The Hollows, page 23
She still remembered the dark.
Not the dark you know, the one you convinced yourself the only thing hidden beneath the veil are empty shadows of the unknown. There’s a comfort in that darkness. The knowledge, or hope, that one can sit within it, tucking eyes beneath covers to conceal oneself from an unseen and unreal threat. The dark that is extinguished upon a parents’ flickering light. A dark that is void of substance is a truth only understood in your world, in the reality you made for yourselves to escape a certain peril.
No, the dark that stayed with her was one that was full. It was living.
It breathed.
It was a confluence of all things feared, suppressed, or ignored; a reflection of things once thought lost or drowned in myth. Immerging roads of both reality and the obscene, being circulated and dissolved within the crevices of memory in a manner unquenchable and uncontainable. It is a sensation amassed to an unwanted recollection of the most certain, the most clandestine, horror. Unlike the human condition to repress such flickers of truth, her darkness was inescapable. And she could not forget.
She still remembered how the dark smelled. How it tasted. With the pinch of decay and the scent of metal. How it crawled over cracks and bones, licking and creeping, slithering and writhing. She remembered how it overtook, enveloped, and enslaved. It was all there, and there was nothing the girl could do but recall the world, both worlds, that she saw in different shapes and forms. She even coerced some visions forward unwillingly, out of the thin dips and crevices of her mind. Why would you want to remember a nightmare? That was a question upon her lips at every second past every moment her head would touch a pillow or wandered through the diversions of everyday monotony.
Rose remembered the dark. But over time, she had grown to accept it.
I am watching her now, as we speak, lying there on her bed in the quaint, one-story house, listening to one of Sabastian Bach’s many symphonies. She finds wonders in the rhythms and hums along with every passing note.
She sits up though and looks around, although I doubt she can see me. I am pressed firmly within the cracks of the closet door, ever watching, and ever protecting. The look on her face is sad and thoughtful. Rose has those moments, sometimes. She sits there and hurts for the one that gave her this blessing, this life. She wonders if Serenity is alive and if there was more she could have done to save her.
Those thoughts dig at her in moments of bliss as she reflects on that gift.
Clouds boil and collect outside of the window as Rose sits up in her bed. I watch from a safe distance as she walks to the full-length mirror hanging from her bedroom door. She moves to fix her hair and brush off her brightly colored dress.
Rose puts on her lip-gloss. She kisses her favorite animal on her glass menagerie. She puts her music on pause and lets the silence wash over the room before turning to the mirror for one last and final check.
Things will only get worse from here, I can assure you. Serenity and the girl have caused a rip between the two worlds, none of which could have been foreseen. I can only hope that things do not start to trickle through.
So, I will ask you a question and you must be certain when you answer. Your life could be bliss. You could live in the world you call home, lying to your soul about the happiness that surrounds you. This could be your sanctuary. But knowledge and curiosity always surpass what you should know would be best for you. Ignorance. Lay in it. Bathe in it. Clothe yourselves in it to protect you from the storm. Eat it. Fill your bellies with the fortitude of obliviousness. Be sane. Be safe.
There are those who will heed this warning, and to them, I’ll say goodbye.
To those of you who do not, I implore you to reconsider. You will not enjoy this.
The girl looking back at Rose in the mirror makes both her and I stop and stare. A deep and almost perfect reflection of Rose, though the eyes are tired and the dress is tattered and worn. Dark circles show under her eyes and dried blood can be seen on her extremities.
There sitting on her shoulder was a moth with wings the color of fire. It sits there softly as the reflection of the girl stares back. Rose puts her hand to her mouth, stifling a brief call of morose relief.
As one girl puts her hand to the glass, so does another. When Serenity and Rose’s hands flatten against the surface in a near perfect reflection, Rose begins to cry.
Do you wish to continue?
Author’s Note
There are people in this world that have encountered monsters. Maybe not of mythology or the beasts of lore, but those in the reality our world has made for itself. Those that cause acts of an appalling nature that leaves behind holes and scars that never completely heal. I have known several of those particular kind of victims.
What I came to learn was that, in the process of trying to move past the trauma, attempting to cope and live with the P.T.S.D. that sinks its claws into their souls, many have a feeling of true loss. I was told once that the worst part about living through those experiences was the heartbreaking realization that they believe, feel it deep in their bones, that they lost a piece of themselves. How painful it must be to suppress, or even forget, the best parts of who you are? They felt as if it was stolen from them.
This is a way to tell those out there personally dealing with those scars, trauma, depression, or feelings of loss that in the end, when you feel you are no longer whole, that pieces or chunks have been ripped away, that there is one beautiful truth that lives in the deepest crevices of our reality. So, listen close. Engrave this on your heart. No matter where you lost the better pieces of your selves, you can always find yourself in the end. Nothing is lost forever…
KM Barkley was born in 1988 in Dallas, Texas and currently resides in Lexington, Kentucky. He lives with his wife in the bluegrass working as an Executive Recruiter and Freelance Marketing Writer. His passion for reading, literature, and writing surfaced amidst the monotony of required school reading through his rebellion against ‘the mold’ of boring and forced traditions that ruins the potential joy of literature for so many. His parents raised him on Shakespear and C.S. Lewis at a young age, never screening or denying a book that he found interesting. By the age of five, he was reading full novels. By the age of eight, he discovered ‘IT’ by Stephen King (and he completely believes that this screwed up his life forever). Stephen King, Jim Butcher, Patrick Rothfuss, and many others fueled the desire to create worlds and stories. With his wife’s never-failing encouragement, he chose to chase the dream. He currently lives in Lexington, Kentucky and you can find him on Twitter (@writebarkley) or on the Facebook (Legion of the Weird).
Copyright 2017 KM Barkley
KM Barkley, The Hollows
