Moments later, I enabled my eyes to drift from the scene. As I turned, I was startled by the ghostly figures that hovered before me. I struggled for air. I stood in terror, my body tense.
As a young child, I was not the type who cried when they lost their parents in the grocery store, or when they played too rough with a teddy bear so that the stitching breaks.
I have always been known as brave.
I remained as silent as possible, avoiding looking into their dark eyes.
I let my eyelids fall. I concentrated purely on my senses, so I could detect when the ghosts would creep towards their next destination. The breeze howled, which sent waves of movement rippling through the grass.
I allowed my palms to rise. I imagined a gun, with it's barrel loaded. Heat and anger grew inside me. My father, had his life taken by the bullet. He suffered wounds so serious he could not be saved. I would sit down beside him, blood swimming at my ankles. I gathered his head gently in my arms so I could hear his breathing. His breaths were shallow and decreasing, until there was nowhere left to go. Then, it stopped, his body limp and lifeless. He was gone. I remember screaming for him to come back, to reach out and wrap his arms around me.
But it was too late.
My eyelids remained locked together as my palms rose. They began to feel heavier, like the weight of the object forming within my grasp was pulling me down towards the earth. As I opened them, to my utter disbelief, a black handgun lye there. It was coated in the same dark shade as the monsters before me.
Black.
This shade reminded me of pure evil. The type of shade that dyed the masks men would use to hide their faces, their personal identity, when committing a crime.
The type of shade that would define text printed on papers and electronic documents. However, when used for the wrong purpose, can spell 'illegal,' 'prosecution.'
The type of shade that stained the weapon in my hand.
I cautiously transferred the gun to one hand and wrapped my fingers around the gun, my index finger steady on the trigger. I have never fired a gun before, but I attempted to convince myself it was easy.
At a young age, I would pay great attention when watching a dark movie like it was a users manual to success. I would examine the 'bad guys' every move, every gesture. The stance they would hold when firing a gun.
How hard could it be?
I extended my arm out in front of me, with my knees slightly bent to help me sustain my balance. I inhaled deeply, I knew I could do this. I took a steady aim on a single ghost. It slowly wandered through the centre of my vision making it a relatively easy target. Then, I fired. The force of the bullet escaping the gun made my entire body shudder. I stepped back, regaining my balance. I could see the bullet to great quality, shooting towards the dark creature. The bullet struck the monster just below the core, but the bullet did not cause a mass wound that blood escaped from, nor did it make the creature fall towards the earth, helpless, dead.
The creature seemed to shatter, sending countless shards of glass sailing through the dense air. The sounds of glass pieces colliding with each other filled my ears. Each shard reflected light produced by the raging fire behind me as gravity brought the pieces plummeting towards the earth.
Then, I recognised my left boot seemed to be intensely heating. I was standing near a large branch that had been engulfed in flames. The plastic rim on my shoe was melting. The word 'Shit' escaped my lips as I tried aggressively to shake off my shoe.
Once my foot was bare, I approached the crime scene, hunting for the glass pieces hidden on the ground. Then, I witnessed something shine amongst the dead grass. Quite a large piece lie there, wedged between blades of grass, it's edges sharp.
I bent over, gathering the piece within my free hand and lie it flat on my palm, observing all its features. I imagined the piece to be thick, however it seemed paper thin, like you could snap it right down it's middle just by laying your eyes on it.
Then, unexpectedly, the shard turned to liquid, it was the same shade as the night sky above. The strangle liquid swam towards the edges of my palm and seeped through the spaces between my fingers. The liquid fell towards the earth, a single droplet at a time. It disappeared into the soil below without a trace, without destruction, without meaning.
At the corner of my view, something caught my eye. My Grandma, who was holding a weak posture, with an outstretched arm, had fallen to the ground. I attempted to inhale air but it seemed impossible, like someone strong had wrapped their hands around my neck, suffocating me. I darted towards her, praying with my life that she was conscious, alive.
As I approached her, I knelt down beside her and rolled her off of her chest. I scanned her like a mechanical robot for any wounds, breathing. Then, I paused. Blood soaked her core. It was a bullet wound. Tears formed and ran down my cheeks at an uncontrollable rate.
She was... Dead.
It had occurred to me at that moment that there was a link to my loved ones and the monsters. A connection that I feared would be unbreakable, for the ghost I killed belonged to my Grandma. I destroyed the monster, I...
I had killed my own Grandmother.
I observed the creatures again, their behaviour remained the same despite my Grandmas death.
Their sole... dark, dangerous and hungry for death.
Do these dark, gloomy monsters even have such a thing? Is it possible to have a soul so destroyed by death? It appears so, as these figures, so hungry for destruction, were there, hovering right before me. The ghosts were everything I imagined hell to be like. A place where everything is permanently stained with blood and death is printed on the breeze.
That was it.
I am unable to recall what occurred next. It all seemed like a terrible nightmare. But it wasn't the first time my imagination told this story.
It was real.
