Charlotte

My darkest story yet.

Samuel sits on the stone wall in front of the church; in his right hand there is a small knife and splayed across his lap is the torn pages of an old red hymn book: there is a burning behind his eyes as the night closes around him. The long fingers of death cripple his mind with spiteful thoughts as the small black words scar his soul:

 

“Just as I am, of that free love

The breadth, length, depth and height to prove,

Here for a season then above,

O lamb of god, I come”

 

The final two words resonate around Samuel’s mind like the final ring of the telephone.

‘I come’ he mutters, grasping the knife and running it gently across the palm of hisleft hand. The blood wraps and stains his skin like velvet kisses and the pain as his flesh splits causes his whole body to shudder.

 

Charlotte huddles in terrified silence tucked under piles of cushions in the airing cupboard as Samuel screams for her: ‘Grant us nevermore to part from thee!’ He cries, rummaging and tearing his way to Charlotte. In the dark, half smothered with scented cloths, Charlotte begins to cry.

 

Samuel moves through the fog with cruel intent, the knife clutched by his side and blood drips from stained pages of religion. The fog is dense and the light from the lamps above become ethereal and divine, the long rays falling upon Samuel like the first cautious drops of November rain.

 

Older now, Charlotte calls for help; the night is young and Samuel has collapsed across the sofa, cans of beer half empty upon his chest. In quiet and tense moments, Charlotte calls a support line she had seen flash briefly across the old television screen. She had remembered the number as stubbornly as coffee stains on paper.

 

‘We’ll come for you’ they said. For the first night in her living memory, Charlotte had no nightmares that evening.

 

Across the bridge and into town, Samuel stumbles slowly. He pauses briefly overlooking the river; the sky is heavy and for minutes the dark waters merge perfectly with dark skies.

 

‘We will be together again, all of us’ he whispers in the night.

 

They come in a silver Estate with suits and note pads; Samuel opens the door with an unshaven face and stained clothes, with small surprise, he moves aside with innocent eyes as the two inspectors enter with fresh warrants and gleaming badges. They deem the property unsuitable, claiming the floors crawled with bugs and the pile of dirty plates had become borderline ‘dangerous’ in their quantity and state. Samuel shouts and screams as the blonde inspector carries Charlotte away: her clothes stain the inspector’s shirt.

 

‘Why are you taking her away?’ Samuel cries from the house as the inspector with a hat restrains him on the doorstep. Samuel’s arms are thin and his body, tired: he collapses in the door way, head slumped against the frame with vengeful tears welling in his eyes.

 

Samuel leaves the bridge and enters the town center: the streets are empty and the world sleeps on. The hill leading up to the last building on the right is steep and Samuel’s breathing becomes heavy and rough: his throat burns from Marlboros. The building is large and the gates barred, but with the last energy in his worn body, Samuel climbs over: the knife is held between teeth and scripture is tucked away into jean pockets. He faces the door with a swelling of pain in his heart.

 

‘I come’ he whispers again.

 

It is early afternoon and Samuel sits in open discussion with his wife’s gravestone. They plan and plot together, her deathly narrative forming in his mind. The thoughts creep across his subconscious like the tentative tide at dawn. The cold metal of his knife lays a reassuring hand from the comfort of his inside pocket as he leans forward to place down his final note:

 

“I thine own service make us glad and free,

And grant us nevermore to part from thee”

 

Turning, he sits on the stone wall and waits for darkness.

 

With a tense hand Samuel attempts to open the large wooden door but it is locked. Moving to his right, he removes the knife and, with the blunt end, smashes the ground floor window. He waits in silent anxiety for the screams and shouts but the world is peaceful.

 

‘Thank you’ he mutters, looking up into the sky. Perspiration and moisture from the air gather on his face.

 

Laying his jacket across the glass, chipping the last shards away like a macabre sculptor, he slides into the building. The halls are empty and dark but the signs lead him along to the final door of the final corridor: on the wall, written upon a small and worn plaque, read the words: ‘Children’s Dormitory’.

 

Pushing the door open, Samuel enters into the succumbed world of childish dreams and innocence. The warmth permeates his soul but it’s growing shackles burst off as, from the corner of an unwavering and searching eye, he spots the delicate form of Charlotte’s sleeping body. With grim determination Samuel weaves between sleeping children and stands above his daughter, the knife grasped in vicious fingers.

 

“Lifteth holy hands above,

Offering up on every shore

This pure sacrifice of love:”

 

He whispers in the dark, raising the knife graciously above his head before lowering it to her vulnerable and exposed neck. With a quivering hand he runs it across her skin, muttering manically to himself. Charlotte’s eyes twitch as she dreams: she murmurs some inaudible words under her breath as mind reigns supreme.

 

‘What was that?’ spits Samuel, a mad glare in his eyes: ‘What did yo-‘

 

He is cut short by further mumbling and as she readjusts herself, the word ‘Mummy’ falls perfectly from her lip; like the tickle of breath on Samuel’s hand the word makes his body shiver.

 

‘Yes,’ he cries silently, ‘Yes, Mummy! We’re going to meet her’

 

He slowly adds pressure to the knife upon Charlotte’s neck but as the blade digs deeper she sleepily opens her eyes and bats at the blade like a teased cat: she is not yet awake, but the borderline realm where the mind gets lost between dream and reality.

With a startled shock dreams snap and with a terror that froze Charlotte’s body to almost rigor mortis she looks up into her father’s eyes with horror.  She would’ve screamed out, but the eyes are of her father and thus are innately comforting, despite the trauma of her youth; she loves her father like no other, as the love felt for parents is a forgiving love that would span countless flaws to refuse abjection and unite affections.

 

‘Daddy?’ she whispers, shaking under the thin blanket as the low and cold draft blows in from the smashed window several doors away.

 

The knife is limp in his fingers as he sees his wife’s eyes staring up at him: the beautiful iridescent green glow that reminded him of Caesar salad in the garden and secret kisses in the dark. He grasps her hand longing for the similar reassuring touch of love and stares deep into her eyes: they embrace quietly and Charlotte sobs into her father’s shoulder. The knife clatters to floor and children stir in their sleep: chaos ensues as a crescendo of tears and screams ring out as children wake to find a man in their dormitory. Even as attendants and carers pour in from doors, and they too scream at the blood-stained man with  an unshaven face and dirty clothes, the two in the center have not a care in the world: they are content in their tears and for them, the world is in appreciative silence for the one they loved.

Reviews

[DrD]

Harry, I like this much better than some of your previous work. The imagry is excellent and the dialogue concise and compact as it should be. This is an excellent piece of writing and the only advice I have is the use of "Marlboro" because combined with his shortness of breath defames the company whether we like it or not and as a writer, you become liable for that defamation. Other than that minor detail, this is your best work to date. Congratulations

[Harry Alston]

Thank you very much, that means a lot. I will cut that Marlboro part out ;)

[Lover Of Words]

Great job love the imagination!

[Harry Alston]

Thank you!

[Talal Hussain]

Great job...good display of imagination...nice to see the dark side of you :-)

[Harry Alston]

Thank you!

[KAOlmsted]

I'm torn between loving the ambiguous ending and wanting to shake you like a crack baby (and that is, in no way, to be misconstrued as a libelous attack on methamphetamine, just in case anyone wants to sue *laugh*) I think I like not knowing if the blood-soaked man has, in fact, killed his own daughter, perhaps wounded himself mortally...but then again, I really want to know...did he??

*sigh* This is so different from what I'm used to reading from you, and I have to say, I'm pretty pleased you've got this dark streak running through you...it makes you...naughty ;-) Just goes to show, when you've got talent such as yours, you can write any genre and have it turn out...like this. Excellent.

-kimmer

[Harry Alston]

Haha, I like to think some of the magic behind writing is the parts you don't read - I'm afraid, my dear, you will have to keep pondering, but thank you as always! :)

[quinfinn]

whew! this is quite a grisly piece indeed! i guess you know how very dark and disturbing this is and i have to say that the interjection of insane religious banterings made the whole thing very real for me. color me very impressed. and thanks for making Marlboro look like the pariah they truly are, they destroyed my lungs. great write!

[Harry Alston]

Haha, I hope they don't destroy mine too! Thanks for your comment, very, very appreciated :)

[Marie]

This is very good, very dark indeed. But all your work is good. I like your more cheerful pieces better. You don't use the word "Marlboro" in connection with his shortness of breath but only say his throat burns from them. This is no worse than saying someone got drunk on DeWars.

[Harry Alston]

Thank you Marie, I thought it was time to experiment with a little darkness :)

[de_maruf]

fine