face emerged from the darkness. It was my mother, but how could this be. She has been dead for over thirty years now. "Come my Donny boy, don't you want to play with me, don't you want to play with all of us, down here." I screamed in utter terror now, as my mothers face and body began to change. Her eyes turned completely white, skin shriveling and cracking open from blistering sores. They were oozing yellow pus. As her teeth became darkly stained fangs, dripping a greenish black slime. Her hand that now was holding mine, became a mutated claw, piercing into my skin, making me bleed with its tight grasp.
I wrenched my hand away from hers, as I did so, she spoke once more to me,"now you will have plenty of time to play with mommy, plenty of time to play with us all, down here Donny." I noticed movement in her mouth as she spoke to me, her tongue was writhing, writhing. It became a festering ball of maggots. Maggots began spilling out of her mouth, and falling down to the floor of blood. I heard small splashing noises as they hit. When they reached it, they began to grow larger. I could see large mouths forming, teeth chomping hungrily, as they began to move towards me. "Your not real, go away...none of this is real," I choked out in a voice of tears and anguish. Sorrow welling up inside my body, consuming me. Feeling this is somehow my reward for how I lived my life. I turned once again, running in the other direction.
The blood-soaked floor splashing my pants until they were soaked in the bloody ooze. The pant legs stuck to my skin as I ran. Suddenly, there was a thick and pungent smell of blood permeating the air, it filled my nostrils. I could now hear thousands of screams and moans, from all around me as I ran. Hands reaching out to me, claws grasping at my clothing, mangled flesh and bone crushing under my feet as I ran. I spotted a doorway, in the distance, faintly, but once again in desperation. I ran for it. Reaching it, I saw it was a staircase leading down, panic stricken, I started to run down the stairs. In seconds, it began to move under my feet. I looked down and could not believe my eyes. The stairs were made entirely of human skulls. They were rolling and shifting under my feet as I ran down them. Covered in blood and slime, I lost my footing. I was tumbling down the stairs. Blood splashing everywhere, I could taste it in my mouth, feel it burning and blurring my eyes.
As I continued to tumble downward, the skull staircase began to crumble under my weight. I could feel nothing but emptiness beneath me as I fell through the black void. I imagined it to be similar to how it would feel if I had suddenly stepped off of a sheer mountain Cliff in the dark of the night. Hurtling downward, my mind racing to save me from the obvious ending that awaits at the bottom. Beneath me, lay a black void, filled only with the screams and moans of those tormented souls that dwell here. Some begging to be set free from the torment, others screaming in agony as they were being tortured. And the voices, taunting me, to come and play. All in some unseen realm, some horrific semblance to Hell itself. I screamed in a mindless stammer of incoherent words, screamed for help, screamed to be released from this insane nightmare.
The morning sun felt warm on my face as it gleamed through my bedroom window. I awoke at dawn as I did every morning since that horrible day. Awaking from a night filled with screams, tossing and turning. My dreams were not of beautiful scenes, but of dark landscapes. Filled with shadows, inhabited by people walking aimlessly to-and-fro. On the faces of those who had a face, there was nothing but blank stares. A walking corpse you might find in a low-budget horror film. I did not do the usual things people do in the morning, such as get the morning newspaper from the hallway. I did not make a pot of piping hot coffee, to enjoy with a Cinnamon roll. No fried ham and eggs, washed down with freshly squeezed orange juice. None of these things, I would do as I have done every morning for the last fifteen years. I rose out of bed, relieved myself in the bathroom, then went directly to the living room window for the daily vigil.
As I peered out of the large bay window of my living room, looking at the sunrise on this early Summer day. I could see the small farm perched on a hillside not far down the road. It seems that the animals have a special affinity to the sunrise. Perhaps it is because their minds are free of the thoughts that are foremost in the human mind. Ours are thoughts of personal attainment, power, fame, lust and so many others. As my words of prayer fell on deaf ears, I watched the animals through my window. Birds sang while others rustled for food along the grassy path leading into the woods. It was no doubt a shortcut made by children, as it leads to the street with the only candy store in town. Squirrels played tag up and down a nearby tree while chipmunks sat up next to one another, having a staring contest. I could just make out the forms of the animals at the farm down the road. I noticed that they too seemed more alive during this particular time of day.
I watched the horses moving closer together, bowing their heads at one side than the other of a companion's head. I watched the horse go running off swiftly in one direction, stopping abruptly, and darting off in another direction. As if a quarterback in a football game, evading his opponents, while trying to decide which teammate to throw the ball to. The cows were slowly leaving the safety of the herd of which they had been in during the night. Now meandering around the pasture occasionally stopping to eat some hay, then moving on again. The entire time, flapping their tail to chase away the flies, letting out a boisterous "Moo" every now and again.
Sometimes in the still of the night, if all were quiet at the break of dawn. One could hear the raspy yodeling of the barnyard rooster. The farmers alarm clock announcing the birth of a new day. I thought for a moment how inside us all was a deep abiding respect for the farmer. Their day is long, and their work is hard and yet not once have I ever heard one of them complain out loud about their chosen profession to anyone. Oh yes, they would complain about the weather, too little or too much rain, and you would hear comments like, "If the good lord doesn't give us some rain soon, my crops won't be worth picken" or "My cows are swimming in mud, lord if this keeps up, I’ll be wearing my fishing waders to walk out to em."
However, never in all my years have they complained about their profession. It was as old as time itself, and surely it had to be one of the first professions afforded to man. All farmers seemed to be in harmony with life, with nature and with themselves. You see them walking with a proud stature, and looking at another man squarely in the eyes when talking to him. Always speaking what’s on his mind when asked a question, and shooting straight from the hip when giving an answer. However, never forgetting to tip, or remove his hat when in the presence of a lady. I wish now that I had become a farmer instead of going to business school, and becoming what I became. I looked out of the window, thinking back to brighter times.
Chapter 6: Remembering the Past
As a young man I was determined not to die a poor man as my father had done before me. Not that he was an unhappy man by any means of the word, but to the contrary. He and my mother seemed very happy. I never understood how a husband and wife could be so poor, live in a tiny three room flat. They had to take public transportation to work and church, for they could not afford an automobile. And yet be so happy and content in their life. However, they were just that, happy. I know now that it was their love for each other, and of God that bonded them so to happiness. I knew of course that was not for me. This was not the kind of happiness I envisioned for myself as I grew older. I was becoming a young man, growing out of my childhood. Somewhere in my transition from a child to man, I had lost sight of the reason my father and mother worked so hard. I had somehow forgotten that they wanted a better life for me. Almost as if that memory was blocked out, replaced by my strong desire for the finer things in life.
As I began working and losing my dependence on Aunt Mae, I started to save for college, there were also the savings that my parents had put away for my education. Soon, I would be there at college, business school to be more precise. I wanted more out of life as an adult. I wanted the best things that life had to offer, the finest clothing, the fanciest cars, food, wine, entertainment and of course, the perfect woman.
I worked two jobs to put myself through college, never once wavering in my quest for a better life than that of my happy parents.
It is at college where I met my beloved Lorinda. She sat alone at a table in the college library reading William Shakespeare’s tragic love story "Romeo and Juliet." I was to learn later that he was her favorite writer, and that "Romeo and Juliet" was her favorite of all writings. As I watched her sitting there I studied her features as she sat quietly reading. I could not believe what a strikingly beautiful figure of a woman she was. She had long Auburn hair, which cascaded down her delicate face and ended in two flowing trails around her neck like waterfalls around a lush green mountainside. It seemed that the ends of her hair were pointing almost deliberately, at the golden cross around her neck. Her skin was pure and white as the driven snow. She wore a yellow sundress with a pattern of small daisies on it.
Resting gently in each earlobe was a tiny golden post, to which was attached a little red gem. They complimented her hair and enhanced the beauty of her