Young Writers Society

He sat down on his bed miserably. Its ugly state did nothing to lessen the heavy grey clouds of sadness that hung above him. He stared up at the low raftered roof, imagining the glow of the Moon. The cloudless sky brimming with stars, but he couldn’t look at them for too long and not scream. A scream that would rock the room and make the neighbourhood dogs howl. A scream that would not stop until the ambulance arrived and they strapped him to a thin stretcher with big black harnesses so he couldn’t move, lightly injecting him with a cocktail of chemicals. Tonight all he could see in those stars was a kindly man with a worn walking stick. He wanted to cry as he undid his navy blue tie, but he choked back the tears and tossed the tie onto his chair. He closed his eyes and tried to stretch his dry, tight throat. Biting his lip as he unlaced his black fake leather shoes. “Johnny. Please would you come downstairs,” Mother called.

“Do I have to come right now? I’m busy unchanging.”

“Please John. It’s urgent.”

“Fine,” he shouted back irritated.

He pulled down the attic ladder and sniffled. This conversation was going to hurt. It was urgent and he knew nothing good could come from that, not in his Father’s house. He hopped off the ladder and dragged his feet across the ground. Mother and Father sat together in the sitting room. Something he hadn’t seen for years, except maybe at dinner. Father in a big grey fancy suit leaning back on his special, well-maintained armchair. Mother edged further away from Father, trying to tuck herself away on the edge of the tattered couch she sat on. Placing himself on an ugly green and yellow couch. “I hope you’re feeling a little better, Johnny,” she said, but he just stared back blankly.

He was in no mood for talking. Mother continued, not caring much whether he answered or not, “There’s something very important we need to talk to you about.”

“Is it good or bad news,” he fired a question at her, determined to make this harder for her. He was moody and he didn’t like this.

“That’s enough from you, bitch. It’s good news. Very good news,” Father interrupted, angry with her for as little reason as John.

“What is it?”

“We’re moving!”

“Moving,” he said in a choked voice.

“Yes,” Father said.

“Where?”

“Far out in the English countryside where all you can see is trees for miles. No one to bother you. The serenity of nature. Absolutely beautiful house. You’re going to love it there. Sounds beautiful doesn’t it?”

“Let me get this straight. So we’re moving thousands of miles away from all my friends to a creepy, old house in the middle of nowhere.”

“John. Do not speak like that to me.”

“My favourite teacher just died. Can’t you let me mourn in peace? You’re stealing my girlfriend, my school, everything.”

“Fuck that girl you call your girlfriend, fuck that school and that bastard of a teacher. We’re moving so just fucking deal with it.”

“Well, I hate this idea! I’m not going and you won’t make me!”

“When in fucking hell did I ask for your fucking opinion. Shut up and listen to what I say, you wanker.”

“You fucking piece of bullshit! You have no right to say these things about me or anything you’ve ever said to my mother.”

“Sorry, did you just swear at me, your father?”

The malicious quiet was a lot more frightening than the shouting that had preceded it and he stuttered as he answered. “My fath… fa… fa… father. You think you’re my father. You aren’t a father’s asshole!”

“To your room! Now you little twit!”

“Stupid parents,” he mumbled.

“Get your ass up there before my hand finds it instead!”

“Stupid, stupid parents,” he repeated as he slowly climbed up the narrow wooden ladder.

Almost falling as Father’s crazed screaming roared somewhere behind him, “I’m coming! You better not let me lay a single finger on you because if I do I promise you you’ll never sit again!”

“Steve please, please just leave him alone,” he heard Mother sobbing, “Please.” His foot slipped, but he caught hold of the top stair, trying to ignore the splinters that scratched his body. He pulled his body up into the attic with every ounce of strength he had. Bringing up the ladder just as Father came round the corner, a long dirty broom in one hairy hand.

John locked the trap door and collapsed onto the floor, starting to cry tears of remorse and sadness. His crying only intensified as Father beat the attic door with the broom and screamed, “Come down you son of a bitch. Come down you little fucking wanker.”

The shouting and screaming and banging mixed into his uncontrollable sobbing. Sorrow swallowed him in waves. Towering high and then breaking over his head in a white foam. And when he finally came up again he couldn’t remember when the screaming and beating had ended and the drifting, crashing stormy waves had captured him in their rippling currents. He could remember one thing very clearly though. Big grey, stormy clouds hanging across the sky. He vaguely noticed himself walking down the stairs, but it felt like a dream. A strange feeling of being thousands of miles away absorbed him. He saw the ragged, unshaven face of his father. A cold crackle of lighting went through Father’s eyes and the words that flew out of his mouth sent shivers down his spine, “Go pack. We’re leaving in an hour.”

His dream-like state broken by those words and he felt an intense will to protest but the tone of Father’s voice was not something to be played with. He treaded lightly up the stairs, lest the creaking of wood provoked him. He looked at his bland colourless room, lit only by a dim light bulb that should have been changed years ago. His backpack lay against the foot of his bed. He slowly unzipped the bag and found it was empty except for a Maths book, his black and blue pencil case and his silver Acer laptop. They may come in handy, he thought, not wanting to leave them here. 

He stared at his bed, no pillows, no blankets, just an empty sheet. His room was a sharp contrast to Father’s. For as long as he could remember Father had had the room to himself. Although Mother didn’t like to talk about it much he knew she slept on the couch. He also knew Father had a TV, cotton sheets and a bathroom all to himself. Even the thought of it made him angry. He bundled up his grey sheet and stuffed it in his bag. He turned around and looked at the open face of his cupboard. Its door lay next to it, leaning against the wall. The metal hinges had rusted off years ago. He had noticed the first brownish-red dustings of rust and the initial corrosion. And when the door had fallen off its hinges he had faithfully moved it. Ever since his sparse assortment of clothes had become a feeding ground for small, furry-antennae moths. And even though Mother tried to keep his clothes sewn up most of them were covered in holes. He really hoped England wasn’t too cold and neatly filled his bag with clothes. Taking one more look around the empty room before he turned off the light. Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs he heard the loud mechanical sound of a car’s hooter. He opened the peeling yellow front door and saw the headlights of the Beetle shining into the darkness. Father and Mother sat in the front seats, talking. Mother was vivid, but he could sense that she was desperate, trying to unlock a locked door. Father looked her in the eyes and she dropped her gaze. His face was solemn and calm, a technique Father often used to intimidate her. He walked down the lawn, his feet churning the dark brown soil that had slowly replaced the gorgeous green grass, his foot compressing the yellow stalks that made up one of the few patches left. He walked across the rocks and stones that had come loose from the tarmac and opened the door. “Please, Steve. I’m begging you,” Mother said before snapping her mouth shut.

She gave him a little smile, the corners of her grin sticking up forcefully. Father turned the key and the motor wheezed. He tried again, but the car only coughed. He gave it one more twist and the engine sang into life. “Off to Joburg then,” Mother said in a sweet voice as he shut his ivy green eyes and desperately tried to fall asleep. 

To go to a dreamland that was nothing like his life. Where he and Mother lived alone in a place far, far away from Father. A place where he wouldn’t cry at night, tears dripping in long streaks like a broken gutter. A place where he would have loads of friends and his loving girlfriend, Sam to make his life joyful. Sam. He frowned, he might never see her again. He opened his eyes and looked out the window, watching the lampposts, their iron stalks invisible in the darkness, as they drifted away like floating orbs of light. Shimmering will o’ wisps with rotting wooden signs slung around their necks, that screamed in black and dripping red paint, “Beware! Danger here.” That sudden, resounding feeling to scream until he could no more filled him once again and he knew he would not sleep that night. They drove past the big quiet school, the illuminated announcement board now said in dotted marquee text, Rest in Peace, Manuel Sancho. May your garden treat you well. And then the town was gone, striking a chord deep within him as it slowly vanished behind them. His heart fluttered up and down and his breathing went shallow. Bye school. Bye Phillippolis. Bye Mr Sancho. Bye home. Bye Sam, I hope you know I love you dearly. He struck his head against the window as hard as he could, not caring about the big black bruise he knew would be there the next day. “You have to know that I love you. You just have to.” 

He looked for anything in the darkness, but his window only reflected his tired, miserable face. Big, puffy, raw pouches hung under his eyes, a result of wiping away tears. His hair fell into his face, he knew that if he didn’t get a cut soon he would end up looking like a girl. He felt a bead of sweat gather itself slowly and splash down onto his lap. The air con breathed out a cool breath and he lay his head against the window, his mind wandering away from him. Observing everything through the tiny slot of his mind’s eye, but every thought eventually drifted back to one single answer. His old life would always haunt him. That single deliberation captured his brain in a mental spider web, the predator playing slowly with its prey. Reminding him over and over again, “Your old life will always haunt you.”

Slowly extending its spiny mandible out, not eating, but reminding and then almost as if whacked away the grotesque spider vanished. He felt the car pull itself up onto a steep winding path, choking as Father throttled the accelerator but slowly climbing. “OR Tambo International Airport. We’re in Johannesburg now boys,” Mother said, her voice a mixture of confused emotions.

The car was spluttering, but slowly winning the battle. Finally, the road levelled and it drove into an empty parking space, dying in a fit of dry coughing before Father could even turn the key. He hauled his bag out and tried to stretch his legs, carrying on slowly as he reached his arms up as high as he could. Yawning softly as he walked into Departures, everything passing swiftly before him as he struggled to keep his eyes open. The last thing he remembered was Gate no. 4 and that chair that just seemed too rigid to be comfortable.

***

A light shone somewhere in the gloom, the red glow barely creeping around the next corner. The damp smell of the air reminded him of a dirty mop as he started carefully down the spiralling staircase, the roughly cut blocks standing out at jaunty angles. He walked watching his feet, checking constantly for the growing glow. Pace picking up as he slowly neared it, almost tripping but always recovering himself. Each bend revealed a vital new thread of light and he imagined a torch burning high with sticky black pitch. Taking a quick step, convinced the next turn would lead him to the flame, but his foot found only empty air, his weight pulling him down into the abyss. The numb sensation between falling and floating the only thought he could muster as he stared up at the disappearing wink of light. Falling faster, dazed and lightheaded as he struggled to breathe, starting to take loud gasps. His face red as he gagged, the pressure finally lifting slowly off his chest as his fall slowed. The air burned his already sore throat, as he struggled to regain oxygen. Sweat beading on his forehead as his skin cooked like doughy clay, the heat cracking his charred outsides slowly. Liquids seeping through the valley of exposed bone, blood bubbling and skin slipping off the bone. And then his word tipped upside down. Heels over head. Falling back into that empty darkness. His skin beginning to make that sickly popping sound again, blood frothing and bubbling like boiling water at the cooked edges. That feeling of pressure settled on his throat, pressing down on his windpipe. The air forced out of him as he tried to scream. His face turning pale white as he choked. Light fringing the darkness somewhere in the distance as he whistled for breath. Wheezing loudly in the dark silence. The light shadowing his forlorn figure, shining a pure white, painfully bright as he stared at it. The light engulfing, that state between motion and rest gone as he tumbled through a cloudless blue sky. Spinning as he fell, the air struggling to enter his lungs as he tried to steady himself. The winding feeling of a punch in the gut smacking into his side, what little breath was in his lungs drawn out. Recognizing that familiar feeling of breathless burning lungs. The water wrapped its flowing arms around him as he sunk slowly, a tingling sensation rocketing through his body and he breathed a sigh of relief, oxygen putting out the fire in his lungs. He pushed further into the kelp forest that surrounded him, drifting into the murky currents. Pain coursed through his left arm as it hung limply at his side. Finally letting the bloodcurdling scream loose as he looked at the fragile white bone. His clawing figures were plain of skin or muscle, the blankness rising to his forearm where the bone was fractured. His scream rose like a crescendo, each note rising a squeaking pitch until his voice shattered. Letting his body drift away with the swirling current, escaping the slithering tendrils that crawled across his body. Searching for the sunlight that must surely cut through the sediment-filled water. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. In and out. Don’t let the darkness overwhelm you. Don’t let the silence hurt your ears. Breathe long as you can like a slow lion’s yawn. Breathe out a flittery flap of wings. Don’t let the air hurt your lungs. Don’t let the air open your mouth wide and throw a stick down your throat. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Opening his mouth to let his breath pass. It was too quiet. Too untouched. Too dreadful. His hatred pricked up the hair on the back of his neck, sniffing and searching for the wafting smell in the water. Something he slowly came to realize was the curdling scent of decay as he stared in shock at the layers of silvery fish that sat clawed and half-eaten upon the seafloor. A shadow slinking behind him as he stared at the clear milky white mush that had once been eyes. Circling above him, the swishing flap of its tail catching his attention. The ancient-looking shark drawing tighter and tighter. Pushing into the swaying forest as he blindly swam one-handed. The massive shadow always just behind him, sharp teeth nipping at his feet. Pulling away further but his body stayed still, his foot straining. Tangling himself in the dark green mess as he panickily tried to escape. Caught like a fly in a web, searching desperately for the spider. His body rocked upwards as it clamped down on his leg, pulling and stressing it as it determinedly tried to rip it off. Blood flowed past his face in a pink cloud as it triumphantly cradled his appendage in its jaws. The bloodbath attracting more sharks that swam on the edge of his view. Shutting his eyes as a shadow swam from beneath him, jaws opened to reveal the dirty pink inside. Opening his eyes in absolute terror of what was to come. But he saw only the kaleidoscopic green of a plant’s hollow veins. Body sinking through the bark of the compact tree trunk as if by some magic. Quietly staring at the blooming garden. Deers roaming and grazing. Fish swimming in the pond. His thoughts interrupted as he felt his body twitch and move uncontrollably, almost if commanded by another. Birds whipped across the sky, wings gliding on the feather-light breeze. Deers roamed the majestic rows of flowers and he felt a smile forced on his slack face. Nothing but Sancho’s wonderland. A symbol of rebirth, boomed in his ears, mental tears dripping at the sound of that voice. The man himself walking out of the well-grown glades, his iconic cane clicking the stumbling stones. “John. Long time no see.”

And even though his mind knew the answer he asked, “Mr Sancho?”

“Of course, my boy,” the old man said and shuffled a few steps nearer.

“What’s going on,” he asked bewildered.

“Not exactly sure what happened. Just know I took a tumble and well here we are.”

Now physical tears flowered down his cheeks and chin, his smile straightening slightly at the edges, “I missed you so much.”

He ran towards the neatly ironed slacks and stitched together shirt, arms spread out, hugging Mr Sancho tightly. Letting go as a squirmish squawking carried to his ears, a flock of distressed avians hauling away overhead. Chasing the Sun as if their simple bird lives depended on it. A rabid screaming roared through the mighty breaths of the sky like a siren before the inevitable bombing. His body flung to the ground, shovelling dirt and wriggling pink worms in his mouth greedily. The flaky yellow grass sucked of its moisture, flowers withering in rapid series. Coughing out a stone as black stormy clouds rode pregnant, audaciously concealing the alien colour of the sun. And he had the sudden urge to run. Run. Run till your breath is exhausted. Run till you haven’t got the will to stand. Run. And so he did, scampering around on all fours. Head finally drawn out from that ingested hole, his face dusty and dirt-smeared. Running towards nothing, picking out a wilting daffodil. “Look, Mr Sancho. Look, Mr Sancho. Loook,” he screamed, dancing low to the ground. Run around. Run around. Bite the deer till its breath froths pink and ominous. Smack the bear till its skin is raw and bleeding. Run around. Run around. “Look, Mr Sancho. Look, Mr Sancho. Loook. Look at me kill you.”

The world gone for a moment, vital seconds lost and then his teeth were clamped on the pink jaws of a shark as it lay at his feet, drifted onto the sand and oxygen-deprived. His jaws cutting the gum apart like a tightly bound string, a tooth slipping into his mouth. Sucking it clean before drawing ragged lines across the creature’s gills, soon looking more like a checkers’ board. Head poked at the shark’s soft white underbelly, trying to bite off a salty raw piece of hide. That horrible flash of forgotten time slapping him across the face. Head forced straight through its elastic skin, arms coming in next. Torso jammed inside and legs swung up, tucking his body in between its slimy organs as he pulled on its soft cartilaginous ribs. Head lost again in that horrible whispering darkness. Run. Run. Run. Pull it out. Pull it out. Scream and kick back. Pull it straight out. Run. Run. Run. Blood leaking down his forehead and dripping into his eye, soaked in the coppery liquid as he admired his prize. A heart beating in his coarse hands as he slipped away the globs of congealed fat and bleeding tissue. Rubbing his trophy clean before shoving a bite in his mouth. Swallow. Swallow. Eat the energy and electricity, the essence of life. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. His prize chopped into chewed slithers as he held it in his gullet. “Look, Mr Sancho. Look, Mr Sancho. Loook. Look at me swallow you.”

A lump forming in his throat as he gulped it down. Running about aimlessly like a lost horse on his fours. Kill. Kill. Kill it all. Kill every single living thing. Kill. Kill. Kill. “Look, Mr Sancho. Look, Mr Sancho. Loook. Look at me destroy your garden.”

Laughing throatily at the shark, dorsal fin facing the ground. Its own ribs tucked through its flexible spine, anchoring it. Exploding at the sight of its intestines spilling out in ribbons. Kill. Eat. Smack. Thwack. Tackle. Destroy. Ingest. Berate. Kill. Eat. His dead collection of statues growing as he thwacked in the special bird with its tittering song, make sure to squeeze its feathery head hard enough to pop one of its black dotty eyeballs. All beneath the clouds. Deep dark clouds. Swimming. All beneath the deep dark clouds. “Huh. Huh. Didn’t I tell you, Mr Sancho? Just that bloody fucking rabbit left to kill. Huh, Mr Sancho.” Chasing the furry cotton tuft for a tail across blackened rocks and pebbles and stones. Rabid screaming. Rabbit screaming Turn. Turn. Turn. Grey fur clinging to its quick tasty hind legs. A rabbit yellow, mouth-frothing. Yell. Yell. Yell. “Look, Mr Sancho. Look, Mr Sancho. Loook. Look at me destroy your garden.” 

Diving and sliding like a penguin across the downward slope the garden entered. Rabid squealing. A pig is bleeding. Eat. Eat. Eat. Dripping blood, broken window. Bleed. Bleed. Bleed. Tugging back at the rabbit’s floppy ears, unbothered by its urgent mewling as he started his special ritual. Dark tower. Rabbit squealing. Fall. Fall. Fall. The sounds of its screams finally fading away as he worked but this time he didn’t make a statue. Rabid screaming. Rabbit screaming. Turn. Turn. Turn. He stuffed the animal into his mouth, smacking his lips as he enjoyed his final hearty reward. “Look, Mr Sancho. Look, Mr Sancho. Loook. Look at your destroyed-”

Cutting himself off as he watched the elderly man climb that single huge tree that stood over the shattered remnants of the fish pond. “Look, Mr Sancho. Look, Mr Sancho. No. Loook. No. Look! Look at me! No!” 

But Mr Sancho continued along a narrow branch, pushing himself closer and closer to the edge until he was inches away from death. Carefully changing position to settle on his knees, head raised in a royal air before swinging it down with incredible speed. Skull shattering as it sunk through it, travelling along the knobbly branch until it had parted his face, like a bun surrounding a sausage.