tommydarascal
kickbox
Hi everyone! This is a new short story I have written for an assignment; please comment! Also, you may draw some conclusions starting with the phrase, 'Yes but some mothers wouldn't...' but remember that all mothers are different ...
Forest
Christine sprints through the forest, dragging a five-year-old child behind her. Greens and greys rush past her and her breathing is heavy and deep. “Matthew, hurry, come on!” she gasps. The child is tripping and stumbling, and leaves are kicking out threateningly beneath him. Mud is spraying his back, creating patches of brown dirt that now plague his clothes.
“I can’t keep up, Mummy!”
Lethal, murderous footsteps are tearing after them unremittingly.
“Help, Mummy!”
They dash towards a clearing, dead plants and yellow leaves matting the ground.
Suddenly, Christine’s tight grasp on her son frees. He stumbles to the earth and shrieks. The footsteps continue, and pick up pace.
The mother, in a frame of sheer desperation, attempts to wrench her body backward and save her son.
She fails.
Her own survival dominates her son’s need in that moment …
The steps behind her stop suddenly. Christine dives forward as she trips over a log, and wallops the ground with such an impact that darkness blots and spreads across her eyes, wrapping her in a world of unconsciousness and sleep …
The stalker has her Matthew.
Cold, moist wind whipped across her face. She creaked her eyes open, freezing droplets of rain spitting at her. Dark fog smothered the area thickly. Sunlight sifted through the gases, grey and useless.
However, she could faintly distinguish trees and branches around her through the haze.
Without warning, the memory hit her mercilessly like a baseball bat to the head. My son… Panic rose in her rapidly, as she realised the loss of her child … her little Matthew.
Help, Mummy!
Christine wailed, hard and loud, booming through every leaf, every branch, and every insect … chilling the already bitter air. Tears cascaded down her cheeks as she rocked back and forth, remembering Matthew as he tumbled to the ground. She had left him. Abandoned him. “MATTHEW!”
Now she must find him. Silence – dead, suffocating silence – greeted her weeping. She inhaled deeply, shivering, stuttering ‘Matthew’ over and over.
She cried out as she got to her feet, her legs stiff and her back bruised. She could feel blood trickling somewhere unimportantly. It didn’t matter. Everything screamed out in pain.
Her heart shattered against her ribcage. She would have to go back there, go back and look for him. Staggering, she turned around and faced the clearing where her son had collapsed. Tears rolled and tapped leaves on the ground. The hush was heavy and eerie. Every tap of the leaf pierced the forest’s stillness.
Christine was vulnerable and open to anything …
The mother stumbled toward the space where her son had been snatched. There was a log, with green moss and fungi asphyxiating it. Inscribed on the log were four words – carved, apparently, by a deadly, sharp blade. Christine peered down at them through the murky air, smelling sour wood, filling with dread. On it: ‘See you soon, Christine’. The lost mother moaned with dismay, sorrow and worry, horrified, heart thudding. She felt sick. Agonising panic welled in her, built up; the aftermath screeched out of her tight voice box, guilty, outraged and pleading all at the same time, signalling her sheer sentiment of desperation: “I WANT MY MATTHEW BACK!”
Abruptly, a ripping noise like rope against skin squealed from above.
No, no, please God no, my baby – my poor baby, no …
Reluctantly, she yanked her eyes away from the message, and gradually, ever so slowly, peered through the haze above …
In the second she saw what hung there, all of her fears, her nightmares, her darkest dreads – all of it – were confirmed. She suddenly realised the pointlessness of what was now a wrecked and derelict excuse for life.
The wind seemed to blow tiny red leaves, scattering them. They floated peacefully, even forgivingly, and fretted upon Christine’s face. As she peered down at the ground, and noticed the leaves spread and blotch, Christine understood that in fact, they were not leaves … they were drips of blood.
Her son’s face hung limply, vines hanging him lifelessly against the bark of the tree. His eyes were closed, and his lips were drooping. Matthew looked so peaceful, so pale. His little hands were spread out, and his tiny feet dangled and swayed in the breeze …
Help, Mummy!
Christine plummeted to the ground, collapsed, just as her son did before she betrayed him. She hoped the fog was swirling around her – consuming her – because that was exactly what she wanted. She wanted the whole world to cave in on her, kill her, and kill her painfully, as long as it destroyed her. She didn’t deserve to live. She had given the life of her own son, a defenceless five-year-old child.
She did not cry, and she did not scream. She merely crouched there – slumped there – before her son, disbelieving and insane with grief. She kept her mouth fully open, wide and glassy eyed, whilst shaking hysterically. Christine stared at all the red leaves on the ground, scattered around him, and at all the red leaves on her clothes. She wanted to touch them and immerse herself in them, for they were her little Matthew’s. But Matthew was no more.
The rope squeaked louder as Matthew swayed above.
Just as Christine was about to splinter and shriek, spilling tears, she immediately detected a whooshing sound. She didn’t exactly hear it; it was movement. Whoosh! This incessant manoeuvre occurred from tree to tree. The stalker started from behind her son’s trunk, her son’s deathbed, and swooped behind the next tree, in a zigzag, to the next – Whoosh!
Immediately, jerkily, she stumbled to her feet, taking one last glance at her Matthew. This was the last she would ever see of him. Goodbye forever, my dear sweetheart. She had a maddening urge to touch her dear for the last time, but it was too dangerous a temptation to indulge. Not with the stalker sweeping stealthily in the forest. It clearly didn’t want to be seen. She must run.
Dead plants kicked out beneath her feet as she began to flee. She picked up pace, but the foliage around her seemed to be moving at a dangerously slow speed. She smashed her feet against the ground with more force, booming her heels from branches that lay on the ground, cracking twigs and leaves and panting, panting …
She stole a glance back. She could see dashing movements, dark movements, darting to and from bushes, trunks and vegetation, zigzagging an eloquent, lethal path toward its prey. This was a game.
Christine galloped like a gazelle, heaving. But the cheetah would always outrun it and pin it down. Random voices spun around in her head, clouding her senses, Oh my pristine Christine, how your life will be taken, how your escape is so mistaken …
Unexpectedly, some form of shrub slipped out beneath her, and she buckled. The sound of rapidly sliding leaves snaked its way into the grieving mother’s ear and, determinedly, she lunged to her left and managed to regain her balance. She robbed another short glimpse over her shoulder, and saw – through the murderer’s movements – something glint … a blade. This savage observation fuelled her, and she continued to flee, pumping harder than ever before, acidic gusts of hot air wheezing in and out of her lungs. The sliding swish of leaves continued threateningly behind her.
Smack!
A second log barred her way, and she flew over it, spread eagled, and crashed to the ground. The zigzagging path of leaves suddenly halted, and Christine smelt sour death. The slithers changed immediately to sinister, sprinting footsteps toward where Christine had fallen, and for a moment she just stayed there. She hoped that exactly the same thing would happen to her as to what happened to her dear Matthew. It was her fault. All of it was her fault.
Silence filled the forest. The lost mother knelt there, waiting for execution, sensing the ghostly presence of the murderer behind her. This thing, this monster, had taken her son, and strung him. Now they would do it to her. “No …”
In a rupture of fury, as the blade came crashing down toward her back, she swung to her right and rolled, grabbing the lethal weapon, never looking at its face, never, never, never looking …
She built all of the muscle power she could, straining, shaking, feeling unbelievable power and blood course through her veins, as she tried to swerve the blade away from her. The palm of her hand dug into the edge. This time, a red waterfall spattered onto her clothes. She was now forced on her back, grunting and blaring in pain, digging her heels into the ground and forcing her shoulders into her drive. Red smoke, caused by her astounding effort, obscured her vision. Her temples pulsed blood, deep blood.
Then, on the verge of defeat and suicide, she twisted and swerved her arms for one, final time. The blade sparkled, as if winking, and curved … She freed it of her attacker triumphantly, snatching it, roaring with survival, roaring with rage, grief, desperation, liberation and plunged it into the stalker somewhere – anywhere. She didn’t care, only her fleeing was important, only her precious escape.
Then she threw the blade into some undergrowth incoherently while she ran, screaming over and over again, “THAT WAS FOR MATTHEW!” She was laughing hysterically, tears pouring, her lips peeled over her teeth. It didn’t matter if it was for Matthew … none of it mattered ...
Forest
Christine sprints through the forest, dragging a five-year-old child behind her. Greens and greys rush past her and her breathing is heavy and deep. “Matthew, hurry, come on!” she gasps. The child is tripping and stumbling, and leaves are kicking out threateningly beneath him. Mud is spraying his back, creating patches of brown dirt that now plague his clothes.
“I can’t keep up, Mummy!”
Lethal, murderous footsteps are tearing after them unremittingly.
“Help, Mummy!”
They dash towards a clearing, dead plants and yellow leaves matting the ground.
Suddenly, Christine’s tight grasp on her son frees. He stumbles to the earth and shrieks. The footsteps continue, and pick up pace.
The mother, in a frame of sheer desperation, attempts to wrench her body backward and save her son.
She fails.
Her own survival dominates her son’s need in that moment …
The steps behind her stop suddenly. Christine dives forward as she trips over a log, and wallops the ground with such an impact that darkness blots and spreads across her eyes, wrapping her in a world of unconsciousness and sleep …
The stalker has her Matthew.
Cold, moist wind whipped across her face. She creaked her eyes open, freezing droplets of rain spitting at her. Dark fog smothered the area thickly. Sunlight sifted through the gases, grey and useless.
However, she could faintly distinguish trees and branches around her through the haze.
Without warning, the memory hit her mercilessly like a baseball bat to the head. My son… Panic rose in her rapidly, as she realised the loss of her child … her little Matthew.
Help, Mummy!
Christine wailed, hard and loud, booming through every leaf, every branch, and every insect … chilling the already bitter air. Tears cascaded down her cheeks as she rocked back and forth, remembering Matthew as he tumbled to the ground. She had left him. Abandoned him. “MATTHEW!”
Now she must find him. Silence – dead, suffocating silence – greeted her weeping. She inhaled deeply, shivering, stuttering ‘Matthew’ over and over.
She cried out as she got to her feet, her legs stiff and her back bruised. She could feel blood trickling somewhere unimportantly. It didn’t matter. Everything screamed out in pain.
Her heart shattered against her ribcage. She would have to go back there, go back and look for him. Staggering, she turned around and faced the clearing where her son had collapsed. Tears rolled and tapped leaves on the ground. The hush was heavy and eerie. Every tap of the leaf pierced the forest’s stillness.
Christine was vulnerable and open to anything …
The mother stumbled toward the space where her son had been snatched. There was a log, with green moss and fungi asphyxiating it. Inscribed on the log were four words – carved, apparently, by a deadly, sharp blade. Christine peered down at them through the murky air, smelling sour wood, filling with dread. On it: ‘See you soon, Christine’. The lost mother moaned with dismay, sorrow and worry, horrified, heart thudding. She felt sick. Agonising panic welled in her, built up; the aftermath screeched out of her tight voice box, guilty, outraged and pleading all at the same time, signalling her sheer sentiment of desperation: “I WANT MY MATTHEW BACK!”
Abruptly, a ripping noise like rope against skin squealed from above.
No, no, please God no, my baby – my poor baby, no …
Reluctantly, she yanked her eyes away from the message, and gradually, ever so slowly, peered through the haze above …
In the second she saw what hung there, all of her fears, her nightmares, her darkest dreads – all of it – were confirmed. She suddenly realised the pointlessness of what was now a wrecked and derelict excuse for life.
The wind seemed to blow tiny red leaves, scattering them. They floated peacefully, even forgivingly, and fretted upon Christine’s face. As she peered down at the ground, and noticed the leaves spread and blotch, Christine understood that in fact, they were not leaves … they were drips of blood.
Her son’s face hung limply, vines hanging him lifelessly against the bark of the tree. His eyes were closed, and his lips were drooping. Matthew looked so peaceful, so pale. His little hands were spread out, and his tiny feet dangled and swayed in the breeze …
Help, Mummy!
Christine plummeted to the ground, collapsed, just as her son did before she betrayed him. She hoped the fog was swirling around her – consuming her – because that was exactly what she wanted. She wanted the whole world to cave in on her, kill her, and kill her painfully, as long as it destroyed her. She didn’t deserve to live. She had given the life of her own son, a defenceless five-year-old child.
She did not cry, and she did not scream. She merely crouched there – slumped there – before her son, disbelieving and insane with grief. She kept her mouth fully open, wide and glassy eyed, whilst shaking hysterically. Christine stared at all the red leaves on the ground, scattered around him, and at all the red leaves on her clothes. She wanted to touch them and immerse herself in them, for they were her little Matthew’s. But Matthew was no more.
The rope squeaked louder as Matthew swayed above.
Just as Christine was about to splinter and shriek, spilling tears, she immediately detected a whooshing sound. She didn’t exactly hear it; it was movement. Whoosh! This incessant manoeuvre occurred from tree to tree. The stalker started from behind her son’s trunk, her son’s deathbed, and swooped behind the next tree, in a zigzag, to the next – Whoosh!
Immediately, jerkily, she stumbled to her feet, taking one last glance at her Matthew. This was the last she would ever see of him. Goodbye forever, my dear sweetheart. She had a maddening urge to touch her dear for the last time, but it was too dangerous a temptation to indulge. Not with the stalker sweeping stealthily in the forest. It clearly didn’t want to be seen. She must run.
Dead plants kicked out beneath her feet as she began to flee. She picked up pace, but the foliage around her seemed to be moving at a dangerously slow speed. She smashed her feet against the ground with more force, booming her heels from branches that lay on the ground, cracking twigs and leaves and panting, panting …
She stole a glance back. She could see dashing movements, dark movements, darting to and from bushes, trunks and vegetation, zigzagging an eloquent, lethal path toward its prey. This was a game.
Christine galloped like a gazelle, heaving. But the cheetah would always outrun it and pin it down. Random voices spun around in her head, clouding her senses, Oh my pristine Christine, how your life will be taken, how your escape is so mistaken …
Unexpectedly, some form of shrub slipped out beneath her, and she buckled. The sound of rapidly sliding leaves snaked its way into the grieving mother’s ear and, determinedly, she lunged to her left and managed to regain her balance. She robbed another short glimpse over her shoulder, and saw – through the murderer’s movements – something glint … a blade. This savage observation fuelled her, and she continued to flee, pumping harder than ever before, acidic gusts of hot air wheezing in and out of her lungs. The sliding swish of leaves continued threateningly behind her.
Smack!
A second log barred her way, and she flew over it, spread eagled, and crashed to the ground. The zigzagging path of leaves suddenly halted, and Christine smelt sour death. The slithers changed immediately to sinister, sprinting footsteps toward where Christine had fallen, and for a moment she just stayed there. She hoped that exactly the same thing would happen to her as to what happened to her dear Matthew. It was her fault. All of it was her fault.
Silence filled the forest. The lost mother knelt there, waiting for execution, sensing the ghostly presence of the murderer behind her. This thing, this monster, had taken her son, and strung him. Now they would do it to her. “No …”
In a rupture of fury, as the blade came crashing down toward her back, she swung to her right and rolled, grabbing the lethal weapon, never looking at its face, never, never, never looking …
She built all of the muscle power she could, straining, shaking, feeling unbelievable power and blood course through her veins, as she tried to swerve the blade away from her. The palm of her hand dug into the edge. This time, a red waterfall spattered onto her clothes. She was now forced on her back, grunting and blaring in pain, digging her heels into the ground and forcing her shoulders into her drive. Red smoke, caused by her astounding effort, obscured her vision. Her temples pulsed blood, deep blood.
Then, on the verge of defeat and suicide, she twisted and swerved her arms for one, final time. The blade sparkled, as if winking, and curved … She freed it of her attacker triumphantly, snatching it, roaring with survival, roaring with rage, grief, desperation, liberation and plunged it into the stalker somewhere – anywhere. She didn’t care, only her fleeing was important, only her precious escape.
Then she threw the blade into some undergrowth incoherently while she ran, screaming over and over again, “THAT WAS FOR MATTHEW!” She was laughing hysterically, tears pouring, her lips peeled over her teeth. It didn’t matter if it was for Matthew … none of it mattered ...
And yes, I agree, I seem to be writing about horrifying things all the time ... all of my poems ... and stories ... Lol!