A Tale of the Final Hours of a Man

by **BPahl88** Thu Nov 01, 2012 8:46 pm

Shards of glass scattered across the petrified floor with an ease unmatched by that of only itself. Her delicate china, once above in a display with fondness, now disposed onto the dirty, grimy linoleum bearing the shame that was thrust into it so unexpectedly. A nice beverage of wine complimented the scene, thinker and salty, my favorite kind. Shame it lie true to where it should be, though the buds are far from exited to indulge. Taste buds that is.

Flower buds of all different color splurge the outside world, creating a vast pallet that sooths any eye, no matter how gray. Bright blue in the sky, birds swooping, sailing, singing without missing a beat. A savorous wonderland, if you will. Swirling green and blue amalgamate into a splendid concoction to form a distant lake, flat only despite the small ripples of a fish that had popped out for a quite sightsee. A bright, simple, upbeat, stupendous scene. Contrast with the small, delicate house and two dully-colored closed doors leading into a cellar.

The wine I mentioned? Some of it may have spoiled already. The wastefulness of it is evident within myself, truly. I’d indulge in it if it weren’t for the tiny fact that some more wine, newer, fresher, was down in the cellar, almost waiting for me. It’d be a shame to suffocate such a luxury inside a small, cramped basement. My decision to go down and let it breath was quick simply because that wine was irresistible. Moving at a quick pace, my shrouded legs danced across the metal sheeting of the door frame and out into the wonderland.

And I must say, it’s better to experience than say. A blue bird crashed onto my shoulder – oh—what a delight! I’ve always loved birds, the cardinals being my favorite, a close second being the kind that sat across my broad frame. I reached to stroke that cerulean head, the creature hesitated none. After bending down to grab a small ant and swiping it away from the sand hill that was so precariously, tediously created grain by grain, my hand gestured toward my new companion, giving a slight nudge after a brief moment of gaze from the bird. The gesture seemed to work. That blue bird, the one leaning outwards toward my crippled hand, snatched its pray – or shall I say mine – with its beak faster than a beam of light. The nibble punctured into my skin just a little, leaving no blood to dry, however.

After my side adventure came time to bathe in a grimy handful of that wine, of which I imagined glazing my hands through, some staying cupped within my palm, some sifting between the digits of my hand, racing down to reunite with the masses. I gazed across the horizon, almost forgetting my destination though with a swift nudge from my right shoulder, I was guided back to the cellar doors. Pulling the two doors was a strain; a vein burst in my left arm, the bones were close to tearing the skin. Eventually, I managed to break open a small crack, the doors so slightly ajar that only an infant would be able to slip through, an infant and myself.

There was no light in the basement except for the sliver of light that beaconed from the ajar entrance. I looked at the blue jay. He responded with the same. A cold stare from two majestic blue eyes pierced me with such power I froze, petrified for a good minute. Finally, I dawned back into reality, turned my head toward a distant crowbar, black as it was, propped up against a wall, dangling with a bit of swing. Immediately it drew my attention, given that it was black. I plotted my way, as silent as possible, over to the arms, shaved it off of the gray brick wall, and stood there motionless. I stared into blank space, listening intently for a sound, a breathe.

And there it was. I heard a short sigh, the exhalation not deep, but noticeable. I knew she was here, sitting, chained against the will that of hers. There were no scraps of food, only the blood of a dead mouse lay in front of the woman. I could see her, in clear vision; my illuminate blue eyes saw the poor soul. I could hear her, the greater gasps that she created, gasping not just for air but for comfort.

My eyebrows lowered, sheltering my eyes in a fit of angst. The creature upon me nestled its claws deep into my shoulder, eyes glowing like a burning sun. A sudden jolt, a spurt, spurred me, and I released off of the ground, swifter than a shooting star, and bolted at the chained prisoner. Her head shot up and turned to the commotion, my crow bar being raised higher and higher at a smooth yet rapid pace. A great roar from me was followed by a shriek from the woman as I lashed my weapon into her skull, one swift motion with a gush of blood spurting out in all directions, spitting across the entire cellar. Her white dress, spruced out across the floor, was now drenched in the woman’s blood. I gnawed out the crow bow – it took a couple of heaves – and with the blood-soaked tool, brain scraps dangling from the edge, I slashed at her again, and again, and again. Temper finally mellowed, and I dropped the crow bow, red like the eyes of the bluebird, and wheezed, gasping for air just like she had in the moments before her demise.

After several minutes I sat beside my prey, legs tucked under my arms. The bluebird’s eyes, no longer furious balls but rather those of passive blue, scan the scene that had just unfolded. My head drooped toward the floor, eyelids shielding my dripping tears. Momentarily, I shuddered, recollecting the occurrences of which I was able to find out. Her frequent declines to events, disappearing without notice, and -- the giver -- the hidden tattoo spelling “Jason” in bold, cursive text on her lower back. The indelicacy these three intertwined formed an evident conclusion. The speculation I had was certain, and thus, without any musing or cognition, I disposed of both persecutors. The wine I came down for had spilt.

But now guilt had overtaken my body, much like the blood did to the decaying body beside me. The bluebird chirped, and I had instantly remembered about it. His claws deeply pierced into my skin. But the bird, the bird was the cause. My guilt quickly turned to rage, rage so immanent that I jutted up from my feeble position, snatched at the bird, and ripped him off of my shoulder. Skin shredded, blood drooled down my triceps. Squealing, the bluebird began to fight back, but to what use? I hastily ran across to the other side of the cellar, opened up the stuffy vent, and shoved the menace in, slamming the door with a wrecking force that caused such a loud CLANG it echoed for several seconds.

I beat the air stingingly in front of me, swiping my fist through in anger. Later the time went by, the guilt came back, and the sorrow followed suit. I waddled across to the body, bloody and wretched, and sat just as I did before, this time without the bird. Tears of regret streamed down my dirt-ridden, blood-stained face. Dipping my head into a pool of blood – of wine – for which I so longed for, my eyes closed and I shut down.

-

Two day later I sat at the kitchen table and stared down into a pit of blackness. A plate of cold canned peas was in front of me, untouched. My stomach growled – it’s been wining for days with no supplements provided. The milk glass in the center of the table has spoiled, creating a foul odor throughout the entire house. My thin beard itched, but I remained motionless. There was a crick in my neck, but I remained tolerant towards it. There was even drool, frosty and stringy, that chambered my face in its sappy gooeyness. But I cared none.

And then the goon arrived again. Its eyes as intensely red as before, it lunged across the kitchen, shoved its claws down into my
skin, still slightly ripped with dried blood, and locked into position. His head turned to me and I, in sheer, agonizing pain, lifted my
head from my pale, white arms and left out a ferocious roar directly in front of the bird.
But he did not budge. And I was on the breaking point.

Hobbling over toward the front door, waltzing around the crashed fine china and wine that, with the combination of the spoiled milk reeked beyond compare, I aguishly blurted out profanity profusely. My back, crooked to the right, leaned against the pure white walls as I kicked the front door open with profound force. As I tottered over to the cellar, the bird’s eyes began to ember; his claws sunk even lower into my muscle and reaching bone. The cellar, already opened ajar, would be my final destination. Shuffling the stairs and bouncing off the walls to keep balance, I managed to get to the ground. The place smelled the same as the kitchen, minus the milk. I sat down abruptly next to the woman in scarlet on white, and, with as much to muster as heavenly possible, I jerked off the bird, the entire flesh from my shoulder ruptured off with a chunk of muscle, leaving nothing but my innards to be seen from a gaping hole. Its venomous eyes stared at me with vexation. With rapid reaction to avoid another rip in my skin, I slammed the bird onto the decaying shoulder of the corpse beside me. And instantly the eyes of both the bluebird and the corpse glowed uniformly bright, ghostly green.

The body began to levitate off the floor, first the upper body, preceded by the lower. Bright, white swirls encompassed the creature, swirling around in a fantasy-like fashion. This went on for several seconds; my eyes could not shift. Finally, as the corpse reached to standing position, the white swirls gave way, and the creature dropped down to its feet. The bluebird had been morphed into the body, now becoming one. I had done it. The zombie gave a shrouding groan, and bent over in her tattered white dress to pick up the crowbar exactly in the same spot I had dropped it. Its boney hands gripped the weapon with cracks so scandalous to my ears they cringed involuntarily. She clutched the crowbar tight and pulled it up, drawing it into my face as I stood still, motionless. She flung it back, and as I heard the swift swish from the crow bar against the air, I gave a slight smile, something that I had not done since our wedding day just a few days before.