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Tales of a Hyper-sexual Spy

A Little Blood and Thunder…

A year ago today, the wind whipped cruelly and wailed like a banshee, the rain ripped and railed, swelling the river and sounding like a hail. All along the banks of the Avon the theatres doors were closed, closed for the night, for it was late, too late for decent people…but then there were no decent people out. Just a madman, scarcely human, he would have terrified decent people. Their skins they would’ve jumped out. No one knew how the lunatic had got there nor where he had come from, even the madman did not know, nor did he know which direction to bear. There were some, later, who said he was an escaped lunatic from an institute called Home Park, or others that he had gone mad, mad from a broken heart. The latter, was true, something remained behind, something in his mind, something about a baby and a woman, some unholy matter, he had the deaths door blues, and a fearful infinity did shatter, his ruined mind and fragmented heart. He ran soaked along the river bank, he grunted like an animal and like an animal he stank. Like an animal he was possessed of a feral cunning, he carried on stumbling, grunting, running. His clothes were wet, ripped and torn, and he kept on running. A year ago today, the madman came running.

Several streets away, sat a family house on a family road. Beautifully crafted hedges and flowers, the house was made of sixteenth century stone, an uneven roof and an old oaken door, windows curved and ancient, preserved by thoughtful law. Inside the house was the Huntsberger’s home. A year ago today, when the lightning flashed and the thunder crashed and the rain lashed on the wind, a fearful foreboding was borne.

A year ago today, Dylan had awoken and sat bolt upright, for a half second he could not breathe, something was not right. A battered and shattered, remnant of thought and that sharp sense of a fearful foreboding flooding and gripping every sense, he suddenly became alert and intense. Something was not right. He looked down to where his true love lay as beautiful as snow, sweet Sophia did lay. She had moulded his heart as easily as she moulded her clay, Sophia, his wife, as beautiful as virgin snow. She lay full asleep in reams of dreams.

Yes his wife, Sophia, the love of his life, slumbered and dreamed happily, of that great beauty which walks the Earth. She dreamed of her wedding, she had worn a tiara and a white dress that had followed floating behind her like a great lily. She had wanted to wear veil of white lace, but Dylan had said that he’d never seen a costume as pretty as her face, that he’d never seen a dream without the dreamer’s grace, and that dreamers had never seen anything as pretty as her face. So it was, truly, shyly, a tiara. They had been married here, in Stratford-upon-Avon, near, to where they first met and her dress had wrapped around her as the air grew chilly. They had been entangled, enthralled and entwined, to each other and it was sealed forever on that day, and her dress had floated behind, like a great, great lily. Soon she had born him a child and a few years later another, now her children, she dreamed impossibly, were at her wedding and in auguries of innocence they played and walked and she dreamed happily, that their beauty was all that walked the Earth. And she dreamed of her love, On and on Sophia softly slumbered, afloat in reams of dreams.

Dylan was wide awake worried, he’d always worried, but now with the little ones to look after he worried, more so. The world was for him, full of dangers. He decided not to wake her, she would call him paranoid, and she looked too happy to disturb. He would check on the children, be certain there were no dangers to avoid, no night terrors to curb. He shuffled off the satin sheets and as he rose the foreboding grew and grew, like a devil insidious inside him he knew, that something was not right. He paced out to the landing and peeked through the door to the children’s room, Lucien turned in his bed. Nine years old, he was growing so fast, a shock of black hair on his head, his sharp eyes were his mothers, so Dylan snuck softly inand tucked up the boy’s covers.  He placed his hand on the boy’s cheek. You could never be too careful. The child’s temperature was normal. He turned his attention to the little one, the baby, a toddler nearly; she had her mother’s flame red hair and was sleeping peacefully, in the crib lay the little one, Claire. She seemed fine as well, but something was not right. He crept back to the landing full of care, the foreboding he could almost taste and smell, it was beyond a hunch, it was palpable. He crept down skipping the creaking stair. Dylan was scared and he did not often scare, he was big and fast and strong. He boxed twice a week and studied religiously the art of taekwondo. It would be a rare man, rare, who could land a blow. He had inched down stair by stair with unnatural fear in his heart, tempered by a father’s steely protective glare.

Outside now just three streets away the madman ran, slavering and raving. The open sores on his shoeless feet leaking, leaking blood and puss, his skin’s condition was hideous. He stopped suddenly and stared through a house’s window, inside a young cuddling couple languished, the madman twisted his face to a mask malevolent and anguished, something about a woman, something about a baby. He tore himself away and on the maddened madman ran. He ran and ran, and dived into a masonry filled skip, breaking a finger, his trousers ripped, he dribbled and salivated and whined piteously in horrific refrain, hurting himself again and again, eyes popping out of his head in horrendous pain. Howling like an animal, bashing his head on a brick, gnawing at his finger which he soon began to lick, then near rabid in his madness he tumbled out of the skip, he picked up the brick, and on he ran, on the madman ran with his own blood washing off his lip. He had a thought to hurt that couple as he hurt, but there was no coherence in his thought so hurt. He just ran from street to street, from house to house. He ran towards the street where Dylan lived, not that the madman knew, such pain was in his face, fingers and feet, but he ran down a place called Lavette Street. He could see a light was on and that to him meant something to hurt like he hurt, a light was on in a house a few doors down.

Where Dylan’s face wore a frown, he could not seem to pin this down, he’d checked the house and looked at the car but still he was bothered. He told himself he was being daft, but that didn’t stop the uneasy feeling and didn’t stop him being bothered. He wandered from the hallway to the lounge and to the kitchen again, peering from the window pane, and still he was bothered. Something was not right, something was not right, why couldn’t he place it? If it had been himself alone it would be alright, he would have returned to bed by now, but the children, damn it…something was not right, the foreboding consumed him. His rational mind told him, it was nothing, it was nothing. But all his other senses consumed him, maybe his eyes and his ears were being tricked by the savagery and severity of the storm, but damn it, he could smell something…he thought he’d imagined it earlier but now he could definitely smell something, far away perhaps, but rank, whatever it was it was outside and like a carcass, it stank. He headed towards his front door, with a snarl curling square on his jaw…

Upstairs Lucien awoke, like his father he sat bolt upright and struggled for that first breath, where thought had not yet bespoke. He too, sensed something amiss; maybe it was burglars or worse a ‘terrorists.’ He wasn’t sure what a ‘terrorists’ was, but he knew it was worse than burglars and now he was scared. He heard something outside and went to look from his window, and he saw it with his own way. In eyes so childish the truth is fickle and fey. The ‘terrorists’ was shaped like a man, it had something in its hand, it was running straight at the house…Lucien ran from his room to warn his father,,.ran quick as a mouse…

At that same moment, Dylan opened his front door, Lucien dashed onto the landing, looking down the stairs he could see into the hallway toward the front door, he could see his father, not where he thought he would be, but the boy could see his father.  He came down a few steps, “Dad! Dad!”

Dylan, hearing the boy, lost focus, began to turn his head, the mistake was brutal, a tapestry of a father’s dread. For outside the madman had hurtled, hurtled towards the Huntsberger home and seeing the door open, sent the brick arching from where he had thrown… the brick it came arching, arching in the storm ridden night, and into Dylan’s temple it came crashing, with all of the madman’s might… Dylan’s skull broke open and into his brain, threw three slivers of bone, into the hallway flew rain, and Dylan fell without even a groan. The shock stopped his heart, leaving his boy and the madman alone…

Stunned silence for an eternal second. His giant father lay crumpled, the guardian of his life lay crumpled, the discipline of his life lay crumpled, and he could see fragments of his father’s skull bone… Lucien screamed, a child’s shrill wail, the sound alone told a hellish tale… in the madman ran, demented dangerous and loose… up the madman looked with eyes like a hangman’s at the noose… down stared young Lucien, his feet frozen where he stood, but he stared at the madman’s eyes, for his heart was brave and good. Then out like the lightening, out like a wraith, his mother Sophia came…

“Get behind me boy! Go keep your sister safe!” out his mother came.

“Lucien!’ She called out her young son’s name…slowly she dragged the boy back.

“Keep your sister safe!” slowly the lad came back, as the madman stumbled round the hall. ‘I’ve called the police,’ she said, but it wasn’t true at all…. she could see the blood, oh God the blood, how could Dylan fall?

Again the madman looked… now at the mother in her gown… he wanted to cause her hurt, and he wanted to drag her down… something about a woman, something hurt bloody and deep… then he heard a baby cry and his twisted heart began to weep, his mind began to curse. He wanted to bleed the woman deep, but he wanted the baby worse.

“I’ll kill your baby bitch,” he uttered unholy curse…

“What? Get back!” Sophia shouted… as the madman grunted rage at the bottom stair…

“Get back!” Sophia screamed as the madman looked up through lank and mouldy hair…

‘Get back!’ but he came ever onwards… closer and closer this creature came, gamely she launched herself forward hoping this madman to maim… now as she came towards him, the madman’s eyes watched like a creature of the night, and he shifted stepping suddenly…oh so suddenly…off to the right. Now as she launched ever forward and passed him on the stair, he grabbed her by the night gown and her sweeping hair, and he swung her at the wall, her it head cracked loudly, and Sophia began to fall…the mother began to fall…

He turned on the step and saw her; the madman saw her pretty bare legs. He wanted to savage and rape her; he was the scum of society’s dregs… she groaned and her forehead was bleeding he wanted to have his way… so he stumbled down and he felt her and he heard the woman say ‘”Not now, not ever..” so he kicked her in the face.

He knocked her out unconscious. Saying “A woman should know her place.”

Again his good hand felt her, this time between her legs. The madman’s hand it felt her, an evil finger between her legs…

Then at that fateful moment, the baby’s cry rent the night, the madman forgot the woman and the lightning flashed up bright. Up the stairs his attention turned and up the stairs he ran… following the baby’s cry, to the room where a boy stood like a man… yes, in his room young Lucien stood, without the need to think why.

He calmly stared at the madman: “Touch my sister and you will die.”

The madman like all adults dwarfed him and considered him not at all…the madman focused on the baby in the crib at the far wall… Lucien stepped boldly, nobly between his sister and this monstrous man, whose face turned wan, and then began, to utter a cry… suddenly Lucien was stabbing small scissors down at the madman’s thigh… the young boy wounded the madman who punched him hard in the head… Lucien went flying like a rag doll, like a rag doll across the room, but Lucien wasn’t finished and his courage sealed his doom… his sister kept on crying and a thunder, a thunder filled the room.

Then this Lucien, this lad of nine summers old… got back up and attacked and on the broken finger he got a hold… he got a hold and twisted with all of a nine year olds strength… and the madman howled in pain and anguish and the madman howled at length… he hit out at the boy who held on, held on with all his strength… again and again he hit, breaking the child’s teeth, but the boys hold was bold and true and his courage beyond belief… Lucien twisted again and back to the landing they flew. Now the boy, bleeding, he scrapped bravely, but the madman pinned him to him to a wall. The end was coming swiftly; young Lucien was no match at all…

Downstairs in the hallway…Sophia was coming round…she saw Lucien fighting bravely… but she could not move nor hear a sound… then suddenly it came, the end to the brave boy’s fight, he kicked out at the scissors, still lodged in the madman’s thigh, but the madman bit at his throat, and the boy began to die… Lucien began to die; the madman’s teeth tore at his throat. For the love of his sister the boy did die, blood and his own broken teeth, choking, gagging and clogging his windpipe and throat…

Sophia’s scream rent louder than that of any Hollywood doll…Sophia’s scream awakened and Dylan’s brain sent a desperate electrical jolt… for two minutes his heart had not been beating, but when he heard his lover’s cry the electrical pulse was fleeting, but it started his heart beating and he was no longer bound to die… up the big man stood, he tremored, but he breathed and stood and his heavy head was drenched, drenched in his thick red blood… he surveyed the scene above him, a sliver of his own skull fell down his cheek and a murder reigned within him as he charged like a bull over the stair that creaked… no sooner had he reached the madman than he ripped him from the boy, he battered him to the window, the landings full length ancient window, and he kicked him backwards through the window into the concrete street below. But Dylan was wounded and rapidly he fell, he fell, through the window as well, landing hard at the madman’s feet, and a sliver of bone went deeper, deeper through his brain in Lavette Street…

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This entry was posted on January 6, 2015 by in darkness, desire, horror, murder, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , .
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