19 Mar Burn, Burn, Burn…
Burn, Burn, Burn…
Rampant murder scenes and dreams flood her mind. The clock is ticking, which is a sickening sound like that sound when you hear your heartbeat through the pillow at night. She’s writing down her feelings of despair on crisp white paper. Written in red pen, it reminds her of the bloodshed on the news and in her visionary brain. News of grit and death, an American dream gone wrong. And she knows the future is uncertain.
Beauty is forever removed and this young girl feels a rage inside her. Embers and fiery intentions. This room is a capsule of black, the walls are charcoal, there’s no vibrancy or warmth. Even her skin is colder than most. Her heart isn’t a warming glow, but is a vessel that is only there to keep her alive. She’s human, well they say she is. A weird one, an extraordinary powerhouse.
Pulling legs off insects is a pastime. Dreaming of dismemberment also a fixture in a head wired incorrectly. Blood sucking vampires collide with phantoms in her thoughts, breaking bones a sound she adores. No one knows if she’s an alien or a cursed child. No one knows what she’s battling. It could be against poltergeists, manifestations of the worst kind.
A light shines through the darkness as a door swings open. A woman stands there swaying. She’s intoxicated…
‘What you doing in the dark?
‘Tell me what you’re doing sitting in the complete darkness.’
Behind the woman there is a man. He begins to laugh.
‘Leave the weirdo.’
Lucy looks on at these two drunk degenerates. They’re smirking at her, and this only adds to her rage.
‘Lucy, tell me why you’re sitting in the darkness?’
‘She hasn’t got any friends, she’s weird.’
Lucy has felt detached from her mother for years. A torrent of lies and terrible ignorance has broken their relationship. Only once has she felt love for her mother. The time they went and picked flowers and spoke. Now her mother’s a loose cannon, throwing empty bottles at the walls, awaiting a reaction from them. The tides haven’t changed, optimism is a demoted feeling, and Lucy may as well drown out the voices that are fired at her.
Lucy refuses to follow her mother’s frantic outburst. She sits and gazes into the eyes of her dolls. They aren’t demonic or alive, but Lucy believes she can bring them to life. Both of these neglecting people who are supposed to guide Lucy are mocking her, ridiculing her color of hair, her body structure, and her dreams. They stand like they’re on pedestals, slurring and pointing.
Lucy closes her eyes. Her blood fizzes, her eyes turn from the beautiful, subtle, color of blue, into an angry red. She fixates on the pair of bullies in her sight and smiles. The lifeless dolls start to emerge and begin to be animated. They’re Lucy’s defensive mechanism, they’re her soldiers with gruesome intentions.
The man and woman are perplexed by this. They stand and freeze at the spot. Lucy controls these dolls of terror. Some carry scissors, some with hairpins, and others with matches and lighters. Doomsday is evident and they’re ready to pounce at the frightened twosome.
A doll throws a pair of scissors at the man. They plunge into his stomach. The woman screams beside him. As the dolls throw their weapons, Lucy lifts a red pen with her mind and writes on the mirror ‘Enjoy Your Deaths’. Both the man and woman bellow and grovel.
‘We’re sorry Lucy, please don’t do this.’
The victims whimper in panic and pain. Their lives are in ruin. Their futures will be conducted in hell, the flames, the torture, the laughter.
The dolls sing a symphony. Lucy stands and points at the people who rubbished her abilities. Throughout her life she has been belittled and scorned. These powers she has possessed for years, but it is this moment they arise from the depths of her soul.
She picks up a hairpin and plunges it in her mother’s eye. She’s in agony and she can’t move. The room lights up and sparkles. The walls bleed, the windows smash. Lucy is in control. Nothing can stop her from ridding herself of the sorrow.
The room is a chamber now. A torture chamber. Lucy gravitates towards the smashed window and stares on at the stars. She praises their beauty. These concise objects.
Lucy clicks her fingers.
The bodies in front of her are stuck in a hellfire. Flames burn through their skin at a rapid pace. Bones show and break, the house catches the glow.
An evil act has taken place. But Lucy is free…
Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist from Scotland. His work has appeared online and in print. He also loves to write dark poetry and fiction.