Fluttering Descent

The two enthusiastic visionaries, myself included, had gathered to tell of the dreams we’d recently had. We sank deeply into our armchairs and appreciated how the eight yard lights around us – unlike the slowing degrees of blue and violet having an argument, each one whispering its preferences – cast faded ginger harmoniously. It was as though we were in a field of marigolds. The perfect place for a night full of fantastical stories.

Without any warning, my master launched forth into his narrative: To prevent a mortal (he said) from telling stories is akin to demanding they still their beating heart. Without a trace of cruelty, achieving this feat proves nigh impossible. Tonight, only our flesh and soul roam free, granting us unbothered dominion over our imaginings.

Once again, I officially welcome you, Cain, to another special session under the carpet of stars. To share our dreams, I believe, is a flawless method for painting the void of grey in our souls white. Now, I shall let my mind outpour the story within. This one, like the others, bloomed from the lingering sense of dullness in my life. Though I must admit, I had given myself countless occasions to dissipate my profound boredom; I dated many fine, young women, climbed closed-off peaks under the night sky, downed bottles of local wine and cruised in a ‘76 Camaro. But every attempt proved futile. Every day I asked myself: Does nothing of this world hold any sense of thrill anymore? I rose when the sun slept, shrouded in shadows, my past concealed by boredom. Two flavorless meals, endless hours of nothingness and a grimy bed were all that awaited me; my existence was trapped in a relentless loop. 

Then a brilliant yet horrific idea weaved into my mind as I chewed onto my lips one night. It held a peculiar fascination I’d never experienced or thought to experience. Cain, the idea was…murder. I brooded for weeks on the act of separating the flesh and souls of other mortals and concluded that it was the supreme form of thrill. I knew I’d go mad if I hadn’t committed a few murders. After studying notorious psychopaths and murderers, I hatched a couple of brilliant plans and thought the only reason they were so well-known was because of faults in their methods, that the authorities caught them and made their feats known to the public. But that’d never happen to me as my methods were practically seamless. It was to be a considerate carer. To ensure that fact was true, I immersed myself in my plans for an unbothered block of twenty-five hours so that I’d dream of it. And I did.

My master giggled behind his wrinkly fingers before sitting up poised and continued: It was midday. The air was still. And potential first victims bustled about the streets. I saw a crossing where the traffic light only blinked red, and beside it was the perfect victim – a blind, elderly woman with a cane. Standing behind her, I calmed her with a pat, but I couldn’t do the same to my anticipation of waiting for a car to speed towards us. It was too sweet and vibrant to be contained. When a jeep neared, as well as the zenith of excellence, I signaled the woman to cross. Then I shouted at the driver as loud as an old man could, “An old woman is crossing the road” and at the woman, “A car is rushing this way”. At that moment the innocent words of good intentions shifted into depravity-laced daggers, and I had killed two innocent mortals who would’ve been fine without my warnings, who wouldn’t be attacked by a sudden surge of panic and fear. Of course, I had nothing against them. It was merely to amuse my soul, to prove others’ lives were at the mercy of my whims. Instead of pinning me down and kicking me, the people around poured in and asked if I was fine or was injured in any way. Nobody even attempted to think of my intention of murder, my lust to kill. And, Cain, that’s when I knew I would be a murderer of many, a suspect of none.

Of course, I tested this method a few times after this incident. Things like telling a father his son was inside a burning house so he plunged into the flames, unaware that the son was already somewhere safe; or sending a wounded man two blocks away to find a doctor, while the actual help he needed was just half-block to the right. And many more manifestations of my intelligence and chase for thrill that wouldn’t fit tonight’s session. I’ll end this now then. I had killed eight mortals and my ninth one, I decided, must be a student of mine. Imagine the rewarding delight after having killed one of my followers, Cain.

As if on cue, the yard lights snapped, and a dark figure leaped into the sky before me, vanishing instantly. There was no one but me now. I was certain. I sprang from the armchair and darted through the darkness. Dark silence crept from the soil and hung from the clouds. My thumping heart became more apparent than ever. Gnarly thoughts I didn’t dare to utter gripped my head tight. I ran and ran. Perhaps in a circle, perhaps only did my thoughts, but I ran – like an escaping felon with nowhere to go. Perhaps the darkness made me a madman but I knew the dark minutes had merged into dark hours. If I saw a wall clock without hands I would still be able to tell the time with ease. I was certain. But time wasn’t much of a concern. Something fluttered behind me, following me. And I knew well it could see me as if a spotlight I couldn't see shone at me from above.

I saw a ball of orange light around the same time I noticed the movement. Just when I sped up, a swirling vortex of grotesque smell halted me. Inside it was…something. Something visible in the oppressive darkness, something with hands flapping on its back, their colors foreboding. The black air made it impossible to tell what it was, but some things couldn’t hide behind its foulness. An unknown substance dripped from its face and boiled the air and ground. It breathed heavily and tilted its head to one side while crouching, squeaking like a tormented addict as it did so. My glassy eyes weirdened the breathing mass of abomination. My skin tingled and was nothing more than a hollow shell of my soul. The thing swiftly pounced at me, then the hands clawed at my skin like daggers through a ripe plum. My breaths shallowed. My skin rotted and charred. But none of it was important, none of it mattered. The darkest shade of black swallowed my world whole as a memory cassetted in my mind.

A woman well under twenty-five skips among picturesque flowers. Her hair is a gentle blend of blonde and brunette. Her complexion is extraordinary, her maxi dress a golden crown for her frame. In this flower field on this calm spring morning, she’s the youngest and most elegant woman. Cain finds himself giggling at her from under the shade of a dogwood tree. She then stoops down and breathes in the scent of one marigold after another until all eight are blessed, birthing tears in all the daisies there. As if in a scene from the movie, countless butterflies emerge from the flowers and swarm her, making her feel like the luckiest woman ever. She smiles and spins and jumps, and smiles and spins and jumps, and jumps, jumps, jumps! Who else could amuse him as much as her?

Consciousness filled Cain as he found himself right where he had fainted, his skin scarless, untouched. The thing stood before him like a worried mother, its countenance glinted enough moonlight to be understood. Tears dripped from its twin pools of obsidian that sucked the surrounding light. Its twitching, purplish mouth leaked yellow saliva like a broken faucet. Sixteen hands flared from its sides as it smiled worryingly and knit its brow, which made its visage all the more ghoulish. Calling it a person would be a compliment. It was anything but that. Cain scrambled to his feet to brush his clothes and spoke in a tone eerily similar to that of his mentor. “Enough. This method works just fine, though it's a bit more drastic than the rest.” With that, the thing’s body rotted like a maggot-filled guava and formed a large pile of blood, skin and bones. He patted himself, closed his eyes and paused for a final statement. “Been doing great, boredom? Don’t you think it’s reaching to be visiting me in my dream? You know, it’s difficult to be a student and a master of myself. But that’s the only choice when murdering’s my line, right?”

A young woman in a maxi dress stooped down to smell the sweetness of the marigolds as her date giggled between his wrinkly fingers. Then, an army of butterflies mobbed her, their scales reddening her eyes and nose. She coughed and breathed in more scales and fell to the soil. Like a newborn, she rolled, kicked and flailed about; then vomited and twitched and shrieked, and vomited and twitched and shrieked, and shrieked, shrieked, shrieked! What else could amuse Cain as much as murdering?