© Dec. 1, 2018. All Rights Reserved.
It all occurred one year ago, 72 minutes before sunrise in a rustic graveyard. This eerie environment was like the bearer of thunderstorms. A thunderstorm occurred a couple of seconds after it was drizzling, and it was drizzling outside for approximately 10 minutes. It was pouring rain and an anonymous male was soaked and wet. He wore a black knitted beanie, a black ski mask, black leather, unbuttoned trench coat over a black t-shirt, a black, leather belt with studded spikes, blue jeans, and tawny, suede hunting boots. His partner in crime was a female dressed in all black attire; she wore a black beanie as well, black face paint, a zipped up, black hooded, leather jacket, black jeans, and black ankle boots.
It was their Valentine’s Day and quite possibly the most explosive night of their lives. While staring at a tombstone of Claudia Ampitini (who was born in 1814 and died in 1846 with a question mark at the end due to her case of being kidnapped and unfound), earth worms pop out of the ferruginous mud, which is mixed with gold sand. One thing is for sure, Claudia is deceased now. Her epitaph read, “You’re in a better place now and will never be forgotten.” His partner in crime passed him a silver shovel while she firmly held a black one in her right hand.
He said, “It freezing out here. Hurry up and help me dig.” “You’re the boss,” she said.
Both him and her began digging, removing dirt from the surface as gales blew the dirt the opposite direction. Facing away from the wind with squinted eyes, he eyed at his partner in crime from his peripheral vision. Ironically, she chuckled finding humor in the most odd moment.
“Have any fears,” he asked.
While proceeding to dig, she said, “Since you asked so politely, sir. I have astrapophobia. It’s the fear of lightning. Whenever I heard thunder, I’d always accompany my parents while they were asleep.”
Ironically, the conversation didn’t go as expected, so he said, “You have a calm demeanor to be afraid of lightning. You’re pulling my leg, right about now.”
She said, “I’m sober. I cross my heart…”
He interrupted, “And hope to die.”
1 hour and 35 minutes pass by and they both unearthed evidence of a black casket. Grime is now covered on their clothes.
“Alright, we did it,” she shouted.
“Sssshhh,” he signaled for her to be silent, then grabbed a custom-made, rectangular device, which is beside a red claw hammer from out of a black, leather duffle bag. His partner opened the casket wide, which left him room to throw the device inside. Thus, she closed the casket. They placed their shovels inside the duffle bag. He zipped up the bag, carried it, then they both ran away toward a black pickup truck as an explosion occurred at the gravesite.
After tossing the duffle bag in the back seat, he entered the driver’s seat while his partner lowered her haunches in the passenger’s seat. They both closed the front doors together. He inserted his car key into the ignition, moved the gearstick to “Neutral” position, twisted the ignition key to the car, put his foot on the (accelerator) gas pedal, then drove the vehicle at 60 miles per hour. Gradually, he turned the steering wheel to the right while speeding down the gloomy road.
45 Minutes Later
Gleefully, she poses with a black, laced bra in her right hand.
“We’re returning that,” he says.
She says, “Since when did you become a good guy? You wouldn’t rat me out.”
After sucking away the forensic evidence of sweetness from his sore neck, she left him a hickey, while whispering in his sensitive ears as if her breaths give life to trees. Her ethereal voice was like a maestro, which can cease a thousand outbursts and salve a thousand more wounds. Her words were the following: “You return this bra, then you return me.” He certainly didn’t want to return her.
1 Year Later
In the depths of a gloomy basement where gossamer webs multiply, there’s blood stains on the deteriorated, plaster wall as well as the cracked, white, undusted tiled floor. It’s a grueling place where hope lingers and Satan is perfectly content. Questions are to be permanently forgotten, for the relentlessly excruciating pain placed upon the innocent victims is too much to bear. The temperature has to be approximately 145 degrees, which causes perspiration, dehydration, fatigue, lightheadedness, confusion, slurred speech, hallucinations, and last but not least, overheating. Besides the bodies cooking in the basement, there’s the awful, repugnant, yet distinct smell of blood and toxic waste mixed with burning sulfur. Males and females add an unforgettable, shrilling scream till their last breath.
From a bird’s eye view, his view departs. His eyes widen like the sea, then he darts his head toward his buddy (Sadie) sitting slumped down on a black, leather couch with two bags of quality marijuana resting on her belly. On the rectangular, glass table in the living room, beside a milk-white paper plate with several onion bhajis, there’s a heart-shaped box of chocolates with chocolate-covered strawberries, and truffles ranging from caramel-covered truffles, dark chocolate truffles, white chocolate truffles, milk chocolate truffles, couverture chocolate truffles, and cream chocolate truffles. Beside the box of chocolates is an ashtray with a cigarette in it and a thin, handcrafted wine glass, which is half full of sweet red wine.
He sits here, eyeing his friend who everyone seems to think he’s in a romantic relationship with, but they both say it’s simply platonic. At the mutual age of 21-years-old, he’s known Sadie ever since he was in kindergarten boarding school in Sana’a, Yemen, smacking two used chalkboard erasers together at the speed of light, while she would color in her coloring book. As other pupils watched, the first words he ever said to her was, “Where you from” as if all girls are from another planet. Maybe she was from another planet, but it’s also possible that she wasn’t born in the same state. Already, he knew how to start a conversation with a girl.
Perhaps now, she wants to suck on his friend’s tobacco penis just to receive more narcotics for a quick sense of relief. Such a wild occurrence may make him want a freak accident to happen to her. What if one morning, they walk down the road and he pushes her from behind as a scare tactic, which causes her right pupil to snap a branch that was durable for 3 years?
He heads to the immaculate bathroom, opening up the bottom, mahogany drawer where there’s a bluish-green opened box of cotton swabs, a small ocean blue box of baking soda, a neon green can of shaving cream, a white, transparent bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a white, multi-purpose, anti-bacterial bathroom cleaner spray can, a four stacked rows of folded new, white towels, an orange, large box of steel, wool soap pads, a purple blow dryer, black hair clippers, and several rows of toilet paper. After utilizing the silver soap dispenser and turning on the hot water, he grabs a white towel, facing the mirror temporarily. He then opens up the medicine cabinet, (which is full of cosmetics) taking out an orange, transparent pill capsule full of pills. Parallel to the toilet is a magazine rack that’s above a detachable, wall-mounted, white dresser, a wall-mounted, stainless, silver dry towel rack with several, white, dry towels, beside a roll of toilet paper on a toilet paper holder, a small, stainless, silver trash bin, and sepia brown shower curtains.
Alone, he walks on the balcony and sits on a brown, wool hammock with a handgun pressed to the right side of his cranium. He pulls the trigger, shooting himself, dead. Blood splatters on the patio doors. His best friend turns around, utterly stunned. She makes a shrieking scream.
Isaiah Lawrence 