Night of Borrowed Flesh

Thump, Thump, Thump. I'm awoken to the dank mustiness of Marlboro Reds dancing up my nose. My heart is thumping rapidly against my eardrum. My hands, their coated in the stickiness of my sweat.THUMP. I could have sworn the thumping was my over exaggerated pulse. THUMP. What the fuck is that? Although my veins are filled with hesitation, eyes still heavy with sleep, my bare flat feet slap the cold hardwood. I can feel the adrenaline begin to make my stomach twist. As my chipped scarlet red fingernails wrap around the doorknob, my entire arm begins to shake, I try my best to steady the twist of the knob quietly. With one creak of the loose floorboard, I hold my head out the door, dead silence again. Wait. I hold my breath. I think someone is here. As I make my way down the long, oddly windy hallway, the dry air begins to scratch my throat. That's when I hear deep shallow breathing. Raspy. That's not my mom. My mind begins to fire up with anxious ideations, the feeling of a bunch of horse flies calling your brain home, with excessive buzzing is shaking me around. I feel the air brush against my skin, however it's not cold, yet sweat begins to pool in the Craters of my pores, i'm shiriving like it's 0 degrees in here. Okay Vera, I inhale deeply. Someone is fucking here and it's not mom.I sthealily tip toe towards my mothers bedroom my ears begin to pick up on a familiar sound. My mom. My mo— I hear a high pitched exasperation of plead. "Please do whatever you want, Just please don—." her words are muffled by the sound of gurgling followed by a horrific cackle, the cackle is full of blinded mania bellowing from the throat of a man. A murderer. My palms press against the cold white wall, like second nature my nails begin to pick at the old paint, as I try to work past the shock. I look down to the right of me where my mothers golf clubs, nestled messily in her pink country club bag. I take a deep breathe in, a faint taste of the stale sour spiciness of the cigarette smoke dances on my cotton like tounge, with that I grab the thickest club I can locate in the dark whilst quietly creeping to my moms doorknob. I observe the shadows and reflections through the cracks of the door I squint my eyes and try to figure out the layout of the nightmare behind the door. From what it looks like he is standing over her bed. Back to the door. I adjust to stand firmly on the balls of my feet. Ugh. Here goes nothing. With a gust of wind I push the door open and sprint toward the large brawny figure. With one brisk swing. CLINK. I feel the impact. Perfect. The golf club breaks through the solid layers of his skull with a squish and a crunch. I feel the heat of my boiling blood begin to ramp back up to my heart like nitrous fueling a getaway. I couldn't help but glance up to the bed and my eyes meet the torture impeded on my mother. Slaughtered. Butchered. Lifeless.

Before I can even process another thought... just like that, I'm on top of this masked man beating him to a pulp. The sound of cracking and crushing begins to feed my wave of rage like a pack of wolves on the prowl. Droplets of heated blood splatter over my bare skin, each time I bring my swing back down. Suddenly my rage is cut short when I see a bright flash. Is that the sun? Morning? Already? Can't be. I feel the lines in my face deepen with a somber curiosity. Soberly, I turn my attention back to the unknown intruder, my heart stops. Why does he seem so familiar? I mean what I have left to observe, does anyway. Wait, dear God. Is… Is that Weston? Did I just murder my fucking boyfriend? I feel a wave of bile start to turn in my stomach and flood my chest. My lungs tighten, I can't breathe. What have I done? Then a blue and red light reflect off my moms mirror, The police? But how? I haven't got the chance to call, maybe one of our neighbors heard the agonizing screams. I anticipate SWAT to bust through the doors, however they knock. As I toss the golf club preparing to get up, I slip. Disgusting. I slip on blood and land directly into a thick sticky puddle of it. As soon as I begin to venture away from the task of answering the door, another heavy knock bellows through the front door. The boom of the knock starles me but I can't stop looking at what I've done. I feel a loss of direction, a loss of sense. I don't know what i'm doing here, once again my legs begin to shake. My breath trembles and a fall to my knees and sobs ever so quietly.

As soon as I begin to come back to myself, a gust of stale air swiftly blows my messy ponytail against the nap of my neck. The door slowly creaks open. I don't have the strength to turn around to know someone is here. That's when I hear the familiarity of old steel-toed boots embedding their soles onto the hardwood like a one man marching band. Just as I breathe in the strength to turn around with surrender, a crack of cold steel hitting the left of my temple. Was I just hit with a gun? My brain doesn't get the chance to register how I got knocked out so suddenly yet, my world doesn't hesitate to go black.

Before I know it, I am floating, the wind in my hair smells like pink peonies and bliss. All anxiety has lifted. I hear the sweet sound of my mother's voice. Thank heavens. A dream, I was dreaming. A second before the relief gets the chance to settle within my veins, I hear beeping. Beeping of a phone? Alarm? No. I smell sanitizer? Hospital.

With a drawl of my breath deep into my chest,

I'm pulled through a black rabbit hole within the field of peonies whilst my mothers scream echos. Once I feel a sense of control, my body begins to shake, rapidly. I can't breathe. Mommy where are you? Help me, I can't breathe.

"Vera? Vera, Baby?" a deep charming voice is calling out. Weston. Light. A light. It seems as though I am moving towards this small circle of light in front of me, yet just as I feel my feet hit the ground, an eternal ring of a bell awakens my eardrums from the everlasting vibration. My father is on my left squeezing my hand like he used to, and thank God. Weston. He's here. On my right side stroking the sticky flyaways away from my swollen eyes. Warming relief settles in his beautiful olive toned expression.

I squeeze my father back, I catch his hazel eyes in mine. With that, I weakly whisper. "Moms really gone isn't she?" the words barely roll off my dried up tongue. The tears begin to flow quietly just as a river would on a timid fall night. I've been dealt a damning card of everlasting wonder and guilt of who murdered my mother. Well better yet, Am I a murderer?