Come with Me (2nd Draft)

Come with Me (2nd Draft)

A Story by EJH
"

This was a revised, extended and re-written thanks to all of the suggestions. It features a more in detail version of the story 'Come with Me'

"

I sat on the couch that I had left outside in my laziness, I had penned a well thought out letter, though I have not given any thought who to address it to.


The 'Dear' remained blank on top of the page, it was an ordinary blank A4 printing paper. I had examined the land I told to my name. It was once a beautiful, neat and orderly home and workplace. Now I have since neglected the animals to the point of malnutrition and disease. Though I have lived off of Eggs, taken from the naturalised Foul, whom have grown feral. My hands are both scarred from my run ins with the dominant Rooster.


I looked over to my tool-shed, the door has not been closed in many decades, as a result some wild Hens and Rats have taken up residence, I could hear them warring last night as I tried to sleep on this couch.


After I finished my glance around my unkempt and deteriorated Farm, I had laid out an old photo-album to lean my blank sheet of paper on and pressed my pen hard up on my paper and wrote;


I had lived for many years. I was born around 1908, I have had no recollection of my birth, obviously.

I do have a small pocket of memories that were about my Mother, playing with blocks, and some words from my native language.

Then everything changed upon the arrival of the Great War or otherwise known as World War one, where my parents were I had not known, they died somewhere in the horrid land of Europe.


There I remembered a barren wasteland, riddled with snow and bullets.


A British soldier had found me as I'd hidden in one of the dug out trenches

Where is your Mother, little Boy,”


I felt the fear as my malnourished state, couldn't fight or flee.

Come with me and I'll help you find them?”


We never did, but he was kind enough to take me in to his home, he and his wife could not bare children, so they adopted me.


I had ran out of space as I've double-sided my sheet already. I had to walk into my jungle of a house to see if I could of salvaged any from anywhere. I've reached for my walking stick and opened the door, I was shocked to find that I had accidentally pulled it of it's hinges and caused a huge thud that had spooked the Possum who had taken residence in my roof.


I had walked to my kitchen, that had a refrigerator that either I hadn't plugged in or it stopped working, I can not keep track of every detail of my life. Every surface of my Kitchen was filled with plates that have neither seen hot water or detergent in a long time. If my Wife hadn't died she would of killed me, for neglecting my house-work.


I walked over to my old writing-desk. It was the most aesthetically pleasing thing I ever owned. If my possessions were Olympic medals that desk would be Gold.


It was a well varnished Mahogany Desk that I had once cleaned myself, as I'd never trust anyone else to do it. Now it was a haven for scrunched up papers and chip packets, one of the drawers has been used as a bin, also an ash-tray. Nonetheless I have found the packet that contained my blank A4 sheets. I thought it would be wise to take the packet out with me, because I could be writing more than another page. If any of us were to write down our lives, it could possibly fill a library from the floor to the ceiling.


As I resumed my position, I had emptied my tobacco tin with whatever I could pack into the cup of my pipe. I stuck a light from my match (after the third try). Then I wrote the heavily filtered next chapter of my pathetic existence.


During the horrid bombings of London, by those wicked War-birds, I had became so frightened, my adoptive Mother went missing, and my adoptive Father was worried, but just gave his gun and said “Stay here!”


Several months had passed, they did not return, but I stayed to help my friends rebuild the Great city that was torn asunder in the name of the Anti-Christ and his Aryan Daemons.


Then a beautiful, Woman who worked as a nurse had came to my aid, when I had foolishly stepped on a rusty shard of metal, that must have been from one of the bombers. She found me limping in the streets and her first words to me were, “Come with me,”


The terror had filled my mind as the thoughts of a War, that most likely could have been avoided, if only the Antichrist had kept his word about truce with the other nations. Then again if it were not for that tragic War, I'd would not of met my beloved. After I had ashed my pipe out on the floor. I stamped out the smoking chunk of burnt tobacco. Since I lacked the sense of vanity to at least use my tobacco tin as an ashtray, I continued my writing;


Ten years had passed, I had married the nurse and together we had left war-torn London and came over to Australia, there I'd worked on a great Bridge and made a modest living, but I was able to build our family home on this farm.


Seven wonderful years had came to an end, when our Son had gone missing. We had not seen him for days, I had since summoned the Police to assist. The idea of him returning home was alive was very small. Then a knock came on the door and a Constable had entered. I heard him jest and say, “Come with me.”


After the memories of Ezekiel have flooded my mind, I turned my head to the right, there I had glanced at a stone alottment, I had built myself, that once had grown the tallest corn and largest vines of the sweetest Tomatoes, now is a mess of wild grass, weeds and my rubbish. In the centre of the giant alottment, that had easily taken up my a quarter of my yard, pass the dead Rose plants my Wife had once cared for, but now have since became as much botanical use as the rocks that have bordered it, we had buried our Son. Ezekiel's grave was a modest one, as we couldn't afford a luxury plot or even a glamorous tombstone. It was just a rock I had found in the Cow paddock and I painstakingly chiselled out his name. My Wife had painted the letters so they stood out amongst the rock. I hadn't visited my Son's grave in many years, one reason was that I feared I'd step on broken glass, as most of the once desirable growing soil had been laced with broken beer bottles, I had carelessly discarded over the years.


We never had any other children, over the next twenty years the fate of our son had taken it's toll on my Wife, Twenty years of harsh misery she'd endured until she finally gave up, I'd wish we could of buried her next to our Son.


It had pained me greatly to of thought, that our Son's death was not the sole factor. My Wife and I have taken to binge drinking and recreational drugs, that were already popular with the few friends we had, being foreigners we weren’t at all liked among some of the locals, all of those frustrations my Wife and I had taken out on each other. I had recluses to the tool shed for hours and of all the organisms I had neglected, the worse I felt had been my one and only. I had forsaken her, when she had needed me, I had even vaguely remembered striking her at times I had felt most frustrated. I had even struck her so hard for crying, and remembered making her try and feel as worthless as I had felt. I had simply returned to my shed and thought nothing of it until I had run out of alcohol and went to wake her up so she could drive me to the liquor store. Only I remembered she laid stiff, in the bed with an empty bottle of Tramadol. I was able to salvage her Vodka to numb the pain.


You are perhaps wondering why a depressed, alcoholic and empty shell of a Man would go to so much effort to write his story, was it that I had spent half a century unwilling and unable to express the feelings that have weighed on my soul? Was it that I had felt my story to be of any significant importance? Or maybe I wanted to tell my Wife I was sorry, and had not found the appropriate words to scribe on my pieces of paper?


Thirty years to this day had passed since I had lost my Wife. The experience had only made me indulge in my self-destructive habits, I had since funded them in less than legal means, the Mushrooms that grew from my Cows could be sold to some 'Hippie' friends of mine, another export I have fondly cultivated were certain plants that could be smoked, though in my alcoholic state I rely on my friend George's assistance, even to remind me when to water and feed them. Honestly, I thought him to be sceptical of starting a business relationship with me, as he was very familiar of the state of my household and most of my phone conversations with him, I had no recollections, nor it would not surprise me if I had been less than coherent.


Nonetheless, he also supplied me with injectable opiates to numb the pain. As George had disappeared over a month ago, I felt not only my source of income has dwindled dangerously thin, but my drug of choice, the one thing I have left that filled my heart with happiness had since reduced to only a few doses.


I had not wanted to go out with severe withdraws, that would be as slow and as painful as suffering a terminal illness, no! I had realised I wanted to go out with dignity. What would become of my haunted memory composed of wood, brick and stone? I had not given it any thought. Whether I go or not, it will become possession of the Bank's anyway. If only they realised what a white elephant I had given them. I had half a mind to do them a favour and set the place alight.


Without a second thought, I had my prepared needle lay on the floor next to the couch, in it I had placed all of the doses I have had on my person. I knew from the stories in London of this wonder drug, and how too much can cause the greatest wonder of all. I trembled as I had tied my arm with a few rubber bands to find my vein. It was a task proven difficult as my body had become flabby and overweight from an inactive lifestyle.


As I stuck the needle in I had felt as if I've suffered from Parkinson's disease as my hands shook and the simple task of pressing the end in to force the lethal dose into my veins had proven more difficult than premeditated.


I had felt the numbness, kick in. As sung by Pink Floyd 'I've become comfortably numb.' I had injected to much Heroin into my bloodstream I had felt dizzy and had the feeling like I was about to throw my entire stomach contents up. I've only eaten eggs and potato chips for the last year so I could only hoped I had not swallowed any shells or at least chewed the hard wedges of potato sliced satisfactory, or I was going to be in a lot of pain.


As I stood up, to instinctively let loose on the grass, like I had done a thousand times before, I had noticed a red, Toyota Ute, as it drove towards my house. The Car had driven at a speed that I could see the large dust clouds behind it. It had looked for a moment it had parted a large spore of dust, like Moses did to the Red Sea. I glimpsed down at the number plate, it was George!


I had wondered what he had wanted, but I was in no state to entertain him, as I feared my time had run dry, as I fainted, I fell to the wooden deck and smacked my head so hard, that when I opened my eyes, I saw a horrid hallucination.


A Dark figure had came towards me, it's very site had filled my heart with more terror than either of the two Wars. It had very small exposed hands, with long, black finger nails, It also appeared to of carried what I could describe was a giant hourglass, where all of the red, glitter like sand had fallen to the bottom half. The framework appeared to of been made out of bones. The Hooded person had thrown off it's cloak, to reveal that she was a Woman, the most beautiful, jaw-dropping, gorgeous Female I had ever seen. Her appearance had even made my late-Wife look unpleasant. She was completely naked, her skin tome was paper-white,she had no genitalia, though I was too much of a Gentleman to stare. Her head was very different, as her eyes appeared to of been two large hollow holes in the front of her head. Almost like they were the eyes of a rotten corpse.


Her Areolas were alien too, they had appeared more like a creepy looking skull, than anything I had viewed on my Wife or in my magazines. The tips of the n*****s had appeared to be the mouths of the skulls. I held my head in awe, who was she? What had she wanted from me?


He had held out her empty hand and pulled me up to my feet, I had realised that she had stood taller than me and her strength had to of rivalled the strongest gymnast. Though her arms showed no tone of muscle or even looked like they had lifted a weight.


After she was sure I had been sure-footed, she had let me go and laid out the odd contraption on my deck, I had gazed into the glass and was gobsmacked and confused about what I had seen. I saw my Family. My birth Parents looked more like ghost-white corpses, Dad was missing an arm, but they were happy, they appeared to be in some beautiful Garden somewhere, as they had picked black roses and hugged each other. I could hear Mum as she had called my name.


I had also seen my adoptive Parents, they too had picked black roses from another allotment. They were both missing their arms, so they picked the plants with their teeth, and I had seen my Son, he stood there, Ghost-white with a huge cut to his throat and one of his eyes appeared to of been gouged out, finally I had seen my Wife, she had had a complete body, but she appeared to have very little interest in picking black roses, almost like she had suffered a case of permanent depression. Possibly because she had died in that state.


Finally, with a tap on the device, they had all disappeared, the glass had turned empty, she had looked at me and gestured. I could hear this foul sounding, half-whispered voice, “Come with me...” She had continued to beckon for me to follow, I had looked down, and I had seen George had discovered me and was making attempts to call the ambulance and performed a crude version of C.P.R . I felt disgusted to see he had been face kissing me. As I had turned back to face this Being, I had seen she had dressed herself in her robe again, so quickly, it was almost like it was the work of a super natural force.


She turned, so I pulled her by her cloak and begged her to take me with her, so I could reunite. She didn't speak, she only held her hands over her bare-breasts, after a minute, her palms which each cupped a black, disgusting looking liquid that could of only been lactated from her. Her hands then came together, she forced it into my mouth. She pointed to a stair case that appeared out of nowhere in my front yard, and ascended up them, she turned around and held her hand out. Her beautiful long hands bore strange long black finger-nails that beckoned me to follow. At last I heard those dreaded words again, “Come with me.”


THE END

© 2017 EJH


Author's Note

EJH
I hope i havn't ruined the story, please let me know what you think? Any reads and comments would be greatly appreciated. :)

My Review

Would you like to review this Story?
Login | Register




Reviews

I love your work. I added you to my personal favorite. I will come back tonight and I will read your work when the house is quiet. Please send read requests. I try to read every one.
Coyote

Posted 3 Years Ago


Ejheather, you really are getting better and better, 1st draft of come with me was not so good in comparison to this..
You have elaborated more happenings in a perfect manner.
Last time story sounds like coming alone and going alone.. But this time its a perfect description how painful can be once life, to start to beg for death.........

Posted 3 Years Ago


Heather...its quite good but somehow the first cut was more enthralling...The 'Come With Me' phrase must not get diluted. It is the key to holding the reader.

Posted 3 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

DIVYA

3 Years Ago

Best wishes Heather!
EJH

3 Years Ago

Thanks people, I didn't get the position as I got offered a job in my home town
AcasualPawn

3 Years Ago

Best wishes for future ejheather

Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Stats

391 Views
3 Reviews
Rating
Added on August 8, 2017
Last Updated on August 8, 2017
Tags: come, with, me, love, heart, break, family, death, world, war, one, two, australia, horror, fiction, history

Author

EJH
EJH

Mount Isa, , Queensland, Australia



About
I am a rural Australian, born an bred in the middle of nowhere. I rather be invisible than the centre of attention. I rather be alone than to surround myself with fakes. Also if you got so.. more..

Writing
Bloomy (Gravity) Bloomy (Gravity)

A Story by EJH


The Limp Patient The Limp Patient

A Story by EJH



Related Writing

People who liked this story also liked..


Love Smoke Love Smoke

A Poem by Paul Bell