audwriting

[audwriting]

Remembrance

(cw// violence, horror imagery, gore)

You lift your head with a start to find yourself in a smoky bar, unsure how you got here. Hurt by Johnny Cash is playing on the jukebox, quiet and wistful, giving the room a solemn air. Your head is pounding, thump thump thumping to the tune of the guitar. The bartender walks to where you sit, cleaning a filthy glass with her long fingers. She’s tall and slender, as graceful as the wind. Something about her seems vaguely familiar, but you’re not sure as to why.

“What can I get for you, hun?” She asks you. Her voice is light and beautiful.

You don’t reply for a moment. “Oh, uh, nothing thank you. I don’t drink. Don’t like the taste,” you finally say.

The woman laughs. “How come you’re in a bar then?”

“I’m- I’m not really sure…” you stammer back.

“How about this?” She pushes a drink toward you, seeming to come out of thin air.

The liquid in the glass is clear, the smell very strong. Vodka, maybe, but you don’t ask.

“I don’t drink,” you say again.

“Take it with a chaser then. Trust me, you’re going to need it.” She slides another mysterious glass toward you. This one is definitely filled with orange juice.

Mindlessly, you shoot the probably vodka and, within a moment, chase it with the orange juice. You shudder, the liquor sending a chill down your back. You never did like the taste of alcohol. In fact, you aren’t really sure why you took the shot without so much as a thought.

“Oh uh- how much do I owe you?” you ask.

“Don’t worry about it sweetheart, it’s on the house,” the woman replies with a stifled chuckle.

Everything goes black, your ears start to ring. Did you pass out? Maybe if you just lie here for a moment, you’ll wake up on the floor of the bar. But the darkness only grows darker, the silence only grows louder.

Quiet. Darkness. Nothing. Blackness.

No sin may go unpunished.

The whisper in the dark fills you with dread. Sin? But you’ve done nothing wrong.

In an instant, the world around you flashes. You’re standing in a dark alley. Snow is falling around you. You hear the soft choir of bells ringing from a nearby church. It’s almost Christmas.

Ahead, a dark lump lies in the darkness. Seeing the shadow only compounds your inner dread. Something sinister awaits ahead.

Look at it.

That whisper again. The fear in your belly grows.

“I want to go home,” you plead. Something is wrong.

LOOK AT IT.

The whisper begs to scream. Slowly, ever slowly, you creep to the mass on the floor of the alleyway. Blood. You start to notice the crimson as you get closer. So much blood. More blood than you’ve ever seen in your life. Shaking, terrified, you peer at the mass.

A body lies before you, covered in it’s own life blood. Where a face should be looks like ground hamburger meat, smashed over and over. Over and over. Each limb is cracked and bent in ways that should not be possible.

You scream. Or you try to, but nothing comes out. You go to reach for your own face, but your mouth has been stapled shut. How could this happen? Your fingers feel sticky on your face, covered in blood. Your own blood? You’re not allowed even a moment to think before everything around you disappears.

No sin may go unpunished.

Lights race past you. Streams of light. You feel like you’re being sent through a tunnel at light speed. In a moment, you find yourself standing in a dimly lit room. The air is heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke. The light is coming from a candle in the far corner of the box shaped room. A door stands wide open to your left, nothing beyond but darkness. It’s the only way to go. You feel compelled to walk forward, though the fear you feel is beginning to rot your insides.

You creep through the doorway. The room beyond the door has a damp atmosphere, the smoky smell replaced by a metallic one. It’s suffocating, but you press forward. One foot at a time.

You stumble through the gloom for a while before you notice a light seeping through a crack under a door. Fumbling, your hand touches the cold brass of the door knob. Slowly, ever slowly, you push the door open. It doesn’t make a sound. The light stings your eyes. Before you is a figure slouched over a table, busying itself with…something. You can’t tell what it’s busying itself with. You slink around the room, hugging the walls, too terrified to let the figure notice you.

After what seems like an eternity, you’re in a place to just barely make out the front of the figure. It’s wearing a bag-like hood over it’s face. Peering at it, you notice it’s sawing at something. The sound is unlike everything you’ve ever heard.

Look at it.

“Please don’t make me,” you think, still unable to speak through your stapled mouth.

Look at it. Get closer. They won’t notice you.

Warm tears begin to stream down your face. Warm, salty tears. Regardless, you slowly move toward the figure. It’s sawing away at a body, blood spraying on it’s mask. On it’s clothes. On it’s apron. You begin to sob.

Without even meaning to, you look at the face of the hacked away body. It’s gone, replaced by a pulpy mess, just like the first. The figure turns it’s head sharply, directly at you. It’s making what you assume could be direct eye contact with you, but the black sockets seem to pierce directly through you, as if you’re not even there. Perhaps you’re not. After a moment, it goes back to sawing.

No sin may go unpunished.

You’re plunged through the dark again before you even have time to think about the whisper.

Your head shoots up. You’re sitting back in the bar where you started. Still crying, you feel your mouth. No staples. You begin to laugh uncontrollably, relieved, though you’re still sobbing.

“Nice nap?” The familiar voice of the bartender asks with a slight chuckle.

You look up to her, smiling. Your relief washes away as quickly as it came, replaced by sheer terror. The face of the bartender is pulpy and smashed in. Just like the body in the alley. Just like the body in the dark room. You can’t stop yourself from screaming. You fall backwards off the stool, still screaming.

LOOK AT ME. LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO ME. NO SIN MAY GO UNPUNISHED.

The bar washes away to darkness.

“Why is this happening?” You scream into the void. There is no answer.

You’re thrust into a bright white room. Doctors are huddled around the bed in the center. A hospital room. At this point you’re exhausted, but as if automatically, you walk over to the doctors. None of them notice you.

Lying on the bed is a motionless woman, with an all too familiar face. One that has been smashed to pulp. Though, you notice that none of the doctors are doing anything. Is she dead? You inspect closer. Despite the gruesome scene, you’re unphased. You’ve become desensitized to the gore. As you inch your way closer to the woman, her hand launches toward your neck, digging her spindly fingers into the meat of your throat.

Do you remember? Do you remember what you did?

Your world gives way to white, the bright light of remembrance blinding you. Memories of your crimes come rushing forth.

Your first victim: Marley Sweeney, age 46. She was a kindergarten teacher before you got your hands on her. You cornered her in an alley one late night in October as she was making her way home from a bar. A late night with friends perhaps? It didn’t matter. You skulked around in the darkness, face covered with a black, leather sack that you had turned into a makeshift mask. As soon as she stepped out of the light, you pounced like a cougar in the night. Over and over, you smashed her face with a brick that you jimmied loose from a wall. Over and over. After what seemed like an eternity, an unknown person stepped into the alley and pierced the night with a blood curdling scream. Before you even had time to think, you ran. Coward.

Your second victim: Lucille Winslow, age 34. She was a free spirit, backpacking across the country. You didn’t care. You went after her regardless. One night, as she stood outside a 7/11, smoking her last cigarette, you hit her over the head with a rock and dragged her into your van, taking her to some dingy warehouse that you called your home. After you smashed her face with a large stone, you began to saw her to pieces, determined to hide your crime.

Your third and last victim: Ronda Carrington, age 29. She was a bartender. One night, after last call, you snuck in the propped back door and struck her over the back of the head with an empty vodka bottle and proceeded to smash her face with a heavy rock, right there behind the bar. You didn’t care who caught you. You were far too gone in the madness.

How could you forget?

You found yourself there, hunched over Ronda’s lifeless body like a rabid dog. The cocking of a shotgun behind you went unheard, as the sound of your own rushing blood deafened you.

Click. Bang.

Blinding white light filled your vision as you lifted your head with a start. You find yourself in a smoky bar, unsure how you got there. Hurt by Johnny Cash is playing on the jukebox, quiet and wistful, giving the room a solemn air.

No sin may go unpunished.

[audwriting]

Had a fun idea for a movie: let me set a scene.

—

Jesus is standing in his bedroom, getting ready to go to bed. The moonlight is seeping in through his open window, the night air cool on his skin. He kneels by his bedside, about to say his nightly prayer.

“My son,” he hears god say to him.

“Father?” Jesus replies, shocked.

“I have seen into the future, my boy. Bloody conflict, devastation beyond earthly belief. Dead women and children amidst rubble and debris. Go to them my son, bless them with your teachings”

A beam of light appears behind the Christ. He turns sharply, shocked. In front of him is a white portal.

“Go my son, bless them with your teachings,” god says again, his voice fading.

Confused, Jesus clammers to his feet. He steps into the portal uneasy.

——

In an instant, Jesus finds himself standing in a bright, sunny desert. The blinding light causes him to shield his eyes. He stands there for a brief moment before a voice cuts sharply through the blissful silence:

“GET THE FUCK DOWN!”

A mortar shell hits the ground behind him, sending him flying through the air. A man runs to him and drags him behind a humvee.

“What the hell is wrong with you boy?!” The man shouts at a dirty Jesus.

“Where am I?” Jesus asked, shocked and aching. He likely has some broken bones.

The man gives him a confused look. “You’re in Kuwait boy! Private, get this man out of here!” He motions to a skinny white boy lacing his boots nearby. He’s been sent into the heat of Operation Desert Storm.