“You there” His thin voice resonated; pealing of from its lucid ring, a few unheard echoes leaped, bouncing off the lonely bed room walls. Slowly, very slowly, as deliberate as a dancer on spilled oil, he edged towards the end of the bed, it’s pearl white mattresses frowning, its face folding a million myriad lines, scorning at his easy gullibility, the trustful innocence of any 9 year old.
A dry pair of lit sockets from under the bed moved along with his small fingers, grappling at the edge of the cot- a fuzzy ball of disheveled hair tentatively poking out followed by a juvenile pair of eyes, curiosity and hesitant fear in competing dips. What really is under the bed of a 9 year old, of any young kid, too flustered to scream, too manly to call out for his father, a bit too frightened to confront for himself, as he uncertainly chews his lower lip, sweat salt and fear lining his forehead, his perked ears hearing his own booming heart trying to break his ribs with each pushing thump.
The answer to all this and to some more, looked eagerly into the liquid eyes of the kid and barred its teeth; its lips, a thin line curled, trying to grin and bringing out rather dull reclusive smirk.
His back arched in pain, raw scalding pain, cutting through his senses like a knife slicing through rancid butter, exploding white dots singeing blank the borders of his vision, his shrill voice squealing, hands flailing around her neck desperate to get a decent grip on the soft protrusion, fingers wild in a murderous frenzy, in a mad struggle to squeeze the life out of her. Blood, it’s warm, sticky trickle, his own blood, dripping down his neatly pressed trousers, drawing fine lines of crimson red along the creases and crinkles of the smooth fabric, its warm fingers seized him in a sudden panic jellying his quivering bowels, farting out in haste the morning’s breakfast – a generous slice of ham tossed with carrots, beans, two extra large omelets finishing off with an good portion of fresh orange juice, now nothing more than a wet nauseous stench, one that filled his crotch.
And then it snapped, just as his nostrils picked up the reeking damp stink, his mind finally snapped, trying to make sense of his rapidly spiraling world, one thread at a time, shredding raw his reason and logic, the vortex pulling him down as he scrambled desperately to get a grip, a grip on anything – anything to sane himself. It was then that the knife, sharp and serrated, finally found his hand that plucked the same with monstrous ferocity and started hacking away at her again and again, blood spilling and splashing in a free flow bid, his, hers, theirs, pieces of hair caked with mud bloodied, bits of skin, shards of mutilates, bits of broken bones- all flying in the air, in a few moments of Technicolor visceral fountain.
Next day, when they found the two carcasses spooled in a pool of dried blood, the face of the women hewed featureless, the man’s under belly cleaved by his own knife – a few hundred gnats buzzing around in the sodden smell, relishing the retch of death, they couldn’t help but notice her teeth were still tearing into his vitals- Sucked him dry, that she did, just like he requested when he cornered her at his knife’s point.
The floors flew past her in a scrambling charade of random images, vividly colorful – a pandemonium of jumbled scenes leapt at her face, her father’s office- the top floor executive suite with the gleaming mahogany table where he liked to walk to and fro when deep in thought, the posh blue interiors of her play room, a few forlorn toys lying around in disarray, thrown around probably during her last tantrum, her mother’s photo, her warm smile encased in a cold frame, long dead by the time she was long born, her nanny for now calling out, shouting for her, as listless as any other in the long list of nannies that have attended to her, too many rooms to search, always empty, like her nights always spent lonely and like everything in her life, this too started as a childish thought, a prank, may be a attention grabber, but once she had jumped, there was no going back, just swirling eddy of her own misplaced thoughts.
No, she did not really scream, like a deer caught dead looking at the head lights of a speeding vehicle, she looked at the grey building that has been her life until then, until today, her last day probably and her last second probably and in those few final few moments, some part of her couldn’t help but wonder, Will her father ever notice that she was gone??
And just about when the ground swelled up to kiss her good bye, her eyes saucered with exultant cheer, noticing someone, someone who had actually took the time and energy and was waving at her, really waving at her- falling down and just about when she hurriedly cart wheeled her arms to return the good bye – splat.
“It is okay to be lonely” he repeated aloud to himself, may be just to break the silence sinking him, maybe to reaffirm the callused fact – with words like touching a dead wart, maybe he really wanted to just feel okay and may be even hear himself say the same in his own unwavering voice, but then before the sound of his own chords reached his ears, the television box grabbed and ate him up.
Quite a while back, I once tried to write a few short stories, reducing the number of lines gradually in each one of them. And, for some random reason, I wanted to try the same once more. Have I gotten better!! Now that's something that I rather would leave it to reader to decide. Do try my other story of the same idea at - link.
The stories – all have a common streak of dark themes, inspired by Stephen king – to whom, I have begin to take an instant liking- his broody themes, philosophical ranting, dark ideas. Wow... I hope, I have done justice to the genre.
Of all the stories, I kind of wanted to expand on the first one alone. In a way, I am curious to see how the story will take shape, what the kid is trying to do, whats actually inder his bed, whats the dynamics between the kid and whats under his bed... My mind like scratching an itch, is still pondering over the same. May be, I will do a write up of the same fiction – and finish the story, just hang with me for a wnile.
The second fiction, is inspired by the coloumn I read, on a magazine about how – Women being subjected to physical & mental harassment, how trust is becoming a rare thing to find in people nowadays. My story in a way, is a hit back to it - to the part about women being abused.
@ Admin (World55Fiction) -- thanks for the heads up !!