Here’s another Section from my WIP. Just in case you were wondering if this was an actual horror. This is the beginning of a section titled “Just Accidents Waiting to Happen.”
Just Accidents Waiting to Happen
Someone is trying to get in the house. I can’t let them. I kick my sheets off the bed and sit up. My back is slick with sweat and I pull my hair from my face. It’s hot and my bed doesn’t feel like the safest place right now. I would hide under the bed but there is no under. It’s a single mattress that smells like wet dog when it’s either too hot or too cold. It’s not pleasant right now. I remember that someone is trying to get into the house. The pounding on the front door feels like it’s shaking the walls. My ears aren’t working properly. It feels like I’m out of synch with real life. I don’t know how to explain it. The space behind my forehead seems to be swelling and a strange whistling white noise is filling my inner ear.
I stand up and step off my bed catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’m not there. In my place stands a small scruffy girl with greasy blonde hair and eyes that demand aid. How is this possible? This isn’t my home and this isn’t me. But, at this moment it is. The door pounds again and I know someone wants to hurt me. I step toward the door. It smashes open off its hinges and I can’t help but let my throat show my fear.
A large man stands silhouetted in the doorway. He has a large bushy white beard with a handlebar moustache. A black skull bandanna reigns in the rest of his scraggly white hair. He’s a big man. His belly alone fills the width of the door and his thick arms look as though they could hurt. He looks like your typical biker complete with heavy leather waistcoat, dirty jeans and large boots. His tattoos don’t add to my comfort. They depict skulls, flames, and topless women. He steps forward.
“Tizzy, come here,” he says. I run to his open arms. If he wasn’t a member of BACA The organization “Bikers Against Child Abuse,” I would fear for my life. “We have to get you out of here,” he says. His voice is steady and strong but trails off at the end of his sentence. He’s afraid. “Where’s your mother?” I don’t know. I thought this was a dream. This isn’t me. My mother is asleep in the next room as she always is. This isn’t my house.
“TIZZY, WAKE UP! Where’s your mother. We have to get you both out of here. His name’s Carl. I know his name even though I’ve never met him before. Carl gathers me in his arms and we run to my mom’s bedroom. As we burst through the door, Something smashes into Carl’s head and we crash to the ground. A woman stands over my mom’s bed and when I stand to see where my mom has gone I see she’s still there. Only she’s still, and splashed with something that drenches the sheets and her pajamas. I see her eyes. They are open but nothings behind them. And the large gaping lesion above her eyebrows is the cause. My eyes dart to the woman’s hand and she is holding a baseball bat. It’s the one my daddy gave me before he died. The woman has blonde hair that is pin-curled to her skull while a few Grecian looking strands fall around her shoulders. She wears a long pleated dress that has been cinched up underneath her bosoms by a red sash. The concertina’d bottom of the dress falls around her ankles and it’s then I realize that she wasn’t bothered about getting blood on the pristine garment, or in fact her bare arms or face.
Carl grabs me from behind and pushes me though the bathroom door of mom’s on-suite. He’s been here before and knows that there is another door there that leads out into the hall. I run. I don’t know what he’s doing. I guess he’s right behind me but as I look over my shoulder he’s nowhere to be seen. I run back towards the front door and as I go, I sense something rolling down the hallway toward me. I look down and trip on something almost spherical and disgusting. It’s Carl’s head and I stumble over the grisly lump. My feet are spattered and as I sprawl across the linoleum I smack my chin on the ground and pain shoots from my face. It’s then I hear the voice. It’s almost pretty and musical like the sound of Saturday morning cartoon heroines. If only the same can be said for the content.
“When will the bleeding hearts realize it will only ever end in bleeding hearts,” The woman says. I look to the door for a way out but she’s cheerfully swinging the dripping baseball bat in her left hand too close for me to get past. “Don’t bother. You’re mine now, as it was always going to be. But you had to get the bloody bikers involved didn’t you.” The tears come now. The members of BACA only got involved to keep mom’s boyfriend from defying the restraining order against him coming into our home. They were nice, and now one of them, Carl, is dead. And Mom is dead and …and I don’t know what to do apart from to get up and run. She pre-empts that thought. “Run and I make you eat that biker’s head,” The woman says. “As biker heads go, I’m guessing it’s not going to taste like French vanilla ice-cream. Also, learn from your mom’s example. People who run, get chased, people who lead people in a chase get what’s coming from the tired-of-it-as-hell-fallen priestess who hates people who run from contracts.”