B O O K I I
"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster."
- Friedrich Nietzsche
-In the winter of 1973, in Dover, Delaware. St. Mathew Baptist Church's pastor's ten year old son vanished into thin air...
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Wh-where am I?
.
.
.
It's cold, and the congruence weighs on me, like something thick. Where am I? My breathing hitches, and it hurts inside, my eyes burn as I feel the tears leave them.
My throat caught and thick, I gasp, and cough lurching forward as something thick comes out like stardust. Gritty, and sharp, like swallowing glass. I lift my head, and the earth spins tilts on itself, and I come back down, head ringing from the impact. I suck in another breath, chest on fire, and star out into the stars: Perseus slaying Medusa, the big dipped and the little dipper.
The trees stare out into the sky, overseeing me, and the dead air. I watch the snow falls idly, letting the earth fall back to the center. Things are shifting like a camera of after too many turns on a carousel, throwing up county-fair style hotdogs—the horrible taste of meat-mustard and acid. I think I would vomit if I had anything inside. Inside.
I lift my hands and grip tight on the forgotten den. Inhaling in the air, the smell was sweet and thick and the hum of insects. Humming as they take what is there's, a fox den?
My legs were noodles, limp, and unyielding as I make my way out. My skin is brushing against something sticky, ripping at it. I press on, moving forward even as it catches into my hair. "Hello?" I call out; the word is grated, dirt still I reach down my throat and only to dry heave. Releasing animalistic voices as something dry leaves me.
"Is there someone, anyone there?" The words felt as though they were miles apart. Oceans and bottles separated them.
The trees whisper as I make a way out, I don't know-how, and I don't where, but something is pulling me, like a compass yanking me north. Whispering in a language, I don't know or could even fathom of so.
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Crunch.
Are those footsteps?
Crunch.
I turn my head slowly before something pulls me forward. The earth is jagged; it digs into my knees before I wobble my way back up, leaning against a confederating tree trunk. I take a heavy breath before pressing forward.
Like Virgil, Morey can't shut up about being pulled; bright light blooms through the trees. A Lifehouse, and the smell of coffee in the air. I press forward no longer guided as my feet give into the sharp and unleveled cornstalk. The sound of distorted radio falls into my ears as I am no longer guided. It's quite apparent now.
Heavy footsteps move forwards, huffs of an excited breath as calf leather boots hit the brittle stalks. We collide and crumble to the ground. All the weight pulls me forward.
She grips me tighter, the familiar smell of damp earth and myrrh engulfs me senses, hazing the air. My mom holds me uncomfortable and I feel the tears come; she keeps me tighter sobbing into my shoulder as I hold her.
"Mama?" I whisper a word that felt foreign, a name from a different tongue.
"Ranger! Ranger!" The words are as crushing as her grip.
"Where're your clothes, where's your jacket?" She asks, and a wave of heat floods me. The horrible realization that I was completely naked. This was the dam.
"I don't-" I hold her tighter as heavier, heartier footsteps followed. They were of thunder thick and roaring as scratchy wool brushes against his skin.
"We should get 'im in." A man whispered, but not my dad.
"He's been out there too long; we gotta get him inside." He repeated, a voice of reason.
"Here."
"I've got him."
"He's heavy let me." She does holding my hand behind me. Every light in the house was on. Dogs barking in the distance. I turn towards the woods, something red flickers before absorbing into the distance.
