Pitch-Dreams Of Murder

And yes!–there’s something definitive, bold, and mysterious in substance upon scrutiny of the color black. For when you envision the color, or there, of general population, most commonly it’s to be rendered the color of mourning, magic, power, and even elegance. Yet, to me, that color represents something entirely, contrastingly different, symbolizing something rather more dark and unknown: a relentless, fiendish, and unforgiving evil–an evil that, here, from the darkest of confines, I will pen the depths of. An admittance of guilt, there possibly–but also the story–the events of how everything–how the color black incessantly to this day torments my being with only the bitterest sentiments of hate and despair. Though no more–I promise!–with my vision unworthy of life, swiftly as I plea bury me under my words below: in a tomb dark and black, and black as my soul–.

Now, to my wife, the three kids we raised, happiness was the only constant I ever wanted to provide. Through sixty-hour weeks, I worked laboriously morning to night, while the wife homely stayed and raised our children. Upon surface, I’m sure many thought to have noticed the passion between my wife and I. It was twenty-two years of marriage with three successful, driven kids, frequent vacations, numerous vehicles, and a five-bedroom house–indubitably many envied our success. I, on the other hand, secretly could not bear the marriage nor even her presence. 

It was a constant agitation, a nerve already irked that she provided daily. Culpability, however, for my sentimental stance should by no means be directed at me, for she first was who became irritable and moody with age. Furthermore, it wasn’t mine, but her regression physically and mentally that was all so very, very evident. As once beautiful, tiny, bright-eyed, full of life and hope, slowly, I’ve watched transform into this mentally-inept, wide-boned, wrinkle-riddled, and uninspiring reminder that death is ever more imminent than of twenty years ago. I anticipated her aging like fine wine. Unfortunately–unfortunately for me, she aged like warm milk. Her hair, once wavy and full–full of shine, is now thin, dull, and brittle. Her misshapen body and sagging skin no longer have the ability to excite a sexual nerve within my body. And her facial features, from defined and sensual, through the years has transmuted–no–has mutated into the resemblance of an unprepossessing, vile, and utterly godless, godless witch. 

Soon, I found myself loathing this woman with a passion no love could ever generate, especially once the kids departed from the house. For once it was just she and I, no longer did we have to act accordingly. Instead, we could act on instincts. Physically, I presented her violence on numerous occasions. Many days a verbal onslaught from her would hail. The hate was assuredly mutual, as tension lingered in every hallway, and regret disseminated throughout every room. No day ever found peace, and only in my career did I have escape. However, with retirement looming, it was all so transparent what my horizons offered. Still, I held hope and restraint, but soon, the final straw would be drawn.

For the past year, and for no other apparent reason than to further irritate the core of my existence, she began befriending and fostering filthy, over-grown rats: an accumulation of what would become thirteen stray felines all with one distinct matching trait: they were all-black–every single one of them! Quickly, my belongings began to reek in the souring odor of cat urine. Dead hair from the fiends amassed rampantly throughout the house. A new form of disgust would be found awaiting my arrival daily to cover my ankles in their snot. I was a prisoner within my own home, and with no other alternative, something had to be sacrificed.

It was Halloween Eve, there in our garden and in the morning of, my wife and I were in unusually amicable spirits toward the other. Perhaps, it was the lingering summer weather that warmed our souls with delight. It could’ve been the cooling fall breeze that sedated our fury, or even a solar phenomenon that left us to forget the bitterness we share. Yet, regardless, whatever the reasoning may be, sheer and uncontrollable disgust was subsequently elicited when I perceived the devotion, love, and happiness in her eyes that I once knew. She smiled and turned her shoulders to pluck another weed. I uplifted a hoe, smiled myself, and swung it downwards with such tenacity–such force that it would easily penetrate any brick, and without struggle, enough to fracture the back of any cranial. It was one strike–one blow, and she laid lifeless upon the grass where she inhaled her last breath. And relieved, my smile only grew.

Immediately after the blow was delivered, my eyes equanimously surveyed their surroundings (to ensure no one happened to witness of my deed.) Yet, in a fenced backyard, few spectators were even possible. I sighed as further relief was found, but still, I knew concealment of the stiffening body would soon have to set course. And with the tools already in place, burial here in the backyard seemed all very, very practical.

So, from the peaking sun to the dying dusk a hole was excavated: a hole easily six feet deep. No food was to be consumed as the exhilaration of triumph, albeit, as well as paranoia led to pristine focus. The task had to be accomplished. However, through my tedious efforts, an audience would watch. There, in a row, all thirteen cats sat while beaming their disapproval through the porch’s windowpane. Yet, no time did I have for them.

I continued my efforts: deposited her corpse into the grave, covered the body with dirt, and compacted the hole to its brim. By finish, light was only cast by the stars and moon. And in a world relinquished of my darkest fear–in a world forever with her, the skies provided the further hope and direction that I yearned for. Only task left was to posit the tools in the shed, as little energy more did I own to exert. The shed, still warm, reserved no light, yet placement of the tools discouraged me not. I secured the door, turned my shoulders, elevated my sight, and instantly gasped in a quandary as I peered at the sky: the sky that contained no moon nor stars. Immediately, the darkness enveloped my soul with trepidation. Frantically I sought any light to be found. The only light discovered, howbeit, were from the glowing eyes of all thirteen cats still monitoring my movement. Though no threat did they impose, and disconcerted from the absence of light, speedily I retreated into the interior of my home. 

Upon entry, all that could be seen were the eyes of those fiends. I bellowed “What do you want?” then flipped the light switch on. Yet, no response did they render and no light was exhibited. Still, it was dark as black and sable as the unborn. Instantly fear and fury began to battle for my state. Time decelerated, where soon my eyes were found locking contact with theirs for seemingly an eternity. Strategically, I backpedaled slowly away from them and toward my bedroom; they followed me. Nevertheless, at the doorway, abruptly I slammed and locked the door, then flipped the light switch on. Though, yet again, no light was established. I shuffled to my bedside and sat in darkness. At length, I found myself in a slumber.

Through the night, however, all night, terror haunted my unconsciousness. Violence and trepidation ran feral through my mind, as bloodshed was thorough, and agony was inescapable. Light scarcely was fostered in this dimension but abruptly held none. Incontinently, fire erected and immerged from beneath my feet; all was encircled. Immediately, another layer of darkness enveloped the sky. And only through the glow of fire, was seen an ascending throne. Upon it, a horned-evil sat behind a shadowy veil. The air suddenly dematerialized, and my lungs collapsed within. Nonetheless, in my final breath, I’d hear the wind carry the words “See you soon.” back to my existence. And covered in sweat, there, it was only a dream.

Rays shimmered through an aperture in the window shades as my eyes flickered in early-morning discontent. I surveyed my surroundings: no wife, no cats, and no darkness. Instantly, life was ameliorated. And again I smiled, ha! I even chuckled at this cogitation, but under the laugh and beneath the naiveness displayed, something more dire was occurring. A slight wiggling or rattling of thin metal prompted my attention, followed by an unhinging click. The sound was my bedroom door. I locked it, vividly I remember so, yet, it was opening before my eyes. At the doorway, once the door was fully ajar, sat all thirteen cats. And goaded into pure lividness, I lifted the nightstand and hurled it while raving belligerently. Of course, they all scattered, fearful of my rage.

Upon my bed, time lapsed with the climbing of the Sun. It was mid-day, slightly after noon. Still, I had yet to move, though no disturbance more had I encountered. At length, I began to wonder, as if curiosity never killed a cat, where were they at? Cautiously, I opened the door and meticulously observed all. Howbeit, I detected them not, so further I wandered throughout the house. Soon, a rigorous search commenced. I explored every nook and inch–examined every cupboard and unlit corner. Quickly, I concluded they were not within the perimeter of this house. Speculation proliferated, for where could they be lurking? Then, a sound materialized from within thin air: a low, taunting, whining hum–a synchronized song of sorrow. I hastened to the noise and pored out the kitchen window into the backyard. With no fog and through no haze, I saw in the garden to my own disbelief: the body of my decomposing wife reposing upon the ground–slowly, slowly rotting before me then. The felines were placed, encircling her corpse while mewling in woe as they grieved. Though scarcely did that last, for instantly the dissonance ceased to a halt, and all of their downcast stares simultaneously, swiftly shifted into the purest direct vicinity of my soul. 

I gasped then ducked beneath the window seal. And whether it was bravado or the keen phlegmatic sense of survival, in a trice, I collected my composure, gathered myself to my feet, as galvanized, I was ready for war! Yet, that sentiment–that moxie quickly faded when I pored out the window again. Neither the cats nor the body was to be seen. Instinctively, I raced toward the backdoor and secured the latch. En route to the front door, all thirteen cats waited, glaring of repugnance into my soul. Instantaneously breathing became regulated, as it was in a moment that stood still, my heart beat alone in fear. Their stares cast upon me with a vengeance I knew would be at my demise. I shouted, “Let me be. Be gone with your wicked souls!” They, however, persisted to make their way into my direction. Fire, again, emerged from beneath my feet. And there–in the dead, unawakened silence, the kitchen clock at the corner of my periphery began to chime. Mid-day, still only shortly after noon, the clock rang six times. Upon inspection, the clock rested upside down with every hand reaching for the sky–. I knew then the devil was here to take my soul. The felines continued in their march. And with no other choice, I ran toward the backdoor, quickly I rotated the doorknob, sprinted, and retreated to my escape. From there, the world–the sun abruptly turned dark, wherein an absence that fostered no colors, nor any light, it was a darkness that left no uncertainty behind. A warm, toxic breeze overtook my senses. The feeling of rush consumed all, and the vacancy of thought resonated none. Soon, the world around me fragmented, dissolved and was vacuumed by a vortex of absolute light.

My eyes jolted open, and my heart rapidly beats, where here, to sight, by my side!– it is my wife. I trace my hand down the back of her skull. There is no marking of an attack. I glance throughout; the world is as it was, so, relieved, I close my eyes and insouciantly begin a voyage to the unknown. Yet, the unknown was never to be discovered. As with reverberating tones, I’d hear a man speak firmly “Breakfast.”

I open my eyes again. The walls are concrete painted in orange, and a toilet along with a sink reside in the room. The voice springs again “Breakfast.” Forthwith, I climb over my wife, nearly tumbling both of us off the bed. And horror-struck, I dash to the gentleman and desperately plea “Sir, please, what day is it?” His reply, one word and one word only “Halloween.” I grab my tray and timorously turn around where that witch sits upon the bed grinning of demoniacal impositions. Her sickened, cadaverous skin no longer resembles that of a human. Slowly she rises to her feet with venom, hate, yet with no pity in her eyes. Blood trickles down the midmost of her forehead. And there!–with her pupils dilated blanketing all of her iris, the only color to be seen is black–a tenebrous, unforgiving, and ruthless shade that, here, consumes me whole: a shade wicked as those demonic felines and dark as the coffin that awaits–black as death, decay itself–and vile, dark as the ink in the scrawling above.


5 thoughts on “Pitch-Dreams Of Murder

  1. Reblogged this on Creative Writing Course: How to Write Creatively and commented:

    Hi Bryan

    Thanks for the follow(s) * (+ likes), as the reason I write is to share.
    * (Though my family and close friends say it would be far more entertaining with a video-camera # in “real life”, rather than in cyberspace!)

    # By the way, do they still make them in today’s ever-faster changing world..or is it all done with mobile phones?

    (get with the times now,”luddite”* c – it should be a smart phone)

    * or so I was often called by my “my techno-geek” friend, Bill (“the gonk”)

    “total non-techno” c (who doesn’t possess a mobile phone, after a rather eventful’ experience some years back, whilst trying to walk, talk and chew gum at the same time)

    Who says men can’t multi-task!

    Kind regards and all the best with your blog

    “early bird” (very) * craig
    * my “best” time (by far)

    “You will do foolish things…but do them with enthusiasm.”
    – Colette


    Best wishes from the First City to see the sun (in summer) …and we’re also the first to see the sunset and the stars (in winter-time)

    “I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.”


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s