Shorts – Page 5 – Picking Up Roots

Demons II

As the sun began to creep through the windows he blinked awake. Sitting up on the couch, he took stock of his body. He ached all over but a deep soreness called out to him from beneath his shoulder blades. His head was heavy with the lack of sleep.

As he attempted to shake the cobwebs, he couldn’t help but wonder why they had come for him last night. He thought the last time he’d seen them he’d made it clear he was done with their foolishness; that he wouldn’t participate ever again.

Now he couldn’t remember what they’d asked of him – what he’d done. He was still dressed in the ripped jeans and vest. His hands appeared clean, but that never meant a thing. When they came for him, anything was possible.

A creak of the floorboards on the third floor told him Shannon was awake. There would be no chance of sneaking into bed and saving her worry. He removed his costume and pushed it under the couch. If she came downstairs, she’d question what he wasn’t wearing, but not why he was on the couch – he moved down there on many a sleepless night.

He pulled the blanket over himself and sat with his head in his hands. He wanted to make sure he looked the part if she descended. She deserved so much better than the demons who kept him awake. He trusted her with everything, but he owed her more than these secrets.

He heard the flushing of the toilet and the creaking of floor boards as Shannon made her way back into the bedroom. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

A cold shower. That was what he needed to clear his vision and distance himself from whatever last night had been. He climbed the stairs to the second floor bathroom.

He felt their eyes on him; watching every step he took. He turned the water on and sighed, knew the shower wouldn’t do anything. They were always with him.

Part I

Demons

They came for him last night. Sometime just after midnight there was a loud knocking on the front door, followed by the sound of wood splintering as the lock gave way under pressure. Footsteps and voices carried up the stairs.

They knew right where to go; right where he’d be sleeping. Between the instant the door gave way and the time it took them to climb the stairs, he was just able to shake himself awake. There was no time to hide or to think about fighting of fleeing.

The leader of the group stood over the bed. His eyes pulsed in a fever dream and sweat poured from beneath the horned helmet he wore across his close-cropped hair. Behind him stood the mob dressed in ripped denim and animal pelts. They swayed back and forth, not speaking, though a hum of anticipation hung in the air with the tension in the small room.

“Good evening Michael,” said the leader in a calm voice.

He had sat up in his bed. He gave a small nod of acknowledgement as defeat spread across his face. He sighed and his chin fell to his chest.

“It’s time,” said the leader.

Michael looked up. His clear blue eyes begged to be left alone; to have this all be a bad dream; to have the crowd disappear from his bedroom. He knew what came next, and he wanted no part of it.

“No,” said the helmeted man.

Michael’s thin frame appeared to shrink within itself. His eyes pleaded with the leader.

“No,” said the man, shaking his head while smiling, “you know the deal.”

Michael looked over at Sandra sleeping next to him. She looked so beautiful. Her straw-colored hair was spread across the pillow as her body rose and fell in calm rhythm beneath the covers. She deserved better than this, so much better.

He felt the empty place inside his stomach growing. She’d filled in so much of it, but there were certain places even she couldn’t reach. He hated to disappoint her. Hated to let her down.

“Michael, it’s time,” the leader’s voice was insistent though it remained calm.

“I know,” he replied in a small voice, “just give me a minute.”

“We don’t have another minute,” one of the voices from the crowd called.

“Silence,” said the leader over his shoulder, “he’s coming, we won’t rush him,” to Michael, he said, “but we don’t have all night either, so don’t delay too much longer.”

Michael hated the smile on the man’s face, hated the calm knowingness in his voice; knew he’d follow him. Knew there was no other choice.

He sighed in resignation and went to the closet. Deep in the back was a pair of ripped jeans and a black leather vest. He dressed under the smiling eyes of the mob.

He looked at the bed, at Sandra sleeping and his spot next to her. He wanted to climb back in.

“Michael,” said the leader.

Michael looked at him and the horns shook back and forth. He shrugged into his vest. The tension in the room broke as the mob gave out a huge cheer.

The leader removed his horned helmet and placed it on Michael’s head eliciting another cheer. Michael felt a surge of euphoric energy pulse within himself. He didn’t want this. The room fell away.

He didn’t look back at the bed as he followed his demons out the door.

Endings

She clung to every word he wrote. A subtle perfume he didn’t recognize until long after he’d walked away from the pages. In the moment, he wouldn’t have said she could have any sort of impact on his work, but as he put down the words and read through the various stories, he understood she was everywhere.

He knew he was limited in his creativity. He drew a great deal from his own life, which was why he tried to live as much as possible. He never turned down an opportunity to travel, or do something new.

She had been a moment in a bar. Ironically, it had been a local place. They’d ended up seated next to one another at the far corner of the long bar. It was quieter there. The friend she was with had left, and he was by himself. It wasn’t his style to strike up conversation with anyone, let alone a woman as he frequented most bars for sustenance and fodder for his work.

She had turned to him and smiled, and from there he’d been lost in her. They’d enjoyed multiple drinks and a plethora of tales. Even to his experience-driven life she was exotic, with a falcon tattooed inside her right wrist flying towards the sunset tattooed on her left, bright red streaks charging through her auburn hair and muddy brown eyes that held mystery and mirth along with flecks of gold.

They had shared stories of travel abroad, loves they’d had and subsequently lost, and their dreams for the future. He was surprised at how much they had in common; even more so at how much of himself he was willing to share with her.

When the lights in the bar flickered the last call, he’d felt a deep sense of sadness and loss followed by a hopeless emptiness spreading within his stomach. She’d said she was leaving on an early flight to London and was headed from the bar to the airport. He felt like he was losing something, but was unaware of what he might ever have had.

He insisted on walking her out and finding her a cab. They had embraced and she’d kissed him on the cheek. He could still feel the cool press of her lips from the warm summer night, even all these months later. When he was frustrated at his desk, he would often trace his fingers over the outline of her lips. She waved from the back of the cab and was gone. He never saw her again, but she was never far from his thoughts.

Over time his work improved. Reviewers no longer found it lacking in substance or texture. There was a new richness to the work, with critics finding it more “real” and relatable. The only criticism was a feeling of incompleteness no one could put their fingers on.

He understood criticism came with any attempt at art. He had been abused for so many years he would never have thought to defend himself to a critic. If he had tried to defend what he had become, he would have told them the stories felt incomplete because he hadn’t yet lived their endings.