Page 51 of Nightshades

Even a monster like me, brutal and unrelenting, appreciates the delicate skin of a woman.

The room darkens with the nightmare leaving my body, eating away all traces of light that slip through any nooks and crannies of the house, sinking us into a void he will never escape from.

The only brightness left to see is the whites of those eyes I’m about to invade. Prying his mouth open with a root, the shadow slips down his throat as if he is about to be possessed by a demon.

For all I know, he is. I don’t know what I am. I can only define myself by what I see in the mirror and how I feel. I don’t know what actually created me. Yes, DNA, but where was this DNA taken?

I don’t know, and I don’t care to know.

I am who I am, regardless of the origin where I was created.

The moons of his eyes drift to an endless, empty galaxy, one where stars can’t be born or seen. Ill intent begins to drip down his cheeks, unknowingly getting lost in the part of his mind that will lead to his death.

Falling into his mind, the roots crack and crinkle around me from reality, sinking their way into the nightmare.

I land in the middle of an old home, one that reeks of nostalgia paired with bad memories and infrequent laughter. Everything seems still. No one is home. Dust drifts in the air, swaying through the rays of light pouring in the windows. I drag my finger across the old box TV, layers of embedded memories sticking to my skin.

I can almost taste the hatred that was born in this house.

Taking a step forward, something crunches under my boot, shattering easily under my weight. Grunting, I bend down and pick up a broken picture frame. Ricky is in this photo,surrounded by two people who should have loved him more than anything in the world.

They didn’t.

And neither parent is smiling. I know all too well what life with abusive parents is like—was like.

Staring at the photo again, I analyze it like a story. I’ve never been too smart. I dropped out of community college, uncaring about the words in books, but I’ve always been great at reading a room or a person.

The mother looks tired and afraid with dark circles under her eyes. The father is stern, eyes tightened into slits with anger and annoyance. One of his hands is clutched on his wife’s shoulder while the other is on the child—Ricky. The man’s knuckles are white from the grip.

I can sense the evil, nearly tasting it from how it births itself from the walls. My veins awaken, the roots swirling along my limbs as if they recognize the sinister being that was once here.

Likeness knows likeness.

This house has been frozen in time, an icy tundra abandoned and left to be forgotten, like bad memories that taint the soul.

Two mugs sit on the coffee table, more dust building around them. One has a light pink shade of lipstick on the rim, while the other is nestled by a newspaper.

Whimpers come from down the hall that has me turning my head, my eyes narrowing down the darkened tunnel. My claws lengthen, dragging across the leather of the recliner.

Peeking into the kitchen, dishes fill the sink while drops of blood are on the floor. Falling to all fours, I scurry to the red dots, close my eyes, and inhale the scent. Evil lives within these blood drops.

I growl, loving how good it smells. My nightmare is happy being surrounded by darkness and pure violence.

Opening my eyes, there’s a larger puddle of blood under the dining room chair. A man sits in that chair. I can tell by the loose fit of his pants and the laced boots on his feet. Pushing myself onto my feet, I cock my head, trying to understand what I’m seeing.

It’s the same man from the photo. His head is jerked back, his hands on either side of an empty plate. Blurring to him, my fingers trace the bullet wound between his eyes.

The sound of whimpers catches my attention again, and I follow them out of the kitchen. I stand at the beginning of the hallway, eyeing four doors that are closed.

“Ricky, Ricky, Ricky,” I tsk with annoyance.

I dislike it when nightmares get too complicated. They are supposed to be simple. A simple tactic to instill fear, but it seems Ricky is a complicated case.

Sighing in boredom, I swing the first door on the left open, seeing a woman sobbing in a rocking chair in the corner. She’s holding a shotgun. in her hands, her mascara stains black lines down her face as she sobs.

Ricky can’t be more than fifteen as he screams at her, sobbing to the point that drool drips down his chin as he is handcuffed to the radiator. He’s too skinny, and he has two black eyes with handprint bruises on his throat.

“I’m sorry, Ricky.”