The Being Named Kira

Side Story: I am Gregg, Gregg Sutcliffe

I am Gregg, Gregg Sutcliffe

An old wrinkled man stared back at me in my reflection. I tried to shoo him away for his face was despicably old. I waved my hand at the vermin, he’s still there. I waved again, nothing happened. He’s still there. Damn it. I furrowed my eyebrows angrily at this hideous creature devouring my mirror. An epiphany suddenly hit me like a massive bulldozer. The ancient person was me. It was me who was the ugly ancient piece of folds all along. I chuckled dryly. What a sad turn my life has taken.

I smiled once again at my reflection and slowly went out of my bathroom. I felt a sudden pain jolt down my knee. My joints were constantly taunting me these days. I dragged my aged body to my beloved worn-out couch. My poor bones immediately sighed in relief as they finally got some well-deserved break as I plopped down like a pathetic piece of meat. “Oh, what has happened to you, dear Mr. Gregg Sutcliffe?” I whispered to myself. A sneaky grin crept up to my lips. Truly, what the hell has happened to me? The once bright ball of energy was now a dying void.

I raised my head then immediately laid my eyes on the glorious painting on the wall. A thing so humble yet deserved heaven’s attention. The painting, my painting hanged there, shining and mocking me at the same time. For shallow eyes, my painting is merely colourful paint splatter by a child, but for me, it’s my life’s masterpiece. Each seemingly random splatter signify my innocence, each seemingly insignificant choice of colours show my pure thoughts back then, the whole innocuous structure of it all represent the best years of my life. God, I truly miss my childhood.

I closed my orbs and I just, oh God. It’s all coming back to me now. I felt like I’m shrinking again. No more rheumatism, no potential of losing my sight anymore. The warm gentle air always comforted me back then while I’m crying because of the bruises and scabs I recently got. Harmless flowering grasses, white picket fences, oh the delicious smell of my mother’s pies. It’s all back to me now. Wonderful nostalgia filled the air. And I just can’t help but smile my cheeky mischievous grin the very same grin that always bring the adults to pinching my cheeks and patting my head.

 If someone had already invented some splendid mechanism that could rewind everything that happened in my childhood, then by Jove, I’ll be the first in line to buy it with my life earnings. Give anything, my everything to have it all back. Innocence- the thing that flutters by you like a freeloader on a sadistic trip. Consciously, I didn’t want to lose it. Unconsciously, I lost it. Sweet childhood, the days wherein I could just smile amidst almost getting killed by a car, the days where I was just easily happy, the days wherein I laughed more than I should, the days where I trusted too easily I was technically a walking fool with a death sentence, the days where everything was just too damn simple.

As I stare into a child’s deep truthful eyes, furious jealousy builds up faster than I would want it to. How I wish I could suck the innocence out of a child, to drain it from an ungrateful brat and transfer it all to my body. I could vividly imagine it in my mind: gouging out the eyes of a child to improve my own sight; pulling out the intestines of a child and absorb all of its ability to digest anything; cutting their feet off their sockets to be able to run as swiftly like them; scrape and try to melt the kid’s femur for me to have the superhuman healing abilities of a child’s leg; insert some sharpened paper clip, hook it inside the child’s nose and pull out some of his brain substance for me to adhere to his almighty purity of thought; and lastly, grab my treasured squiggly-bladed scissors and use it to open up a kid’s too smooth, too soft chest and jab the fragile ribs and tear it to serve as an entrance to the child’s all too trusting beating heart. The heart would be beating, beating like monotonous drum begging for my mercy but no, I’ll just smile and greet my salutations and claw it out of its arteries and veins. The heart would be the most important fragile object I’ve ever held in my hand. Drool would have deceitfully escaped from my quivering lips then out of pure spite and curiosity; I would harden my grip on the heart and bring it to my hungry lips for a gentle nibbling and licking. It would taste like rusty pig’s liver and of a child’s pure delicious soul. I am not crazy. By doing all these rituals, I too might become a child once again.

I felt a sudden gust of wind. I immediately snapped out of my wishful reverie and quivered in extreme elation.  That swift action would’ve frozen my bones stiff if it was a normal day. But today, I felt no threat to the wind. It is working. I smiled broadly. I slowly stood up from my worn-out couch and proceeded to the special room in my house. I walked towards, the special room where I could rejuvenate myself.  I turned the icy knob on my most favourite room. As the door creaked in utter surrender, a very beautiful sight welcomed me.

A stack of decapitated young bodies on the cold floor came in view. The room was dim yet I don’t need to switch on the light. I could see better now since my ritual is working flawlessly. Blood looked like tattoos on the dead children’s bodies. Several body parts were far away from their original placements. Don’t worry, I value cleanliness most that’s why the gouged eyeballs were in a separate container on a favourite mahogany table of mine. I smiled at the scene and closed my eyes. I strained my ears and ahh- I could perfectly hear my excited youthful heartbeat again all thanks to the youngsters’ hearts which I’ve eaten for dinner. My friend Mattie usually teaches me on how to brew a wonderful gumbo. The pain that’s been bothering my knee had thankfully subsided. It’s working, it’s working. I need no youth fountain nor elixir, my technique’s better, far less impractical. It’s working, it’s working.

What a joy, what a joy. I am becoming young again.