Her clothes were dripping, torn, skin full of abrasions as she staggered from the river, into the afternoon, but into a twilit forest, trying to gain distance from her pursuer, whom she thought, was sure death if he caught with her. Kaycee knew without a doubt it was the escaped max-pri psycho convict Eleazar. In her horror he grabbed her from Middle Pryce School parking lot, shoved her into the backseat of the truck, and kept telling her, “Everything will be alright.” This tattooed, multi-pierced psycho calmly assured, as they traversed the highway and in her fright, she laid across the backseat, hoping the pealing brown leathers would engulf her, fearing his shockingly loving eyes.
She had reason to. For the past few days, coinciding with his escape and the subsequent state warning of a killer on the loose, a string of grisly killings have shocked Pryce and the county. First, her classmate Gayle, erstwhile prom queen, was found stuffed in a locker, in pieces. Next was the county fair pageant winner, Daisy, who went missing and in horrid angles, fit into a dumpster. The man, gristled, unkempt, mumbled these murders as he drove, enumerating, grating that he dreamt them, all too vividly. Kaycee could barely scream, crying as she crumpled herself more, and was beyond screaming, throat sore, voice hoarse. He confided he saw her crush Rex slashed and eviscerated, in front of his girlfriend and campus slut Melrose was dispatched similarly. Psychopaths were megalomaniacal, and his intimations were a prelude to glorying in gore, Kaycee numbly recalled.
He intoned, “You are the last. You are the last of the sacrifices.” He brandished an ornately carved knife, whispering, “This will end it all and bring you peace.”
“No!” Kaycee cried, and then suddenly, she remembered how Mona would be the next victim of the fiendish murders, sporting a pentagram tattoo on her wrist. When she’s this strawberry blond, the next looker in the list.
He stopped the truck over a bridge spanning a gurgling river, going over the smoking hood, from an overheating radiator. Gritting her teeth, she kicked open the door, bounded over the pylon, and fell headlong into the chill water. Instantly, she was swept away, going under and then above to gulp air, brushing debris and trash hitting her as the river churned toward a brooding forest closing in on opposite banks.
It was afternoon but she felt triply freezing, despite being a bit dried up, as she rested her hand on a fallen trunk of birch. Hearing a sloshing sound, her eyes darted to the bank, barely able to stay in their sockets. It was the convict, the knife in hand. He hasn’t seen her, and biting her lip, she kicked sod to try to disappear into wooden darkness.
She made good strides, and soon, the pale trunks of birches and darks of oaks had obliterated any sight of him. Mind bent on hanging on to her young dear life, she went on and on, not anymore having a sense of direction. Finally, fatigue wore her down. Slowing her. She whimpered that such weakness could now seal her fate.
Then her spine tingled, and her thought flashed to her, that she was going to die and her soul consumed.
From behind her, she saw a red thing zigging and zagging among the trees, gliding, blond hair billowing in the dead icy wind, and as it came closer, its hands extended forward, grasping, fingers and nails hooked and blood red, and the pentagram spewing black flames, it was Mona.
“Now to consummate the sacrifice!” she shrieked.
Kaycee stood immobile, and not knowing whether it came from Mona or her own surrender to the inevitable, saw herself rent to pieces just as she saw in a frozen second how Mona had brought death to her victims, engorging herself on their hearts, the price of her beauty, youth, and eternal pleasure, stipulated in a blood signed pact long ago in a grove in Salem.
A stinging blow in the ribs sent Kaycee flying, her body hitting the sod and dried crackling leaves. Before her sight faded she glimpsed the man, the psycho, in a flying tackle, two hands on the archaic knife, and stabbed gape-mouthed, fanged Mona dead center in her bosom. The knife blazed in blue light while Mona burst into flames, and white tongues with faces flew out of her, going heavenward. Eleazar fell, having received the brunt of Mona’s dark energies, rending his internal organs irreparably damaged. He gave Kaycee one last longful look, and a visible calm changed his sleeping visage.
For like an eternity, Kaycee awoke.
Lying on the ground was an extremely wrinkled and emaciated white woman, knife sticking out of her chest. A few feet away, was Eleazar, arms swollen and blue. Curious of him, she approached, and noticed an edge of a photograph sticking from his plaid shirt pocket. She took it and almost cried out.
It was her, as a little girl, cradled by this man, clean shaven, smiling and with hazelwood locks wavy and shiny. Kaycee’s mother stood behind them, beaming. She looked behind the picture and saw words written, or rather, etched on it, “Take the knife, and finish what we have started.”
Later she discovered that her father was convicted for the deaths of three women in two States, which she knew were just like Mona. Her mother’s death was brought about by one of them. Now, with more finesse than her father, she travels the country looking for fiends feeding off innocent people. Apparently, the knife also functions as an ATM card.
…) on whom I recently got my laughs because he’d always projected himself as a ladies’ man but is, you got it, busted by also a friend of mine, and actually, I knew that she knew, how notorious this guy is and she simply acted on that valuable intelligence, from another friend of hers, no less.
On Independence and The Will to Be Free
On Independence
Nothing can be as powerful
As an Idea whose time has come
Hugo adeptly foresaw
So it is from subjugation of the landmass
That an concept had become a juggernaut
Freedom to sing, to vote, to be libelous
All in a lawyer’s day’s work
That men would clash and lifeless bodies decorate
The field coloured with blue and red uniforms
So that the whole wide world would witness
How red, white, and blue it is to be free
Free to raise your children as parents unchained
Free to speak without the stake being filled with tinder and brushwood
Free to dress without the Scarlet Letter stitched to the bosom
Free to chose a Black president for the sake of change
Free to comment on a blog post or just ignore it altogether
Hail to the men incarcerated by death so that the children would grow not as slaves.
The Will to Be Free
You tell me otherwise, that the blood course through the corridors of the heart without leg irons so that they can get about greeting the nutrients hello would you voulez vouz couche avec moi ce soir and then after seeing that wonderful dress and there is no law wearing a two piece bikini in Miami you rush in and make sure you make a lot of money to indulge in yourself while you don’t waste time with a geek who would shackle your life with loserness and brain density but you will always stand up and brush your teeth and go to work and strive to be promoted in your liver so that you can avoid cancer of the masochist and yet you are a star in your own right you take the witness stand and play the jury music and hopefully you convict the right criminal so that the streets will be safe again and put Fox Mulder and the O.C. to shame well you may not comment on my gibberish but don’t stop the itch, it is the will to be free.
Filed under: Behavior, Philosophy, Poetry, Psychology, Social Commentary, Writing, death, free writing, thoughts | Tagged: Freedom, historical, Independence | 1 Comment »