Young Writers Society

Without exception, dreams descended upon Eugene that night, paying homage to the thorny vines of terror encapsulating his heart.

Clad in thin linen pyjamas the hue of a dark, deep, drowning ocean, Eugene stands by the window. His naked feet embrace the soothing touch of the floor texture, seep in its coolness and transport it throughout his entire body. A coolness which, come tomorrow, would leave him with a mild cold. His right hand separates the diamond red curtains, preventing them from their ritual of gentle, shy hugging. Eugene's minute facial features press tightly against the window panes. His mouth hangs slightly open, awarding him the expression of a student in a timeless stupor. His breath is not mirrored throughout the glass, for it remains fogless, devoid of any inkling of life. A second, more sinister reason coerces the window panes into refusing Eugene's breath to be imprinted upon it. Curtains drawn apart and flawless glass without a speck of dust to thwart vision, Eugene has his eyes properly and dutifully focused upon the unfolding massacre.

Belches of fire burst spontaneously across the sky, often followed or preceded by a cup driven savagely into earth, engulfing miles, trees and houses. Civilian masses accompanied by shouts of terror scramble, stumble and scratch their own neighbours in a frantic pell-mell for the shelters. They are black, except for the quick vasesof fire erupting constantly, for they highlight them in hellish yellow and orange. Ceaseless, teeth gritting shattering booms not too far away spread gentle thuds across the floor, shaking the inhabitants of the house tenderly. Tenderly not out of love, but out of malice, of pure spite.

Care borne from the desire to leave a boy's mind tortured and insane, for him to witness the whole spectacle. Caution taken lest panic overwhelms him and he bolts from the scene. So the play unfolds furtively and crescendos of sound build higher and higher. Wounded engines and men alike scream incomprehensibly in the din of warfare. It does not occur to Eugene that any scream might have the source of his father's voice, or the spluttering failure of his aircraft. The poor boy is oblivious to all. All but one. Death looms over the entire battlefield, reveling in blood and fire, pain and destruction. A spider web held together by the excessive fuel of slaughtered souls. Instead of being tucked away in a long forgotten corner of a derelict building, it is a spider web which covers a world that has long forsaken hope. Yet Eugene does not make an appearance of one which has allowed fear to grab hold of him. His mouth is not pursed or open in a wide, oval O of horror, but remains slightly hinged nonetheless. His eyes stare vacantly ahead, not narrow slits nor glistening, bright or large. Neither do they belie anything other than his stoic impassivity. Eugene's senses are as dilute as that of a soldier right after a battle, deaf from the incessant pounding of cannons and maddeningly indifferent to the carnage around him due to the long hours of fighting and drawing blood.

Surreal thoughts float around Eugene’s head, solidifying into reality as Death turns its gaze slowly towards his haven on earth – home. A scream tears at his throat, but the gift of speech has been hoarded away. It has no place in a dream like this. A merciless rhythm of icicles repels the warmth from his body and Eugene feels cold, lifeless. Numbness, like a steady shot of anesthetic, courses through his veins. Death slithers closer to his house, a fat, heavy needle of blackness as thick as oil and bursting with turbulent souls. They put up a frantic fight to escape its embrace, their efforts reflected in a white sheen emanating from within the invisible, hardened skin of Death. It was the dead within Death which ironically allow Eugene to trace the latter’s serpentine path edging closer.

Death resumes his inhumane, ghostly frame. A cloth, long and thin with orbs of tumbling white underneath. It was there, next to the boy, frozen in the throes of his calamity. Yet nothing has changed. Not the boy or the curtains. The mahogany door remains closed and the windows are still shut. Gusts of wind do not pervade the room. Wisps of smoke define Eugene’s form, and Death’s forked tongue tickled the place where his navel would be.

Choose.

Two keys, one in each hand. The one on the left is coal black, embossed with intertwined snakes in golden scales. They lead to one key head equipped with miniature fangs and eye slits. It feels old and rustic and carries the weight of lead. The other, the one in Eugene’s right hand is more of a simple carving of the actual item than anything. A halo of silver shimmers around it, light and radiant. Both keys contain a heat that scorches his palms, pressing home the eminent decision at hand. The left one is almost too heavy to bear. Eugene’s fingers curl around the right key, forming a jointed fist.

Right. Death hisses and his control over Eugene is relinquished. Souls find themselves free, but freedom scares them. Hums of sorrow pound against Eugene’s head. The only leverage left for the dead, he was the one left outlet for their wrath. He was still alive. Father is amongst them, the only recognizable human face from the lot. Terrible anger distorts his otherwise pale dead features. He points a damning finger at his helpless son, bearing down on him with all authority of Death itself. So Death laughs, uttering horrible shrieks of glee at his marvelous trickery. And the ghosts descend on their prey, baring their wounds of flesh. Eugene stumbles backwards and falls as his father’s soul wrestles with many like it, to steal the life of another. It was not a sin, for the dead understand no moral prohibitions. The boy watches, dumbfounded, as his father is trampled beneath the horde, and his body makes a powerful thud as it lands next to his son. Now there is no ghost, only legless body parading a featureless face..

The dream lifts from Eugene’s mind. His eyes flash open. A sick, tortured feeling resides in his stomach, almost as if his body remembers terror faster than his brain. Breath comes in ragged, short gasps punctuated by random, recalcitrant sobs. Memory sneaks up on him at last, unbidden, inflicting new plain upon the lonely child. “No.” He can speak again. “No.” A tear rolls out from his left socket, forming a path for others to follow. His mind registered blandly the first tear of pain falls from the left, that of happiness from the right. Eugene closes his eyes, eyebrows glistening with tepid liquid in an attempt to recompose himself. “I mustn’t let father down, I mustn’t…”

Oh father. Father. Emotions override him like a cleansing tide and his resistance begins to waver. A strangling sob chokes him. His nose runs. His pillow absorbs the tears from his wet cheeks. Some of them fall on his open mouth, and he tastes the salty grief it brings. God please, let me fall asleep from exhaustion. Exhaustion, father, wasn’t it you who always joked about suffering from chronic fatigue when you came back from work? You said it was the correct political term for exhaustion. You always irritated mum so much, pondering on specific words, do you remember when..

Warm beams of sunlight brought morning gently inside the room. Eugene stirred, and his brain registered a new day, perhaps one of hope, to make up for the nightmares of the night before. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he muttered inaudibly in an encouraging tone, “It was a dream. Nothing else.”