Spirits of the Dead [2/?]
anonymous
March 14 2010, 04:28:18 UTC
What could have brought him here? America wasn’t one to drink; in fact he still tried to cling on to the long dead Puritan values, when he felt lost enough to want to be comforted by anything. But the feeling was there, the need to feel the burn of alcohol as it traveled down his throat and into his gut.
He wanted to drink until he couldn’t think anymore.
Until all the sorrow was gone from his heart and his mind.
He wanted peace that only alcohol could bring, and why not indulge when it would so readily be given to him?
No… no he would go home first, go home and rest and relax…
He couldn’t possibly take the time to indulge in liquor and leave behind his men as they fought for him. He needed to be out there, he needed to do something!
He felt panic grip at his heart as it raced faster and faster in the night. He stopped walking entirely, if only to get his heart to stop trying to burst out of his chest. It felt as if someone were wringing it between their hands, their fingernails biting through the flesh. America gasped loudly and clawed at the layers of clothing that separated his bare hand from touching his skin. A man with sunken eyes passed beside him for a brief moment. America only saw him from the corner of his eyes but his presence lingered for so much longer.
A man yelled at him by name, but his voice didn’t get through to America at all. All he could hear was the beating of his heart as it drilled through his ears. What if he went deaf because of such a thing? Would anyone believe that he became deaf due to his own heart? They would think him daft! They would deem him insane!
He began to run, ignoring once and for all the man who tried to reach to him. All he saw were those dark sunken eyes and all he heard was his own heart chase him through the dark streets.
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”
Oh what was it now? What could possibly get to him now, he wondered as he spun around, nearly tripping over the cracks in the sidewalk. There were no eyes this time, no men who wandered the barely lit streets. Perched on a window sill was a bird as black as death itself. It stared at him with its beady eyes, its beak glistening like black polish, and again it cried into the night. Alfred screamed and ran across the street, between the buildings of the grand hall where a congregation (a black mass on a black Sabbath day) was held.
Surely a place of such holiness would relieve him of his sufferings! He ran inside, startling the people with his wild gaze and torn dress shirt. They whispered behind their delicate hands as he stood, quite plainly at the door, his blond hair as frazzled as if he had just woken up.
“Are you feeling well, lad?” asked one of the members of the congregation as he stepped closer to America. Alfred shook his head and moaned, “There isn’t anything you can do anyway… it’s not as if you’d understand.” He barely understood it himself, and he did not want to, not in the least.
“Have faith in me, and if not me, then God, who will always understand the pain you carry within your heart.” Said the man as he closed the distance between them.
He had not reached out with his hands just yet; Alfred could see that this man wanted him to make the first move. He wanted so badly to comply; it was a simple request, just a gesture made entirely of trust; but there was something hidden in those eyes, something dark and frightening in the gazes of the congregation as well. They turned to him at once, their eyes as wide and dark as a cat’s when it is in the middle of its hunt. Their voices rose from their chest as one being,
"Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness - for then The spirits of the dead, who stood In life before thee, are again In death around thee, and their will Shall overshadow thee; be still."
He wanted to drink until he couldn’t think anymore.
Until all the sorrow was gone from his heart and his mind.
He wanted peace that only alcohol could bring, and why not indulge when it would so readily be given to him?
No… no he would go home first, go home and rest and relax…
He couldn’t possibly take the time to indulge in liquor and leave behind his men as they fought for him. He needed to be out there, he needed to do something!
He felt panic grip at his heart as it raced faster and faster in the night. He stopped walking entirely, if only to get his heart to stop trying to burst out of his chest. It felt as if someone were wringing it between their hands, their fingernails biting through the flesh. America gasped loudly and clawed at the layers of clothing that separated his bare hand from touching his skin. A man with sunken eyes passed beside him for a brief moment. America only saw him from the corner of his eyes but his presence lingered for so much longer.
A man yelled at him by name, but his voice didn’t get through to America at all. All he could hear was the beating of his heart as it drilled through his ears. What if he went deaf because of such a thing? Would anyone believe that he became deaf due to his own heart? They would think him daft! They would deem him insane!
He began to run, ignoring once and for all the man who tried to reach to him. All he saw were those dark sunken eyes and all he heard was his own heart chase him through the dark streets.
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”
Oh what was it now? What could possibly get to him now, he wondered as he spun around, nearly tripping over the cracks in the sidewalk. There were no eyes this time, no men who wandered the barely lit streets. Perched on a window sill was a bird as black as death itself. It stared at him with its beady eyes, its beak glistening like black polish, and again it cried into the night. Alfred screamed and ran across the street, between the buildings of the grand hall where a congregation (a black mass on a black Sabbath day) was held.
Surely a place of such holiness would relieve him of his sufferings! He ran inside, startling the people with his wild gaze and torn dress shirt. They whispered behind their delicate hands as he stood, quite plainly at the door, his blond hair as frazzled as if he had just woken up.
“Are you feeling well, lad?” asked one of the members of the congregation as he stepped closer to America. Alfred shook his head and moaned, “There isn’t anything you can do anyway… it’s not as if you’d understand.” He barely understood it himself, and he did not want to, not in the least.
“Have faith in me, and if not me, then God, who will always understand the pain you carry within your heart.” Said the man as he closed the distance between them.
He had not reached out with his hands just yet; Alfred could see that this man wanted him to make the first move. He wanted so badly to comply; it was a simple request, just a gesture made entirely of trust; but there was something hidden in those eyes, something dark and frightening in the gazes of the congregation as well. They turned to him at once, their eyes as wide and dark as a cat’s when it is in the middle of its hunt. Their voices rose from their chest as one being,
"Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness - for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still."
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