The Dark Purge. [HWC2013]

James awoke, as he did every night, unable to move. Ever since that day his nightly rest had become nothing short of disturbing. Night after night he would open his eyes to a world between. Not quite a dream. Not quite reality. It was like he was encased-no-imprisoned in a coat of lead with only his eyes gaining freedom. Sleep paralysis his psych would tell him. But the terror of not being able to move ones limbs was not what James came to fear, it was the Figure that James feared the most. It was strange. At first James only saw the figure as a darker part of an already dark room but The Figure would grow limbs. Arms, legs, a head would materialise engulfing the darkness as it did. As a Fetus, The Figure would grow larger. Expanding until it was looming over James. It would be at this point that the vibes would start. His bed would shake, his room would shake, his world would shake. Rapid breathing, heart racing, still unable to move-anxiety attack his psych would call it-and as quick as it came it would end, with a word. Rise.

James awoke, this time into the morning sun. In a hazy daze he looked into the now lit corner were The figure was born, trying to remember what had occurred but the amnesia of dreams had set in, releasing the night’s event unto the void of forgetfulness. He shrugged as he often did, stretched his now movable body and got out of his kingsize divan, far too big for just one person. ‘What a s'hole!’ he thought as he made his way out the bedroom he called ‘his pit’ dodging a minefield of beer cans, Kebab boxes and dirty stained clothes as he went. Before exiting he took one more look at that corner not really knowing why he had, he shrugged and left.

James sat on the toilet-the porcelain missing its seat was cold- he released his now daily intake of beer and whiskey. Drinking had become a problem but who could blame him after what he had been through, drinking was perfectly excusable. James stood and faced the mirror-or what was left of it. Staring back, the reflection of an average man. A face of a thousand million faces. You could say he melded into society. An unremarkable man who had his only remarkable achievement taken from him. He turned the tap, cupped his hands as if to pray (ha, god had forsaken James) filled them with water and splashed his average face. The cold water stunned his mind a second, not for the worst but for the better. Although the hangover was still winning the battle.

James looked back up toward the mirror it was starting earlier today. Usually it would take about an hour but it had only been 20 minutes. It started as it always did, a ball in his stomach. A ball of nausea that spread and evolved like cancer, he felt it in his hands, his toes, every fibre of his being felt it. Hate. Pure, unabashed, absolute hate. Hate for the world. Hate for himself. Hate for Andy Townsend! Townsend the vile. Townsend the wretched. The thought of the man-if that’s what you can call him-sent James into a rage. He would swing his arms smashing everything in his path. No longer a man but an animal wild and ferrous, the only emotion anger. He would shout so loud that even Mr and Mrs Parker from three doors up would hear him, poor boy they would say.

James was on the floor breathing heavily-if you didn’t know any better you would think he had just run a marathon. Gazing at the floor, eyes popping half way out memories flitted through his angered mind. A ringlet curl, a toothless smile, an empty pushchair. They all rolled into one. He saw anything even things he had never actually experienced, The brain liked too trick.

James started to sob. Slowly at first building in pace until he was uncontrollable, he was a man again a Human man, animals do not cry. As the hate abated-as if it ever could-sorrow reared. Hate was explosive, blowing up in short bursts but sorrow, sorrow liked to hang around. Only one cure for the disease of sorrow, alcohol nectar of the Gods, master of the fool, cheat to the objective of life. "James!".

Startled, he almost didn’t hear it through his cries. "Rise, James!". He heard it that time. His weeping stopped dead in its tracks. ‘What the f"$K?’ James thought rather articulately. A chill came over him. His skin seemed to creep; a million invisible spiders crawled over his body. James knew, he knew that he hadn’t heard it with ears but with his head. Temporary psychosis his psych would say. Maybe but this felt different, comforting almost. He searched his mind trying to find the voice, speak, speak again. But nothing only silence. Sorrow creped back.

James stood from the hard floor-he could and would have lain there all day- but today was the day. The day he had waited for yet never wanted to experience. Today was the sentencing of Townsend. That name, that vile name. He could have exploded again and he probably would have had it not been for a knock at his front door.

James descended the stairs wiping his eyes as he went. Another knock and another. “Okay, I’m coming” James said with a frustrated tone. As James reached for the bolt another knock. Opening the door, James saw a small bald man wearing a police officers uniform. James must have shot the man a look that said both ‘who are you? And what do you want?’ because as soon as their eyes met the bald officer asked, “Mr Tiller, Mr James Tiller?” The officer cocked his hairless head and gave James an eying look “DI.Winters sent me”. James must have looked like he either didn’t care or didn’t want to care. “Detective Inspector Winters…he sent me to pick you up….for the sentencing?.” His silence seemed to confuse the officer, “The sentencing? You haven’t forgotten have you sir?” “Of coarse not (as if he could)” replied James dryly. A brisk November breeze slapped James Tillers leg making him aware-somewhat comically? -that he was wearing but a pair of boxers. ‘That would explain the daft looks’ thought James. “Gimme a minute.”

Dressed and ready-well almost- James yet again descend the stairs. "James!".
The voice. He turned quickly, too quickly he lost his footing. James went airborne. Time felt both sped up and slowed down. He hit the floor with an almighty crash rolling back as he landed. Slightly dazed he was seeing stars, literally seeing stars. A million-no-a billion twinkling and floating around his head, around the stairwell. How strange that he should think of how beautiful they were on a day that held no beauty. How strange that he should think of Sara and how much she would have loved too see them. She always did love the stars. ‘Twinklys’ she used to say. "Rise, James Rise!".

Through a sea of stars, that beautiful sea James saw it. A figure, The Figure. Standing there atop the stairs, arms stretched out as if wanting to embrace him. "Rise, James Rise!" the voice repeated, again through his mind. It was almost hypnotic. James rose, "rise", a pain in his right knee as he stood.
James was in a sort of trance. He was conscious and aware yet seem to lack the ability to control his own body. James ascended the first step, then the second, then the third. The Figure loomed overbearingly above James but he was not scared, he was comforted. James, reaching the top step was now face to face with the faceless figure. The figure embraced James, The Figure engulfed him. James world shattered, he entered a world between worlds.

Part 2 coming soon (Gotta go doctors! :roll

Eagerly awaiting part 2, this is genius.

reply to post by Carreau


I actually forgot about this, I have alot more written. Its actually exerts from a book I'm writing. PM me tomorrow and I'll post the rest.

Goodnight.
ALS