Calamity - Cedric Rose (sight word readers .txt) 📗

let her stay. "No matter where I go, shit just always seems to follow..." she said in most pathetic manner even she had heard. She wanted to back it with ire, but out of fear of being discovered, she wept as silently as she could manage.

~

"In my heart, I have but one desire ! And that one is you, no other will do !" He stopped his singing there. "A wonderful song for such a glorious feeling on such a magnificent night !" The man let out his arms, as if preparing to embrace a long lost comrade, instead, letting the stagnant air of the halls circle about him. "I really do wish I had something else to do. Maybe I should have tortured them all instead of just Claire. She deserved it though. She should have just learned to love me. I'm not that bad after all, am I Bel?" To the untrained ear, there appeared to only be a moment's silence, but the man heard something else. "Good. I'm glad you agree. Otherwise I'd have to kill you too, and we don't want that to happen." Just as the unnamed man reached the end of the hallway, he heard something, a disembodied feminine whimper. "I can't be that reckless... Can I?" He turned around instantaneously. "Am I losing my touch, Bel?" He began to walk back toward the corridors of the rooms he thought he checked, ever so carefully. " There must be no errors, no blemishes, no --" He stopped in his tracks, on a dime. He saw a painting, it was of a little girl, holding onto a balloon, with a single tear coming from her eye. He had no reason to stop there, but he did. He was one to believe that everything happened for a reason, that things had a higher value than they appear to have. "This must have been it, what I heard." The halls were dark but the moon provided enough light for him to make out the painting. "Such beauty. Such grace. I don't know how I missed it the first time. I almost feel ashamed at myself for ignoring such a magnificent piece. I apologize humbly, please, forgive me," he said toward the painting, as if expecting a piteous reply. "I thank you for blessing my eyes with such glory. I shall never forget you." He wiped his eyes and receded back toward the steps from whence he came. "Now, what to do with the bodies... Any ideas, Bel?" Again, he questioned the air. "No, no, I've done that already, in the past. Something else, something new !" Another pause fell upon the house, with nothing but the sound of him ascending the stairs to move the air around. "That would be splendid ! " He said excitedly. " I don't know how you come up with such fantastic ideas ! Now then, all we have to do is start positioning them. Shall we?" He held out his hand, in a manner similar to a young schoolboy expecting the hand of his schoolyard crush. He began to swing his arm, to and fro, carelessly. "I don't want to set the world on fire ! I just want to start, a flame in your heart !"

38

Amaia, recluse in her mind, was trapped in her terrible reality, the carefree voice of the intruder standing between her and escape. She remembered her setting; dark, cold, and alone. “Not much different than when I was growing up”, she said almost at a whisper’s level. She remembered her surroundings. She was a sheep, sleeping in the presence of an almighty wolf. The sad thing was, she knew, subconsciously how audible her crying was. Her mind couldn’t decide whether or not it should make her cry vehemently. She had to take control of the situation, internally at the least. She snapped out of her single celled prison, and was brought back to her dim reality; this is the day she could die. She had to accept it. She knew this was the case with any day, but, on this day in particular, Death was not as subtle in giving signs he was going to strike as he usually was. As she lay on the ground, Amaia realized she was in the spread eagle position, guessing it was her subconscious’ way of saying “Hey, I’m weaponless and defenseless. Please, end my sad, pointless life without a fight.” She couldn't exactly say she was against the idea of giving up. Sometimes she wanted to do just that, for she knew that the caring cradle of uncertainty was much better than the endangering and unforgiving truth.

She attempted to regain some of her dignity by standing up, only to realize the almost Taser like sensation that shot through her legs, her neurons now realizing they need to be reactivated. Trying not to make too much noise, she hesitantly fell, her knees pointed inward, in an almost Marilyn Monroesque pose, with a lot less grace. She fell to the ground with a reverberating thump. If anyone was in there, they were bound to hear it. She scrambled to her feet, appearing in similar manner to a newly born fawn, attempting to walk. This was more trouble than it was worth, for she rammed her almost numb knee into the side of the bed. Amaia, stricken by the fact that these could be her last moments to enjoy her pitiful life, was shocked by what she felt; nothing. It was almost like the numbness in her legs had taken over her entire body and her emotions. She was oddly okay with the fact she was going to die. Amaia soon realized something: there was no sound in the house. There was no eerie presence over her. “Maybe I’m not awake, “ she thought. “Maybe I’m already dead, and am just in my own Limbo. God could have come up with something a lot better than this. Then again, it is me. With my luck I'm still alive. God would want to have no part with me”.

She sat down on the bed, waiting for the man to walk into the room, serenading her while he slowly drains the life out of her. She looked out at the window, the view that she had before all this started, the same star bedazzled sky, was there. She did as she knew best, hid inside of her mind. She didn’t know what else to do. She wanted to die happy, at least in the solitude of her mind. "It's been 38 seconds", she said. "Why aren't I dead yet?" She became enraged, adamant at the fact she was still living. "Kill me now ! You son of a-, come out and kill me !" She thought, for she couldn't muster the courage to say it aloud. She charged out of the room, and bolted down the hallway, her face covered in tears of desperation and defeat. She charged up the stairs at such a fleeting speed, the darkness surrounding her had a hard time keeping up. She reached the main bedroom, where the daughter's parents slept. The door was closed, but there was a note hanging from it. It read, " Congratulations" on the front of it.

Son

"So, Bel, my dear, how should we do this?" There was an eerie silence, but the man was listening as keenly as an animal. He continued up the flight of stairs with a predatory silence. He arrived at a doorway, about 15 feet high, with two large mahogany doors on both sides, made during the Baroque era, from what their appearance and detailing noted. The handles were made of brass, which appeared to also be of the Baroque era. " I wonder if they truly do value historical art or if they are just following the aesthetic trend that's ever so apparent in today's culture. Let's find out, shall we, Bel?" He burst in through the door, his hands spread out like he was waiting for a hug. "Tell me, Lansing, what exactly do you love about your doors?" The intruder pulled the blade to Lansing's mouth, to cut a rope that kept an obstruction well-placed in his mouth. It was still bloody from when he cut Lansing's Achilles tendon earlier. " I-I-I don't know why, just please, let my family go free. I'll pay you whatever you want. I can definitely afford it, please, you name it I'll deliver--" " Ah, ah, ah", the nameless man said in the same singsong voice as a child. "I'm not as easily swayed as most people in this dark, sin-filled world. I'm only interested in things money can ill afford. Now answer my question; what do you love about your doors?" The nameless man walked toward the doors and started to shut them. "I-I don't know, please, sir, I beg of you, i'll leave you everything here. I swear to God, I'll never tell anyone." "What did you say?" the nameless man said, his grip intensifying on the blade. " I s-said I'llnever tell anyone." By this point, tears were cascading down the man's face. He was around 50 years old. Old enough to have enjoyed the golden years of his life, the intruder thought. He quickly made his way back to Lansing and thrust the blade into his solar plexus. "I was going to let you live with a new found appreciation on life, but you had to bring Him into it didn't you? You brought this upon yourself", the intruder turned murderer said, twisting the blade around below his rib cage. "I really was going to let you go. I apologize things had to turn out this way." He pulled out the blade, all nine inches of it being lined with chunks of flesh and pieces of some destroyed internal organ, and wiped it on his silk covers. "It's people like you that make me want to, well, kill them. My grudge against you was a personal one though. You are Lansing Crowe, correct? No need for you to answer, please save all your strength, you must hear what I have to say. I'll make it short" The man crouched down to the same level as Lansing, who was still bleeding out, and whispered into his ear; "Alistaire Reed, 1993, Oylen, Minnesota. You should understand my motives now. If you are still wondering who I am, please, remember me as Viri."