Last week, we all did our own Part I of a story. This week, we had to pick somebody else's and write a part II... I picked out:
Enjoy!
The more Blake
worked on his Halloween costume, the less it seemed to feel like one. He tried
it on to see if it fitted – to see if it ‘fell’ in the right places, felt right
and didn’t pull where it shouldn’t and gave him the freedom to carry and swing
a scythe – as well as carry a sickle in the folds of the long, dark and
menacing robe he had created.
He had done more
homework on the sickle and found out that the sickle was a part of the Grim
Reaper’s costume – but nobody really called attention to is in paintings and
prints as they should. So, in the last week, he had gone onto ebay
searching for ancient farming equipment – and was amazed to find the very items
he was looking for to complete his costume… the real deal, not the plastic
hokey crap things at ‘Maddie’s Costume Store’ in town.
This pleased Blake
to no end.
He was going to have
the most original costume, “Hehehe, they’ll think it’s a costume…” in town.
Yes, he was going to get his own back for what had happened to him…
Shrugging into it,
he felt so comfortable. The robe seemed to mold to his wiry, tall frame; the
bottom dressy part of it appeared as though it was lashing in amongst its own
floor-level mini-tornadoes just above the floor that nobody could see.
Looking up at the
full-length mirror in his bedroom, he noticed his face was mostly hidden in the
shadow of the large hood. No, he wouldn’t need the white mask he thought he’d
needed before; as the lower part of his face would be enough to freak out
anyone if he grinned and said nothing to anyone.
Aaah, yes! That’s it…
he even freaked himself out just a little when he did that, “Much better than
that stupid mask. I’ll be able to see their faces when I…”
At the window lurked
a sinister shadow, watching him. This shadow knew how much arduous pain Blake
had been through – how much suffering he had endured – in his short, seemingly
insignificant – life. It was time to call due all that was owed to this young
man; after all, he was going to all
this trouble to hand-stitch such an ornate costume on All Hallows Eve just to
get even with everyone he knew… why not? He wanted to have some fun!
A sliver of a cold
chill whispered down the Blake’s spine. He stopped and spun, listened for
anyone who may be returning early tonight. When he didn’t hear a car or the
front door slam, he shrugged away the weird feeling that he wasn’t alone
(figuring that it was the robe he was wearing giving him the heebie-jeebies and
nothing else) and turned back to the mirror.
Blake felt
comfortable in this, yes, this was no longer a costume he had taken three weeks
to stitch together by hand – this was now his uniform. This was how he felt on
the inside every single day he was alive on this planet, in this depressing
little town – where every adult treated him like he was their own play thing,
sex toy and what he said never mattered to anyone. This was his Black Dog from
deep inside his soul worn on the outside for all the world to see; and he was
damned proud of it – and he never wanted to take it off.
Looking over at the
scythe leaning in the corner of the room next to his wardrobe – behind his
bedroom door – he knew in three day’s time, it would be slick with the blood of
everyone who ever crossed him. On his desk, on top of his science text book,
laid the sickle. It too was ready with a new leather cord through its handle,
looped underneath it; to be used like a whip when he was ready to pull it free
from the hidden folds of …
…there was that
chill again, this time there was a voice: “Oh good, you’ve fully resigned
yourself to who you truly are, Blake.”
“Who is that?” he turned
looking into the semi-darkness of the bedroom, but seeing nobody.
“You’ve made my
costume so well,” whispered a cool breeze in his left ear, “And collected
together my items as well, and yet you do not speak my name?”
Blake turned in the
direction of where the voice whispered, “Show yourself you coward!”
“Big words for such
a little boy.” The shadow stepped behind him as it stood behind him, “However,
you will learn to take me in. Now, it’s time for me to a well-earned holiday
and teach you the ways of who I am.”
Blake felt an icy
hand grip his left shoulder; and a deep, dark, ancient evil enter him. It was
darker than the things that had happened to him when he was young; darker than
any war he’d seen on the news; darker than what Hitler did to the Jews… and
then it spoke again – this time, in his mind, “Good evening, Blake. I see your
costume is coming along very well. I’ve been admiring you from afar for some
time now, but from now on you and I are going to become very close. Allow me to
introduce myself: I am the Horseman who rides the White Horse. Have you guessed
who I am? Some call me Death… I’d rather be called The Grim Reaper – it’s much
more poetic.”
Sweat prickled his
skin as panic froze in his gut. Blake tried to take off the robe, but found it
couldn’t be removed now, “No,no,no,no,no!”
“Oh but yes! You
want to conflict pain, Blake, and I’m here to help you do just that. And while
you do, I’m on holidays. All you need to do is hold out your hand to the scythe
and it’ll do your bidding.”
As though Blake had
no self-control, his hand shot out to the tall, rusty scythe in the corner of
the room and it shot over to him. At first, he started to cry, then howl in the
darkness of his bedroom…
