Lock and Key

by L.R. Bonehill

I found the box on the day Richie Norton saved my life. I was just about lost to it; that sense of serenity that comes when you’re drowning, despite your body thrashing as it struggles against the end. I was ready to let it all slip away, to fade into silence when Richie dragged me up from the muck and grime of the water and pulled me away to the embankment. I’ve never forgiven him.

We both lay panting and exhausted on the damp grass. Cold shivers ran through us despite the heat of the afternoon sun. Brackish water stung my throat and my lungs burned as they clutched for air.

Richie’s yellow Spiderman t-shirt clung so tight I could see the rack of his ribs. The shirt was covered with algae and there was a ragged tear where it must have snagged on something in the water. He peeled it away from his chest and stuck his finger through the hole.

‘You ruined my best shirt,’ he said, scrabbling to his knees. He spat on the ground and ran a hand across his mouth, long fingers pulling at something on his tongue that wouldn’t quite come away. He spat again.

‘The hell you think you were doing?’ There was a venom in his voice that was rare to hear from Richie. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. ‘Hope it was worth it.’ He nodded at the box that I still held in one hand.

To this day, I don’t know why I’d reached out for the box as it bobbed on the surface of the water, or how I’d managed to stumble in after it, or why I’d held it so firmly and wouldn’t let go even as the life began to seep away from me.

I looked down and saw my knuckles were white, pale as the cataracts that clouded Grandma’s vision.

The box wasn’t much to look at; about the size of a hip flask from an old film noir, dented and battered all over, rusted clasps at the sides and a scuffed lock at the front.

‘At least take a look inside, since you almost killed the two of us,’ Richie said.

I flicked at the clasps, each in turn, and found they wouldn’t budge. It felt light; I shook it and nothing seemed to move inside.

Richie snatched it away from me and dug his penknife out of his jeans pocket. It was the same knife his brother had used to carve three dots into his hand the year before. He’d promised he’d ink Richie with a crazy life tattoo just like it when he was older. Richie couldn’t wait.

He prised the clasps apart with the blade and quickly moved on to the lock. It seemed the knife would give before the lock did. I could see the strain on his face, the tension in his muscles.

‘That’s not meant to be opened, no way,’ he said and tossed the box back to me. ‘You should be dead, man, you should be gone. Your eyes were rolled way up.’ He mimicked the look and I shuddered as I saw the whites of his eyes.

He pointed at the box with his knife. ‘You look after that, keep it safe; your soul’s in there. Vida loca, my friend.’

Richie Norton was my best friend. Richie Norton saved my life. I never saw him again.

At school the next day Mrs Walker told us about the accident. Richie slipped in the bathroom and fell back into the tub unconscious. He drowned as the bathwater leaked away.

Crazy fucking life.

__________

I’m cold all the time now; it’s as if the water saturated my bones. My palms and the tips of my fingers are still pale and wrinkled and there’s a sour, stagnant taste in my mouth. Some days my lips are blue as the veins on the back of my hand.

There are times I’m sure Richie was just the first; the first of many. That everyone I’ve ever lost is because of that damn box, because I didn’t die that day, because Richie was right.

Wait long enough though and answers always come. I found a key today, deep down in the mud by the embankment. It’s small and the colour of dried blood and it’s a perfect fit.

All I have to do is find the courage to turn it.

__________

L.R. Bonehill never meant to hurt anyone all those years ago; he just wanted to play, that’s all. Forgive him online at http://bonehillsboneyard.blogspot.com/

Mother's Love

by L.R. Bonehill

Ben couldn’t cope. That’s why he left, his stale breath smelling of whiskey and fear. He packed a bag on the night his four year old son came home to die and left. A single fucking bag. Shirt cuffs poked out of the zipper like hands rising from a grave.

He looked almost like a stranger to her, this man she had loved for more years than she cared to remember. An unwanted visitor standing in the hallway. “I’m sorry,” he said and stepped out into a flurry of snow. It quickly dusted his head and shoulders as if trying to obscure him and pull him out into the night.

Rachel watched him go and found that she couldn’t cry. Didn’t want to cry, she realised. A part of her didn’t blame him. A small, ugly part of her.

Mothers have no choice, she thought, we have to be strong, no matter how painful and cruel life could be.

Warm lights burned brightly in the other houses along the street. Inside, other lives and worlds turned peacefully.

The cold wind bit hard as she watched the snow smooth over Ben’s footprints before shutting the door. It was just the two of them now.

She had the first dream that night.

A dark, midnight corridor with a dirt floor, weeds creeping out of cracks in the dry earth. An acrid chemical smell hung thick and cloying in the air. Wraith-like children sat in bone-chairs, holding blood filled drips. They stared at her with empty eye sockets, flesh sunken and sallow, mouths glistening with viscous fluid. Hickman lines grew like infected parasites from their chests. Painfully thin arms reached out for her as she edged past, their joints popping and cracking. Clutching fingers grabbed at her.

Sleek rats crawled and writhed at their feet, gnawing at broken skin and exposed tissue. “Mrs Macmillan, the Doctor will see you now,” the children cried in unison. They pointed to the door at the end of the corridor as dust fell from their ragged hospital gowns. A battered and splintered door, uneven letters carved into the pitted surface. ‘Chemo-Man,’ they read.

Each night Rachel walked the same corridor and watched as one by one the children slowly turned to filth and mulch. Each night she got closer and closer to the door, until eventually she heard whispered promises from within.

__________

She pulled on the restraints as tightly as she could and Jake cried out again, struggling weakly as the rope dug into his wrists and ankles. The skin there was raw and mottled.

“Hush now,” she said and stroked his forehead. Wisps of hair lay like smoke across his balding scalp. A few strands came away in her hand and she cried.

He didn’t look like a child, not anymore. The leukaemia had slowly leeched that away from him. He looked frail and alone and scared as he lay tied down on the narrow, sweat soaked bed.

It didn’t look much like a child’s room either, not a used one at least. Toys were packed neatly away in brightly coloured storage boxes, stacked one atop the other along the edges of the room. Action figures stood in calm, regimented order on high shelves. Cartoon characters grinned inanely down from posters on the walls. It was almost obscene, she thought, a mockery of childhood.

She sang a soft, lilting lullaby and tried to calm his fevered panic. She had seen fear in his eyes all too often and would ease it as best she could. He bucked and thrashed in feeble protest.

The room was cold and grew colder still as a shadow juddered in the swirling snow at the window. Bone fingers rapped an ancient tattoo against the glass. Eyes sparked with feral need.

“He’s here,” she said. Chemo-Man, with his promise of a blood cure that would last a dark eternity.

“Don’t worry, my love,” she whispered in Jake’s ear. “You’ll be all better soon. Mommy knows best.”

__________

L R Bonehill never meant to hurt anyone all those years ago; he just wanted to play, that’s all. Drop by the boneyard at http://bonehillsboneyard.blogspot.com/.

In the Garden

L.R. Bonehill

The consultant called it pregnancy material and told her to expect more. Gave her a leaflet about a local support group and told her to go home and rest. Myra called it her baby and grieved.

She touched a hand to where the life had once been. She hadn’t felt it then, it was still too early, but she felt an undeniable and cold absence there now. Broken and hollow, it chilled her palm and fingertips. She held her hand against the small swell of her stomach and imagined there was still life inside her, still warmth and hope.

The coldness spread through her like ice shifting and stalling in her veins. She wanted to cry, but tears weren’t enough. Ragged, silent sounds shook her.

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the drawn curtains, motes of dust skipped and fell in the shadows. The yellow wallpaper hurt her eyes and her head thumped with a grey, creeping numbness.

She lay for hours, curled on the bed and finding no comfort. She couldn’t look at it again, not yet. A sharp tang of blood clung to her fingers and she could see dark stains in the gloom. Her mouth tasted bitter and metallic, like filaments of tarnished copper on her tongue.

Eventually she slept and found dreams of bones and decay.

The world was unreal when she woke, dark and insubstantial. Shadows twitched in the corners of the room. Her whole body buzzed as if a thousand flies twisted inside her and she was already dead and rotting from within.

She was still cold, still empty.

She fumbled in the bedside cabinet. Ray always kept a pack of Camel Lights and matchbooks from countless hotels and bars. There would be more once the conference finished at the weekend.

The match hissed as it struck. Myra watched it burn, felt the heat as the flame bit at her fingers. She struck another and lit the cigarette, drawing the smoke down deeply. The tip glowed amber in the darkness.

Myra held it above her stomach. It gave the pallor of her flesh a warm glow. She ground it down against her skin where it stung and burned. Teeth clenched, she relished the heat. She removed the cigarette and re-lit it with a fresh match. Brought it down again. Her skin tingled and prickled sharply.

The night outside was silent and soon she slept again. A fitful, feverish sleep with dreams of dirt and growth.

Dawn woke her; birds twittered in nearby trees. She was still cold, still empty.

Her legs felt unsteady as she walked to the bathroom. She pulled the cord; the light was harsh and sterile. Her reflection shuddered in the mirror as she bent down to the floor. The blood stained towel lay crumpled at the foot of the bath. She picked it up and unfurled the edges.

A small bloodied mass lay in the centre. Pulpy and unidentifiable. Myra reached out a finger and almost touched it. She shifted to kneel directly beneath the light and studied it closely. Head cocked, she turned the towel this way and that.

“A seed,” she said eventually. Her voice was small and lost.

She covered it again and headed down the stairs and towards the back door. Early morning light reached in through the frosted glass.

The air was crisp and fresh with a slight chill on the breeze.

Her garden flowered all year round; always had. Her fingers were green, not the red ingrained there now like strange nicotine stains.

The earth was damp with dew beneath her bare feet. The soil was rich and good as she dug deep with her hands. She could almost taste it. Her fingers snatched and clawed at the dirt as she made a hollow in the ground.

Her stomach burned and itched in small circles of pain. She was still cold, still empty; but not for much longer she thought.

Myra took the seed from the towel. It felt soft and sticky in her hands. She planted it and compacted the earth around it.

As the sun brought the first warmth to the day she sat back and waited for her seed to grow.


__________


L.R. Bonehill never meant to hurt anyone all those years ago; he just wanted to play, that’s all. Drop by the boneyard at http://bonehillsboneyard.blogspot.com/