Sunday, May 30, 2004

"To Sir, with love..." [ Part III in an unnamed story, still Copyrighted Mimmi ]

Roaring thunder rattled the windows in a beat up old trailer and the furious hail, that threatened to tear through the shoddy roof, had finally passed. Curtains were drawn to keep out lurking eyes, hiding in the sheltering night. The only light in the trailer came from a crackling fire. Standing next to it was a leather clad armchair, worn out by years of use and exposure to the fire. Gentle flames played a shadow game on the man slouching in it, dancing over rough hands gripping the armrest, sweeping across eyes darting about the room.

A gust of chilly wind forcibly seeped through the patched up walls, erasing any warmth that the fire could offer. Rubbing his knees the man pushed himself up, hissing as he stalked over to the door.


- Where is that boy ? My arthritis doesn't wait for him to get his sorry ass over here with that firewood.


He kicked it open and stepped outside, cursing the weather for being a nuisance to his deteriorating body. His temper didn't improve when he peered over at the pavilion that had been temporarily put up to keep the wood from getting drenched, and noted that it was empty. Save for the tree stump. Closing his eyes completely shut, he swore to himself that there would be hell to pay once he got his hands on that boy.
As if it wasn't bad enough that he constantly screwed up and was a public embarrassment. Now that pathetic weakling had begun to skip practice, and showed signs of becoming defiant. He would really have to lay down the line this time.

As he opened his eyes, lightning struck the trailer and the sound of impact made him jump. But what he saw as his vision regained focus, was more horrifying than any force of nature. It was the nightmare that had haunted and tormented his mind so many nights.

Standing in the pavilion was a clown; costume torn and bloody, a twisted mask covering the face; with an axe in the right hand. A thick red fluid travelled down the blade, falling off it like tears. The clown raised its left arm and waved gingerly with the fingers.


- No ! Noooo !, the man cried out desperately, holding his arms in front of him and backing up to the open door.


The mask nodded a silent reply, bringing down the left arm to grip the handle and put one foot forward. Pausing in movement, it tilted its head, as if reacting to some inaudible sound.

Seizing the opportunity the man threw himself at the open door, slammed it closed behind him, turned all the locks and continued to back away from it. He tripped over a rug and fell backwards. A choked scream escaped him as he scrambled over to the armchair. Tension had sharpened his senses; making every little noise a whisper from the grave, turning every shadow into a hand grasping for his soul; as he heard footsteps approaching the trailer.
When the first knock came, he shrivelled up and started to sob. It wasn't time for him to die yet, not here, not like this, not now. The knocking continued and became more violent. The man whimpered and covered his face with his hands, ready to scream out to the heavens to spare him, when a concerned voice called out from behind the door.


- Hello, Mr Petersen ? Are you in there ? It's me, Albert. Is everything alright ?


He slowly raised his head from his hands, staring at them in disbelief. 'Albert ?' Holding his breath, he forced himself to stand.


- Mr Petersen ? I got your firewood here, it was all spread out under that there Pavlov thing over there and so I figured I'd bring it in. Seeing as you're near crippled and all.


- Albert ?, the man croaked.

- Yes Mr Petersen ?


He exhaled sharply and took a moment to compose himself, before walking up to the window and looking out. It was Albert alright, standing on the doorstep with wood stacked up to his chin and a smile that measured equally to his stupidity. 'That inbred halfwit must've collected it and forgotten what he was meant to do with it', thought Mr Petersen as he unlocked the door and opened it.


- Well don't just stand there, the wood will get wet and then it'll be no use for me,
he barked.

- Yes sir ! And don't you worry about the rest, I'll be sure to bring it all in, Albert chirped as he walked by.

- What do you mean 'the rest' ? Isn't that all of it ? Mr Petersen suddenly felt a lump growing in his throat.

Albert, halfway over to the fire, turned and smiled even more.

- Oh no. There's plenty left out there, but don't you worry. It don't seem like the rain caught it, so it should be just fine.


He carried on stacking the wood next to the fireplace and commenting about the weather. But Mr Peterson wasn't listening. He was looking over at the pavilion, where wood was scattered everywhere and the axe set firmly into the tree stump.

---

Sorry about the horrible grammar and everything, I just wanted to get it out of Word *dies* If anyone wants to help me, by pointing out mistakes, please feel free to do so. Ugh.


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