Skip to main content

Hideous Creature

For the Inkpen Authoress' March Chatterbox, the subject is mirrors.  In my new project (the one I am currently calling "BB"), I wrote this scene today.  It has been rolling around in my mind for a couple weeks now and just made it onto paper.  Without further ado:

          Hideous Creature
The master sat slumped in his chair, facing the darkest corner of his room.  Behind him, thanks to Chauncey, the evening light streamed into the room through the open curtains.  But the master turned his back to it, feeling that the darkness fit his mood better.

His mind slowly flickered over his small band of faithful servants.  Grimm, Chauncey, Mrs. Hinn, Annie...good servants – all of them -- deserving of gracious rewards.  They did their best for him.  Chauncey was pitifully hopeful on his behalf, opening curtains and talking cheerfully.  Mrs. Hinn cooked her most wholesome meals, as though food might help.  It behooved him to write a will, requesting that they not be forgotten upon his death.

He shifted his weight and felt the burning pain shoot through him.  As he did, his eyes landed on a small pot with a note attached.  Chauncey had brought that up the day before.  What was it he had said?  They “found” it?

His body wanted to die.

His mind wanted to die.

But there was some small spark deep inside him that still wanted to live.  It was a weak spark at best, but it flared up strong for a moment and the young man pushed himself to his feet.  He almost cried out at the pain, but he clenched his jaw instead.  Great beads of sweat formed on the skin of his forehead, but he would not let his father down.  Even here, in this remote place, he would carry himself with pride. 

He shuffled across the floor and picked up the pot with its note.

“Apply to affected areas three to four times daily.  Provides relief and promotes healing,” it said in an elegant, handwritten script.  He flipped it over and read, “Love will save.”

Those last three words jabbed mercilessly at him.  His mind echoed with the screams of a woman he couldn’t save.  He shook his head, willing the memories away, closing his mind to them.  He could not allow himself to think about it.

But she would have been intrigued with the paste.  He could see her sniffing it and inquiring as to its properties.

On the front of the note, his eye caught a word.  “Relief,” it said.  That was something the doctors had not been able to do for him.  With pot in hand, he shuffled to the great mirror by his chest of drawers.

A masked man in a cape stared back at him.  The master studied this reflection of himself.  It was strange how his thoughts went – perhaps they were merely the thoughts of a man expecting to inhabit a grave soon – but he studied the reflection as he studied himself.  His body seemed no more real and no more a part of him than the shape of the man in the mirror.  He looked at himself as an outsider would.

It is as though I am already dead, looking at an imposter, he thought.  The thought felt familiar to him, like a recently acquired friend.

The mask and cape covered everything.  You could see the form of a hunched man, you could see his right ear and a tiny bit of his right cheek, and you could see his eyes.  Everything else was concealed.  Even his hands were gloved.

The master removed the lid from the small pot and sniffed the contents.  It smelled tolerable.  Relief – it would be nice.  Recovery?  That much was doubtful.

“Doubtful?” he asked himself.  Did he allow himself even that much hope?

Slowly he removed the cape, the gloves, and, finally, the mask.  His skin raged against the disturbance, and he stared at the mirror through blurry vision.

Finally the pain subsided to a normal level, and his eyes cleared.  But the mirror only showed him a cruel portrait.  What sort of creature claimed to be his reflection?

His wounds were worse than he thought.  Huge patches of red, raw, angry-looking wounds covered his arms.  The moistness of the weeping wounds made his stomach turn.  Some of them had black portions.  The inner workings of his arms, meant to be protected by skin, were exposed to the casual observer.  And his face…

He had once been considered a handsome youth with strong, masculine features.  But now he could not even recognize his own face.  It looked as though some terrible disease had eaten away his flesh.

The master's gaze wandered back to his eyes, studying them.  They were hollow and clouded with fear...fear that had gripped his soul.

Recovery?  It was impossible.  He would never look as he had before.  He would never regain his position or power.  He would never be himself again.  He had lost everything.

Everything.

He put the lid back on the pot and dropped it to the floor, shoving it angrily with his foot, hating the impossible spark of life it inspired.  Then he reclaimed his mask and cape.  His vision blurred again with the pain of contact.  But there was nothing left to do but to hope death claimed him quickly.

There was no other way out.

Comments

  1. Spine tingly exciting! I can hardly wait to read more!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

More Snippets from Snow White Rose Red

    One of the shadows moved.   “Were you just going to chuck it in there with no thought for the poor folks on the other side?”   Flip’s voice drawled out.   It was a deep voice and it made my heart skip a beat.      He moved away from the trees and came to stand in front of me.   “Some hard-working fellow is plowing his field and then – whop!   Out of nowhere, a poisoned apple flies out and hits him upside the head.”   He clucked his tongue reproachfully.

A Short Story Break

via Pinterest     It has been a while since I penned a short story.  Usually it takes something like a "short story contest" to inspire me.  But I have noticed my writing skills improve with each contest so there is something to be said for writing short stories.      I say all this to lead into the fact that I am going to try another short story.  There is no contest looming on the horizon, but it has been so long that I think I am due to write a short piece.  Life cannot be entirely devoted to novel-length plots...      I am rolling around different ideas in my head.  There is no one to give me the first three words or a picture to base my story on.  There are no restrictions, no props, and no judges.      Methinks I will try something that is both epic and ordinary...something I have seen before.  After all, personal experience, great things, and the expression of the ordinary are part of what makes a story. 

The Countdown: Eight Days

Eight days.  Do you know what that means?  Barely over a week.  Tomorrow will be one week from the announcement date. Are you excited? I am. So, today, I want to talk to those who wrote something for the contest, whether or not you entered it in the end. What made you start writing your story?  What was the first inkling of an idea that tickled your brain?  What was it that you liked about your premise?  As you wrote, did you have a favorite character or a favorite scene?  And are you glad you wrote it down?  Do you feel like you learned and grew in your ability as a writer as you tried out things for this contest? And, if your story isn't included in this year's Rooglewood anthology (either because you didn't submit it or because it didn't fit with the other four stories selected), what will you do with it?  Will you market it elsewhere?  Or will you lock it away in a drawer?