Buried Alive

Stories tell you a tale of an event, a time long ago or far away, a happening of great wonder, sadness or horrifying fear. My story is one of these that you can either believe or not. That, you see, is your role. You may choose to either believe my story or decide to class it as fiction, but never forget it.
       The last thing I remember was the deafening sound of the shovels crashing against the lid of the coffin and seeing the lights, the dazzling lights, the sounds of the men calling my name and gently pulling me from my wooden prison, knowing I was safe. Saved.
       I was on my way home, walking down the road that I had lived on for the last seven years. It was late in the night, no later than I would usually be walking home, but the light from the red-orange moon was the only thing that was keeping the detail of the streets visible to the human eye. I felt that If only someone or something had walked past then I wouldn't have felt so alone. My paranoia was causing me to repeatedly look back on the route I had walked as, for some reason, I feared the worst every time I heard the subtle whispering of the leaves in the wind. I cautiously approached the steps to my front door and felt a slight rush of relief as I opened the door and, with deep sigh, I was back in the safety of my own home.
       I slammed the door shut and threw my keys on the hall table as I did every night when returning home from work; although the house was unusually cold and dark. It almost felt as if winter had taken its presence in the room. My eyes were suddenly drawn to the curtains floating in the breeze, this stimuli causing me to cross the room and close the opened window that had let the cold weather in. I tried to click the lights on but after several frustrated attempts I gave into impatience and found my way in the dark to the kitchen where I grabbed a torch.
       I thumped down the stairs to the basement flashing the walls with light to find the fuse box; I was used to the odd bit of DIY having lived alone for almost a year, but found the dangling silver wire ends gleaming in the light of the torch.

They were cut.

       I felt myself freeze to the spot feeling the Goose bumps creeping up my arm.  In a split second I found myself sprinting up the stairs to the safety of my bedroom.  If I could just get to the phone I could feel safe again.  My eyes frantically followed the torchlight as it ran over various cupboards and sides in my room.  It landed on the screen of my phone which was lying on the dresser, I was nearly safe - just one quick call would mean I could have someone to join me in the house and bring a warmth that seemed to have left the house on this gloomy night, but as I picked up the phone the torchlight landed on my wardrobe door. The door was ajar - but the light revealed the edge of a dress hanging there alone in the wardrobe.  The rooms darkness enveloped me and a cold chill entered my body causing my hands to shake uncontrollably. I could make out the detail of an old red and white polka dot child's dress hung neatly in the cupboard. I remember the torchlight shaking when I realised that I recognised the dress from somewhere.  My stomach knotted and I was suddenly aware of the sound of my breathing. The dress wasn't mine.
       Then there were Footsteps. There were slow, deliberate footsteps in the living room, and then a voice, a man's voice, not unkind or aggressive, saying a girl's name.  "Jessica?, Jessica, is that you?"

I couldn't think or speak. This man knew I, or Jessica, or someone, was here in the house.

"Jessica?" the man's voice was slowly becoming louder and clearer. He was at the bottom of the stairs.
    
       I wanted to hide, but he would have all night to find me. I stared at my phone like it would have the answer - like it could help me as I heard the stairs creak and groaned under his weight. And then another, different sound caught my attention. Something heavy dropped.

"Jessica - are you ready for your party?"

       I flashed the torch around my room desperately looking for something, anything, that could protect me, that's when I saw the photos stuck on my mirror; Photos of Mr Patterson's daughter, the young girl from my school that had gone missing all those years ago.

"Jessica, my love, answer me immediately!"

       More photos on the wall, made the sickness hit my stomach, there was a beautiful young girl, who must have been twelve or thirteen at most, smiling in her new polka dot party dress. So sweet, so innocent.
       There was a creak of the top step meant he was on the landing, he would be able to see the torchlight soon.  The phone, I had to reach someone. Before I had the phone to my ear the torch revealed the missing battery.

"Jessica! What is keeping you so long? Your party guests are waiting!"

       I saw the shadow of the candle move across the wall outside my bedroom.  I heard the creaking of the landing as my door slowly opened. I saw the fingers around the edge of my door as I switched off the torch and froze. The candlelight aged him, showing every wrinkle on his face. Mr. Patterson could see me in the faint candle light.  He tried to smile but his face had no love, only years of mourning and pain.

He was almost whispering. "Jessica - whatever is keeping you - get changed at once and come downstairs to your party".
    
       I couldn't speak as he stepped further into my room.  He was dressed in an old suit that was far too big for him now.  He reached out his long wiry fingers and opened the wardrobe to take out the dress.  "Jessica, this is your favourite..."

"I'm not Jessica" I said it without thinking.

Mr Patterson stopped talking.  He was still trying to smile but his eyes were angry. "Jessica - you mustn't be naughty.  I don't want to get angry.  You know what happens when I get angry"

"This is my house, my name is not Jessica, it's not my birthday - please, please stop" I pleaded, "I've called the Police and they will be here any time now". I was trying to sound confident but my voice was shaking.  I decided to push past Mr Patterson so I could get down the stairs and out of the house.  He moved to one side but as I passed him he put his handkerchief over my mouth.

"You're safe now dear" were the last words I heard as my head started spinning.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the headache, then the darkness, and then the silence. The stifling air and the wooden walls enclosed me and I knew, I was trapped in a coffin built for the lost girl eight years ago.

Buried alive.

Half-Wits and Huckleberries Whole.

In all my years and I have never seen a woman as fair as she, and how would I describe such a woman? Shall I use the words of Shakespeare and compare thee to a summer’s day, or shall I compare thee to the flower that grows beneath the willow tree.

In many ways, such a woman would bring unsteadiness to the knees of any man that lay his eyes upon such beauty, and yet I feel nothing. Not one ounce of weakness has overcome my knees or shaken my heart for I, a soul once deepened with love and joy, have seen many women as blessed as she with such wondrous and smouldering looks as they. In turn, these women use their looks as ammunition against even the strongest of men. I have seen, heard, felt and been a victim of such a siren, for that is all she will ever be, a mythical beauty.

You may be asking, whom is this lowly soul who speaks with such cynicism and generalisation? Well, my friend, the name of Percival Coltrane is one that I was branded with as a child, and the term realism is my preferred description of my opinions.

My story is a short one, a one of darkness overcoming the light, a story of sights and sounds that slowly eat away at that white light inside every soul, eventually ridding us of our goodness and sanity. My story is not one to forget, however hard you try, so try your worst and best at once and watch as your white light fades.

As a boy, my mother was a shining beacon of goodness and love, she warmed the hearts of every soul she touched and she held my father's heart with softened hands. My mother was a painter; she could stand in front of a canvas for a day and create the most inspiring art you would ever see, a gift she shared only with my father and I. She never swore, nor did she curse or lie or shout or drink, she took each day as a blessing and never once doubted her faith in the Lord, or her faith in me.

An evening in April, the 17th, created a darkness that caused the light that once shone bright inside my soul to flicker ever so slightly and then begin to fade. A nightmare had awoken me in the dead of the night, I had the habit of running to my parents bedroom if a bad dream had woken me from my sleep, so that my mother would hold me tight and sing me into a dream. But this night, one that is the most vivid nightmare that I have ever experienced, a stranger stood above my mother as she lay asleep in bed. He stared at me through piercing green eyes as he leant over towards my mother and rolled her body to face me, showing me her pained eyes and her cheeks sodden with tears as she struggled to say five small words.

"You were my greatest masterpiece"

Over the years I have begun to realise that, even as that light inside of me fades, my memories never do. The memory of my mother, without hope or faith, has been branded into my mind with hot iron that will never fade. She was taken from me at the age of eight by a stranger with a gun; he stole her soul and with it went her warmth, hope and faith in everything, including her faith in me.

I was too young to understand my father's loneliness, and so when his second marriage was announced I felt utterly betrayed that my father could possibly entertain the thought of replacing my mother with any other woman. Not to say that my step-mother was akin to any fairytale step-hag. To describe this woman as hideous or even slightly so would be a bitter lie. She showed an elegance that is rare to find, as well as an alluring, well-defined structure to her face that only added to her smouldering beauty. Unfortunately, a consequence of this beauty was a great weight of insufferable cruelty that entangled itself around what was the empty vessel of her heart. After three years of barely being able to tolerate standing in the proximity of this ghastly woman, I lost my only remaining family - my father - who was unable to live with the suffering that this bewitching femme fatale had put upon him. He stood at the edge of the roof and looked to the heavens to find my dear sweet mother every night for hours, then days, then months, and eventually he tried to fly.

That was the night I ran away, ran through the fields and through the towering trees until my legs could carry me no longer. I eventually collapsed from exhaustion and slowly dragged myself along the floor to lie underneath a large oak tree in the centre of a field, cold and alone. I remember wrapping myself every inch of fabric that I had managed to steal from my home, desperate to stay warm until morning. Needless to say, my step-mother never found me, but then again, I doubt she even tried. Her rouged lips and condemning eyes never fail to haunt my dreams, placing distrust in my mind of any woman with such beauty. For beauty shows only the masking of a woman who holds the deepest and most relentless hatred for anything that contains inner beauty, as this type of spiritual allure is the only beauty that can truly steal the hearts of a nation.

I look to the woman before me, blessed with only a perfect shell, as she represents a lowly horse conch creature; Beautiful and fascinating for every being that comes across its fantastic shell, until the shell is removed and all that is left is a repulsive, hideous creature. You see, I am no perfectionist, nor am I misogynistic,  pessimistic, or even cynical. I simply see things as they are, this is why I believe myself to be a realist, and realistically I see women, such as the one in front of me, as a symbol of all that has caused my weightless young soul to become my lead boots, my punctured life raft. Many people I have met throughout my life I have found to be liars, cheats, actors or impersonators. Everyone in their lifetime has tried to be someone they wanted to be, rather than who they are. Many wear masks or disguise themselves as someone better or worse than who they are, for a reason that may be unknown even to them - this concept of becoming what you envisage to be 'right' through hiding your true nature is something I like to call the Huckleberry concept.

I know, at one point in my life, there will come a time when my line of white light will thin to a point where I will be afraid to look away for even a second, because if I do I may never find it again.