North vs South, seperation anxiety, and Last Stop Part 9

I must say that this blog was never intended to be a textual manifestation of my personal life, and I will attempt to keep it that way. At least as much as possible. But the past two weeks have been a mind-boggling, stress inducing, tumultuous roller coaster ride that seemed the car would certainly jump from the track. The transition of this Yankee to the south has been difficult to say the least. From exuberant optimism to complete disgust and disappointment in a matter of days. From all hope was lost and throwing in the proverbial towel to a complete reversal of fate in a single day. A bonafide horror story in itself. And one that I hope soon to turn around and have the ever so glorious Hollywood ending. Well, early Hollywood anyway. My family has gone back up north sans myself and now I face struggling and sacrificing to maintain our dream and yet not go Overlook Hotel alone.
On a less personal note, the situation will at least afford me the opportunity to read more (reading Scott Sigler's Infected currently), and to write more (which as I have a few ideas and stories currently underway, the aforementioned issues of the previous paragraph I must now overcome and return to a creative state of mind. Get back into my right mind. Or is it write mind?).
We shall see what the future holds. North vs South, left vs right, success vs failure. I'll attempt to keep that more to myself and get back into the task at hand; the horrific, both in print and in film. For now let us get back to our unfortunate protagonist, David, and Last Stop Part 9.

Last Stop Part 9



          David advanced down the darkened hallway to the next door. He stood outside a moment, listening for any noise beyond it, and fearing what the next disturbing discovery may yield if any.

            Nothing more than heavy silence permeated the area and David readied himself again with the kitchen utensil. He glanced down and noticed a sliver of light coming through from beneath the door. Reaching out and sampling the doorknob, it turned easily and David swung the door open.

            Another lavishly decorated room, so ridiculously contrasted to the establishment’s outward appearance, welcomed him. And as David stepped into the room, scanning the dark spaces which the small lamp that sat upon the bedside table failed to illuminate, another grisly scene presented itself. David gasped and put a hand to his mouth, yet managed to hang on to the tenderizer this time. William had obviously gone berserk. It was the only thought that registered in David’s mind as his eyes moved over the sight upon the bed.

            One could easily have mistaken the bed sheets to be a rich, silky, red velour, but upon a more thorough examination, would conclude, as David now was, that the linens were saturated with blood. Lying in the middle of the bed was Muriel, who if not for the visceral state of her being, would seem to be sleeping. Long gashes ran diagonally across her face, and her nightgown was riddled with holes that David could only assume were from where she had been stabbed repeatedly. Blood soaked the gown and ribbons of it were splashed across her face, neck, and arms. Her bare feet, pointing to the ceiling were all that was spared.

            David realized his stomach was about to purge itself, and it did. He vomited onto the floor beside the bed, the liquid and bits of undigested food from the great meal earlier, mixing with blood that had soaked the floor. He wiped his mouth along the sleeve of his pajama top.

            “Oh God,” he managed, attempting to comprehend the doubtless seriousness of his situation. Was this the same fate that he and his wife were to encounter? Did Carrie already?

            “No,” David said, “I can’t accept that.”

            And if the gruesome scene weren’t enough to process, there was a sickeningly sweet smell about the room that David just couldn’t place. He attempted to will his wobbly legs to walk and remove himself from the room, almost feeling a little remorseful for the woman lying on the bed. Obviously she wasn’t a player in the evening’s events and all the blame could be placed upon her disturbed son.

            David glanced around the room, unbelieving that there still seemed to be no telephone to call for help with. And then he noticed something shining upon the nightstand alongside the lamp. Keys. A small ring of them, and David was certain that one of them had to match the padlock on the door that held his wife captive.

            Still determined to release Carrie to safety and get them out of this place and away from the psychotic William, David reluctantly walked closer to the bed to retrieve them. As he approached the bed, the odor became stronger. It smelled almost like cake icing or candy which made no sense at all. He again looked to the poor woman’s face and could have sworn her eyelids fluttered just slightly. Could she still be alive? He leaned a little closer, the sweet smell nearly causing him to be sick again. Muriel still remained motionless and David guessed it was just the light and his confused and panic stricken mind toying with his senses.

            He leaned back, snatched the keys from the table and left the room, closing the door and the unfortunate fate of the old woman behind him. David prayed that he would encounter William and get the upper hand upon him and bash his skull in with the tenderizer. With the keys in hand and feeling rather confident, David ran back down the stairs, heading for the kitchen.