Sun Down Horrors

The swirling fog of missing details and unfamiliar thoughts coated my brain with a mélange of colors and smells I could not place. The place I used to keep those simple markers that oriented me to the world no longer existed and was nothing but candy-apple murals of unknown voices, smells and sights. Telling the difference between real existence and some cosmic delusion was slowly losing any significance. I could be dead. I could be dreaming. I could be caught in one of God’s practical jokes. I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was this gut-wrenching nausea.

I scanned the horizon, noting the tan sand dunes and gray-green marsh grasses. The dull ache on the side of my head was far less important than the intense feeling of falling from reality and landing nowhere. The stickiness of the blood on my fingers annoyed me a little.

I brooded over the predominant situation for a few seconds. Had I, in a moment of incoherence, already slipped into the ever after? I imagined it felt much like this. No street of gold or all-consuming flames. Just a dreary existence stretching on into the eternal night, cold and lonely.

The smell of salt and dead fish penetrated my nose. Screaming, garbled, and incoherent sounds pierced my eardrums. My stomach churned and the sick feeling in the pit of my belly turned to eruptions. Time and place existed as a guest, some evil gamer playing on me for the enjoyment of some distant and malevolent creator of the worlds. I didn’t remember the dusk. Nor did I remember how I could have come by this place.

The fiery sun had pierced the ocean hours ago, sinking into a hiss as the blue waters swallowed the orange ball. The dead body lying next to me reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. I wanted to leave that horrid spot, but the dune grass hid me from, well, I don’t know. My head pounded out a sullen beat. A slow bead of sweat ran down the side of my sun-kissed face. Flies relentlessly attacked my blood-soaked shoulder.

Muffled, retching screams rolled over the weed-covered dune, slowly dragging me deeper into this crazy world. I slithered through the grass on my belly, over the warm, sandy surface in search of those ghastly growls and morbid caterwauls.

Craning my neck over the edge revealed a dim, moonlit beach and a grisly view of a lunatic impaling a knife in the neck of a beautiful woman. His raucousness led his wet lips to hers in a violent sign of his determination. Struggling to free herself from the awful man, she slapped his face in one last defiant act. The two rolled in the sand, leaving red stains over the ground and covering the two in a white sandy powder.

Her attempt to escape hastened his desire to plunge the blade deep into the velvet tissue of her belly. He cut a narrow slash in her alabaster skin, bringing a crimson stain to her delicate belly. Slowly, the red stream rolled down her abdomen and dripped on her feet. I watched it all in Technicolor, as if it was on the television.

Captivated by the morbid scene, I followed the action as each slash led to another. He kissed her arms and shoulders. A quick flick of his knife cut her bikini top from her chest. Her young breasts bounced once before settling on her chest.

I held my breath, fearful that any noise I made would alert the old man to my presence. He seemed consumed in his gory ritual, but one never knows what would bring a man like that from his tasks. I did not want to be the encore performance. Too scared to scream, and frozen in the grass, I watched his practiced moves and ceremonial methods play out over her body. He had done this before.

He ripped her pant bottoms from her ass with his hand. She bit his cheek, sending blood running down on his chest. He only laughed, forcing another knife wound to her thigh. The fight’s progression brought both of them into the sand. She struggled, but he had won this battle. She moaned and cried, but her fate soon became reality as he ended his dance with her with one last slice. She lay helpless in the sand, bleeding, but too weary to continue to fight.

The moonlight cast a shadow on the poor woman as the old man stood over her admiring his handiwork. He smiled at his masterpiece of gore. Rolling her to her belly, the old man slipped his pants to his ankles. His moment of final satisfaction was only moments away.

Now was the time to make my move. Bile-filled nausea built up in my stomach, making my progress slow and stilted. He still didn’t notice. I was upon him long before he even knew I was there. I grabbed his neck and wrenched the girl loose from his arms, his pants still at his knees and his turgid member bobbing and weaving, as if a formidable weapon.

He swung the knife wildly at my head, missing my temple by only a fraction of an inch. I felt the blade cut across my shoulder, leaving a stinging sensation running along my whole side. Sweat began to pour down my face and shoulders as a feeling of nausea engulfed my entire body.

I couldn’t stop now. I had committed myself to the girl’s salvation, and nothing I did would release me from that promise. The hitting, kicking and the stabbing, although relentless, were part and parcel of what I had set my mind on doing. The hate in that old man’s eyes, instead of instilling fear in me, invigorated me.