"The demon was his brother."
I remember it down to the smell of oak, a five year old stumbles through intermittent darkness broken only by the lighthouse. The wind raged outside throwing leaves and ominous malaise at the child. "Mama?" Yeah, I could be painting a picture to pull at your strings, but it was pretty damn miserable. The child hears crying, thuds and screams, the most blood curdling screams his short little live has ever heard. As if to laugh at his despair the wind howls strong enough to blast a window open. The curtains shoot out as if to hinder the path of the child, "Turn back you fool!" The child would pass through the eye of any storm for the warm embrace of his mother.
He hears her scream out in terror, even when he can't hear it anymore it rings out in his mind. Somehow this child reaches the end of the corridor, standing before the floodgates. He reaches up conjuring up unimaginable courage and lets slip the dark scene. All at once he takes in a most macabre of circumstance. Bleeding from her head, his mother melts into the corner too devastated to scream out any longer. In the center of the study, father's desk has become some ritualistic altar and upon it the most demonic picture is seen by the child.
Huddled upon his father's lifeless corpse, a demon presses a long large knife across the neck of the patriarch draining him of all blood. The demon was his brother, now seemingly possessed by cardinal evil and in a frenzy. The sibling slowly turns to face his child brother and utters words that will never be tainted by the recollection of memories. "I had no choice Vincent, you must understand." The demon turns the knife on himself slicing his own neck. It is done with great determination multiple times as if by grim puppetry. Mother's face loses all emotion, staring blankly at the corpses of both her husband and son sprawled out on the altar of oak; she is never to speak another word. The child, out of his depth, realizes his mother is but a shell. There are no souls in this room anymore, not his own, not his mother, not his brother nor his father. He flees...
I wake up to the fine Camps Bay sun. Every time I have that dream, it gets worse. The words are always the same, "I had not choice Vincent, you must understand." Maybe one day I will Callum, maybe one day I will. Today, I've got two lectures and a plastic shindig at The One and Only. I look over at the sleeping body next to mine, what was her name again? I wish I could thank her for helping me sleep, but she wouldn't get it. Today, that five year old child is twenty-eight. My morning celebration of Louis XIII de Remy Martin brings me back to my reality that is now. I should slip out before whatever her name is wakes up, I'll sort this mess out later.
Happy Birthday to me.
He hears her scream out in terror, even when he can't hear it anymore it rings out in his mind. Somehow this child reaches the end of the corridor, standing before the floodgates. He reaches up conjuring up unimaginable courage and lets slip the dark scene. All at once he takes in a most macabre of circumstance. Bleeding from her head, his mother melts into the corner too devastated to scream out any longer. In the center of the study, father's desk has become some ritualistic altar and upon it the most demonic picture is seen by the child.
Huddled upon his father's lifeless corpse, a demon presses a long large knife across the neck of the patriarch draining him of all blood. The demon was his brother, now seemingly possessed by cardinal evil and in a frenzy. The sibling slowly turns to face his child brother and utters words that will never be tainted by the recollection of memories. "I had no choice Vincent, you must understand." The demon turns the knife on himself slicing his own neck. It is done with great determination multiple times as if by grim puppetry. Mother's face loses all emotion, staring blankly at the corpses of both her husband and son sprawled out on the altar of oak; she is never to speak another word. The child, out of his depth, realizes his mother is but a shell. There are no souls in this room anymore, not his own, not his mother, not his brother nor his father. He flees...
I wake up to the fine Camps Bay sun. Every time I have that dream, it gets worse. The words are always the same, "I had not choice Vincent, you must understand." Maybe one day I will Callum, maybe one day I will. Today, I've got two lectures and a plastic shindig at The One and Only. I look over at the sleeping body next to mine, what was her name again? I wish I could thank her for helping me sleep, but she wouldn't get it. Today, that five year old child is twenty-eight. My morning celebration of Louis XIII de Remy Martin brings me back to my reality that is now. I should slip out before whatever her name is wakes up, I'll sort this mess out later.
Happy Birthday to me.
