A breif Excerpt from Irish Bog (incomplete).
Her eyes were weak but she was sure she had caught a brief glimpse of light in the side of her eyes. Elain moved from her sideways position, sitting straight up, and glanced around the room. Moonlight fell in slats on the rich carpeted floor, reflecting in her vanity mirror. Up on the ceiling came the light again, and she knew she wasn't imagining it. She glanced up to see the light, a tiny orb of blue glow, bouncing on the fan that hung above her. Fear didn't register with Elain, just curiosity. The light seemed to be having fun, diving under the fans light bulb and bouncing against the base. Elain slid back and lay on her pillows, eyes always on the glowing orb. It was amusing and she enjoyed watching it. Soon, she drifted off into a deep slumber.
The market was older then she remembered, the road differed between dirt and cobblestones and the people were dressed in outfits befitting of the late 19th centuary. An old pub was across the street from her, laughing men with bellies protruding from beneath their too-small shirts came in and out, mugs in their hands and alcohol sloshing from the depths of the cup. Gossiping women stood in the shade of the large oak trees in the grass, laughing and chortling with their girlfriends. Babies were pushed in their strollers or at the breast of their mother, and little kids ran the length of the roads, giggling and squealing in their high pitched voices. Elain watched the scene before her, quite aware of the dream she was experiencing. The market was amazing and so lifelike, as if she were actually in it; how could her imagination think up something so clear? So vivid? Then, they caught her eye. A family of three, each dressed in the finest clothes. The man was tall, under his nose grew a thin, brown mustache. He wore a small hat, a black dress shirt and pinstripped dress pants. His shoes were polished and pointed at the tips; he was a man who knew where he stood among his people. The lady, Elain knew to be his wife, wore her dark, brunette hair in a teased mound at the top of her head; her dress was tight around the middle and flowed out slightly, every once and awhile showing the tips of her small shoes. She carried an unbrella to shade herself and her daughter. The daughter. Elain knew her, she saw her everyday in her bedroom, smiling next to the brunette. Lydia was all smiles as she held onto her mothers arm, laughing and telling jokes to amuse her idol. Her hair was worn loose and fell over her shoulders in dark, blonde ringlets. Her face was round, and she proved thicker then her pictures would let known. Elain watched as the family walked past, the two girls happy and chipper and Hugh silently stalking along with them.
"Hugh darling," the wife spoke, glancing up at him with a smile of perfection. When he didn't answer, she spoke again:
"Hugh, I have news for you. I will let you know tonight, after Lydia goes to bed."
"Oh Mother!" Lydia giggled, pushing her mother slightly. "I want to know."
"Your mother spoke, Lydia. You are not to know." Hugh murmered. Elain jumped at his voice; it was rough, brutal, and strange.
Lydia kept her tongue, but glanced up at her mother. "You will know later on, my girl." Her mother murmered.
They turned the corner then, perhaps walking up the path to their mansion, or off to buy cloth or groceries. Elain watched them go, considering the conversation she had heard. Why had she heard it?
"Such an interesting family!"
The comment made her jump, and she spun around to see a stout, elderly woman with a crooked nose and bent back smiling. The old woman stood just a few feet to her left with another woman who looked to be at least twenty years younger. They stood before a vender, picking out colorful material.
"Alice," the older women adressed the younger. "Did you notice the way Hugh glared at Amalia? Such a dreadful stare! Goodness knows how the woman puts up with him."
"Mother," Alice whispered, picking up cloth from the vender and scrutinizing it carefully. "You shouldn't judge. Nor should you comment on the way the family reacts towards one another, it is no more your business than mine."
"Oh hush, Alice! You should take your own advice." Her mother growled, waving a liver-spotted hand at her. "I'm telling you, nothing good will happen. I told Amalia, I told her back when she married the fool, that he was trouble. He glares at her, Alice, and he snaps at Lydia like she is garbage." The old woman shook a finger at her daughter. "Wait, just wait. Something will happen that will jolt Amalia into leaving that dirty man!"
Alice groaned and shook her head. "I would much rather dabble in the concerns of my own family, and not the small troubles of a wealthy man who seems to abuse his wife and daughter."
Her mother shook her head and moved away from the vender, hobbling slightly. "Just wait, Alice, just wait."
The dream was suddenly changing, the air wasn't so open anymore, everything was closing in and growing dark. The floor turned from grassy dirt to dark stone, the open air was no longer there but enclosed in dark walls filled with drawers. Darkness, fear, the smell of decay covered Elain and she suddenly felt claustophobic.
"It's hard to imagine."
She jumped. The voice came from behind her, and she feared to turn around. Using her strength, she pulled her body to face the voice, and stiffled a scream.
The girl! No no no no, no! The girl!
Bloody, mangled, bruised, broken. The girl!
Elain covered her mouth and held back the gagging sensations that ripped at her throat.
The ringlets were no longer fluffy and pretty, but damp and twisted and stained in blood. A dark, black bruise was above her right eye, covering the girls eyebrow. A deep gash was visible on the left side of her head, bloody hair clung to the gash and skin clung to her hair. The girls eyes were still open, her once blue eyes now a perfect grey. Elain noticed her body, laying naked and helpless. Purple and bruised, her limbs splayed and her arm broken. Her ankle looked swollen and was most likely broken, too.
The laughing girl, Lydia, lay dead before her.
Tears prickled at her eyes, she choked on her tongue and began to gag, her stomach retched.
What happened? Who did this? Why?
She glanced around the room, realizing she was in a morgue. On another table lay the wife, Amalia, her eyes were closed in the usual fashion, her clothes were missing and her stomach was crushed, caved in. Her head proved to have been bleeding, also. Hugh was down another table, missing his shirt but still dressed in his night pants, knife wounds were visible in his broad chest and stomach.
"Such a dreadful thing," came the voice again, and Elain noticed it came from the man who hovered over Lydia's body. The man was speaking the girl she had seen in the earlier vision, Alice. Alice must be some type of nurse, a helper, for the man. Alice's eyes were huge, her mouth wide and frightened. "W-w-what hap-hapened, Adam?"
"He killed them," Adam, the man, told her. "Thats what we assume, anyway. Theres no other option. The maids were dead in the courtyard, the butler was stabbed and left in his quaters. Hugh was found in the kitchen, thought to have died by his own hand."
Alice nodded, staring at the young girls body. "And...and the women?"
Adam sighed. "Lydia was found outside the mansion near the garden, just outside her window. We're certain she was...she was pushed, Alice. Her body shows trauma from a fall, and she was bludgened beforehand. Her skull is broken in four places. Amalia..."
"What about Amalia?" Alice whispered, looking at the man.
He sighed. "She was in the sitting room, bludgened. Her stomach crushed. We just found out that she was with-"
It started to fade. The room was growing lighter, everything was fuzzy and white. Elain swarmed and moved, trying to hear the rest of the conversation, fighting off the white. But she didn't succeed, and morning came.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Double Double Toil and Trouble
An excerpt from a short-story that is still in the works.
Crisp was the wind as it blew against the rickity old house in Salem, Massachusetts. The house remained hidden in the trees, and the children who walked down the dirt path surounding it took no notice. The year was 1692, and the inhabitants of the town of Salem were causious during this cold night of October. The trees were livid with their oranges and browns, but as the night fell upon them they grew dull and eery. The children wore danced and ran down the path wore costumes of all sorts; small children ran with covered faces, others in sheets, they carried sticks on fire and they chanted and sung into the night.
"Double double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble."
For tonight was All Hallows' Eve, the night where the dead arose from their graves to take the lifes of small children, and when the witches of Salem took their chances and stole children into the night. The children who danced and sang on the path that night were brave young children, all of who which knew nothing of their suroundings. The oldest wore black around his eyes and his hair a mess. His clothes were loose and fit the ages, and he wore no shoes. The second of the group was a young female. She, too, wore black around her eyes, and her dress was black and haunting. The youngest, also a young female, did not wear any eye make-up; she wore black like her sister, and no shoes like her brother. Nothing scared the three children of Salem, so on the night of All Hallows' Eve they took flight into the woods, and they ran on Wicked's Way, the old dirt path that lead to the cemetary. They had planned to sit and wait for the recentley hung witches from the trials, to taunt them and send them back to their graves. The children were astounded by the fact that some of their neighbors had proved to be witches; Ms. Gavin had be accused of witchcraft and sent to trial, and only a few days later she was hung at the post. She was not burried in the main cemetary, for witches were not worth the time here in Salem, but instead she was thrown into a old, broken crypt at the far end where bodies were forgotten. She rested with all the other accused witches in Salem.
"Double double toil and trouble, something wicked this way comes!"
The giggles and singing of the children had alerted her ears and she went to the cracked window. There they were, dancing down Wicked's Way, making fun of the Night of the Dead. "Something wicked this way comes, indeed." She chortled as the three skipped past her house, on their way to the old graveyard. She turned to her desk and opened a large, dusty book which lay upon alone. Inside read a recipe that would serve nicely just for tonight. Large yellow eyes met hers and she could tell her cat was smiling. "Be patient, my dear. For tonight we shall feast and celebrate this fair night."
His meow was her only answer.
The tranquility of the graveyard was broken by the wild cries of children; they danced and sang over the resting place of people long gone, letting their voices echoe off the dying trees and grey headstones.
"Eye of Newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog."
Shadows fell on the graves as the children made their way through the chilly night air. Though it was not known to them, their voices had aroused the ears of evil. Brought on by the taste of tender flesh, of fresh voice, it crept from the depths and followed them in deep silence, waiting for the chance to attack.
A sudden noise startles the children. With a shriek, the youngest fled to the mass of gravestones, cowering in fear.
"Demitria, where are thou? Hast thou hidden from the ghouls of All Hallows' Eve?" Her elder brother jeered, making fun of the shaken child.
The eldest girl shook her head at her brother, dread also sinking into her bones. The feeling of eyes scanning her body shocked her and withdrew her from reality. "Benjamin, do thee not feel it? Did thee not hear it? The voices and eyes of the dead are piercing us, watching our every move and judging us. We have stepped upon their resting place, and the dead witches will awake and cast a spell upon us."
Benjamin frowned at her, disbelief in his eyes. "Nonsense! Susan, thou are not thinking correctly. It is All Hallows' Eve, the dead rest and try to awaken, but our souls keep them trapped."
Young Demitria whimpered slightly from beyond the headstones as a cloud passed against the doleful moon. The night was clear except for the clouds left behind from the storm that came the night before, and the large, silver moon shown upon the three figures.
"Come out, come out, Demitria." Susan sang quietly, spying around the gravestones.
"Come out, come out, come out and play little children." Came a voice from the shadows. The voice was small, pipy, and unknown.
The children started and glanced around blindy, looking for their guest. "Who is there!" Benjamin called as Susan opened her arms to Demitria as she ran out from behind a headstone.
"Oh, dear children. Do not be afraid. It is only I, a fair lady who wishes to place a flower upon her mothers grave." The detached voice called out, causing uneasiness in the children.
"Why come so late, and on All Hallows' Eve of all nights?" Benjamin replied, holding onto his sisters carefully.
"Ah, my dears. I should be asking thou the same question." And then the voice showed itself.
Crisp was the wind as it blew against the rickity old house in Salem, Massachusetts. The house remained hidden in the trees, and the children who walked down the dirt path surounding it took no notice. The year was 1692, and the inhabitants of the town of Salem were causious during this cold night of October. The trees were livid with their oranges and browns, but as the night fell upon them they grew dull and eery. The children wore danced and ran down the path wore costumes of all sorts; small children ran with covered faces, others in sheets, they carried sticks on fire and they chanted and sung into the night.
"Double double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble."
For tonight was All Hallows' Eve, the night where the dead arose from their graves to take the lifes of small children, and when the witches of Salem took their chances and stole children into the night. The children who danced and sang on the path that night were brave young children, all of who which knew nothing of their suroundings. The oldest wore black around his eyes and his hair a mess. His clothes were loose and fit the ages, and he wore no shoes. The second of the group was a young female. She, too, wore black around her eyes, and her dress was black and haunting. The youngest, also a young female, did not wear any eye make-up; she wore black like her sister, and no shoes like her brother. Nothing scared the three children of Salem, so on the night of All Hallows' Eve they took flight into the woods, and they ran on Wicked's Way, the old dirt path that lead to the cemetary. They had planned to sit and wait for the recentley hung witches from the trials, to taunt them and send them back to their graves. The children were astounded by the fact that some of their neighbors had proved to be witches; Ms. Gavin had be accused of witchcraft and sent to trial, and only a few days later she was hung at the post. She was not burried in the main cemetary, for witches were not worth the time here in Salem, but instead she was thrown into a old, broken crypt at the far end where bodies were forgotten. She rested with all the other accused witches in Salem.
"Double double toil and trouble, something wicked this way comes!"
The giggles and singing of the children had alerted her ears and she went to the cracked window. There they were, dancing down Wicked's Way, making fun of the Night of the Dead. "Something wicked this way comes, indeed." She chortled as the three skipped past her house, on their way to the old graveyard. She turned to her desk and opened a large, dusty book which lay upon alone. Inside read a recipe that would serve nicely just for tonight. Large yellow eyes met hers and she could tell her cat was smiling. "Be patient, my dear. For tonight we shall feast and celebrate this fair night."
His meow was her only answer.
The tranquility of the graveyard was broken by the wild cries of children; they danced and sang over the resting place of people long gone, letting their voices echoe off the dying trees and grey headstones.
"Eye of Newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog."
Shadows fell on the graves as the children made their way through the chilly night air. Though it was not known to them, their voices had aroused the ears of evil. Brought on by the taste of tender flesh, of fresh voice, it crept from the depths and followed them in deep silence, waiting for the chance to attack.
A sudden noise startles the children. With a shriek, the youngest fled to the mass of gravestones, cowering in fear.
"Demitria, where are thou? Hast thou hidden from the ghouls of All Hallows' Eve?" Her elder brother jeered, making fun of the shaken child.
The eldest girl shook her head at her brother, dread also sinking into her bones. The feeling of eyes scanning her body shocked her and withdrew her from reality. "Benjamin, do thee not feel it? Did thee not hear it? The voices and eyes of the dead are piercing us, watching our every move and judging us. We have stepped upon their resting place, and the dead witches will awake and cast a spell upon us."
Benjamin frowned at her, disbelief in his eyes. "Nonsense! Susan, thou are not thinking correctly. It is All Hallows' Eve, the dead rest and try to awaken, but our souls keep them trapped."
Young Demitria whimpered slightly from beyond the headstones as a cloud passed against the doleful moon. The night was clear except for the clouds left behind from the storm that came the night before, and the large, silver moon shown upon the three figures.
"Come out, come out, Demitria." Susan sang quietly, spying around the gravestones.
"Come out, come out, come out and play little children." Came a voice from the shadows. The voice was small, pipy, and unknown.
The children started and glanced around blindy, looking for their guest. "Who is there!" Benjamin called as Susan opened her arms to Demitria as she ran out from behind a headstone.
"Oh, dear children. Do not be afraid. It is only I, a fair lady who wishes to place a flower upon her mothers grave." The detached voice called out, causing uneasiness in the children.
"Why come so late, and on All Hallows' Eve of all nights?" Benjamin replied, holding onto his sisters carefully.
"Ah, my dears. I should be asking thou the same question." And then the voice showed itself.
Preview to The Barn
A short-story in the works.
The barn was a large farming barn that had been abandoned about twenty years ago when the owners house had burned to the ground and destroyed their crops. The barn was located at the far end of a large field, a field that nobody went to but was well known. It was in the small town of Acker where the tragedy occurred. The town held no more than three hundred people and wasn’t greatly acknowledged by many of the neighboring cities; the largest part of the town were the acres and acres of farmland and fields, and the many kids that lived in the town enjoyed playing in the fields and chasing the wild rabbits.
It was on October 29th, the day before Halloween, when three little boys took young Eliza Cohen to the barn. Tommy Caldwell was the ringleader of his group of friends, and was always a very feisty boy who tried his hardest to get what he wanted. With his wit and the right words he had placed his grand scheme inside of his friends minds, and they had agreed to accompany him and help him during this night. His two friends were Henry Robinson and Jerry Cohen, Eliza’s elder brother.
The barn was a large farming barn that had been abandoned about twenty years ago when the owners house had burned to the ground and destroyed their crops. The barn was located at the far end of a large field, a field that nobody went to but was well known. It was in the small town of Acker where the tragedy occurred. The town held no more than three hundred people and wasn’t greatly acknowledged by many of the neighboring cities; the largest part of the town were the acres and acres of farmland and fields, and the many kids that lived in the town enjoyed playing in the fields and chasing the wild rabbits.
It was on October 29th, the day before Halloween, when three little boys took young Eliza Cohen to the barn. Tommy Caldwell was the ringleader of his group of friends, and was always a very feisty boy who tried his hardest to get what he wanted. With his wit and the right words he had placed his grand scheme inside of his friends minds, and they had agreed to accompany him and help him during this night. His two friends were Henry Robinson and Jerry Cohen, Eliza’s elder brother.
Tabitha
Just a fair warning before you read this -
This excerpt contains abuse towards a woman and violent action.
The fire in the fireplace warmed the sitting room, throwing shadows across the furniture and walls. Tabitha sat across from her fiance in the small chair, writing notes in her notebook. Notes about the on-goings and interesting things she has seen and noticed in the mansion; some who she has talked too. William, her fiance, lit his pipe, took two puffs, and turned the page of his Bible. His beliefs were much stronger than hers, he lived in the Bible. His opinions, his words, his soul belonged to Christ. She had always wanted to share what she saw in the mansion with him, but the burning realization of how serious that would be kept her from doing so. He already accused her of meddling in Devils Magic, which she had not. Witchcraft was nothing that she was interested in, only Ghosts and Spirits. The Ghosts she believed in would be deemed as Demons to William, and he would have her repent her sins and pray for salvation. His beliefs disproved hers, and there were many things she would never let him know about her because of his beliefs, but she loved him. And that love was the only thing that kept her from leaving. Their relationship was not healthy, and she knew that. The bruises on her body proved that, the bruises on her heart told her that constantly. She had nowhere to go, and she wasn't wealthy. William provided her a shelter, money, and the love she needed.
"What is it that you are writing?" William asked, taking another puff of his pipe.
"Nothing," Tabitha said, skeptical. "Just my normal muses."
William raised an eyebrow. "Let me see them."
Her heart raced suddenly and she drew the notebook close to her heart. "N-no. It's quite alright, they aren't worth reading."
"I dare say they are." He said, reaching for the notebook. "Let me see what you have written."
She couldn't, she wouldn't, it wasn't worth the hours of punishment she'd have to endure. It wasn't worth it. "No Will. These are mine, and I say no."
He set his eyes on hers, giving her a stare that she feared at once. She stood rather quickly, still clutching the book to her bosom. "I am going to go to bed now."
His gaze followed her as she left the room and bounded up the large staircase. His body radiated with anger. He waited silently for a few moments, then stood and followed Tabitha to their room.
In the room she knelt before the large chest that she had brought back from her childhood home. She unlocked the lock and lifted the top, revealing her papers and muses from years ago to present. Two already full notebooks lay ontop of the rest of the papers, sketches of the girl in the painting smiled at her. Tabitha placed her notebook inside and shut the lid, she quickly locked the lock and returned the key to its place underneath the chest.
"So you are hiding things from me." Came a voice that made her blood run cold.
William stood in the doorway, the same glare he had used in the sitting room on his face.
"No, I am not." She retorted, moving away from the chest, away from the doorway. "I have things that I only look at. I have my privacy, William. You don't let me look at things you look at, you don't let me touch your Bible."
He walked up towards her, his anger evident on his face. "You are a woman, you are my woman, and my women do not hide things from me."
"You don't own me." Tabitha said, fear and anger growing in her stomach.
His eyes blazed and he pulled his hand back. The blow took hold of the entire left side of her face and she cried out.
"William!"
"You will not talk like that, Tabitha." He watched as she gasped and rubbed her face, trying to ease the pain. He took satisfication out of watching her eyes swell with tears. "You insult me, you are pathetic." He slapped her face again and she doubled over, crumpling against the side of their bed.
"William please," she pleaded, looking up at him. "Please."
He threw his foot towards her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She gasped and cried, doubled over on the floor. She held her stomach and sobbed, miserable and afraid.
"You live in my house, you are mine. You will ask for forgiveness, and you will show me what it is that you spend so much time writing." William ordered. She didn't answer, too afraid to wonder if his words needed answering.
"Do you understand me?"
She grew angry now. She didn't need this, she wasn't his, she needed to leave. She couldn't, she can't...He'd be the death of her, she knew that. He wasn't good.
Bravery overtook her and she glared up at his face. "You are a horrible man. I pray that God laughs at your face and sends you to the firery depths of Hell."
A pain unlike no other spread over her face and she collapsed in shock. Her jaw and cheek bones were on fire and she grasped her face in disbelief. For the first time, he had punched her in the face. Fresh tears poured from her eyes and she clawed at the ground, trying to find relief from the pain.
He bent down towards her and grabbed her by the back of the head, pulling her up by the hair. She wouldn't look him in the eyes, she couldn't, she turned her head away. He slapped her across the face. "Look at me!"
She turned slowly and looked him in the eyes, she sobbed and tried to clutch the hand grabbing her hair.
"You insult me and my God, the God who will forgive me. You are hiding things from me, hiding spells and prayers to Evil. God will not forgive those who meddle in Witchcraft."
She glared at him. He didn't know her, he didn't know God.
He touched her lip and she flinched away, his touch seemed to burn her. William placed his finger before her, her blood dripped down the length of his finger. "Do you see this? You bleed because of your sins."
"I bleed because of you!" she spat in his face.
A slap to the face brought her more pain, but this time she did not cry out. She ignored the pain, her anger was too great.
"I do nothing but try to help you!" He yelled, his hand threatened to make contact with her face again. "You are pathetic, you are worthless, you are nothing without my help! God would not spare you without me. You worship Demons and practice Devils Magic, and you will stop!" The threat was fulfilled and she flinched back as his hand hit her across her bruised cheekbone.
He threw her back onto the floor and stood up. She lay on the carpet, her sobs were ending and she tried to calm down. Dark bruises were forming on her face, and she could feel the bruise on her stomach. He watched her as she silently and carefully sat up, holding onto the side of their bed. He watched as she wiped the blood from her lip and chin, as she cradled her stomach.
"Tabitha,"
She didn't look up, she didn't want to look at the sastisfication in his face. She hated him.
"Tabitha," William said again, this time his voice was quieter. "You know I love you."
He bent over and forced her chin up, forced her to look at him. "I love you more than you will ever know." And he forced her to kiss him.
He left Tabitha in the bedroom, left her to cry and heal. She couldn't heal, her soul would never heal; the wounds were too deep. As she lay on the bedroom floor she broke. There was no love, there never was; only securtity and lust. She hated him, hated him as a person, and as a man. No, he isn't a man. He never would be a man. She was broken, and so was her soul.
This excerpt contains abuse towards a woman and violent action.
The fire in the fireplace warmed the sitting room, throwing shadows across the furniture and walls. Tabitha sat across from her fiance in the small chair, writing notes in her notebook. Notes about the on-goings and interesting things she has seen and noticed in the mansion; some who she has talked too. William, her fiance, lit his pipe, took two puffs, and turned the page of his Bible. His beliefs were much stronger than hers, he lived in the Bible. His opinions, his words, his soul belonged to Christ. She had always wanted to share what she saw in the mansion with him, but the burning realization of how serious that would be kept her from doing so. He already accused her of meddling in Devils Magic, which she had not. Witchcraft was nothing that she was interested in, only Ghosts and Spirits. The Ghosts she believed in would be deemed as Demons to William, and he would have her repent her sins and pray for salvation. His beliefs disproved hers, and there were many things she would never let him know about her because of his beliefs, but she loved him. And that love was the only thing that kept her from leaving. Their relationship was not healthy, and she knew that. The bruises on her body proved that, the bruises on her heart told her that constantly. She had nowhere to go, and she wasn't wealthy. William provided her a shelter, money, and the love she needed.
"What is it that you are writing?" William asked, taking another puff of his pipe.
"Nothing," Tabitha said, skeptical. "Just my normal muses."
William raised an eyebrow. "Let me see them."
Her heart raced suddenly and she drew the notebook close to her heart. "N-no. It's quite alright, they aren't worth reading."
"I dare say they are." He said, reaching for the notebook. "Let me see what you have written."
She couldn't, she wouldn't, it wasn't worth the hours of punishment she'd have to endure. It wasn't worth it. "No Will. These are mine, and I say no."
He set his eyes on hers, giving her a stare that she feared at once. She stood rather quickly, still clutching the book to her bosom. "I am going to go to bed now."
His gaze followed her as she left the room and bounded up the large staircase. His body radiated with anger. He waited silently for a few moments, then stood and followed Tabitha to their room.
In the room she knelt before the large chest that she had brought back from her childhood home. She unlocked the lock and lifted the top, revealing her papers and muses from years ago to present. Two already full notebooks lay ontop of the rest of the papers, sketches of the girl in the painting smiled at her. Tabitha placed her notebook inside and shut the lid, she quickly locked the lock and returned the key to its place underneath the chest.
"So you are hiding things from me." Came a voice that made her blood run cold.
William stood in the doorway, the same glare he had used in the sitting room on his face.
"No, I am not." She retorted, moving away from the chest, away from the doorway. "I have things that I only look at. I have my privacy, William. You don't let me look at things you look at, you don't let me touch your Bible."
He walked up towards her, his anger evident on his face. "You are a woman, you are my woman, and my women do not hide things from me."
"You don't own me." Tabitha said, fear and anger growing in her stomach.
His eyes blazed and he pulled his hand back. The blow took hold of the entire left side of her face and she cried out.
"William!"
"You will not talk like that, Tabitha." He watched as she gasped and rubbed her face, trying to ease the pain. He took satisfication out of watching her eyes swell with tears. "You insult me, you are pathetic." He slapped her face again and she doubled over, crumpling against the side of their bed.
"William please," she pleaded, looking up at him. "Please."
He threw his foot towards her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She gasped and cried, doubled over on the floor. She held her stomach and sobbed, miserable and afraid.
"You live in my house, you are mine. You will ask for forgiveness, and you will show me what it is that you spend so much time writing." William ordered. She didn't answer, too afraid to wonder if his words needed answering.
"Do you understand me?"
She grew angry now. She didn't need this, she wasn't his, she needed to leave. She couldn't, she can't...He'd be the death of her, she knew that. He wasn't good.
Bravery overtook her and she glared up at his face. "You are a horrible man. I pray that God laughs at your face and sends you to the firery depths of Hell."
A pain unlike no other spread over her face and she collapsed in shock. Her jaw and cheek bones were on fire and she grasped her face in disbelief. For the first time, he had punched her in the face. Fresh tears poured from her eyes and she clawed at the ground, trying to find relief from the pain.
He bent down towards her and grabbed her by the back of the head, pulling her up by the hair. She wouldn't look him in the eyes, she couldn't, she turned her head away. He slapped her across the face. "Look at me!"
She turned slowly and looked him in the eyes, she sobbed and tried to clutch the hand grabbing her hair.
"You insult me and my God, the God who will forgive me. You are hiding things from me, hiding spells and prayers to Evil. God will not forgive those who meddle in Witchcraft."
She glared at him. He didn't know her, he didn't know God.
He touched her lip and she flinched away, his touch seemed to burn her. William placed his finger before her, her blood dripped down the length of his finger. "Do you see this? You bleed because of your sins."
"I bleed because of you!" she spat in his face.
A slap to the face brought her more pain, but this time she did not cry out. She ignored the pain, her anger was too great.
"I do nothing but try to help you!" He yelled, his hand threatened to make contact with her face again. "You are pathetic, you are worthless, you are nothing without my help! God would not spare you without me. You worship Demons and practice Devils Magic, and you will stop!" The threat was fulfilled and she flinched back as his hand hit her across her bruised cheekbone.
He threw her back onto the floor and stood up. She lay on the carpet, her sobs were ending and she tried to calm down. Dark bruises were forming on her face, and she could feel the bruise on her stomach. He watched her as she silently and carefully sat up, holding onto the side of their bed. He watched as she wiped the blood from her lip and chin, as she cradled her stomach.
"Tabitha,"
She didn't look up, she didn't want to look at the sastisfication in his face. She hated him.
"Tabitha," William said again, this time his voice was quieter. "You know I love you."
He bent over and forced her chin up, forced her to look at him. "I love you more than you will ever know." And he forced her to kiss him.
He left Tabitha in the bedroom, left her to cry and heal. She couldn't heal, her soul would never heal; the wounds were too deep. As she lay on the bedroom floor she broke. There was no love, there never was; only securtity and lust. She hated him, hated him as a person, and as a man. No, he isn't a man. He never would be a man. She was broken, and so was her soul.
The Graveyard - A poem
As dusk begins to fall,
Over the head stones tonight,
The ground will break open,
And reveal quite a sight.
The endless, silent grey clouds,
Begin to cover the glowing moon.
The buried graves of the dead,
Move and sway and then swoon.
Now here comes the Skeletons,
From the quiet city of France.
They bring with them humor,
They bring with them dance.
The ghosts of our Ancestors,
Who seem to chuckle and titter.
They dance and run and are free.
They laugh and are no longer bitter.
The mausoleum begins to open,
To let free and let go the dead.
Mothers, Fathers, the rich and the poor,
Some without limbs, some without heads.
Skeletons crawl and grab at the ground,
Pulling themselves from the grime and dirt.
Tattered clothing hangs from their bones,
Old boots and pants and ripped skirts.
Some cannot see for their eyes are gone,
Yet the party tonight’s a sight to behold.
Some cannot cry for their voices are shattered,
Yet some weep and they scream in the cold.
Tonight is the party in which the dead meet,
They dance and they sing and they weep.
Tonight is the celebration of what once was,
They pull off the shadow that death tries to keep.
There are soldiers from war with wounds in their backs,
And woman whose lives were taken by force.
There are children who laugh like they’re still alive,
And others whose fates were much worse.
They dance to their death and their bones,
While over them gloom surely creeps.
And soon there will be more members to dance,
As the Grim begins to hunt and to reap.
But soon the night will fade to light,
And the dead must hide and go away.
For like life, night will not last forever,
It soon fades and turns into day.
When the celebration is finally over,
The Skeletons and the dead go back to sleep.
They wait silently for the next party,
In their graves which are rocky and steep.
Over the head stones tonight,
The ground will break open,
And reveal quite a sight.
The endless, silent grey clouds,
Begin to cover the glowing moon.
The buried graves of the dead,
Move and sway and then swoon.
Now here comes the Skeletons,
From the quiet city of France.
They bring with them humor,
They bring with them dance.
The ghosts of our Ancestors,
Who seem to chuckle and titter.
They dance and run and are free.
They laugh and are no longer bitter.
The mausoleum begins to open,
To let free and let go the dead.
Mothers, Fathers, the rich and the poor,
Some without limbs, some without heads.
Skeletons crawl and grab at the ground,
Pulling themselves from the grime and dirt.
Tattered clothing hangs from their bones,
Old boots and pants and ripped skirts.
Some cannot see for their eyes are gone,
Yet the party tonight’s a sight to behold.
Some cannot cry for their voices are shattered,
Yet some weep and they scream in the cold.
Tonight is the party in which the dead meet,
They dance and they sing and they weep.
Tonight is the celebration of what once was,
They pull off the shadow that death tries to keep.
There are soldiers from war with wounds in their backs,
And woman whose lives were taken by force.
There are children who laugh like they’re still alive,
And others whose fates were much worse.
They dance to their death and their bones,
While over them gloom surely creeps.
And soon there will be more members to dance,
As the Grim begins to hunt and to reap.
But soon the night will fade to light,
And the dead must hide and go away.
For like life, night will not last forever,
It soon fades and turns into day.
When the celebration is finally over,
The Skeletons and the dead go back to sleep.
They wait silently for the next party,
In their graves which are rocky and steep.
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