Basil Page #5

• Short story
• Horror

								


“Kill…me…Leo,” she softly choked out, using the last of her voice. 

I regret not doing it, but I couldn’t. I let her smash her skull in, and closed my eyes so tight, sobbing against her curved back. I heard a guttural, shaky scream from a ways behind me, and somehow managed to rise to my feet, looking down once more at my mother, with a soft smile on her face, eyes dead and glossy. 

When I looked up, I saw Lyle in front of an untouched plate, head in his hands, pulling at his dirty blonde hair. Thumps, soft retches, and light crying echoed through the springtime night. I tried to shut it out as I walked towards our leader, legs as heavy as cinder blocks.

When I reached him, he looked up at me, eyes red and puffy, lip trembling, and teeth chattering. It was then that I realized the problem with his eyes before the speech was a ghost of his past tears. He grasped my wrist gently, and opened his mouth to speak.

“I-It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Please forgive me, it wasn’t supposed to be this way…” he sobbed, eyes full of tears, horror, and a deep, impenetrable guilt. 

I took shallow, quivering breaths with him, and crashed down to my knees before him, looking up at the man we all praised. I felt an anger inside of me that I never thought I could feel, after quickly glancing at the concrete garden of corpses that lay in the space we used to dine in. I think anger like this always accompanies a deep, deep love. I knew that I would always love him, even if he blew my whole life into hundreds of brittle, pointed shards.

“I’m just a man, Leo. A foolish, cowardly man. I thought this would bring us all together, in something bigger and more beautiful than…than this life…please forgive me. Oh Lord, please forgive me…” he said, eyes raining. 

I cried as I looked up at his pallid face. The adrenaline was almost gone, as I started to smell the sour, sick scent wafting all over. Lyle bit his lip so hard it could bleed. The simmering rage I had felt before started to settle, as I saw someone I loved crying before me. Someone who was just a man, terrified and pathetic, begging for forgiveness. In my heart I knew that he believed every word he had told us all. I still felt his love for me wrap around my body, like a warm blanket. 

“My name was Kenny. I was just a scared child from Fresno. I dreamed too big. This is…this was not what I had planned. I’m so sorry…this is not peace. There is nothing…oh God, there’s nothing, Leo. I know now, there is nothing…” 

I clenched my teeth into my cheeks, and cried, tears gathering in my eyelashes as the searing pain from my hand kicked in.

“There’s not nothing. There can’t be nothing,” I said. 

At that moment, I believed that to be true. Through all of the vile terror, I imagined sprawling green pastures, scented blossoms and crackling wood, and songs from the mouths of my family stretching out through the wind. I imagined my father’s hand on my back, and Loretta cascaded in pink sunlight, smiling brightly, hair dancing in the breeze. Lyle, or Kenny now, reached to a place somewhere under his small table, and pulled out a pistol, grasped in his soft hands. 

“I hope you’re right. Please…please send me to them. If it’s possible…please, Leo…” he said, shakily passing the gun to me. 

With my good hand, I accepted, still crying so hard I thought my face would wash away like a drawing in the sand. 

“I’ll be all alone,” I squeaked, lips pressing together in a pathetic frown. 

“You’ll never be alone,” Lyle said softly, as he pulled me up to my feet. 

I believed him once again, knowing that that was the only thing I could do to regain even a fine hair of my sanity. I raised my arm, gun in hand, as Lyle suddenly stood up on two unsteady feet and grasped my face gently in his hands. He placed a tender, love filled kiss on my forehead, wiping my dark hair from my eyes. 

“I love you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, my boy. I’m so sorry for my cowardice. Please live a fulfilling life,” he said, before sitting back down in his chair, legs quaking. 

I removed the safety from the small pistol he had given me. Lyle slowly closed his eyes, and leaned his moist forehead onto the tip, head hung low. Finger on the trigger, I pulled back and sprayed his blood and brains across the concrete from the back of his head. I let out another loud cry, once again falling to my knees, holding my head, trying to wipe my own tears. 

I tried not to look, but it was too difficult. I had this morbid yearning to see the faces of my family once again, even if they were twisted, stiff, and filthy with vomit, and thick red blood. I could barely take the smell as I finally stood to walk, and threw up bile onto my brown leather dress shoes. Walking through the concrete, I had to watch my step so as to not trample on any men, women, or children. God, the children. I saw Lisa’s pale corpse holding the girl who drew pictures with the other children tight to her chest, eyes squinted shut. I thank every force in this world that I didn’t see her face. I don’t think I could bear to see another dead, puke-soaked child. I saw my mother again, and leaned down to gently kiss her forehead as Lyle had done to mine, stroking her blonde hair.

Then I went to see Loretta. Her caved-in face was pressed against the pillar, warm blood still dripping off of her chin and onto the pavement. I choked back a cry and stroked her curls, muttering a slew of apologies to her broken frame and resting my head on her back, drenched in cold sweat. 

“I wish I had kissed you earlier. Years, months, even days earlier. I wish I could have held you once.” I whispered into her skin, arms softly wrapped around her. 

I had to get up at some point. I had to find the strength to break away from her body, and get on with my walking, because I knew that if I stayed for even a second longer, I would die of thirst or starvation right there, slumped beside her. I kissed her shoulder and stood up, heading towards the grass. My shoes squelched in the thick spots of wetness on the ground, and I tried to block it out the best I could. As I was starting to leave, I saw movement from the corner of my eye, a tablecloth gently ruffling from below. I kneeled down and pulled it back, revealing a pudgy, dead-eyed child, around four or five years of age. Lucas, the seamstress’ boy, sat crisscrossed under the table, blood on his tiny fingers and shirt. I reached my good hand out to him, and pulled him out from under there. He must not have eaten. I thanked whatever forces had blessed me; thanked Lyle for the gift of not having to be shrouded in loneliness any longer.

“I want to go home,” the little boy said, a tear rolling down his cheek. 

I squeezed his hand, and walked with him towards the grass, following the light emitting from the houses not too far from here. 

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes