The curl of smoke rises slowly; grey figures dance and twirl within the fading mist. Their voices wash over me, haunting and melodious. The angels that frolic within the swirling clouds will protect me from Them. When the shadows lengthen, They will come. I trail my fingers through the craters on my arms; tracing silken paths that lead to Heaven. Heaven can wait, I watched that once, where? The television I think, no it’s broken; the same static scene glares back at me from high up on the wall, never changing, dogs playing pool with little hats. It’s crooked, smashed, like me. My Aunt gave me that picture, not the television stupid, a picture, Aunt Mary; she had a little lamb. The drums rumble in the hills. Zulus? Too far away, rain tapping at the window to be admitted, names not down; sorry. You have to invite them in. Something wicked this way comes.
I catch a glimmer of movement on the table top as brittle laughter pierces the seraphic chorus. They have arrived. My eyes try to follow the turn of my head but my vision follows at a crawl as if caught on a soft close drawer. Another scuttling behind me and I try to rise; the concrete in my legs denies me. I feel them moving around my feet, nipping at my ankles as I struggle to move, laughing at my inability to engage even the most basic motor function. I hear the crunch of bone as one of them bites into my trembling hand, his yellow tongue darting to and fro and he starts to climb my arm towards me. Others join him scrambling up my legs. “LEAVE ME ALONE” I scream as they edge ever closer, reaching to embrace me with those tiny black hands. A familiar face melts in from the left blocking my vision, a voice soaked in cotton wool soothing, calm, “nothing there, just relax.” I feel the scratch on my arm and the golden horses carry me away into the soft light.
The sun shining through the window blinds me as I drift back to reality and the hell in which I live. There are bodies still sleeping all over, some I recognise, others not. Syringes hang from yellow-grey arms and mouths gape in silent echoes of ecstasy. How many started as I did? Watching others inhale the soft tendrils of smoke then drifting off with eyes at the horizon. Watching and wanting a taste, just a little, just to see. The first time the Dragon bites is nirvana, like nothing you’ve ever experienced. Trying to grab its tail as it runs further away to recapture that rush turns inevitably to the needle. I placed my mat upon the junkie helter skelter and let loose. I hit the bottom and as the song goes, behold the tracks of my tears. Someone, somewhere in the days when such things mattered, wrote of Captain Trips, the super flu; a virus tearing through humanity killing all those that it touched. I live that tale every damn day.
The speed freaks and the stoners that drop by call us sleepwalkers, the insomnia that shackles us only fixed with a fix. What do they know? Do they get the reaction we do out there from the nine to fivers? They shrink from us as we go about our day, wide eyed and panicky, expecting us to attack; to take their money to feed the monkey gnawing constantly at our throats For the most part, we ignore them; we’re just taking care of business. What use would we have with them? Will they carry us away on a cloud of happiness to quiet oblivion? Will they ebb and flow with orgasmic pleasure through our veins as they unclench our muscles and lay acres of feathers beneath us as we float on a summer breeze? I was told once that heroin is named after the German word for heroic so why do they cower, we could save the World?
Don’t get me wrong, I want to stop. Living wrapped in these chains is not living in any sense of the word but I’ve tried. I’ve tried and I’ve failed. The days of shaking, agony and panic an unending misery that your body knows can be cut short with just ‘one more time’. That single moment that eases the pain sending you back down the snake, back to the floor. Easier to go on then go back I guess. I need a drink. I weave my way through the undead littering the floor to the kitchen. Plates and cups jostle for space in the stained sink, why can’t I find a spoon? The click of the kettle wakes someone from their slumber, Ed; I think that was him last night, chasing them away. I make two cups.
“They were there again then?” he asks scratching at the scabs bisecting his arm. “You need to do something if you wanna stay. You scared the crap out of that new lot from the park. They were just starting to cook up and there’s you thrashing and screaming until I topped you up. Sort it out.” I nod and light a cigarette, watching the flame flicker, wishing he too would leave me alone; why can’t they all just leave me be. I need to sign on later and she’ll be there; that woman with the moustache and name tag hanging round her neck. Jean, Joan, Jesus woman give me a break. She hates me, hates us all I guess. Hands out, asking for help; help to go on, help to get by, help to forget.
I stub the half finished cigarette in my tea and reach for my kit. I’ll go later.
No fourteen year old should have to go through this. As I back slowly into the dark alley I beckon him to follow, shaking with the grotesque horror of what I must do. I have no choice.
Looking over his shoulder constantly he shuffles nervously towards me. Away from the glare of the streetlights he seems to grow a little in confidence. “How much?” he asks licking his lips, his eyes hungrily devouring. “Thirty” I whisper, head down. I take his frantic fumbling at his trousers for assent. I feel sick. I hate myself. What did I ever do that could deserve this? As he edges ever closer I can smell him, the negligent cocktail of sweat, stale cigarettes and urine. But beneath that, deep beneath those surface odours, I can smell IT. The rushing, calling me.
My teeth rip into his soft white throat as my hand holds him up against the wall. My eyes roll back into my head as I drown in his blood. The finest wine coats my tongue, dripping drunkenly from my chin. He struggles only briefly as a fly might against a spider in her web, the end inevitable. Shaking my head from side to side, I tear, bite and rip at his flesh, licking, sucking. My thoughts are no longer my own as I surrender to the moment. The hairs on my body are individually aware, each one alive, thousands upon thousands of microscopic fingers reaching out to grasp the ethereal power that passes between us. Perhaps the wraiths that I see, haunting dealers on street corners have some idea. Watch their rapturous faces as they plunge the liquid ecstasy through their veins. As the blood flows through my body, I see the man as a boy, terrified.
I wait alone in the dark, hoping that he’ll not return.
I must hurry. I use his coat to clean what I can of the mess from my face and hands and run. Through the rain, a fine mist that slowly soaks through my clothes and onto my cold grey skin. Are these God’s tears cleansing me, washing away the sin of what I’ve become? I run ever faster through the empty city, splashing through puddles on and on, pushing to get home in time. It always seems so quiet in these hours before dawn to those that cannot hear. Like the boy and the girl on the corner, arms around shoulders as if on an invisible ship. Laughing and stumbling they don’t see the huddled shapes they pass hidden in doorways, watching them. I can smell the fear and jealously boiling just below the surface of those snarling faces. I can hear their anger; it deafens me as they scream silently after them. The red cloud suffocating me starts to lift and as my humanity returns, I think back to the bundle of rags that I have created. My tears join His.
No! The front door slams and I can hear the steady thump of each foot louder and louder as he climbs the stairs. My father is home.
I kick aside the corrugated sheet that is my door and crash gasping into my room. My chest heaving, I steady myself and stand in front of the full-sized mirror. I stare in wonder and joy. My skin is so alive, pink and smooth. My damply glistening eyes sparkle, my hair although stuck to my forehead dark and lush. I can feel the strength of my arms and legs, the energy bunched within me, waiting to be released. My heart pounds at my innocent beauty. I glow with life.
I sink beneath the quilt hoping that the drink has dulled his craving. I hold my breath as he reaches the top of the stairs. He must be able to hear my heart thumping through the silence of the night. The sourness rises up from deep within me as the door starts to open.
When I was a child, I remember there was a large wooden box in my parents’ room. When I opened that box, I was transported to a different world. It had old dozens of old coats, shirts, trousers, hats and scarves. My imagination would run wild and I’d stand in front of the mirror and pretend to be anyone that I could think of. One day a swashbuckling pirate, the next a spaceman, forever exploring the endless sky. Anything I could imagine I could become. I have come full circle. Now, as then I dress up. I can be anyone I want to be, for a time at least.
I’m older now, I watch them play. Mothers sit in huddles on benches chatting while their eyes scan the horizon like frightened deer. A girl falls from the slide. She starts to cry and her mother lifts her to her shoulder, whispering sweetly as she holds her cheek against that soft white skin. I see boy away from the others oblivious. I rise and…
I can’t remember. As his blood was, so now his soul follows, seeping slowly away.
Within the mirror, I gaze at my soft white skin. Cracks slowly appear at the edges of my lips and snake their way across my face. My eyes deaden and my fingers yellow as the brittle nails start to chip. My hair recedes back across my paper thin skin stretched too tightly across my skull. A phantasmal corpse stares forlornly back at me. An intangible shadow, there yet not, solid yet smoke. “Please,” I whisper, “just a little longer.” Watching myself, I fade slowly away to nothingness, like the scent of a woman on the air as she passes you in the street.
I venture out into the rain once again.
We sit with our heavy woollen cloaks wrapped tightly against the biting wind, watching them.
Their black scales glisten in the flickering glow of the firelight. A small party of Cadutori, the Fallen. Long ago, the Gods banished them to the surface for their arrogance. They dared to rise up against the creators and in the great battle told to us as wide eyed children, the skies raged and crashed for forty years as they fought. Defeated, their wings torn from their backs they were thrown down, to walk among us poisoned with the essence of man. Forever destined to carry the greed, the anger and the pride, sins that had destroyed that race many years previous. Now they plague our lands. Locusts, stripping bare the villages and fields that stand in their path.
They sit laughing with one another in the clearing, empty wineskins scattered about their feet. The smell of venison slowly turning over the flames makes me long to be back in the warmth of the barracks with a hot bowl of stew. My eyes covetously drawn to the fire as I hold my shaking hands to my armpits to ward off the cold. The snow lies heavy on the ground and my feet are already numb from the prolonged immobility. I chew slowly on the dried rabbit that we all carry tied to our belts and wait for the order to attack.
We came across the destruction that shadows them earlier in the day. We had been scouting the forest east of the City as there had been reports of raiding parties coming down from the mountains to terrorise the local farmers. It was uncommon for them to leave the warmth of their caves in the winter months. I was the one that found them. The broken bodies and torn limbs a bloody jigsaw against the white carpet on which they lay, steam rising from the carcasses. They were still close.
We had been trading with the mountain folk for the past few years. Their skill and knowledge of the metals that they unearth unsurpassed throughout the borders. Each of the bodies had been stripped of weapons and clothing. Even I, accustomed to the horrors of war could not hold back the hot bile when I saw what had been done. The bodies ripped open and the insides removed, leaving just empty husks for the birds to pick at. We had heard tales of their love of entrails in the taverns late at night when the alcohol starts to loosen tongues but to have it confirmed in such a manner sickened me to my core. We followed the tracks not yet swept clean by the storm to the here and now, waiting for our moment.
I turn my head at the soft touch to my shoulder. “Soak the arrowheads” Jared whispers handing me a small vial. “Holy water?” I question. Nodding, he moves on. The wind cuts into my bare skin as I pull the stopper free and coat my arrows. To each side of me I see others following the same routine. Bows are being readied and knives unsheathed. A rising sense of anticipation flows through us. Blowing heat into my hands I notch an arrow in preparation and watch for the signal.
The arrows fly through the air, a soundless swarm of death. Mine catches one just beneath the chin and I see the shock register on his face as he collapses. His hands claw at his throat as he chokes on the blood. At once we are among them, slashing and snarling. I don’t remember drawing my sword but it clashes against the blow that comes from my right. I thrust the knife in my left hand into his neck and shoulder him aside. In the flickering shadows of the firelight I see Jared fall. A tall Cadutori kicks him off the blade he has buried in his belly. I throw my knife but it passes harmlessly by his head as he turns to face another. Something smashes into me from behind and my face crashes into the snow. The many hours spent training with Martin take over and immediately I roll. As the blade thuds into the ground inches from my face I hack out at the exposed legs. I scramble away as he falls screaming.
As quickly as it starts, it ends. Bent double with my hands on my knees I try to catch the breath that clouds the air around me. I’m surprised to see that we’ve managed to take a prisoner. A few of the others have crowded around him raining blows on the arms that cover his head and kicking out at his exposed body. Aaron, our commander shoves them aside and pulls him to his feet. At his order, they drag him over to a thick tree and tie his hands around it. Heartbeat slowing, I walk over to watch.
Even with the knife held to his throat, the Cadutori captive exudes confidence, a smile touches his lips and his blazing eyes bore into anyone brave enough to hold his gaze.“What are you doing down here this late in the year?” Aaron asks him swirling one of the vials of water around in front of his face. Not waiting for an answer he splashes some onto the prisoners face. If he’s disappointed with the lack of reaction that the burning skin brings, it doesn’t show. “I asked you a question”, Aaron prompts. As if in response, the thunder of war drums echoes through the silent night and as one our heads turn towards the mountains.
Thousands of torches, like glowing rivers of lava, flow down the dark slopes toward us.
The curl of smoke rises slowly; grey figures dance and twirl within the fading mist. Their voices wash over me, haunting and melodious. The angels that frolic within the swirling clouds will protect me from Them. When the shadows lengthen, They will come. I trail my fingers through the craters on my arms; tracing silken paths that lead to Heaven. Heaven can wait, I watched that once, where? The television I think, no it’s broken; the same static scene glares back at me from high up on the wall, never changing, dogs playing pool with little hats. It’s crooked, smashed, like me. My Aunt gave me that picture, not the television stupid, a picture, Aunt Mary; she had a little lamb. The drums rumble in the hills. Zulus? Too far away, rain tapping at the window to be admitted, names not down; sorry. You have to invite them in. Something wicked this way comes.
