laden with coffee, tea and biscuits.

"Leave your father alone, A - you know better than to interrupt his work."

"It's not going to take any time at all. He just needs to do what I'm asking him to. Please father?" She is looking at him expectantly. He smiles again thinking that she is just as persistent as her mother too! He pushes the laptop aside, and leans forward, taking the little voice recorder from his daughter's hand and clears his throat.

"Okay, all you have to do is say what I told your earlier Father and I promise I'll let you work!"

He looks at her now, rehearsing the words that his daughter wants him to recite in his head - he always was a little reluctant with words like these. Taking a deep breath, he begins

*Click* "I love you my darling little daughter, and I always will" *Click* "There? Happy now?"

She throws him a quick hug and giggles - Mother comes over, offering Father a cup of coffee (he doesn't care for tea that much). The girl hands the recorder over to her Mother

"And now you Mother. The same thing Father just said."

Humoring her indignant daughter, she takes the little recorder and hastily repeats the words too - before handing the little device back.

A turns, clutching the black box in her hand and skips over to the door - when Father calls out "But why do you want to record this darling - you know we love you very much?"

Turning to face her parents, the girl explains very matter-of-factly "Ofcourse I know that, papa - but this is just so I don't forget what your voice sounds like after you die."

Saying this she swings around on her heels, the hem of her frock twirling around her, and skips out , humming a tune to herself - a picture of young innocence.

..and they both sit there in stunned silence as their 5 year old daughter walks out the room.

Monday, January 15, 2007

the prominent gloom

It's dark. It's very dark. The feeble light that he sees is coming from a single light bulb - one of those lamps dangling from the ceiling. He can't help but feel that it's fighting a losing battle, trying to brighten the prominent gloom.

The lamp sways horribly, and for a second he can see whats before him - another second the darkness envelopes him again. He doesn't know which is more comforting. In the oscillating light he looks down, dimly aware that the corners of his mouth are itching. He can't bring his hand up to scratch it though... because something tells him his hands are busy.

The lamp swings eerily and in that second of brightness he looks before him. His hands are busy, yes. His left hand is flat on the filthy table - fingers splayed out like a person inflicted with vanity, admiring their fingers. Puzzled at this, he turns his gaze - something glinting to his right.. and notices the light is sparkling off the surprisingly clean meat cleaver in his hand (what the fuck am I doing with a meat cleaver??)

The light swings away and suddenly there is a bright light that illuminates his surroundings - penetrating the encompassing darkness. And then thunder, loud and clear. But he is confused even more now - because he realises that he is in a shed (umm, but I don't have a shed.. where the fuck am I?)

Then he hears it - the voice in his head coaxing him. He lifts his right hand, and for a second gazes at the cleaver in curiosity. And then it begins..

..the glint of the tool descending.. sharply.. swiftly.. and the jolt of pain (HOLY FUCK) running through him right arm. His eyes go wide when the light swings his way - confirming the source of this pain... only four fingers staring back at him, with blood.. lots of red, thick blood pouring out from where his littlest finger was seconds ago.

..and the cleaver comes down again, the pain doubling, slamming into him with ferocity.. the pulse of light showing him a missing ring finger too. He wants to scream, but somehow he can't. He is an actor, and a spectator in this bizzare play.

..and as if to the tempo of the light the cleaver drops down again two more times in a grotesque, rythymic dance.. the pain wracking his brain.. the blood leaking.. dripping wetly onto the floor, fuck he can even hear the now useless stumps that were his fingers rolling off the table and falling limp onto the wooden floor.. the thumb now looking more out of his place on his mutilated hand that the missing fingers.. god he wants to scream, dizziness clutching at his consciousness "thats just because of the blood loss, boy. Nothing to whine about.. don't worry, we're not done yet.. look how its pumping out? Thats because this hand is closest to you heart. Don't be afraid boy.. like I said, we're not done yet" the voice no longer coaxing him, but commanding him.

..and the knife comes down again, the downward arc of the shining metal illuminating the way as it slices into the skin, the veins, the nerves and the bone.. severing his thumb cleanly. The soft thud as the clumsy stump lands on the floor. He sways now, like the light - the horror of what he has just done so calmly dawning on him. His stomach retches, digust and nausea fighting for a place in his pain-riddled brain.

..he drops the knife with a quickness that surprises even him, a making a soft splash on the blood-soaked table and brings his hand up to his lips in shock...but why are his lips wet? And as lightning strikes again, lighting up his life he sees himself. Clearly. And what he sees makes his mind just switch off - falling to the floor as his senses he leave him his only thought - resounding in his skull " thats why I couldn't scream..". His head hits the floor making a little cloud of dust puff up and settle over his face, over his cheek, over the lips that have been sewn together. Tight.


His eyes open suddenly,
and even before he knows he is awake he wriggles the fingers on his left hand... feeling them, feeling the rush as they brush against his pillow. And he screams. He screams because he had the same dream again. AGAIN! He's had it for months.. and he throws his head back and screams because he had the same fucking dream again.

He screams because it's still a dream...