to bestir 2
<a href="http://www.terhech.de/details.php?bi_id=102">
(this is part 2, part one is here)</a><br>
The door opened.
Decisions are hard to undertake, especially if either side of the decision would result in a drama for one.
A minimal feeling of cold could be sensed coming from inside, approaching the boy like a slow tiger, resulting in an exaggeration of goosebumps on his arms. Even without looking, one could actually "feel" that a dark hallway lay behind the now open door. Small spots of light fought their way through layers of dust in the air so they could play their little patterns on the floor. Several dead and stuffed animals would serve no other reason but to additionaly decorate the corridor.
The boy hesitated to turn around. Hesitation can be a very time-consuming process, because it directly relates to the above-mentioned decisions; causing disturbances in human logic-fields, questioning values, inducing confusion, lowering self-esteem. And thus the boy not only determined what to do next, but above all he had to conclude IF there was a next. And at the moment it seemed that his brain cloaked, abandoned, those thoughts. It started with little details fighting their way through, until they greased into his attention, filling his little metaphysical reaction-veins like stale motor oil. The veranda's color was suddenly more than interesting, the structures on the floor seemed to become increasingly addictive to him, little gnats, previously seemingly lightyears away, were just commencing an admirable performance right before his eye, forming delightful compositions in the air.
Driven by extraordinary fear, the boy slowly lost contact to the momentous thoughts breeding that very fear, followed a neverending stairway deeper and deeper allowing the tenacious oil to defile every feasible corner of his mind, - until all at once, appearing out of the darkness with the rapidity of a snake attack, a voice appeared and broke the tension - more like a brutal bloody butcher and less like a cautious butler.
"What ya want boy"
Its sound was comparable to dark and dry wood, it left no room for higher frequencies, squeezing every possible frequency of the lower spectrum through another lowpass filter and multiplying the final result with the outcome of a very resonant sawtooth wave. The voice seemed to not incline to any sort of emotion, something people loathe as it hampers to reveal details about the person behind the voice. You wouldn't even want to reveal details about the person behind this particular voice - the boy knew that very well.
He turned his head so he could spot the man. With every bit of his heads movement his fingers shivered in exasperation. His heart gaining speed, his lips seemingly loosing control over the situation as they started to twich more and more. A warm feeling arose in his body, ascending from the area around his genitals through his waist up into his chest. It didn't feel good, started to choke his breath, made it impossible to move his feet, increased the anxiety. His brain began to flicker, reminiscenting moments from the past - but walking through this past even alloyed his condition as his past had been many a thing - but livable. It had been a continuous struggle, several scars around his body could narrate more than one horrific story.
Everything reverted back to now. Like a video playing backward he suddenly jumped back into the situation around him, oil left his veins, thoughts left his brain, his body stopped moving. Propelled by surroundings anger moved in, ascending into every area of him and empowering him with unnatural feelings and supersonic audacity.
He stood face-to-face in front of a man, watching him lurk in the houses shadows like a moraine. The man wore an yellowed white shirt that seemed to have little spots of blood on it's upper parts, little holes and fissures enlarged the impression that discipline or orderliness were strange to him. A black jeans could only be surmised as the shadows cloaked most of this area, where a faint smell of old grease seemed to linger in the air. He had a light beard, black hears and the word gross came to mind when one saw him for the first time. He held a half-full bottle of whisky in his left hand.
"What ya want ya lil' pice o shit, I ain't buyen a frickin' fuck from that retard whoever ya fuckin work for. and now bugger off!..damnit"
Silence elevated slowly as the boy just stood there, looking at the man, and seemingly compiling all of his energy into what was coming up. The man winced with his arm, moving it up and down, probably in a decision process whether he should take another sip of whisky or not. A light wind strode over the scene, twisting the boys hair, swirling the gnats, dehumifying the sweat on the man's skin. Every nerve in the boys body stood to attention, collected feelings, transformed them, extracted energy and send that energy directly into his left brain-area, where it all summed up, filled his psychical chambers, increased his energy, courage, boldness and suddenly, with the feeling of a flash, exploded into words, fizzing out of his mouth.
"I wanna speak my mommy. I want you to give me my mommy back"
The words burst like bullets out of a russian Kalashnikow, cut the air, broke the paralyzed field between the two humans. They reached the man, hit him and continued their way into the dark hallways of the house, reverberated from walls, pictures, stuffed animals and blotched tout le monde with a tensed form of electricity.
Even before the man could react a scream came from behind, dull paces appeared in the environmental soundscape, gasping noises accentuated the setting. "Brian! No! Leave! find safety!" Just as the man, eventually overwhelmed with the current situation, turned around, yet hesitating in his actions, a woman entered the hallway, wearing a torn dress, whose flower-like blood-stained texture made one SEE her pain. A black eye accompanied the dress, partly hidden behind smudgy, greasy, blonde hair. As she saw her son, she stumbled, stopped, started to shed tears.
"Brian..."
"Momy..."
The boy shook. His young mind wasn't proficient and cruel enough to recklessly handle such situations.
"Mommy.."
The devastated appearance of his mum felt like a nausea taking over his body.
Wavering, the man walked for the woman, who appeared to dwindle closer to the floor every second. Apart from that she didn't move or evade at all - life had long since killed any seditious or survival instinct in her. As he had almost arrived he strode out, came closer, and hit her stomach with his fist.
"You be silent darn bitch. Another fuckin word from ya and I swear I be kickin you damn worthless piece o' meat to death" he slightly slobbered out of his mouth.
The woman didn't scream, or shout, she not even muttered. With an anxious impression of pain, she sank to the ground, curling up and pressing her lips together. The man paused, light from an upper window fell onto his neck, and thus one could see a small tatoo which had been inked there, it read 'HATE'. He took a sip from his whisky, held it for a second in his mouth and then spit it into the woman's face.
"Bloody bitch, I'll teach ya mither me"
He took another sip of the whisky.
"Mister"
The feeling that even more violence could fill up his day grew in him. There're humans who condone their miserable situation through insulting or injuring other people. He could have been one of their leaders. He tightened his grip around the Whisky bottle and decided that it would be a worthfull alternation to throw it at that boys head, especially as the boys mom was watching.
While he was turning around something alarmingly awoke in him. He wasn't sure as how to react to it so he searched the near environment. He noticed the dust in the air, he observed the light, coming in from the open door, he saw the green gras in the garden, and then he observed that the ground had kinda changed. About 4 feet from the boy lay that little bag the boy had been carrying. The bag was empty. The man steadily looked up, unwanted cogitations didn't even dare to shine until he saw it.
The boy hadn't really moved. His eyes were filled with tears, but still he could aim. His feet shook in gloom, but still he could aim. His hands shivered, but still he could aim. Impelled by angst he aimed at the man - with a .45 Magnum Desert Eagle Stainless. His logic, ethics were long gone, and moral had been crowded away by that man slapping his mom in the stomach. Now he was a dangerously chased angst-filled recklesness 9 year old boy whose current state of mind was tatooted on the man's neck.
"ya lil' fucker, ain't scarin me with toy guns" said the man and walked towards him.
His mom looked up.
"Brian.."
Brian pulled the trigger.