VanDIElism

A Story by daisy

Feel free to retell this in your own words but give credit...

I must have been a very young girl when it all happened. Yet I remember every fragment of the months that developed into a horror story right in front of our own eyes. Perhaps we didn't see it soon enough, perhaps because of our eyes, bleeding tears, a wash of light filtering our vision... But it still happened.

Being in an upper middle class neighbourhood through my youth, I wasn't ever accustomed to crime. A thick line was carved between my expectations and my reality. This line was shredded into, deeper and deeper until the first day of the vandalism. It became apparent that someone had sprayed a quite impressive portrait of my neighbour on their brick wall in a smooth, rich vermilion. My neighbour, Mr Windsor, was outraged and threatened to call the police. On numerous accounts his veins were pulsing right out of his neck, swelling and threatening the surface of the skin.

Despite this, most other neighbours, and myself, were drawn to this incredible likeness that had been air brushed onto what was otherwise a dull, coarse wall. What it was, I don't know, that powered and outnumbered Mr Windsor to leave the criminal be. I do remember that Windsor's portrait had such a serene expression, like he'd just seen an angel... Whatever he did see, I would've liked to feel that way.

Following these events, my father brought me the news of Mr Windsor's death. But as soon as she had the words out her mouth, our attention was immediately drawn to the insane hum of crying and screaming that erupted from outside. Running out the door with little time to slip my dressing gown on, there was a pack of people, all calling for one another and crying. My head swirled with the boom of the voices and I seldom noticed the portrait on Mr Windsor's wall. It had been altered.

Blood now pooled from his mouth in the same vermilion colour. His eyeballs were dripping from his skull, an inferno of flames tearing through the bubbling flesh on his forehead. I haven't forgotten what it looks like. Obviously, at this point, many neighbours had already made desperate pleas of help down their phones to the authorities. But the crime didn't stop their. A steady pattern was created through our street. Every household lay still and waiting in the shadow of death. One by one, each house was vandalised followed by the murders followed by the last vandalism.

One boy, who was about 4 doors across from us, had an idea. His name was Alexander, and he was probably a good 8 years older than me. Making a plan as a good as this put every other neighbour on the street to shame. Alexander bought his own spray can and then wrote a short message on his own wall with it. "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM US?" In hope of getting a reply from the mass murderer. His plan worked.

2 nights later, instead of taking another life, our criminal answered our question. Yet, I do not remember his response. I've beat out my brains to get to know what was said, but my dad won't tell me. Every night as the stars gentle glow pollutes my room I think about what happened and what would have happened if Alexander didn't save us all.

What I do know, is that soon after our criminal replied, my father picked me up from school one day and we moved house. Now, we live in a thin building that translates the wind into small whispers and screams, with beds that scratch and pull at your restless body. Dad goes out every 2 or 3 nights and every 2 or 3 months, he brings me back a "sister". I don't ask Dad questions, he says he does it because he loves me. But sometimes, I just can't stand it when he comes back with his hands covered in that smooth, rich, vermilion colour.