Thunders kiss: Memories (4)

Thunders kiss: Memories (4)

A Story by Mey
"

Dark thoughts haunt atroubled mind

"

His heels make a gentle silence as he walks. The thick soles delicately punch the ground with his every pace. Good, evil, light, dark, black, white, the checkered floor passes underneath. His coat gently laps at the wall he presses close against, like a lover; swiftly a crash cart rushes by.

A deep frown caresses his lips as he travels down the corridor, bursting with frantic surgeons. Memories pour into his mind, dashing his thoughts to pieces as he tries to stay focused. He doesn’t like hospitals, but he isn’t ready to give up a part of himself to Trish yet. Not about his life, not about the pain, not about that last night when he was simply Markus J. Smith. That’s not who he is anymore. One day, maybe, one day far in the future after he can comes to grips with himself, maybe then he can take up that title again, but that day is still a far off. For now he’s Sparky. A stranger in every town, friend to none. Bear understands him, but that’s just an understanding, a comrade at arms length.

Down, somewhere, hidden in the press of bodies the wheels of the cart scream, yelling for the person locked to the cart who cannot. Blood drips slowly against the glass windows from outside. He pauses to peer out at a world that is not his own.

The storm has come again.

It’s only rain he tells himself as he walks away. Blood doesn’t rain from the sky; the clouds are not some great beast split open and dying. Thunder is not the screams of death, lightning not the flash of the sickle as death comes for the world.

He tells himself this as he wanders, as he searches. All around him are angels and demons, people who fight for death and are wrestled back from the brink, people who fight for life and yet slip into the inky depth of death despite the Valkyries who fight for them.

The building is so cold, so clean, devoid of a soul. Nothing screams death like the cold, and yet the temperature could be no more than a few degrees above freezing. He knows it’s not true but he cannot help thinking it. At lest it’s gentle lie is better than the hard truth of his memories.

He rubs at his scars, now covered over by a cheap bandana that he purchased on his slow trudge to this place of war. He wishes now that he had told Bear of his hatred of this place and all others like it. Only that wouldn’t have helped, nothing can. Nothing but the searching, the hunting, the killing.

He doesn’t expect to find anything here, Trish was right, heavily frequented places have never been the hottest spots to find them. Dark corners and deep recesses suite them better, places where the darkness isn’t just the absence of light but rather the soft lover that wraps it’s self around you, touching you, feeling you, cradling you, caressing you.

Still, there are reports to be checked, files to be opened, rumors to be put down like dogs. So he walks, a silent shadow, a ghost among the crowd, a beast.

Hunting.

 

© 2009 Mey


Author's Note

Mey
I respectfully ask is that you don�t critique my work or my grammar, but I welcome comments with open arms.

My Review

Would you like to review this Story?
Login | Register




Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Stats

251 Views
Added on August 25, 2009
Last Updated on August 25, 2009

Author

Mey
Mey

Home



About
I like to think of myself as a dark and talented individual. I like to think that what I write matters to someone. I like to think that by writing that someone, somewhere, will enjoy what I’ve w.. more..

Writing
Again Again

A Poem by Mey


Turbulence Turbulence

A Poem by Mey