w h o o s h
S w i s h
Of the cars passing by as if it were a movie.
But not the same sounds.
The first time he heard the whoosh it was calmer, and his hands were sticky. And wet. And red. And warm.
Now his hands are cold. But they’re still wet and red. But they’re terrible cold. The chill of the handcuffs making goosebumps on his pale skin. Pale and red.
“You okay back there?” Asked the officer. He was mildly surprised the officer even spoke to him.
He remembered their disgusted eyes, even fear in them. He remembered their anger. It was rather amusing.
They didn’t even know the dead people! But then again, neither did he and he laughed when their blood splattered his face.
He almost laughed at the question. Truth be told, he’s still on the high.
And he’d be on the high for the next few hours too. Maybe when they’d interrogate him he’d laugh! It was hilarious.
He was still on that sweet, sweet, sweet high. Oh yes. The high as he watched their eyes pale, the life escape them. As the thundering heartbeat quieted down. AND THEN IT STOPPED. Oh oh oh oh.
That last heartbeat. It started to weaken. It was quiet. Then one loud THUMP. He thought he did something wrong for a second. And then quiet.
oh that sweet silence, and the shaky, hesitant breath escaping their lips. maybe a tear would roll down if he was lucky.
But only if he was lucky.
Oh and luck was on his side, believe that. Even as he was on the back of a police car, but that was okay.
Luck was on his side when he found the couple, broken bikes, on the side of the road. Oh he tried so hard to contain his glee. He tried so so so so so so so hard. He almost laughed. Almost gave himself away. But he was better than that.
He was so much better. He killed her first, as not to kill her boyfriend first and let her suffer. He was not a monster! It was quick, fairly effortless. The tears were sure to come.
And they did they did they did.
He laughed maniacally. His body shaking with laughter. The officers almost stopped the car, hearing the gleeful laugh of the man with the blood splatters on his face.
“I’m fine officer,” said the man with a beautiful smile. “I’m more than fine”.
I think it’s better never to have Than to have and to lose, said she
He chucked in anything but glee
It is worse to never have experienced anything Even if you lose it all, at least you had it, shared he
But she retorted cleverly
But can a burdened heart carry on Knowing it lost all it’s once had, murmured she
His laugher broke free
But can an empty heart live on Knowing it has never truly lived, questioned he
Her amusement was quick to flee
Well, put it this way, better never to love Than to love and lose it, stated she
He slightly touched her knee
No darling, I think I’d rather experience love. Even if it comes with pain, whispered he
Her hearty grew its size times three
I suppose, But I still don’t quite think you’re right, sassed she
I guess we’ll just agree to disagree
There were so many things that he wanted to say. It was his mother that was currently bellow his feet.
There were so many things, but so little words. His throat hurt, his eyes burned.
His fingers ran down the edge of the cool tombstone.
Maria Reiner Let your soul live forever 1960-2021 Beloved mother, wife
He almost laughed when he saw the words on the tombstones.
She was not a mother. She was not someone worthy of being praised as a mother.
She was a woman who gave birth to children.
“I hate you, you know that. I hate you,” he said, running his fingers through the words, feeling the texture.
He didn’t care that he was sitting in dirt. He didn’t care that it was raining.
Is it rude to hate the dead? Who knows. Who cares.
“You were never a mother. You were never there. You never changed Raina’s diapers. You never took her to schools,” his voice was soft. His fingers caressed the stone, almost as if it were her.
This woman, who tormented him, even when she wasn’t here. This woman who managed to make him cry even after she was dead.
“You never made her lunch. You never read Micah bed time stories. You never took him to the playground.” Tears ran down his face.
“It was me, you know. I had to go to parent teacher conferences. I had to pick them up from school. I was more their mother than you ever were.”
His voice was soft. It was about to break. Break.
“You never,” deep breaths, “you never told me you loved me. You never said that to Raina or Micah. You didn’t buy them birthday cake.”
The sky was crying with him. Maybe God took pity on his sorrows.
“And I hate that I cry for you. I hate that I miss you sometimes. I hate you so much.”
His voice broke. His tears were a flood. He was drowning.
The rain fell on his head, his tears on his cheeks.
“I hate you, Maria.” His voice wasn’t soft, it was loud. It was broken.
“And now… a-and now you’re dead. Because you were irresponsibly. I told you to stop drinking. I told you.”
But she never stopped.
The drugs gave her the high. The high she needed. They gave her the thrill. The drugs she dedicated her life to. Her death to.
Her family, that she abandoned.
“Now Micah is an orphan, Raina too. They’re orphans. You’re more absent than ever. And they need you. They don’t deserve this.”
I love you, he thought.
He could never say the words out loud. He could never. He could never admit that he loved her. He couldn’t give her the satisfaction of loving him, after all the torture. Even if she’s dead.
I love you, he thought again. “I hate you,” he said.
“I hope you get what you deserve,” he said, once his sobs quieted. “Up there, wherever you are. I hope you get what you deserve.”
I love you, he thought.
“The world will burn, Nicholas Schneider! I tell you! This world will burn! Just see! That’s why I will become a firefighter! And save the world!”
Annabeth Kidman ran around the playground, wearing her father’s firefighter hat. The hat was far too big and fell on her eyes. It didn’t phase her.
Nicholas watched as she often scared the kids. She jumped up to them and asked if they were in any need of saving.
“DO YOU NEED ANY SAVING? I’M A FIREFIGHTER!” she more or less screamed to the scared boy.
But Nicholas watched in amazement as the brown haired girl went around asking if people were in need of saving.
She was amazing to him. She was the girl who stood up to his bullies. The girl who gave him a cookie that her dad bought. She was the girl who pushed him in the swings.
She was the girl Nicholas Schneider could say he loved, at 8 years of age.
And he could at he loved her too, at 13, when she asked him if he would be her partner for the science project. At 15, when they went out for a date. At 18, when she was his prom date.
At 21, Nicholas Schneider could say he loved Annabeth Kidman, as he was at her funeral.
ANNABETH KIDMAN 1980-2001 BELOVED WIFE, DAUGHTER, FRIEND AN AMERICAN FIREFIGHTER
Rain and tears dropped down his face. The girl’s parents were quietly sobbing in a corner.
Close friends and family, all dressed in white.
He watched as they closed the casket, as her body went underground. Cold fury burned in his veins. The girl he loved. She was now beneath his feet.
Soon Nicholas was the only one left in the cemetery. He stayed there for some time.
His head was empty, and he wasn’t thinking of much.
He took put a match. He took out a lighter.
He lit the match. He covered the match from the rain with his free hand. He watched as the flames ate the piece of wood.
He watched the yellow fire.
It was yellow. Yellow like the day she got murdered. She was wearing a yellow dress.
He hated yellow.
The fire ate the wooden match. The fire left it charred, it left it broken. The fire eventually burned his fingers. And with his free hand, he turned off the small flame.
“This world shall know pain,” whispered Nicholas Schneider.
“This world will burn.”
‘Call declined’
Lyra groaned, hearing the receiver say “please leave your message after the beep”.
She called again, for the 4th time.
“Hey, Sam, it’s me. I don’t know if you know, but someone got murdered on the apartment complex you just moved into. Be careful okay. Call me back.”
Lyra sighed, rubbing her temples.
“Still no answer?” Officer Gray asked, leaning against her desk.
“Nope,” she said, closing her eyes. Officer Gray pat her back sympathetically.
“Duty calls, let’s go shall we,” he said, giving her a hand to help her stand up.
Lyra, with a small worried frown, thanked him and stood up. She grabbed her things and they left.
There was a murder in Liberty Street. A 28 year old man, Charles Sylvester. He had been missing for 4 days, and was found dead outside his apartment this morning.
Lyra Hemingway, a new cop to NYPD was working on this case with her partner, Mason Gray. Lyra’s best friend, Samara Reyes, lived in Liberty Street.
Naturally, Lyra was worried sick, a murderer on the loose and her best friend since freshman year of high school living in that same place.
Samara knew all too well of the crime that had occurred. Even without her darling best friend telling her what happened.
She listened to all of the voice mails Lyra left her. She smiled.
“Hey, Sam, it’s me…” she left her phone on the sink, while she scrubbed her hands, listening to her best friend’s voice.
The white sink was now painted red.
She decided to call Lyra back, hitting the call button. Immediately, the call was answered.
“SAM! I’m so glad you called back, I was worried sick!” Lyra’s voice shout through the speakers of the phone.
Sam smiled and said, “what’s up,” she placed the phone next to her ear, supporting it with her shoulder.
While talking with her best friend, she watched the blood of Charles Sylvester go down the drain.
The nausea crept up her throat from the pit of her stomach; the realization that yesterday was real.
It was hard to describe her pain. It was hard to write about it.
Her pain was more than a dictionary could contain. It was more than the 26 letters of our alphabet could describe.
It was the pain of a mother with a dead daughter.
Her pain was beyond language.
She didn’t even cry.
She didn’t cry as she headed over to his house.
She drove over, passing a few red lights but she didn’t care. She didn’t care what the traffic lights said, it didn’t matter if they said she couldn’t go. She would go.
She knew it was the pain and the anger taking control of her body. And she didn’t care.
Her fists pounded into the wooden door, it hurt. She didn’t care.
He opened it. And she slapped him.
“YOU KILLED MY DAUGHTER. YOU MURDERER!”
She grabbed his shirt and she punched him.
He let it happen. He wanted it to happen.
Slap me harder, he thought. Hit me, hurt me, I must repent, he thought.
“YOU- YOU KILLED HER!”
His parents rushed out of the house, separating the crazed woman from their son.
“HEY,” hollered Mr. Kingsley, grabbing her wrists.
The boy’s mother hurried over to her son, almost screaming when she saw his bruised face.
He said nothing.
“YOUR SON MURDERED MY DAUGHTER,” she cried, she screamed, she shouted, she whispered. She was in so much pain.
“MY SON DID NO SUCH THING!” Mr. Kingsley shouted, holding her wrists tighter.
“Y-you murderer,” the anger left her voice. All that was left was pain.
“You took my baby from me. She was the only thing I had. You killed her.”
Mr. Kingsley hesitated. His son, Will, was crying.
He shook his mother off and he approached the woman.
He fell to his knees, the grass dirtying his jeans.
“I am so sorry,” emotion over took his voice. He felt like he was suffocating.
“Sorry isn’t going to bring her back.”
Yes, he knew that already.
Mr. Kingsley let the woman go. This time turning to his son. “William, explain to me what happened right now.”
Mr. Kingsley, I’m sorry to say, your son murdered a girl. Your son bullied her. He made her hate herself. He made her throw up her dinner. He made her draw on her wrists. Your son (metaphorically) gave her the gun and she pulled the trigger.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Jackson,” he cried.
Sorry won’t take it back, Will. Sorry won’t fix things.
Helen Jackson isn’t coming back.
Niamh was the kind of girl you never forget.
She wasn’t very “pretty”, according to society’s standards, nor was she good at anything in particular. She did not have any talents (unless touching her nose with her tongue counts and doing a cloverleaf tongue).
Niamh was the type of person you’d see and maybe not even notice. But once you talked to her, you’d never forget her.
She was the type of person who had a smile that you could always look at. Although her teeth were crooked and weren’t perfectly white, although she had acne on her skin. You’d never forget her.
Sometimes she wishes people would. She wishes she could disappear.
She figured that if no one remembers her, if the world didn’t know Niamh Williams, it’d like she never existed. If she left no trace, if she’s in no one’s memories. she’d be free.
She wouldn’t be tied to responsibilities. She wouldn’t have to carry the burden of a dark past.
She’d be no one, only who she wanted to be.
Perhaps she wouldn’t be tied to the past either. She’d be free.
But she was the type of person you’d never forget. With a certain glimmer in her eye (many failed to notice that it was sad).
She’s the type of person you’d remember.
“Hey! Niamh! It’s been a while, haven’t seen you since you graduated highschool. How’s it been?”
Remember me.
It was a pleasure to burn The fire danced about the forest Hephaestus was angry
The fire licked the trees It burned the leaves And ash like a blanket in the air
It was a pleasure to kill Let his liquid anger out His large hands were charred
Hephaestus was livid His powerful hand was hitting the earth His lips cursed the god’s above
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
Her soft fingers pressed against the cold piano keys. They made a soft noice as she did. It was sad.
Kreisler’s Liebesled. Love’s Sorrow.
It seemed appropriate. She hummed along to the melody she was playing.
Her tears rolled down her face and into the piano keyboard. But she didn’t stop her playing.
Her fingers moved quickly, urgently, as if in a desperate rush. A desperate rush to finish the song, to finish the heartbreak. To stop the sadness.
Her eyes grew clouded but she knew this piece by memory. She’s played it enough times that it’s engraved in her mind.
She often wondered what Kreisler was thinking when he wrote Love’s Sorrow.
She wondered if he was heartbroken, as she was. She wondered if he cried as he played this, like she was. She wondered if Kreisler’s heart was crying too.
Her heart was crying.
Hearts didn’t feel emotion. Hearts and emotion had nothing to do together. Emotions didn’t come from the heart. It was all the brain. The brain was logic. The brain was emotions.
The heart’s job was to pump blood. She knew that.
But her heart was in pain. It was her heart, not her brain. It was her heart that seemed broken.
Broken because he said he didn’t love her.
“I don’t love you, Liesel, I’m sorry.”
She knew he had every right not to love her, every right not to return her feelings. It was okay that he didn’t.
She didn’t know that he was standing outside the door, she didn’t know that he was listening to her playing Love’s Sorrow.
Truth be told, he always thought it was overrated. He liked Love’s Joy more.
She didn’t know that his heart was guilty. That his brain wanted to love her, but his heart was stubborn.
She was such a good person. She was so kind, so thoughtful, she was so perfect. He wanted to love her so badly.
But it wouldn’t be fair, not to him, not to her. It wouldn’t be fair.
She didn’t know that he loved her, but he wasn’t in love with her. She didn’t know that he left, a tear running down his cheek.
She was unaware of it all, as her fingers slowed, reaching the last of the song.
He was perfectly happy.
He was perfect. He was happy.
He was perfectly happy. He has been perfectly happy since he got them.
He wasn’t always happy, of course. He was quite sad, at some point. He wasn’t sure when. He wasn’t sure just how sad he was. He was just… sad.
He didn’t try to remember those times. They were so muddled. Like trying to stare into his memories through dirty pond.
He was thinking about how happy he was, that day.
He came home and kissed his mom on the cheek. She was also perfectly happy.
He pat his dad on the shoulder, who was also perfectly happy.
He hugged his little sister, who was too young to be perfectly happy, but she would be soon.
He went to his room and did his homework.
After a while his mom said, “son, are you done with your homework?” Which he truthfully responded with a yes.
And she said “come out to the living room, we’re playing monopoly.”
He wasn’t supposed to be alone for too long. He was special. In fact, he had to take an extra one, more dosages than the rest of his family. He was too sad before the happy pills. He was angry.
His mother shudders to think about it.
He often screamed, and cried.
His mother distinctly remembered him screaming,
“It’s you! It’s those pills! Can’t you see?! YOURE BEING BLINDED. THEYRE MAKING YOU SICK. YOU’RE NOT ACTUALLY HAPPY.”
They sent him away to the hospital for a while, he was ill. He always said something about sadness, being blinded.
He told his psychiatrist.
“Don’t you see, you’re all blind. You’re all crazy. It’s those pills. You think you’re happy but you’re not. Why do you even need pills to be happy? Why do they force you to take those pills?”
It has gotten bad.
His perfectly happy psychiatrist was trying to help, if he kept this up, he would die, surely. They’d kill him.
His perfectly happy psychiatrist pitied him.
Once, he was sitting there talking.
His psychiatrist had had it.
“Your time is up kid, you take those pills. You’re not a child anymore. You take those pills. Things could go wrong, they could go very very wrong. You take those pills. You take them.”
The psychiatrist’s head started to hurt immensely, as he thought about what would happen. When he questioned why it should be happening.
He didn’t like it. He took a lot of happy pills that night. And he became perfectly happy the next day.
They forced the pills into his food.
He became perfectly happy too. As all people should be.
He thought he was being silly before and profoundly apologized for all the problems.
His perfectly happy psychiatrists smiled at him, and told him he didn’t have to come back.
The memory came to him, of one of the secessions he’d had.
A cold tear ran down his cheek, and an unknown emotions in his chest. He didn’t like it.
He shook his head, And took 5 happy pills.
He smiled, and joined his perfectly happy family.
