AIRLESS "Once Forgotten" (Prologue)A Chapter by Christoph Poe Most of my writing is inspired and pushed by a particular song that I keep on repeat. See below for a youtube link to play the video if desired.
"Ayva, don't speak. Stay hidden."
My mother placed me in the closet. The scent of my fathers clothes swung loosely above me. A box protruded uncomfortably into my backside, but as the confusion rose, the physical pain mattered less. The collar of her beige shirt fell within grasp. With the natural instinct of a child, I reached for her in panic. My voice whispered loudly to her: "Please, don't leave me." She pushed me back, and tugged at my hand for freedom. "Baby, I promise you it will be okay." With a candle in hand, the glow of my father's silhouette danced frantically in the background of his and my mother's bedroom. I attempted a better look, but I soon found my place back in the floor. My mother shuffled through the mess in the closet, and piled old clothes on top of me that had lost their grip of the hangers above. Agitation took me over, but I allowed them to do what they thought best in the midst of such an enigmas situation. "Mother, I'm scarred." A rough quilt toppled on my face. Sound became my vision as my body ached in the fight for movement. In such fear, I hardly twitched an eyelid beneath the heaviness of all the clothes and odd debris of the closet my mother had thrown on top of me. Desperation to keep me hidden consumed her. A thud from the next room rumbled across my backside. I ripped the quilt from my face, surprised by the lack of carpet burn, but the adrenaline rush killed the thought. "MOM!" I whimpered. "Stay hidden, Ayva!" She pushed me back, and turned to my father. "Where is Aveylin?!" The raspy vibrations of my fathers cords eased me: "She is in her closet." My mother over exaggerated the smallest situations, and with his eyes meeting mine for only an instance, for what appeared to be eye contact, I only assumed the least. My mother and he swapped places. I grabbed the collar of his shirt. Both hands snatched him down. Unlike my mother, he bowed, and hooked his arm around my back. "What's wrong?" I asked him more calmly than I'd ever address my mother. "I don't know, Ayva. Be quiet. Please. For me?" He begged me, and released. He swiped his soft hand across the flickering flame of his candle. The tiny hint of light left the wick embedded in the wax, and following his palm. "I promise," but could speak nothing more. A tiny ball of fire rotated in his cupped hand. Nothing excited me more as a child watching him majestically contort the flames of a candle, but even now, it subsided as little of a distraction. The grit of his beard carpeted his rusty skin. The severity of the situation became most evident when his brow bent across his heavy eyes. "You promise?" he asked sorrowfully. "I promise." He snapped his thin fingers shut. The sudden break in light left me in a field of pure black. I backed myself uneasily, yet in the trust, of my father. The closet door eased, and clicked. Another thud struck the floor. My body burned in a cold sweat. For moments to follow, my loud heartbeat became the only evidence of life. Glass shattered following another thump across the floor. The crackling glass crunched beneath a pair of walking boots. My eyes filled with water. The smells of my parents items began to fade with every passing second as my nostrils flooded with a sappy liquid. I pulled the heavy quilt with both my arms, and buried my knuckles in a knot just below my chin. My lips quivered, but if I made a sound.... My father spoke timidly, but clearly: "If you leave, we promise we won't report this to the Guards." Footsteps passed inches from the closet door. I pulled the quilt across my face in hiding. Seconds passed between a much further away thump. Then, a stranger spoke: "I'm so sorry it had to be this way. I'm so sorry." "What way?!" My father stomped. "Who are you, and how'd you get in my house?!" My brow quivered with the rise of his voice. Mumbles followed a deeper much further away thud. Then footsteps. Then a thud fell just outside the door again. The stranger's mumbles became more clear: "--if I do--" The rhythm of his boots thump, thump, thumped. "That doesn't make--" thump, thump and crunch, the broken glass crumpled. My body heat magnified beneath the quilt when I realized he stood outside the door again. My breathing became sweaty, and my arms grew numb. A wet stream dried coldly across my cheek. "Leave as you came," my father spoke stern and tall. "Please," my mother's dampened weeps transitioned into me. "I don't know your reasons, but please leave." My chest rose, but could not fall under such a huge breath of air. A heavy tear followed the same path as the one before it. The stranger beat himself up in a one-sided conversation: "Oh god, why did they ask me?! WHY?!" His tone changed, but he continued to speak in private: "This is bullshit. This is ridiculous! I can't do this." My father interrupted him. "What are your intentions?" And so his voice shrieked louder: "Answer me!" I winced at the rise in his tone, another tear to follow. "My intentions were to protect you!" the stranger rose his voice in respect. The air depleted from my lungs. "To protect us?" the echo of her voice, no matter how shrill, calmed me for the next few moments. "NO!" He yelled, and from the other side of the room, his boots thumped against the wooden floor. "NO!" He repeated in frustration. "I'm here to protect the blood... I'm here to protect your innocence--to protect from the world." I had remained in the dark, it seemed, for so long at this point that blindness had crossed my mind at several points. This stranger kept on confusing me though. He kept that enigmas streak. "We don't need protecting." My father stated bluntly. "We need you to leave." "I-" the stranger's voice rose in sympathy. "I can't leave now," and the tone in his voice might have been the coldest I've ever heard an Inhuman speak.... I inhaled hot and sweaty air beneath my scratchy blanket. "Do you have children?!" My throat closed. Why would he question me?! "No," my mother replied so quickly I knew the suspicion would bring on more questions. The stranger stepped again. Thump, thump, thump: "Then why are there toys in the living quarters?" Thump, thud, thud, thud, crunch. "At the foot of the fireplace, there is a kazoo." My mother had asked me to put it away earlier that night. I forgot. I whispered between my quivering lips: "I'm sorry...." "It's my sisters child," my father continued the lies. "He left it last night." "Good." He began mumbling once again. "Why did they ask me to come here?!" he asked himself. "That's good," he said again, to himself, but to my parents as well. "My conscious can be a bit more clear." I exhaled. What type of conscious did he battle with? A crunch, crunch, crunch, and thump followed. Then, everything stopped. Sound and light had froze within a short time. But I breathed. I just breathed. What followed sat so heavily in my memory. A hammer and chisel couldn't remove it if I cut my skull open myself and beat my brains out. I swallowed with the muscles in my eyes twitching for some sight of light. But nothing came back to me. A slumping thump, a deep hard thump quaked the floor. I denied the thought that instant moment it came to my innocent mind. But a yelp--a failed attempt of a terrifying scream--came followed by another deep thump... I felt the transition of vibrations run across my backside as the muscles in my tiny heart hardened in the realization. My breathing slowed. The shock won me over. It couldn't be. Or could it? Silence. Pure disturbing silence rose to its highest pitches. Minutes passed, and to my dismay, nothing happened. No one came to the door. No more thumps, no more crunches, no more mumbling, no more life. As my insanity toon me over, I defied the last wish of my parents. "Mother?" Teary-eyed, I pursued the other equally significant person in my life. "Fath-" my voice crackled out. "Father?!" I repeated as clearly as the bubbles in my throat allowed. "Mother, Father, please let me out..." Their voices never came to me again. © 2013 Christoph PoeAuthor's Note
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Christoph PoeTuscaloosa, ALAboutLaughing might be my weakness, but my humor is the only characteristic that drives my positivity in this damned world. I'm a bit blunt at times, but always respectful >>and to be blunt, I expect respe.. more..Writing
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