A body, swathed in bloodied sheets; the gaunt, terrified figure convulsing, blood erupting from the wounds permeating the raw flesh. His eyes started to bleed and gush pints down his emaciated, drawn out face. He whispered something; blood trickling from the corners of his mouth. "Someone, help me. Please." The face goes pale white and his eyes lull back into his head. Incoherent strings of words bubble from his mouth in a sort of mantra, "Graves and roads of the mislead, be greeted by the walking dead. They croon, they cry, they taunt the weak; beware the tongues in which they speak. Be cast into the fires of Hell as Mary rings her small brass bell." A cry; a hallow, empty cry -that of a small girl child echoed through the deepest corners of a deep, sadistic dream... rather, a nightmare.
Paul sat up in bed, his breathing labored and abrupt. He rubbed at the scar below his right eye and the puffy, swollen purple and green contusion, concluding that he hadn't even gotten a solid two hours of sleep; his forehead feverish and clammy. Paul Morlock's lucid dreams had steadily gotten worse over the past few months, and this one was the worst they had ever gotten. The crotch of his pajama pants were drenched in cold sweat, and the sheets stuck to his skin like wet latex plastered to his lank body. His skin was beaten raw, and even the light brush of the sheets against his fragile skin made him cringe. He kicked the sweat soaked sheets from his body and set both feet on the floor, adding his weight a little at a time, first the toes, then the heels, as to not agitate his swelling ankle and shifted his jaw from side to side to diminish the stiffness and cramping.
"Goddamn cunt's gonna put me in my grave early," He muttered, wiping the crusting film from his eyelids and lashes and stepping lightly on his heels towards his closet door. The entire door was busted from it's rusted hinges; (a violent, explosive result of one of Rob's previous rants that had left Paul's room, and his psyche in complete shambles) and now lay on the floor, bolts and nuts scattered around it. Splintered wood peeled grotesquely from the sides like spikes threatening to impale anyone who dared approach it's dusted remains. He reached into the now gaping hole in his wall that had to suffice as his closet until he managed to get to the hardware store downtown to pick up some new lumber and fashion a new door. He was used to fending for himself like he had been since he was old enough to walk.
He rummaged angrily through the few articles of clothing he had, fingering the dusty and deteriorating fabrics. His mother, Kate, as he called her, was far too poor to purchase him any new or used clothing and truly didn't give a damn that he had practically nothing to wear, spare the ones he had on his back. He tore his starch-heavy, yellowed dress shirt from it's crooked metal hanger and threw it to the floor, later joined by his black slacks and musty red suspenders. Paul carefully pulled his baggy white tee from his sweating back. Goose bumps riddled his bare chest and stomach, and the hair on the back on his neck stood on end as the frigid night cold caressed his naked torso. He rushed to pull the dress shirt over his raven locks and buttoned it up to the solidness of his solar plexis, adjusting the collar.
This is going no where. All you do is go down to the goddamn river and smoke the shit outta a few packs of cigarettes. That solves nothing, Morlock. He tugged at the wet pant legs of his pajamas, struggled out of them, and then pulled on his slacks. He muffled a cry as the fabric tore at tender, raw skin, breaking free some fresh scabs and abrasions. As soon as the pain subsided, he limped across the room to his old dresser and nudged open the top drawer, searching for a pack of Camel cigarettes. Finding an old, crumpled, deteriorating pack and a set of matches that he had snatched from Rob, he shoved it in the breast pocket of his shirt and snuck silently from his room. The floor boards creaked beneath him, caving in where the floor had begun to rot. He kept wondering to himself, Why didn't Rob just help Kate move her ass into his goddamn house?
He slunk past Kate's closed bedroom door, from which behind Rob's and her laboured moans could be heard. He rolled his eyes in disgust and gave a silent grunt to himself. Yeah, that's it Rob. Fuck her raw. Fuck her hard enough to maker her walk bloody silly for a couple days. He made his way down the hall, into the kitchen to grab a few beers, hustled to the front door, and fiddled with the rusted pad lock before managing to squeal it open. The overhead street lights blared, stinging and irritating his dialated pupils. He stressed over the overwhelming pain that plagued his ankle, holding his breath and ushering a hiss every time it throbbed, every time he took another step. Lucky for him, the Androscoggin river wasn't far from his prison cell of-a-home. The cement slates that hugged the steep inclinations on both sides of the Androscoggin river were littered with beer cans, cigarettes, food bags and the occasional condom. Paul sat down, hanging his legs from the side rails and cracking open his pack of cigarettes. He struck the match head on the cement and lit the cigarette, sealing it between his lips and occasionally switching it from side to side nervously.
"You got it ALL wrong Morlock. Nothing heals pain like a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of beer to wash it down." He muttered to himself out loud. Paul ran his fingers through his sweaty, matted hair and looked down at the placid water, smoke curling from his nostrils, the lighted butt of the cigarette sending flecks of orange embers alighting to the ground and lighting up his pale, emaciated face. Paul strained to crack the uncomfortable kink in his knuckles. Each had tiny hairline fractures that hurt like hell every time he tried to work them. He'd punched one to many walls in his day, and now he had done permanent damage. All of them had healed over wrong, and he doubted that there was any way to fix the problem.
He took one more glance over the peeling hand rails and into the river. Looking into the water was like looking into a deep abyss without end. Dark, dank, quiet surrounded and embraced the cold, frigid air. A pocket watch bubbled to the surface, soon followed by a bloated, human hand.