I haven't proofread like… anything I wrote today. BLASPHEMY. I'm sorry! I'm in a rush to meet my deadline, so I'll try to go back later and make corrections when I can. I post these as I write them, so today's been pretty intense. But here I am. I made it. PHEW. Coffee for everyone!
Nightmare
The vanes of the windmill were still as death.
Topper staggered to a halt on the edge of the forest, run near to death and as weary as his rider. Gill fell from him, collecting himself just in time to land on his feet. His knees dangerously shook, ready to give way.
The grass was matted down by snow. Only the tallest strands were free, bowed by wind and weight. Gill's boots crunched the dead grass underneath, swishing through the field at a snail's pace.
He started to run. The closer he got to the windmill, the faster Gill ran. Like he was in a race against the clock. Like he was being chased. He hit the door which forced him to stop, creaking like it would give way. Gill tugged the twine over his head and shook his hair loose.
The little key fit the brown padlock with a satisfying click. Gill quickly pushed the latch as if he had one last breath to give in the effort. The door swung open with a screech.
His shadow on the floor with the light of the world behind him was all Gill could see at first. He was standing in the place he swore he would never revisit. Not for as long as he lived.
The tractor plows and the old railroad stakes and burlap bags soon came into view as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Gill squinted in the gloom and moved forward.
Have you any idea what an influence is? What it means?
Gill crashed to his knees, Julius' voice ringing in his ears. As clear as the day he first heard it. When he sat for a beautifully painted portrait.
Good or bad, it means giving yourself to someone else. So they can mold you. Form you.
A buzzing sound accompanied the voice trapped in the mazes of his mind. It turned into a high-pitched ring that made him even more frustrated.
Some may say it has to do with trust…
Desperately, Gill reached out and found a railroad stake. He beat the floor, clawing the wood away.
But I don't think so at all. You don't have to trust someone to be influenced by them.
The stake fell from his hand. A rat squeaked and fled from the threat of noise and entrance of light. A thick layer of dust lay over the unmistakable canvas of the portrait beneath the floor.
But being influenced is a dangerous thing, Mr. Gray.
Carefully, gingerly, Gill placed his hand against the rough surface. He slowly brushed the dirt away.
The thing of his nightmares was exposed before him. A skeleton sat in the armchair. With every brush of his hand, Gill felt sicker at the absence of skin. Only bone. A skull. Smiling so wickedly. In the vacant hollows left by the eyes were two dim blue lights in the empty sockets.
The old mill's roof creaked in the wind, the only sound in all the world.
Gill should have been dead. With the way he lived. With how he treated people and with the pain he caused. With his selfishness, and hypocrisy, and lies.
You won't be thinking for yourself under influence.
Gill held his head, a rising heat in his eyes, brain, and heart.
You let someone else think for you.
There was an over-load. No matter how many times he tried to open his eyes and see the truth, the skull smiled back at him. It was him. This ugly soul. The railroad stake sat temptingly close.
Filling your head with… curious ideas.
Gill Gray snatched up the railroad stake, holding it high above his head with both hands. Tears poured out, streaking his dirt coated face. He shook his head. "I hate you…"
The portrait stared back, a stronger glint coming to the blue of the eyes.
"I hate you!" Gill shouted, his arms shaking.
He gripped the stake tighter. His blood pumped in his ears. His heart was in his throat. He felt like he was falling, kneeling here on the ground. He shut his perfect eyes.
Uttering a cry of pure agony, Gill brought the stake down upon the heart of the portrait.