Murder Day and Other Subconscious Transcriptions: A Dream Journal

Murder Day

A/N: This story is based on a nightmare I had last night. Normally I don't remember dreams so vividly, but this one lingered all day so I decided to write it down. It's short and sweet (in a way) so give it a read and let me know what you think! :)

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Usually I would stay inside today. Well...usually I would stay inside everyday, but today, on this day of all days, I would normally want nothing more but to stay out of the way -- to stay safe.

This year is different though. This year I've finally decided to take part in the celebration.

Celebration...ha...that's what they call it anyway, but we all know the best word for it is horror.

I remember last year, after I'd locked my doors and windows, as I sat alone and terrified, trying to block out the screams and disgusting laughter that came from the street.

"My husband! My husband!" One woman screamed. I could hear her sobs but knew nobody would help her.

I listened to music, I painted still lifes of the things I owned and practiced my yoga. I did everything I could think of to keep my mind off of it, the horror, the celebration.

As I struggled to clear my mind, my arms opened wide for yet another sweeping sun salutation, I heard her. Agnes, the old lady from upstairs.

I don't know what she was thinking. The old bat probably forgot what decade it was. She was always telling me about how it used to be...

As she screamed I ran to the window just in time to see it happen. The blood spurting from her tattered neck like a fountain, the man responsible revelling in his misdeeds.

Like me, he knew nothing of the time before Murder Day, he grew up knowing that every year it came and went like any other glutinous holiday. Unlike Christmas, Thanksgiving or Easter though, this day was meant for feasting on violence and death.

I sat in my window and cried for Agnes, I imagined reasons why she would go outside and wondered about the man who killed her. Was he an avid Murder Day participant? Could he be found out in the bloody streets each year, taking part in the celebration? Was Agnes just another hole in his belt, or was she his first?

This year, things are different. This year there is no music, paint or yoga. All I can do is think of his face, bathed as it was in her blood. Though in my mind it's his, in my imagination the red stained fountain comes from his own exposed and ripped open arteries while I'm the one dancing in the bloody rain.

And so I suit up; good running shoes, dark clothes, an old rusty knife from my rotting kitchen drawer.

This year I will celebrate.

I'm quiet and limber, I keep to the shadows. Alleyway to alleyway, I ignore all else. Men and women everywhere are screaming and rejoicing in their bloody violent revery.

I notice the people peering from their dark and covered windows. They aren't watching me though, they are looking at the streets. Some hide looks of excitement, fear or contempt while others show their smiling children what waits for them in the years to come.

No matter what emotion's showing though, I know what's deep inside; a hungry curiosity, a thirst for blood too frightening to quench.

I hear a scream come from the street, a woman flails and bleeds. I see his face and run for him, my blade held high above my head and just before I make it -- BANG!

I didn't see it coming. A sharp pain and then I'm down. Warm blood pools around me and before I know it...

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If you enjoyed this, don't forget to copy and paste this link to check out my latest novel based entirely on this short story :)

http://www.wattpad.com/story/2798307-murder-day-the-novel