This is just a one man, story I'm trying to adapt as a background to a character, in a story format!
The day was dead. Not just lifeless, but decaying. It was as though it had been hung up so that that the blood could drain out, and now it was trickling out over the sky, pooling on the horizon, staining the sun red. Disaffected clouds drifted by, unintentionally soaking up the crimson taint, but unable to stem the bleeding, the day had turned a baleful grey.
Darren squinted against the weary light, the aching in his muscles oozed over and through his joints, fooling his body into a kind of premature lethargy that should have only plagued the old and sickly. Assuring himself that he was neither afflicted by age nor disease, he continued, his body roaring in protest. He would not have entertained such thoughts had the circumstances been different. Darren, however, did not have the privilege of reviving the dead. The thin veneer of sanity that remained despite the solvent sight of his dead foster father, who would never return, was in denial at what it had witnessed. The whole thought shook Darren in a place he didn’t even believe in.
The event itself was burned into his memory, searing like an invasion upon his soul; something else he didn’t believe in. It was not hard to recall the bloated and disfigured body of Mr. Canderberry; he had almost sunk when he saw it. However he had been tempered into disbelief by his scepticism, and continued towards the now stagnant pool, where he had seen it. It, in fact was not the body he was carrying, but the ‘thing' that had risen from the pool like a spirit from the grave, and was describable only by its malevolence, which had been enough to throw Darren off his feet, the beast then had whispered towards him, its breath smelling like rancid almonds, and the air leaving little droplets on his cheeks that burned the blood in his skin. The acrid stench had burned in his eyes, causing him to screw them into tight balls of white heat. It had taken him a considerable time to recover, he could not tell how long. Darren had never owned a watch and was thus unable to tell the time, but once he had pealed the crust of spittle off his eyes and allowed his senses to return from the foetal position within his brain, he could see how the sun was now precariously balanced on the horizon. Darren saw that the fiend had receded back to whatever abyss had spawned it like blood flowing down a shower drain, allowing Darren to tentatively remove the body, warily dragging it from the pit the swimming pool had become.
Darren had found it difficult to even take the body out of the swimming pool, he felt paralyzed by a sense of loss that blocked his movements and feelings like an avalanche. But moreover because Mr. Canderberry was in no way a small man, in fact compared to Darren’s meagre frame he was a flabby glacier. Darren, despite this, felt obliged to carry him to help, whether a mortician or an exorcist would be more able to aid him, he didn’t know. He had sustained Darren through most of his adult life, given him shelter, food, a job; in short the man’s efforts had given Darren a life where he would not have had one. Darren was a bastard. He had come to terms with that fact back when he was still being bullied in the orphanage. Mr. Canderberry had acted like a father in many ways; more then a guardian, but far less, unfortunately, than any real parent. And now the only way Darren could repay the man was in his death, this solemn fact only strengthened his resolve.
Darren struggled him onto the man’s couch wrestling his legs into a horizontal position. Darren conceding against his scepticism, felt haunted by his surroundings though, the mortal possession of Mr Canderberry faded; Darren no longer felt the attunement they held with his former father. Darren thought he could feel the body’s muscles tightening under the sallow skin, he hastily released his hold on the corpse. Its eyes still glared, as though the evil in them was waiting for Darren to turn his back, look away or simply relax so it could uncurl and strike. Darren circled with an undue sense of fear at the now stone cold weight before him, as he moved towards the phone, treating the pallid lump of flesh as though it was a snake, reared and envenomed with malice. ‘It’s only the corpse of your foster father’, Darren told himself; somehow this was not comforting. Darren reached down and grasped the phone, relieved to have some contact with the sane world. Darren lifted it with, to him unnatural speed and rapidly tapped the buttons on the phone, glad to hear the nasal, high pitched voice of the operator on the other end. He told the operator as much as he cared to tell; of the incident that he knew had happened happen. He had come ‘home’ to find his foster father face down in his pool; suspicious as it sounded it was not as bad as what he had thought he had seen. Darren then relieved the phone by setting it back in its rightful place, when he had been told the ambulance was coming.
The ambulance drove along the overly gravelled drive, the tires sinking ever so slightly, pushing the gravel out from underneath the wheels. Darren noted that they had not bothered to sound their sirens; even they could tell how lifeless Mr. Canderberry was. Darren explained every detail of what had happened, and kept every detail of what had, most definitely, did not happened to himself. Inside was the only place he felt the information was safe. As always, anywhere else but with in, and Darren feared the things he saw would be danger to him, and previously his foster father; he had held secrets with in himself before and was no foreigner to skirting the truth. He had expected more questions, but was relieved when he was able to collapse in an exhausted excuse for what he expected to be rest; however it was nothing like sleep. Much like the habit of an animal, Darren slept outside the confines of the house, where in the norm, if anything could ever be so again, he felt safe, welcome. What it was now that disturbed him, he didn’t know, but his subconscious mind was open to whatever attack it had planned and as far as he could tell, he was loosing. The emotions that laid waste to Darren were not alien, but what ever it was that had invaded tore at his mind, warped the fragments it stole and then used them to plough with vehement pleasure through his psyche.
And thats it for now, I'm not posting this for comments specifically, so, y'know I might come back and edit it without you knowing
Split it up a bit more, easy to read na all that.
Linear Mode
