God, Help Me, I Don't Want To Die Chapter 1: ‘That’s just nasty’ / Vivid dreams 1 The boy stepped closer. His eyes burned with hate as his little hands gripped the hammer . Blood was running down Eric’s neck but the little boy didn’t care. There was only one thing on his mind; kill Eric. 2 The sidewalk was crowed with people. Eric was not a typical 27-year-old man. Looking at his dress most people would think of him as an intelligent individual, or on a high-class level in society. His note pad that he carried in his hand showed his interest in journalism, or as his father had called it ‘people who know nothing ‘bout nothing writing down some stuff that won’t none of their business.’ His leather over coat conveyed his rich sense of style and his shoes gave the impression that he walked a lot. Which he did. After work he loved to grab up his things and just walk home or take a detour and walk for blocks and blocks around the city. He didn’t mind carrying his stuff, but he sometimes got the feeling that the crackheads, gangsters and the Hobo’s were watching him and his bag full of expensive electronics walk by. After his coworker got mugged about a year ago and reading the medical report, he started carrying a bottle of mace stuck to his side just for safety. There are some sick people in this world, he thought to himself . People you can’t trust. 3 The woman moved with pure elegance. “Excuse me sir,” she held a small piece of paper up. “I’m sorry but do you think you could tell me where St. Peter Catholic Church is, I….the taxi-cab driver doesn’t understand what I’m saying. He only speaks English.” He realized that the woman was speaking in Italian, and being that his mother was raised in southern Italy, he often forgot who was speaking what. It was then that he also realized the woman was holding the hand of a small boy-about seven. At first he was stunned at the woman’s beauty so he didn’t see the child. Now that he looked at the boy he saw something; he had his mother’s skin the Italian trademark-dark black hair, but there was something else about him……he couldn’t exactly place it. The boy had deep dark circles under his eyes, that must be it. The circles were not bruises but more like the kind you get from lack of sleep. “Sir?” He shook his head a bit and took his eyes off of the boy. “Ah, yes, umm go about a block down this street, turn left on Drake Street, go about another block and it will be on the right.” “Okay thank you so much.” She waved good-bye and started to walk away. He turned back on his own path back home. Pretty good job he thought turning in to a stud. But the boy’s eyes were seared in his memory like a tattoo. He had never seen anything so strange in his life. It was like there was no life in those eyes, just a hollow shell. God why didn’t I ask her for her number? It was the scream that brought him back to reality. 4 He hated to do it but he was a journalist, so he pulled out his camera. The woman was now just a grease spot in the road. Her insides had been smoshed out, and her brain was sprawled out into the other lane. Her limbs were twisted as though she had been run over 3 or 4 times. The fire truck had skidded to a stop about 15 feet from the woman. Eric walked closer and joined the gaining crowd. Like flies, he thought. He pulled his camera to his face as he broke through the crowd. No, no that wouldn’t be right, I mean it would be one hell of a story, but Christ this was a human, not some dog. He put his camera down again. At the edge of the street he heard the police and EMT’s coming his way. The sirens rang through the silence, but didn’t ease the tension of the crowd. The little boy was standing beside the corpse in the middle of the street. Just standing there, not crying, not screaming, he wasn’t even moving. In fact her looked unaffected by what happened. His hand was still stretched out, holding air…. When Eric took a few steps more, the boy looked up at him. Eric stopped, transfixed by the little boy’s gaze. Those dark circles seemed to stand out even more now, and the color from the boy’s face seemed to be gone. (Not that it was ever there). Minutes passed and Eric felt as if time had stopped. He felt like turning and running and forgetting about what had happened, but the boy’s gaze held him. He was glued, addicted, tied up by those eyes and those circles. He blinked and finally started to turn. “Excuse me is this your child, Sir?” the police had arrived. “No this was that woman’s child.” His head started to hurt from all the commotion. “Did you know this woman Sir?” “Umm, well we just met a few minutes ago, she was asking directions to St.Peters.” “Did you witness the accident Sir?” “No, I heard someone scream and I turned to see why, and the woman was already laid out in the street.” Now another police officer joined the conversation. Obviously an amateur. Eric saw him and stepped back. “Sarge, we found a witness.” “Only one? What about the driver” “No he says that he wasn’t watching the road.” “So, he ran the woman over because he wasn’t watching the way he was going?” “Well no, he says the woman was not in the street.” “If he wasn’t watching the way he was going, how does he know she wasn’t in the street.”? The amateur stared at him blankly. Surprisingly, the Sarge smiled and said, “what about the other people on the street.” “No one has come forth yet. Well except one person.” “ Who?” “The kid.” “Her child?” “Yeah, he’s saying that she was pushed out in front of the truck.” “So the kid saw someone else push the woman?” “No, Sarge, he’s sayin he did it.” 5 Eric thought he was going to vomit, but he held it back. Why, how? He didn’t understand. He chose not to believe it. ‘No Sarge, he’s sayin he did it.’ Just like those circles, he knew that sentence would not leave his memory for a long time. “Excuse me officer, but did you just say that the little boy pushed his mother into the street?” He had to know. “I’m sorry Sir but you are going to have to move, this is now a crime scene.” It was true; other officers had started putting up yellow tape around the intersection. The officer he was talking to stopped what he was doing (standing around) and started to push him back. “I just want to know if that is what you said, can you please tell me?” There was urgency in his voice now. “No sir I am unable to answer any questions at this time, but if you are a relative, they’re taking the woman to the morgue on 22nd and R-” “I’m not a relative, can you just answer my damn question?” “Sir I’m afraid I’m going to have to force you to leave, you’re not a relative and I don’t think you’re not the press, so you have no business here.” Eric held up his camera and pointed at it. The officer sighed. “Come on man give me a break.” 6 Before he left, Eric looked at the body once more. ‘That’s just horrible,’ he thought. It was horrible, the most grotesque thing he had ever seen in his entire life. The EMTs were lifting up what was left of the woman and placing her in a black body bag, to be taken to the morgue. It was sad for Eric to think that, he was just talking to this person and she didn’t know what was about to happen. It also saddened him to think that he was planning on chasing after her a mili second before it happened. What a waste he thought. The police had questioned the little boy in their car for about 2 minutes, then they took him downtown. Then what? Even if he did confess that he pushed his mother in front of the fire truck, which caused her to be turned into pancakes, then what? Were they actually going to place him in a high max security prison? He could see the boy inside a cell in Alcatraz. Even if they just put him in a juvenile prison….he just a kid, only about seven. Most of the crowd had fizzled away into 2 or 3 people. One man that still lingered was an old one. He was walking up to Eric now. And I was just leaving, too. The man walked with a cane and a limp. He had a golfer’s hat on and a deep booming voice, even though he looked to be about 70. “Did you see what happened?” Eric decided to let the other man speak first. “Nah, I just missed it though.” “Really?” “Yeah, I had just given her some directions and then I turned and walk away. Next thing I know someone screams and she’s flat as a board. Thank God I didn’t try to follow her.” “You should, that was suppose to be you.” He pointed at the chalk outline on the road. Finally, Eric woke up from his dream. 7 It was 3:00 in the afternoon. The sun was shining heavily through the window beside his bed. Eric pulled his covers back and stood up. He remembered every detail of his dream. It felt so… real. Like that had actually happened on the way home. Did it? The answer was simple, no. He remembered taking a cab home. He remembered it. Eric walked into the kitchen. He would eat something and get ready to go to work. ‘No Sarge, he’s saying he did it.’ He thought about that for a second. Why was this dream so detailed and…vivid. It was like a movie in his head, without the popcorn. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and made himself an egg sandwich. He took one bite, decided he was felling a bit sick, and went back to the bathroom to take a shower. His mind still seemed hooked to the dream. Right before he had awoken, some old man (he supposed) told him that he was the one that was suppose to be killed/die, instead of the woman with the child. Ah, the circles. It gave Eric the chills just thinking about those circles…and the way the little boy stared at him. He picked up on his path towards the bedroom. Halfway through the threshold, the stench found it’s way to his nostrils. He stopped dead in his tracks. The smell was sickening, enough to knock out a pig. It was the smell of rot. Rotting flesh. In the bathroom. The fire truck. The woman. Chapter 2: Tears of blood. 8 This time he threw up all over himself. The smell was unbearable, and was enough to make anyone sick. After it was up, he pushed the door to the bathroom open. Seeing a human die right in front of you is one thing. Having that dead person’s body in your tub is another thing. 9 Even though most of the woman’s body was submerged, her hands held fast to the side of the tub. Her arms were now colorless; a pale white compared to the rich brown of the Italians. Her hair was a black moss that floated to the top of the water. She hardly looked the same as she did in his dream, but there was still a bit of resemblance in the face. Her eyelids were creased, as though she were asleep, or in a trance. In between the woman’s eyelids, blood was clogged, hiding her pupils, and the blood was running down her cheeks like tears. The midsection of her body was covered by a huge tire track running horizontally. The fire truck skidded to a stop about fifteen feet away from the woman. It was definitely the same woman in his dream. The same woman? How could this be the same woman if you dreamed her up? There wasn’t much time to ponder the thought. The woman started to move inside of the tub. First it was just a small shudder, like a chill running through her body (he knew how she felt) then it was a violent shake, thrashing her body around like a rag doll, making the water spill. The spasm went on for about 15 seconds. Then, she was still, her whole body submerged, eyes completely shut. Eric bent in closer. Could this really be her? Could it? There was once again, movement. This time, though, she grabbed the sides of the basin and started to pull herself up out of the vat. Her eyes were now completely open, though they were still filled with blood. The woman’s clothes were soaking with water and blood as she stepped past Eric, and into the bedroom. Eric stared in awe as she went by. Then he stood up and said, “Who are you?” his voice was more shaky than he had planned. “He’s coming.” Her once soft, beautiful voice was gone, replaced by dark, scratchy whisper. “Who’s coming” He felt desperate for some answers. “Don’t go to sleep…” She wasn’t looking at him, but rather something in the other room. “WHO’S COMING!” As soon as the sentence left his mouth, she began towards the other side of his bedroom. Eric stood rooted to the spot. He yearned for his answers. Answers that he would soon get. He walked from the bathroom into the bedroom just in time to see the woman jump through the window. 10 When he looked down, 5 stories, to the street. The woman’s body was gone. There was no blood, no grease, nothing to show that she had landed. Just plain concrete and asphalt. After a few more minutes, he went down to examine the spot in more detail. He knew it was no use; the woman had disappeared. Why? Why was she in my bathroom? Why did she climb out of my tub, why did she walk into the bedroom, why did she jump out of the window. And now, why wasn’t she down on the street? Why? Why? Why? Somewhere, either on the stairs of the 3rd floor, or walking through the ironclad door, or maybe, standing over the spot where the woman should have landed, it hit Eric like a train. Father Paul. 11 Eric’s mother had been a devout Catholic. She had moved from Italy to New York in 1966 with 20 cent in her pocket. At the time, the Italian immigration to the U.S. (especially in the northeast) was at its peak, due to the economy crashing, cutting the value of the Italian dollar in half. Bread that once cost $1.50 now cost about $3.10. Workers that once were paid $7.00 per hour were now paid $3.20, if they were lucky. Eric’s grandmother and Grandfather saw the opportunities in America, and sent their daughter there without hesitation. They gave their good lucks and farewells to Eric’s mother and put her on a ship, bound for N.Y.C. After living in housing projects for 3 and a half years, she met and fell in love with Eric’s father; also raised Catholic. She moved in with him and he taught her English. She found a waitress job, and he worked any kind of job you could offer. They married and had their first 2 children the following year. Twin daughters. Nothing could have made his mother happier. Then in 1972, they had their third child, Eric. The only boy. The pride of his father. Born with the same beautiful eyes that his mother possessed and the same dark blonde hair that his father had carried when he was young. Just like with their first two children, they wanted to get him baptized into the Catholic faith as soon as possible. And they did, at 7 months. They decided to use Father Paul, the Priest at St. Peters, who they treated like family. Almost every Thursday, he was invited over to their house for supper (maybe some beers) and chocolate cake. (Being a wise old dog in the middle of Brooklyn, he had a lot of experience with exorcisms.) The ceremony was held during a crowed mass. Eric’s father held him while the Priest said prayers, washed him with Holy water, and made invisible crosses on Eric’s forehead. Midway through a prayer, something happened that was implanted in everyone’s mind forever. 12 “Our father who aren’t in heav-.” And then Father Paul went rigid. His face turned pale, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, showing only white, and his voice got real low, almost a whisper, and he said, “This child is holy blood. Soon the Omega will call him forth to his destiny….the Highest of the Highest of the Clergy, the Human Hand of God.” And now, standing over the dry slab of concrete where the woman should have landed, something spoke to Eric in his heart. It said, Pope. 13 He looked up from the concrete and saw the little boy standing in the window of his apartment. 14 Eric raced up 5 flights of stairs. He flew with un human speed, all the way down the hall to his door. It was already open. He walked through. The air suddenly changed from warm to freezing cold. He walked into the bedroom (where the window was) and found it empty. Bathroom. He knew it instantly, like something in his brain was connected with an outside source. Something held him back from walking straight to the bathroom. Fear. He hated to admit it, but the boy made him sick with fear. There was something going on with the boy….like he wasn’t human. Eric put aside the thought, and made his way into the bathroom trying to control his fear. The little boy was standing, looking over the tub. Still, the circles were there. “The woman tried to help the boy, but it was no use and she knew it. I was going to find you anyway.” The little boy spoke in a much deeper voice than any little boy should. Eric was taken aback by the statement. “Why did you want to find me?” “To kill you.” The fear rose tremendously inside of Eric. For the first time he noticed the hammer in the little boys hand. “Why do you want to kill me?” his voice was trembling. The demon took a step closer and said, “To stop you from leading the battle of Heaven and Hell.” He took a step closer and swung the hammer at Eric. It missed, though only by an inch. Before he could celebrate, the hammer was coming his way again. This time it didn’t miss. It hit him flat side to the stomach. He felt a crushing pain, and a throb, as the hammer came down on him again. This time, it hit him in the back of his head. He saw stars as he almost fell over, but he knew he had to move, or soon he would be gone. He moved swaying into the kitchen, where he gabbed a butcher knife. But it was too late; the demon was already on him again, hitting him in his ribs. Eric heard them crack, as he fell to the floor. A puddle of blood surrounded his spot on the floor. He knew he was dead. Not yet. The boy hit him over the head. His skull cracked. Now he knew he was dead.
Copyright © 2005 Bryan King |