"Your move." The Queen screams as I scrape her against the chess board. My left hand dances around the wine glass's stem, raised to the top with coke as I sip like a monarch.
My brother glares from the other side of the table. His fingertips drum on the edge of the tablecloth, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly agape.
His hands hover over a few pieces, before settling a rook in front of my Queen. He chuckles and looks up at me.
"You're not that good." He remarks as he leans back into the chair, I set down my glass.
"And neither are you."
------
I was born in February, the snow trapped me in a blizzard as my mum escaped from the hospital entrance to the car. It swirled around my blanket before settling on the thickly woven hem. I was asleep, I was peaceful. But I was suffocating beneath the threads.
I cried as a baby. I cried as a child.
Sometimes, beneath the blanket falling halfway off the bed. I would curl in a ball and die. My eyes were dry and my cheeks were rigid. They were firm as the air clouding my bed froze my face in an ice-like entrapment. My hands were shaking. My tongue was stuck in my throat as my head shivered on the rock for a pillow.
The cries from the graveyard never stopped.
It howled with the tree's branches as they scraped against my window. They left scratch marks in the morning, but they were gone at night, leaving me to the same fear over and over and over. It was like being thrown to the wolves at two am.
As the crows cawed the gravestones shrieked. They shook the flat floor and I could feel their ghostly eyes stabbing into mine. I could feel the blood trickling down like tears, the moist, ragged eyeball bits falling into my ear holes and clogging the drums. I could feel the boisterous howls dig into my chest and press my heart against its rib cage, only amplified by my daily chest pains.
The cries never stopped, and so my paranoia never did. The voices are still here, circling the abandoned graveyard like moths to a corpse, as they tear away the flesh and suck on its blood.
A month ago I researched all five hundred and fifty occupants of those graves. I haven't forgotten them since.
I hear you Corey Aarons. The baby who died in the snow.
YOU ARE READING
just me writing some random shit (thoughts, theories, rants etc.)
RandomThis is not a story book. It's a book of my rants, my thoughts, my theories, my short stories, and I may write some poems, though I've gone off that now. I'll keep it light, though some rants will be the result of my exsitential crisis into a down...
