*Stan's inner voice = italics
Stan covers Jill’s mouth as she tries to scream. Jill is the captain of the cheerleading squad at Berea College and has developed nicely. Stan grabs his buck knife from his back pack along with the roll of duct tape. He tapes Jill’s legs to one of the support beams underneath the main grand stands by the football field; Jill struggles and flails in a frantic, nervous manner as Stan tapes her arms behind her. Stan pushes his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose, although it does nothing because the sweat pouring from his brow makes them slip back down anyway. It’s three in the morning and no one is awake in the small, desolate wasteland of a town, Berea Kentucky.
“Sssshhhh. Jill, you know, you know why I’m doing this.”
“Oh maybe she doesn’t know, Stan!”
“No, no, no, no. She knows, she knows. You shut up, you. I told you to go away.”
“I am always here with you, Stan. I am you.”
“I can do this without you. I can do this without you.”
“Stan. Stan. No, you can’t. I am your guiding hand; now slit her throat! HAHAHA.”
Stan shakes his head in frenzy and yells in a fit of rage as he slits Jill’s throat. She convulses and blood spills from her mouth, because of this the duct tape falls off and lands delicately next to her floundering body like a dead leaf falls from an Oak in the fall. Stan picks it up and looks at it awkwardly; thoughts of fall rush to him, but quickly disperse when he gets a scent of blooming dandelions. Stan is covered in blood, his glasses stained red. Stan struggles to drag Jill. Her measly 115 pound frame should be easy to drag through the dirt if Stan was John, who is (or was) Jill’s boyfriend. Stan wished he could be John, captain of the football team and an All-American quarterback. But Stan’s 140 pound body wouldn’t be able to take a hit from an angry, sculpted 200 pound linebacker. Stan drags Jill’s body to the hole he dug earlier, which is at the south end of the grand stands.
“I am the death eater, haha. Hey, you there or what!?”
“Yes.Yes. What do you want, Stan?”
“Well, well I don’t know what to do now, now. "
“What? Well, we go home obviously.”
Stan looks down at Jill in the hole and smirks. He puts his hands around his neck and starts convulsing, imitating her and laughing. He puts his blood drenched hands on top of his head to scratch the dry spot as dandruff falls onto his shoulder he looks up to the moon which is bright and full. He then goes back to the area in which Jill was killed grimly to make sure there is absolutely no evidence on the scene at all, Stan was a big fan of the show Dexter, and loved to read forensics analysis reports in his free time, so it was rather easy for this complicated boy to clean up the scene. Stan then continues on and walks home through the woods adjacent to the field; his house isn’t far from the school at all. Once Stan is home he pulls his Journal out from under his bed and begins writing.
This place in which I reside is unfamiliar to my touch as I am to it. I was bound by the hands of what was the enemy. This is my demise, this self-loathing pity in which I have deplored upon myself. I find myself writing and writing, though never finding. A meaning to the war on life the war that has caused great grievance. A confrontation of wretched disturbance was caused upon the land that was once created by some form of energy that cannot be described. Is this idea fictional? Or perhaps, a story written by someone who was in contact with said energy?
This struggle with life, upon a never ending discord of questions came upon me when struggling within the barracks of an unknown. The enemy of one is the friend of many, for it is just a cause and effect. The mind works itself in mysterious ways to disconnect oneself from cognizance. Creating a new world within your old world is a challenge for most, but when done with the greatest of diligence and persistence it is incomprehensible to what the mind can achieve. I have been traveling within minds for some time now, leaping across oceans of brain stimulants. There have been many who have been saved by my will, as well as countless enemies relinquished. Jill’s mind was weak-
Stan is interrupted as his mother calls for him,
“STAN! Dinner time!”
“Tell her you’re fucking busy, Stan, tell her!”
“No balls. No balls. No balls.”
“Cram it. I’m hungry anyway.”
Stan walks down the creaking staircase to the dining room where his Ma’ stands holding a pan of meatloaf, smiling with her curls of blonde hair laying lavishly on her floral spring dress. Stan grabs the meatloaf and kisses her on the cheek. As they both sit down Stan’s Ma, Penny, begins a prayer for the food they are about to consume. Stan digs in and finishes his plate full of potatoes and meat rather quickly. He sits in the dining room chair twitching his eyes and grinning at his Ma. Penny looks up with a smile.
“Stan you look terrible. Have you been sleeping?”
“Ask, ask, ask, you always ask questions, questions.”
“No, Mother. I haven’t been sleeping.”
“Stan you really need to go to bed. Remember what I told you that will help you fall asleep? Deep breathes while counting backwards. “
“Quiz. Quiz. Always with the questions and answers, answers.”
Stan gets up from the dining room table and grabs the steak knife. Reaching over the meatloaf, he stabs the table as hard as he can directly in front of Penny’s plate. Penny’s eyes light up like a deer caught in head lights. Stan places his hand on hers and whispers nothing into her ear, nothing that made sense to her anyway. She swallowed hard as the last piece of meatloaf she was chewing lodged itself in her esophagus. While gasping and reaching for Stan to help her, her eyes roll back white as he looked into hers. The voices in her head were screaming for help and help and help, but there was no answer. Penny’s head falls face first into the leftovers of gristle and potatoes.
“mors comedenti, mors comedenti, mors comedenti, mors comedenti”
“Death eater? Maybe. Maybe death follows me. Haha.”
“Stan, you, you, you are death.”
Stan looks at his Ma’, then grabs her by her blonde curls and lifts her head out of the gristle, grease drips off of her chin into the remnants of potatoes, with no emotion on his face at all, he gazes into her cold dead eyes and thinks about her for a second – but only a second. He pushes her head back; as the weight of her body falls backwards her leg cracks against the table with a loud thud as it splits open. Stan looks at the bone protruding from Penny’s leg and touches it with his index finger, as he does the look on his face becomes puzzled. Stan’s hand reaches for the knife on the table. He proceeds to cut at the bone, and he eventually hacks a piece off. He whittles the bone down, using a skill he learned through practice. He sculpts the piece of bone into a crow’s head and rips the cross necklace from Penny’s neck. He throws the cross onto the ground, then puts the gold plated chain through the whittled bone, then clasps it around his neck.
“What is the significance of the fucking crow head?”
“Well. Well you said, said death follows me. Crows got their reputation symbolically because they were connected with Saturn in the ancient times. Saturn, god of time, time.”
Night falls once again and Stan sits in his bed alone, contemplating death in the family. His Ma’ died hours ago and rigamortis has started to set in on her body. His father died two nights ago and is starting to smell of rotten carcass, reminding Stan of the crow that was hit on the road just outside of his house three weeks prior to. His brother died a week ago and is far more putrid in scent, his skin is pale, a stark white, with stained crimson lips, from dried blood. As he assembles them all around the dining room table, he wonders what his Ma’ thought of the smell; or if she even noticed? Dead, dead, all dead, they’re all dead. Stan looks down at the golden cross and picks it up. With it in his hand, he begins praying. Stan is not a religious boy by any means; he actually finds it funny that people pray to an imaginary man in the sky. Mocking his mother, he alters his voice to sound like that of a female’s and utters a prayer which his Ma’ always said.
Stan sits down in the lazy boy recliner in the living room and closes his eyes for a second and realizes he just killed his entire family. Questions buzz in his head along with the voice that has been telling him what to do since the incident. The thoughts of impending doom bounce back and forth through his mind like a babies rattle. Too many thoughts for one boy to have, a boy that has seen nightmares that no one else has, a boy that has traveled through minds of those who surround him. The never ending endoplasm bouncing, from cell to cell, from brain wave to brain wave, a never ending cycle of dementia. Stan looks down at his feet then scrolls his eyes up the wall and sees red leaking through, building up, about to explode on to him like a geyser. Schizophrenic madness??
Two years prior Stan was walking home from school when a man with a black, cold, steel mask grabbed him, dropping his back pack and leaving his shoes behind as he was swiped into the van. His parents realized he had gone missing and the authorities started their search. After two months of searching, the town gave up looking for Stan. When Stan woke, he was in a state of shock; he woke up tied to a pillar in a basement. The basement smelled of spoiled tuna and sour milk with dirty sewer water lining the floor. Stan opened his crusted over eyes to see five people standing before him. The eyes of the five individuals met Stan’s. The fear in Stan’s eyes could not be overcome and remained until the first individual took off her mask; it was Jill, the captain of the cheer squad.
“You know why you’re here, don’t you, Stan?”
Stan looked up at her with confused eyes and replied with a shaken “no.”
“Stan, you are the one we have chosen to sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice...?” Stan replied with a stammer in his throat.
Jill grabbed Stan by his legs while the man she was with grabbed him by the legs. They tied Stan to a pike and started chanting eerily to what seemed to be some sort of God. Stan was dripping profusely with mass amounts of sweat, at this point the sweat had begun to loosen the rope binding Stan’s arm, creating a lubricant of sorts. As Stan’s hands broke loose from the cinched rope, he unexpectedly dropped to the ground, smashing his head against the pavement. As this happened Jill and her cohort dropped Stan and both looked at each other, then at Stan and quickly went towards him and started screaming into his ear. Stan was not waking up. Jill screamed at her partner, who stood about 6’3” with a packed muscular frame,
“YOU IDIOT, JOHN! How do you not know how to tie a damn rope!?”
“Jill, I’m sorry. What do we do-“
As John was mid-sentence he was interrupted by the sounds of screeching sirens of ten police cars. John and Jill along with the few others who were with them dropped everything and started running the opposite direction of the sirens. When the police arrived on the scene, they found Stan bound and beaten unconscious. Stan was transported to the nearest hospital, which was 45 minutes away via helicopter. Once in the hospital the doctors did everything they could to render consciousness in Stan.
Stan has been in a coma for three years now; his parents, and brother are nowhere to be found, gone, missing without a trace. The community Stan resides in have set up charities within the school and surrounding area to help raise money for the hospital costs, as for those involved in the incident, they have all been convicted and sentenced to life in prison except, Jill Hardy. Jill was brutally murdered and buried in the football stadium on campus, an outstanding scholar athlete who was involved in community organizations and the local Baptist church. The police officers and detectives of the area have never been able to locate a suspect due to there not being any evidence on the scene, and are befuddled to the entire situation.
The reality of thoughts and dreams could be a parallel in the universe, jumping from mind to mind, judging those who we seek out, demented amongst dementia. The mind works mysteriously to conduct scenarios in which cause great turmoil or just the opposite, the fabrication of reality could meticulously be played upon within our own brains to seem like it is reality, when perhaps it is only a dream. Who is to say what is real and what is not? Are we all really awake?