August 9th, 2009 Comment
The boy ran into the classroom, his class friends sat at individual desks looking down at the books in front of them. No one looked up at his manic entrance, as if he was not there. The teacher leant against her desk at the front of the class, also reading from the same book as the children, but she read it aloud; or so it seemed. Her lips moved as her eyes scanned from left to right, but he could not hear the words. The noise was there, but faint and garbled – he knew he should be able to understand, but it was as if this reality was now out of reach for him, a veil had fallen between him and them.
The boy fell to the ground, his back sliding down the wall, removing the edges of dry paint cracks, revealing dark red brickwork underneath. He looked around the room at everyone. Not one glance of acknowledgement from any of them, even those he counted as friends. Why had the teacher not seen him? She must have seen his distress, his terror, and like adults do, come to the rescue and make it all better, make the bad ‘it’ go away.
It all had become too much, the familiarity of what was his normal day no longer his to seek comfort in. The boy knew he was alone as he lowered his head into his huddled arms, tears streaming down his cheeks, his ability to act with composure gone. He was alone now; knowing only that ‘it’ was getting closer and closer.
The boy ran into the classroom, his class friends sat at individual desks looking down at the books in front of them. No one looked up at his manic entrance, as if he was not there. The teacher leant against her desk at the front of the class, also reading from the same book as the children, but she read it aloud; or so it seemed. Her lips moved as her eyes scanned from left to right, but he could not hear the words. The noise was there, but faint and garbled – he knew he should be able to understand, but it was as if this reality was now out of reach for him, a veil had fallen between him and them.
The boy fell to the ground, his back sliding down the wall, removing the edges of dry paint cracks, revealing dark red brickwork underneath. He looked around the room at everyone. Not one glance of acknowledgement from any of them, even those he counted as friends. Why had the teacher not seen him? She must have seen his distress, his terror, and like adults do, come to the rescue and make it all better, make the bad ‘it’ go away.
It all had become too much, the familiarity of what was his normal day no longer his to seek comfort in. The boy knew he was alone as he lowered his head into his huddled arms, tears streaming down his cheeks, his ability to act with composure gone. He was alone now; knowing only that ‘it’ was getting closer and closer.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
August 4th, 2009 Comment
His eyes, his eyes could not stop staring at the girl’s face. The way her pretty face was contorted in sheer terror, her reasoning gone as she threw herself at the door again and again, her head smashing against the reinforced glass, already cracked; now even more so. The high sun silhouetted the girl, a darkness that bled. The red left behind on the wire-crossed window became deeper with each impact. As she moved back to run at the door again, the light of the sun projected the colour of her blood across the boy’s face, masking him with her terror that seeped into his retinas. Electrical pulses carried the terror to his brain, overloaded synaptic terror found his reasoning, and a second later he ran as he heard the final impact and something solid finally broke. He was pretty sure it was not the window or the door.
His heart was pumping fast now as he tried to leap up the stairs, as many as he could at a time.- all he knew is that he had to get away from it. His foot slipped on the edge of the step as he reached the corner and gravity took care of the rest: his shins and knees hit the stone edges, sending pain through his body. The boy screamed in pain, and he was almost thankful for the moment of distraction, but it was only a moment. He looked up as he pushed his hands down to bring his body up and carry on up the stairs. In the corner of the stairwell turn was a wicker chair, on which sat a clown doll. It was a large toy, taking up the entire seat, its white face and red suit very apparent against the dull wicker and industrial magnolia walls. The clown’s eyes lined in a solid black glared at the boy, retaining the boy’s attention in response. Deep red lips curled upwards at the edges, creating a malevolent smile across the doll’s face, as if it knew what was coming for the boy and what ‘it’ would do to him when he was finally caught.
With the vision of the doll with its underlying evil and corruption burned into the boy’s mind, he jolted and carried on running up the stairs. At the top he almost fell through the double swing doors, his arms outstretched to let his hands take the force without thinking. As he ran down the corridor his eyes searched the windows into the classroom on his left. Frosting in the lower part of the windows prevented him from seeing with much clarity, but he could see shadows of a tall figure standing at the end of the room, with hunched figures sitting neatly in rows. He knew it was his class as he got closer to the door, reassured by the familiar silhouettes with the edges broken by the pattern of the frosted glass. Finally, the old green painted door was in reach and he grabbed the tarnished bronzed doorknob, pulling it towards him.
His eyes, his eyes could not stop staring at the girl’s face. The way her pretty face was contorted in sheer terror, her reasoning gone as she threw herself at the door again and again, her head smashing against the reinforced glass, already cracked; now even more so. The high sun silhouetted the girl, a darkness that bled. The red left behind on the wire-crossed window became deeper with each impact. As she moved back to run at the door again, the light of the sun projected the colour of her blood across the boy’s face, masking him with her terror that seeped into his retinas. Electrical pulses carried the terror to his brain, overloaded synaptic terror found his reasoning, and a second later he ran as he heard the final impact and something solid finally broke. He was pretty sure it was not the window or the door.
His heart was pumping fast now as he tried to leap up the stairs, as many as he could at a time.- all he knew is that he had to get away from it. His foot slipped on the edge of the step as he reached the corner and gravity took care of the rest: his shins and knees hit the stone edges, sending pain through his body. The boy screamed in pain, and he was almost thankful for the moment of distraction, but it was only a moment. He looked up as he pushed his hands down to bring his body up and carry on up the stairs. In the corner of the stairwell turn was a wicker chair, on which sat a clown doll. It was a large toy, taking up the entire seat, its white face and red suit very apparent against the dull wicker and industrial magnolia walls. The clown’s eyes lined in a solid black glared at the boy, retaining the boy’s attention in response. Deep red lips curled upwards at the edges, creating a malevolent smile across the doll’s face, as if it knew what was coming for the boy and what ‘it’ would do to him when he was finally caught.
With the vision of the doll with its underlying evil and corruption burned into the boy’s mind, he jolted and carried on running up the stairs. At the top he almost fell through the double swing doors, his arms outstretched to let his hands take the force without thinking. As he ran down the corridor his eyes searched the windows into the classroom on his left. Frosting in the lower part of the windows prevented him from seeing with much clarity, but he could see shadows of a tall figure standing at the end of the room, with hunched figures sitting neatly in rows. He knew it was his class as he got closer to the door, reassured by the familiar silhouettes with the edges broken by the pattern of the frosted glass. Finally, the old green painted door was in reach and he grabbed the tarnished bronzed doorknob, pulling it towards him.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
July 21st, 2009 Comment
From somewhere inside she resisted, using every ounce of will left in her fragile essence to force her vision away from the eyes of the children, those who no longer existed for themselves, willing slaves of the source of her terror, her ‘it’. A wave of fear flowed over her; her body reacted, wanting to get away. She found herself being thrown forward by her own muscles, commanded from somewhere beneath her terror. Clinging to the fence she dragged herself along until she fell again, the wire support moving away from her as a gate swung open from her weight. She looked up, her eyes trying to focus on the mass of swirling colour upon the brickwork and that is when she saw it.
Shapes formed in front on her, rectangular and a dull green, they wavered until they became one. A light flickered from it, stark white and almost blinding as it became constant, forming a square in the rectangle. It called to her, a desperate comfort and respite from her horrors. Then something blocked the saving light allowing her eyes to settle and that was when she realised it was door. A door into wall, an escape from all those who looked on. Their stares hitting hard into her mind from behind and maybe even escape ‘it’.
She looked further into the square window to see what was now silhouetted by the light. As she crawled closer the darkness faded and revealed a set of eyes peering through the reinforced glass. She jerked back, as she feared that them and ‘it’ were also behind the door, but then the eyes blinked and she realised that behind those eyes was life, someone else who was like her. It was enough. She got up off bruised knees and ran towards the door. She slammed against it, hoping for it to fall open and the room inside to catch her, shutting the courtyard, the other dead children and ‘it’ outside and away from her. Her shoulder ached as it slammed into the surface that did not move, her fists hitting the blistered paint upon the solid wooden door. She wrenched at the handle, blood causing her hand to slip – even when she did get grip it was with no effect, as the door was locked.
She screamed for help at the figure behind the smeared dusty glass. She saw that it was a young boy, maybe eight or nine years old. His face showed panic, his hands gripping his t-shirt with a desperateness only innocence could bring. She could see him looking at her helplessly, his eyes absorbing the terror from her own eyes, from ‘it’. Her soul shattered and she was lost.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
