A World Reborn

Chapter 4

The stranger lays down motionless and unconscious upon our countertop. The stitches are sloppily embroidered upon his skin like a nasty work of art. Dried blood is splattered from the handle of the backdoor entrance and up onto the counter. I lay down on the couch with my eyes peeled wide open. Jonas is fast asleep on the couch directly across from me. My eyes have been set on the locked door and windows for the past hour. A white and blue sign hangs upon the door that reads "McQueen Residence." The blue lettering is now beginning to fade more and more day by day.

  Tears begin to roll down from my hazel-colored eyes as I try to process what has just happened. Thoughts spin throughout my mind like a tornado and for once in my life I feel helpless, confused, and mostly afraid. Whoever did this to the man could still be out there. "Dad should be coming soon and he'll know what to do," I reassure myself.

  Only one candle is lit tonight and Jonas put the fire out minutes earlier. I gaze at the stranger from afar and look at the bloody and torn-up shirt that rests beside him. I look down and stare at my hands covered in dry blood. My fingernails are colored brown and red. I slowly get up and begin to walk towards the countertop. The disinfectant wipes and scissors covered in blood, lay sprawled across the table. I examine the wound once more and run my fingers across the stitches I had placed. The stitches look like a mess across his now sealed skin. They are tangled and twisted into multiple layers. "Taking them out will be far worse," I say to myself.

  He is still breathing, slowly and deeply, through compressed breaths every few seconds. I pick up his once-white shirt and fold it just the way father had taught me. I neatly place the folded shirt to the side and begin to slowly examine his ripped jeans. What seems like a shiny slip of paper barely sticks out of his right pocket. It seems to be snuggled in there tightly and firm. I slightly bend my knees and move forward for a closer look. It looks far too sharp to be paper and I reach into his jeans. I begin to slowly pull it out, trying not to cause him any discomfort. After about 30 seconds, a sharp and long dagger is in my palm. The dagger has a slight curve and it's handle is colored maroon red. Plenty of tiny scratch marks are littered across the blade. I turn the blade over and notice small lettering. The initials, L.W, are etched onto the butt of the dagger in white writing. I stare at him closely and long to ask him who he is, where he came from, and who did this.

  I place the dagger into my back pocket carefully and begin to walk to the washroom. I despise the stench of blood and can't bear to smell it any longer. I open the door to the washroom, located to the right of the back entrance.

  Although the room is pitch black, the location of the objects and materials within it, are etched into my brain. I locate the soap and metallic bucket of water with ease and begin to rub my hands against the bar of yellow soap. The vile smell of blood is now replaced with the soothing aroma of fresh flowers. I begin to rinse my hands together with the water located inside the bucket below me. I cup my hands and splash water upon my face as I normally do every night. My eyes feel particularly heavy after today and I imagine that I have heavy, dark bags under them. The moonlight shines through the window and illuminates the dark room just enough for me to see everything in it's right place. I squint and can barely see my reflection through the moldy mirror. A young girl with long, chestnut-colored hair boldly stares back at me. She has a strong profile, but looks slightly defeated. Her eyes are somewhat weary and blood vessels line them. Her lips are dry and she tries to smile at me, but she can't seem to.

  The moonlight no longer illuminates the room and has moved on. I break my gaze from the mirror and cup my hands. I reach down for water once more and as I splash my eyes I feel the dagger fall out of my back pocket. I reach down to pick it up, but I feel a cold and unfamiliar hand touch my fingers. Instinctively, I pull away quickly and back up a step. I stick my arms out in front of me and begin to walk forward into the darkness. Suddenly, a hand reaches around the back of my neck and onto my mouth, while another grabs at my shirt. The grip is far too tight and I can't move at all. I scream and yell as loud as I can, but only suppressed mumbles come out. The hand unexpectedly lets go of my mouth and I begin to fall down. As I quickly descend the back of my head hits the bucket, making a loud thud, and the world goes black.