Blackened (2 page)

At times, I wake as if from a dream even though I have not been asleep. I wake and I see red. Literally. I see red, the hue of congealed blood.  The colour taints my vision, twists all logic. And if I were to look upon her in that one moment of suspended reason, I fear I would know her as the she-devil and act accordingly.

Am I going mad? Am I in danger of losing control and damaging the one thing I have left in this dismal world? Then again, I do not really have her anymore: her mind soured against me a long time ago and she has gone. She is the bitter fruit I dare not touch. Nothing I do would persuade her I mean no harm because even I cannot be persuaded of this; I am at once rankled that she will not let me go to her and yet relieved. Every day I grow more wary of the passage of my thoughts for they trek an increasingly menacing path spiked with thorns and spite.  

It is better this way, for now. Better if I stay away. If not for her safety, then for my own sanity.

But there is Lisbeth, outside my door again, scuttling past like a frightened rabbit. She does right to stay away. And I must do the same otherwise my anger could explode into her like a hundred arrows laced with poison.

I must away.

Charles Cutteridge

C
HAPTER 2
S
HADOWS

Dear Mama,

Something happened to Eddie today. Something strange. Something inexplicable and very very wrong.

I was exploring the new garden when I heard a frightful scream. I tore up to the cottage and upstairs to Eddie's room. The sight on entering was one that will stay with me forever. I will never forget the fear and confusion in Eddie's eyes nor the blood. So much blood.

When I opened the door, he was sitting on the floor huddled up like a little orphan. His eyes were wide, his face ashen. He raised a trembling hand and pointed to the door beside me.

I followed the direction of his finger and a shadow caught my eye. I blinked and it was gone.

“What is it sweetheart?” I whispered.

Eddie shook his head, his eyes never veering from the doorway.

“Tell me what happened Eddie.”

I could hear my voice rising urgently. I resisted the urge to scream, aware that I would not get answers that way.

Eddie met my eyes for a fleeting second then murmured, “I am sorry. It is my fault.”

Finally my feet moved and I wrapped my arms carefully around him. His little body shivered violently against me.

“Please Eddie, tell me what happened. I need to know. I can protect you if I know.”

But he clammed up. I knew he could not tell me anything. I know this is awful, but part of me felt relieved. Maybe it was best not to know.

Gently I lifted his blood-soaked shirt and examined his back. A deep slash trailed one shoulder blade to the other, almost as if someone had sliced a knife across his tender flesh. I picked up his hands and examine his fingernails. Every nail was laced with blood.

I rocked him for a while then took him downstairs to clean the wound. As always he was a brave boy. I tucked him up in his bed and stroked his hair until he fell asleep.

Now I am writing to you with fear in my heart. Has Eddie done this to himself? Or did Father have something to do with it? Are the shadows I see behind Father’s eyes the shadows of an errant soul? Has Father finally lost his mind? Should I be even more fearful than I already am?

Questions but no answers. I need you Mama. I need your wisdom to guide me.

I can hear Eddie crying. I must go to him.              

Your loving daughter,

Lisbeth

P.S. I fear that the aforementioned revelations may disturb you. Promise you will let me know if you no longer wish me to report incidents like these. The thing I want least in the world is to upset you.

*

I soothe Eddie with a lullaby that Mama used to sing to me when I was little. After a while, his crying ceases and his eyelids drop.

My body is releasing its tension too. The throbbing in my temples eases and eventually I drift out of the room and down the stairs.

My steps quicken as I cross the living room past Father's study into the kitchen. Outside the night has come. My garden exploration will have to wait until the following day.

With growling stomach, I prepare a light meal of buttered bread and apricot jam.

Turning to leave the kitchen, I freeze. Father stands in the doorway. The meek light of the room casts him as a dark shadow - a giant, a stranger – and as he steps into the room I shudder involuntarily.

Shadow veils his expression but I can sense his eyes burning into mine. It is the first time he has looked at me in a long while and although I feel glad to be acknowledged, my muscles tense and I battle a strong desire to flee the room.

He continues to stand there, staring. Staring, staring, staring. Staring so much that I can no longer contain myself.

“What?”

My voice comes out a high-pitched squeak. I hope he cannot hear the fear in it.

He takes another step into the room revealing his face properly for the first time. His eyes are ringed black. His face is sallow, sickly. Deep creases stain his papery skin.

He looks far older than I remember and I am shocked by his appearance. Anger and compassion tussle within; why should he be feeling and looking ill? On the one hand, I want to reach out to him and make him feel better, but on the other hand I see no reason for him to look so unwell. It is him after all who has split our family apart. Father is the one to blame for making Eddie and I feel so lonely and unwanted. For making Mama go away.

He moves closer again and I can smell his stale breath. His eyes search mine. There is almost a pleading look haunting them, but in the same instant, rage emanates from his entire body. The way he clenches his jaw, fists his hands and steels his shoulders, imposing himself upon the room and me, turns my heartbeat to a racing drum, my knees to liquid, my heart to a caged bird. Heat throbs in the air between us.

“What?” I repeat, leaning away.

I know he will not speak to me though I half-hope he will. Just one word, one gentle reassuring word would be worth gold. But my hope is in vain. I should not even be hoping that he speak to me; he may be responsible for the terrible scratches upon little Eddie’s body.

The thought splinters my nerves and I step back. I almost forgot! If Father is the one who hurt my Eddie, I should run back to my bedroom and barricade the door. If he is capable of brutalising an innocent eight year old, who is to say what he may do to me?

Edging back, I find myself trapped between the kitchen counter and Father’s huge body. My only escape would be to turn and exit by the back door.

Suddenly, he raises his hand. I flinch, tensed upon the tips of my soles. But he simply drags his fingers down his face, groaning in anguish. Red nail marks appear on his cheek and I am instantly reminded of Eddie’s injuries. Fear conflicts with anger making me brave.

I meet his scorching gaze and say, “Did you hurt Eddie?”

His face turns red upon the instant and I wish I had not spoke. His eyes glaze over with fury and pain and he casts his eyes upwards and lets out a terrifyingly guttural groan through gritted teeth.

I gasp but cannot tear my eyes away from him.

He glares down at me once more, his chest rising and falling slowly, his breathing loud and violent.

I glance over my shoulder; the back door is closed. He is but one stride from me. I look back up into his eyes and see their expression changed from purest, darkest rage to pitiful despair. A lump rises in my throat. I feel so small, so helpless, so confused.

At last he lowers his gaze, turns sharply and leaves the room, slamming the study door.

The echo of his violent departure quakes through the cottage and I am left in ringing silence.

I exhale shakily. No longer hungry, sickness swells in my throat. I feel empty, and retire to bed hoping that this night will not be plagued by its usual daemons.

*

My Dear Sweet Lisbeth,

I understand that you feel the need to express yourself in your letters and I am extremely glad of this.

Though learning of these events worries me extensively, I want you to confide in me, because, Lisbeth, I cannot be with you, but I will always be here to guide you.

So now I will try to offer my advice. Firstly, you must let Eddie alone for a little while, but watch him closely. Follow his every movement, action and inclination from a distance. Note what he eats, where he goes, how he spends his time, why he does the things he does. Record his habits, his moods and his motives. He may only be eight years old, but he is a complex character and, as you and I well know, he has been through a lot for his tender years.

As for your Father, I beg you to continue to avoid him at all costs. He is not a well man. He is not the man I married nineteen years ago. He has turned into something neither one of us recognises. His heart has crumbled. His soul has slipped.

I know this truth is difficult to digest, but digest it you must. His troubles go deeper than you realise so there is nothing you can do to bring him back. All you can do is protect yourself and Eddie. Keep Charles at a distance - I am not saying he will hurt you, but the possibility must not be ignored.

Now onto happier things! When I close my eyes, I can see your beautiful smile. Your long black hair shines like rippling silk. You are happy.

Of course, this is a memory of you at ten years old. I would give anything to see you smile like that again. Please try to smile Lisbeth. Do it for me if not for yourself.

Thinking of you always.

Mama

*

Daemons. Dark shadows with manic grins and eyeless faces. Always masked. Always hidden. Always prowling and spying. Hunting me.

When I wake I am drenched. A pool of water lies between my breasts. I dab it with my finger, surprised. I cannot remember the last time I sweated so profusely. My head feels cloudy, my heart heavy. Moving seems too immense an effort.

I listen to the morning chorus; carefree creatures singing their buoyant, trilling song. The pressure on my chest eases. Light seeps beneath my curtains and everything feels a little less bleak.

Finally, I pull myself out of the room and cross the landing. Eddie's door is ajar. I peek inside and see him curled up on the floorboards in the foetal position.

I rush into the room and gently lift him onto his bed. He moans softly as I tuck him in. His hair is damp. His face is too pale and a permanent frown adorns his forehead. Normally I would wake him for his morning lessons, but today I decide to let him rest.

I leave and hurry downstairs into the living room where I go to the fireplace and stoke the flames with the iron poker. Sizzling, cracking, spitting, making their own music, the yellow flames reach upwards like a multitude of flailing hands.

Closing my eyes, I breathe in their warmth. A flush rises in my cheeks. My face slackens and I realise I am smiling. I slowly open my eyes and gaze at the fire. It is so alive – so warm and full of energy. The thought that this fire is more alive than me reduces my smile to nothing. The spark of hope flickering inside me dies.

The creak of a floorboard directly behind me. My body stills and my nerves tingle. Someone looms over me, but I am too frightened to turn around. Is it Father? Has he finally had enough? Cold fear ices my bones. I dare not look around.

*

Dear Diary,

I almost spoke to her yesterday. My lips got so far as to part and form the first sound of the first word and then horror overtook all else and I hurried back into my cave. Even then, I could do nothing but sit at my desk tearing my nails through my hair; a tormented beast.

I want them gone. Why can they not leave me? At night, I hear my son, screaming, cursing, howling and I long to take the sharpest blade – nay, the log axe – and chop and chop and chop until I hear him no more.

I see blood. So much blood.

Oh cursed rage that has possessed my soul and would have me tear them limb from limb! There is not a daemon in all of Hell who suffers more than I. And what is more, I see myself as would an outsider and what I have become. I am a fiendish, despicable sight. In truth, a terrifying sight. No wonder Lisbeth flinches away from me at one blink, for I am a dark, gruesome creature. Angry, strife with daemons. Pitiable. Beyond pathetic. Thus, is it really a wonder my wife has left me? Is it really a wonder that she refuses to partake in my world?

I cannot forget that look. Eyes so distant, body closed, thoughts unknown. That look haunts me day and night. It creeps into my dreams and twists my waking thoughts. I do not know how much longer I can wait. I know not how much longer I may keep my sanity. As they say, time waits for no man.

I go.

C.C

*

A hand as light as a feather brushes across my shoulders.

Inside I begin to scream, but I cannot move and remain kneeling in front of the fire, face burning, stomach tight. My breathing grows rapid yet I continue to stare into the flames; I stare and stare and stare into the vivid yellow flames until the edges of my vision blur black. My eyes sting but I dare not turn and confront the thing behind me.

Suddenly, I realise I am as convinced of its supernatural essence as I am of its dreadful designs and my hand involuntarily tightens on the black poker. Glancing at the fire iron I note its glowing point and cannot help but think that such a piece would make a fine weapon.