When The Dead Come Knockin' ; by ForEverdeen88
What a world so cold, that no soul would ever dare to wander. What a world so harsh, that even the most innocent of a child would spill another's crimson. What a world so dark, that no sunlight would ever be seen. It seems as though Fleet Street has become that type of world in the last few years. People like to say its haunted. Not a single click of a heel can be heard on the street's pavement anymore. No commoner's markets, or puppet taverns, or good for fun brawls on the street. No more barking dogs, or tossing brothers, or quaint well-dressed daughters. Not a single peep, other than the trickling of rain on a gloomy autumn day. It's because everyone has their own little stories of what happened there. Knowing what they think they know, why would anyone ever want to venture on to Fleet Street again?
Once a friend, almost like a father. He wore the finest of white silk, and a belt made of rough cow skin. Silver chains and buckles hung from his hips, and there were always boots on his feet that would be far too big on any other man in town. He had a strange look in his eye, that was not always quite inviting... but he could be a charmer, that man could. He wore a halo of brokenness, and a veil of relentlessness and scars. Nobody he knew saw it, except for her. The woman was dressed in red, with dusty hands and foolishly placed charcoal colored locks. She always wore a look of exhaustion, and a dark apron splashed with red. She was gentle creature, merely tempted by the whispers of the devil himself in her right ear. Then, there was the boy. The charcoal haired woman lived like the mother figure to that boy, who was so lost, and so afraid, that he fell for it all. I never liked that boy.
It has been nearly ten years since the accident happened. The man's crimson spilt from his throat like a river, over a blonde woman dressed in rags. I remember. The charcoal haired woman stinking up the room with her now dead and charcoaled soul to match. I remember. The expressionless little boy who did not even hesitate. I remember better than any of the myths. I know what happened that night better than any of the horror stories. I was there.
She wasn't a wife of the devil. She was afraid, and in love. He wasn't a demon. He was afraid, and alone. The boy was not criminally unstable. He was afraid, and he was not of himself in that dark hour. How would anyone be of themselves on such a night as that. I hate that night. I hate that boy.
The memories, though continuously haunting, have a way of comforting me. As I sit beside these corroding brick walls, with nothing but rusting metal keeping me in place, how could I find comfort in anything else? I respected him, for his undying generosity. I loved her, for her lovely smile and Goddess-like kindness. Although, I really did hate the young boy. How could anyone love the boy? After all, nobody ever really did, except for the charcoal woman. Well, I'm not sure if even she did. The little boy, first abandoned by his own father. Upon arrival on the streets, always threatened, slapped, and beat to a sliver. He must have deserved it all, right? He must have been awful. I hate that boy.
Don't I know you, mister? The ragged blonde woman slithers in the gloomy barred window.
Nothing's gonna harm you... The charcoal haired woman is whispering through the darkness of this tomb.
Benjamin Barker! The old gentlemen in a barber's cape screeches underneath the floorboards.
Mischief. The blonde squeals again.
Their voices are like a constant lullaby, that help me to drift in and out of sleep. At times I awake to them screaming, other times they're almost completely silent... but even when they're silent, it feels as if there's a thousand needles prickling at my spine. The room is always cold, my tongue always dries with the taste of thick metal, and everything is always far too dark. Sometimes I like it. It helps my imagination to bring back images of that night. That night is clearer when there's no light to distract me. The memories are so much more fun, when I go uninterrupted. Sometimes, I'm even convinced that I want to go back to that night. I love that night. I just hate that boy.
The taunting sound of rain outside my window forces my lullaby to a hush, and someone suddenly starts screaming. I don't know why. Suddenly I know who it is. Its the boy. I hate that boy. I hate when he comes here. I hate hearing him. I don't want him here, I never do.
I dig my fingernails into the bricks as I listen to the scream. I dig and dig them in until they're getting torn off, and my fingers spill blood where the nails used to be. I begin to scream back at the boy, but immediately run out of breath. All the screams die away, and I'm left in silence. I hate that boy. I always have. I hate that boy.
I do not know why I hate him so much. Why does everyone hate him? What did he ever do wrong? He never meant to be a failure. He never meant to make anyone mad. He never meant to get afraid, when he knew he needed to be brave. He was always trying to stay strong, but he just could not handle it anymore. I feel for that boy. I wish I could help that boy. I wish I knew him. I wish I could have been there for him. I wish I could have kept him from murdering that man. The darkness seems to become even darker. The voices are getting even louder. The screaming isn't fading. That poor boy. I love that poor boy. I wish I could help that poor boy.
Suddenly I open my eyes, and sunlight seems to fill the room through the barred window. I hear birds chirping, and not a single voice but my own. I was the boy who was screaming.
Ugh, well there you go.. My first attempt at making a really emotional one shot. How did I do? I probably sucked. xD Every time I try, it turns out pretty bad.. But with this one, I had to post it. Honestly there was so much inspiration that went into this story.
It was also my first time writing inside the mind of someone who has gone mentally insane.. So let me know how I did!