This is a prose piece that was published in The Writer's Quibble. The theme for the issue was horror. Special thanks to Tom Ashton for letting me repost this here.
“Lock the door son!” I screamed to him, over the sound of
the passengers panicking; some of them had spotted the other plane drawing
closer. I saw the door lock, my eyelids scrunched up, and tears oozed from the
slits. There came a deafening crash, my body was helpless against the powerful
wind that sucked me out. I saw the burning cabin get smaller. I turned my head
and saw the other plane careening out of control. I had no bearing on what was
happening. I could see a large white panel spiralling towards me. There was a
crunch. I spotted blood fly out of my mouth and chest. I felt lighter. Stabbing
pain and nausea were accompanied by a strong draft in my lower torso. My body
flopped around in the sky. I dreaded the
landing, but I was feeling lighter now, maybe I could fly. Fly back to my son.
Make sure he was ok. I looked at my stomach. Slithers of blood were flapping
and spraying in the breeze. Something long and slimy had slipped out of my
abdomen and was dancing like an eel.
I drifted and dropped. Lower and lower. Lighter and lighter.
A rain of blood accompanying my wet thump against the ground.
I snapped out of the daze. My son was holding my hand. He
wasn’t smiling. I looked back and two women packed into thick winter coats were
also holding hands. They were both roughly of similar height but one looked
much younger than the other.
I know them, I thought to myself.
“Mind you don’t slip sweetie.” She called out to my son.
They were my wife and daughter. It must be those scarves and coats, I reasoned
to myself, that’s why I didn’t recognise them.
The pavement was slippery. A thick layer of ice made us
stumble on occasion. The grit offered some footing but we all had to tread
carefully. The Christmas lights sent twinkling reflections to the puddles on
the road until they resembled a colourful night sky. The moonlight struck the
buildings making them a dull blue, like my son’s eyes.
Were we just going for a walk? It’s strange. I thought we
were Christmas shopping but we didn’t have any bags of presents. We must have
just been out for a walk then. I think we’d come to look at the Christmas
lights.
“Do you like the lights?” I said.
My boy looked up at me.
“What?” he queried.
I smiled down at him as we walked.
“I said do you like the Christmas lights” I paused, “son?”
“Yes” he replied. “It’s not Christmas though. But I like the
lights. That’s why they’re there.”
Not Christmas? What on Earth does he mean by that? I thought
to myself. Perhaps he’s just being oddly pedantic for a child of his age. Yes,
his age. I furrowed my brow and tried to remember what that was. God I must be
a terrible father. As that thought lolled around my head I failed to notice the
little mitten slipping out of my gloved hand.
It was only when I stopped to tread around some dog muck
that I noticed he wasn’t there. I looked around and spotted him on the road
looking at some lights running between lamp posts. I looked to the girls who
were staring back at me. I slipped a little on the ice as I darted forward. I
found my footing on the road and not a moment too soon as the slick tarmac
started to glitter with the yellow light of car headlights. My son hadn’t budged.
The car started screeching to a halt but it would still hit him. I only had one
chance. I had to get him out of the way myself. The leering lights drew closer
to us; I was just inches away from him.
The moment I felt his jacket against my palm I pushed. My
shoulder surged with all available strength, my elbow keeping the trajectory
upwards. His body was launched into the air, I worried for a moment if he’d be
hurt by the fall but before I could go to him, the car’s headlights were blinding
me.
The car rammed into my chest, my face thumped on the bonnet.
I woke up as soon as my skull shattered on the road. My head jerked against the
soft pillow coated with sweat. I leant up and wiped some perspiration off of my
brow and neck. A woman with tight brown curls in her hair lay next to me, a
perfect smile on her lips. She was picturesque and contented. Her right arm
covered her breasts and her left hand was buried in her thick curls.
I peeled the sheets off of my clammy body and made my way to
an en suite. We must be in a hotel. I filled a plastic cup with water and
greedily swilled it down. For a while I stood in the doorway looking at her. I
looked at the tiny freckles on her nose, her smooth skin; gorgeous. The hotel
room looked pretty nice, wood panelled walls, rustic furnishings. I guess they
were going for a log cabin look.
Then there came loud fast knocks at the door. I almost
dropped my water. I put some jeans on and scampered to the door, the knocking
didn’t stop.
“Alright, alright! Jeez, will you hold on a second?”
I opened the door and saw two young kids before me. One a
round faced girl, slightly pudgy. The other was a boy. My boy. Short cropped
hair and dull blue eyes.
“Hey you!” I said. “You better be quiet, you’ll wake up…
erm…”
The girl next to him chimed in.
“Is mummy sleeping?”
“Err. Yes. She is. Mummy is sleeping.”
From behind, I heard her calling to me.
“Is that the kids?”
“Yeah.” I said “Hey, kids. Why don’t you go to your room and
wait for mummy and daddy to get changed? We’ll come get you when we’re dressed
and then we can all get some breakfast.”
The corridors were rather nicely furnished too. Red
wallpaper, in keeping with the warm tone, I liked this place. The kids walked
by our sides and I held my wife’s hand. Daughter and mother held hands and
swung them back and forth. I reached out for my son’s hand but he didn’t
respond; he looked on down the corridor. The end of the corridor filled with
four men dressed in grey camouflage, flak jackets and black balaclavas. They
looked directly at us. One of them slowly aimed a pistol down at us. No one
moved. Not until he opened fire. The beautiful curled hair on my wife’s head
scattered around the corridor with bits of scalp. Her head leaked a red slop
speckled with bits of grey. The girl screamed and ran away, shrinking down the
hallway until another shot chased her down. I grabbed my son, held his small
body tightly against my chest and ran. No shots were fired, the boy struggled
in my arms, and I heard booted footsteps behind me.
I reached the elevators, one was slightly open. I put my son
down and pushed the doors apart. I looked down the deep pit. I could make out a
network of scaffolding we might be able to climb down. I could hear the steady
advance of boots, the rattle of flak jacket zips.
“Come on, I’ll give you a piggy back.” I said to him, trying
to make it sound like a game.
He obediently clambered on my back and wrapped his arms and
legs around me. I got inside the elevator shaft, with my feet slanted on a thin
ledge I tried to pull the doors back into place. I gave up when I sensed I was
losing my footing. I edged along the ledge until we were completely behind one
of the doors. I peeked out of the gap and saw the four men congregated and
exchanging glances. They didn’t say anything. All four of them looked at the
door we were hiding behind then back to each other. They turned and left
quietly.
When I felt like they were gone for long enough I pushed at
one of the doors. My son leaned forward and shoved at the door. My feet
fumbled. I prepared my hands to catch myself on the ledge. I just managed but
not before my chin struck it causing my head to lurch back. I didn’t hit the
kid though. Thank god. The opening was just wide enough for him to get though.
“Climb up.” I said “Climb up daddy’s back and through the
doors.”
He gripped my shirt tightly, his fingers pinched my skin.
His foot pushed down on my shoulder and then the other one. I gave a satisfied sigh
when I saw him clamber onto the ledge. The gap I’d made in the doors was perfect
for him. He then turned around. In between the doors with the light shining
behind, he looked like he was in a picture frame. He looked down at me. His
dull blue eyes were all I could focus on. They were almost grey. He smiled. I
realised then that I’d never seen him smile. I hadn’t seen him smile since,
since when? I don’t think I know his name.
He bit in his lower
lip, raised his little leg up, and brought his foot down on my left hand,
digging his ankle into my finger joints. Before I could scream he’d lifted his
foot again and planted it on my nose.
I fell. Of course I fell. I plummeted into the deep
rectangular cave. All that went through my mind was: why did he do that? The
dry air was cutting into my eyes, I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t see the bottom. I
couldn’t see the scaffolding. I couldn’t see what my body whooshed past but my
head stuck to.
Why won’t he love me? I gave that little shit life didn’t I?
Didn’t I? Even if I didn’t then he must know that I care for him, I keep saving
him. Why does my child hate me? I wish I could hate him, and then there might
be respite from this.
End.
Andrew Krska, 'Father and Son':
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