Chapter VI: Raining Rubies

NOTE!!!!! This is the SIXTH part of a book I am Writing!!!

      Aha, here is the latest victim…  Annikah Jane Webber…  Age, seventeen.  Cause of death: To be announced…  Location: Ottawa, Ontario, Canada.

      It was around six on a gorgeous afternoon in early June when the door to a dark, dusty, austere, colonial-style home creaked open.  A soft, pathetic whimpering could be heard as a young woman dragged her beaten body inside, trailing a turned ankle and limping slightly.  She fell heavily against the rotting, termite-infested door and locked it.  As the door closed, flecks of paint and plaster dusted her matted, auburn hair.  She lay with her back against the doorjamb and buried her face in her arms.  Her clothes were torn and she had a shiner forming over her left eye.  She was also six months with child.

      Let me take you back six months ago, where our story really begins.  We now see the same girl, just before her seventeenth birthday, smiling and giggling with her friends at school and then, going out to party later that night.  She had desperately tried to stay sober, but had been unable to resist the pressure of her girlfriends pushing a bottle of vodka at her whenever she turned.  She drank a couple shots and left with a boy from the school’s football team who drove her home.  But just before they reached her street, he pulled into a nearby parking lot, and they had some very reckless fun in the backseat of his black 1985 Toyota Supra.  After about an hour later, he had walked her home and helped her sneak into her house by distracting her parents; acting as a pizza delivery boy who had gotten lost.

      Two weeks later, she realised her period never came, and she panicked.  She ran downstairs, eyes blotchy with tears, and told her parents she was pregnant, making up some bullshit story of how the boy who drove her home must have spiked her drink and then raped her.  Enraged, her father had done something he had never done before; he rounded on her, burning hatred in his eyes, and she blacked out.

      She woke up two weeks later in a hospital bed with a broken collarbone, a shattered eye socket, three broken ribs, multiple abrasions and contusions, and a concussion.  Her mother lay in the bed next to her with a shattered femur and massive lacerations across her face and torso.  The next thing she saw was a man in a black suit standing over her mother and she struggled to hear what he was telling her…

      “Your husband has filed for divorce and you need to decide who gets custody of your daughter.  And then you need to ….”  His voice trailed off as she blacked out again.  The two of them were let out of the Intensive Care Unit a week and a half later, and then from the hospital at the end of that month.  The next six months were hazy; all she really remembered was a courtroom, her father apologizing to her about what he had done to the two of them, and him storming out the door after hugging her and wishing her luck in life.

      She had neither seen nor heard from him since that day.  In fact, her mother was never home anymore because she had taken up dating and a job as a nurse in the general hospital.  Mommy had the habit of playing a barfly, cougar, and flirt all at once; going to bars, flirting and teasing with the college kids, then taking them to nearby motels.

      Just this morning, she was walking to a nearby homeless shelter when she was jumped by a thug in a ski mask and denim coveralls.  He had dragged her backwards into an alleyway and behind a dumpster.  She had managed to break free but tripped on a loose chunk of concrete, sending pain rocketing up her spine.  Scared for both her and her baby’s life, she started sobbing uncontrollably.  That was when he punched her and unzipped his pants…

      Allow me to bring you back to the present, dear reader, where we can watch and see what our young friend does next.  While we were engaged in that exciting flashback, our teenaged heroine sliced open her palm and dipped her finger in the fresh wound.  Using her own essence, we can see that she has begun to write something on the wall.  Here is what she has written so far…

Abuse, Neglect, Hatred, Rape; the Goons of the Reaper have won!

      Unfortunately for our leading lady, the curtain is going to close a little prematurely on her aria.  Look, on the stairs, she has slit her wrists now.  And look at this, there is a noose tied in some very strong rope hanging from the hooks in the ceiling where a chandelier used to be.  She sits there, using a stick to bring the noose over to her.  She looks at the ceiling and then to the rope before pulling a fresh razorblade out of her pocket.

      Yes, my reader, you know what the end of this story is going to be; like almost all other operas, this one is going to end with a death.  However, unlike the opera, instead of singing, this diva is going to die!  Listen carefully; you can hear her whispering a song to the musty air.

      “My friends you shall drip rubies…” she chokes between words, dragging the blade across both of her femoral arteries.  Then she drops the slipknot around her neck, tightens it, and sits on the edge of the banister.  Closing her eyes, she pushes herself off the railing and lets her body fall towards the ground.

      You hear a sickening, snapping sound as her neck breaks, and watch as her body swings helplessly in the still, dead air of the rundown home.  There is nothing you can do, my friend; all you can do is pray for her spirit.  As we turn to leave the silence (my own calling card), you turn to look back.  You swear you can hear something, something muffled, distorted, and almost indistinguishable.  You struggle to hear what is not actually there.  You soon give up and grab hold of my hand, for you are ready to move on from this grisly scene.  Come, I’ll take you to the next tale of death and despair.

      As we begin to disappear into a separate dimension, it hits you like a pointblank slug from a shotgun; that “something” was the faint sound of a baby crying for its mama.

      Look, as much as I adore taking lives and reaping souls, I have just one rule that I always try to follow; never take the life of an innocent child!  You see, I’m only supposed to reap the souls of certain kinds of people; terminally ill, the dying, sinners, murderers, rapists, suicides, and the like.  Taking the life of an innocent child is against my morals.  Yes, I do have f*****g morals!  If you have a problem with it, then you can go burn in Hell and get your a*s reamed until you split in two by Satan, himself!  I have seen some souls unfortunate enough to anger him get that treatment, and trust me; it ain’t a pretty sight!  Just imagine getting impaled on a stake that is wider than your body!  Now imagine that happening very, very slowly!

      If you do not follow that one rule, I’ll personally ensure you are fucked.  Do you understand me?

      …

      Are you crying?!  Oh don’t you dare f*****g get all emotional on me!  You son of a b***h!  You are going to make me cry!  Do not guilt me into feeling bad!  I only do what I’m assigned to do!  She was supposed to die, so she died!  F**k, the kid could live for all I know!  Do not question my authority again!  Do you f*****g understand that?!

      …

      Wonderful, let’s continue.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the set-up of the story. Poor girl had a hard time in life and her death. I like the way you are describing each person and their deeds. A good ending to a excellent chapter.
Coyote