Death on the Shore

20th July 2012

Post with 4 notes

The Sacrifice

I stood quivering, blood dripping down the corners of my mouth, trying to get her screaming out of my head. We all were. The sound of sirens only dimly registered in my head. We looked at each other with a puzzled look, looked down at what was left of the body and without saying a word, parted ways.

I remember walking into the woods behind the building, eventually I started running, the trees flying by in a blur of motion, the static life, the serene facade shattered. It was the first time that I felt alive, I was truly and utterly in the moment; I was running from the cops goddamn it!

The woods kept getting thicker and thicker, I didn’t care, I just kept running. It’s odd, I never considered myself a runner, but here I was, didn’t feel tired, hell! I didn’t feel pain, I felt nothing, not a thing. I was on top of the world until I reached the field and saw the vultures circling.

Her blood dried from the wind, I kept thinking “her blood, oh god, what the fuck …” “Okay,” I told myself “no going back now, I’ve made my decision … FUCK!” It was all over my clothes, my mouth, my neck, and oh god, did it feel good. It was like a cold blanket, a serene reassurance of something prehistoric. Deep down, like a fire, or a river, I felt that there was something, awakened? drowned? It was primal, it was wrong and it went against everything I stood for, but damn did it feel good.

I wondered whether I had killed the only part of me left, or if I finally broke out of my cocoon. It was all so new back then, I had finally embraced the dark, the screaming, rotting, hellish dark that lived under the bed all those years, and I was still uncertain if this was the path I wanted to take.
Eventually I came across a road, a busy country road with forest one side and houses on the other. There were kids playing in a yard down the street, their screams seemed muffled and distant, and before I knew it the red and blue lights were on me. They came out of the cars with their guns drawn, shouting at me.

It must have been a sight to see, a deranged man with that primal look in his eye, sticks in his hair, covered in blood and sweat, scratched all over, standing next to the houses that they were sworn to protect.

At the trial, they kept asking me questions, but there was nothing I could say, nothing I could do. Maybe they saw it in my eyes, maybe they recognized me for what I was; an outsider.

The only thing I could think was “maybe I AM broken; maybe the blood shattered my sanity.” But then again, I felt fine, not a worry in the world, it was those around me that were worried, they were the broken ones.

So now I am in jail, waiting for my turn at death like a chump. But you know, I don’t regret a single thing, since that gruesome act of cannibalism I have lived my life. Sure I was technically free for only a few hours afterward, but I got to be a part of life, I learned what those zen scholars were really talking about. Sure, I got there in a fucked up twisted way, but I got there; the cycle completed.

Tagged: writingprosedarkI don't advocate cannabalismshort storyspilled inkfictioncreative writing