The Dock
Old photographs from 2009 flew across my face as the wind picked up and I could barely see what was in front of me. Pictures of Barack Obama’s inauguration, when there was a time for optimism a time where change was happening. It’s difficult sometimes, for me I can only look at history- the past as a naïve child. A little boy who hasn’t grasped all there is to know, no street knowledge, no basic instinct. All of his thoughts ignorantly blissful to a state of hopeless nirvana, a hopeful future is for certain now there’s a new president, we don’t have anything, not a single thing to worry about. It wasn’t expected to say for the least, no one could of foreseen the horror of the worlds forsaken adulthood; my, adulthood. The irony became clear, fears of climate change thrown back at us as if fate thought it was hysterical to mock us as we tried to redeem ourselves of humanities past mistakes. Giant tidal waves and out of control thunderstorms happened more regularly than ever in the planets life time but it seemed not to be an issue anymore, we were caught up with something far greater, far more menacing. It felt as if were to be covered in this blanket of darkness till we died with the Earth. I only hoped for some certainty of our lives not my own sake but for the children who were still being birthed amongst the carnage and chaos that was being spawned nearly everyday. I remember my last thought before the worse happened, ‘tomorrow I’ll be able to do better’. Then it happened.
It was February, I remember because it was 3 days until my Dads birthday I was going to surprise the old man with a box set of Star Treck, I was strangely proud that he was abit of a geek and was probably one of the only things I could relate to him with. The Christmas just gone didn’t feel too great as I felt I was getting too old for the gimmicks of tinsel and plastic Christmas trees. I could see myself being a grumpy old sod for being more excited about the upcoming presidential inauguration, Americas first black president, I mean Fucking hell. White working class country having a president from the people that they once enslaved!? That’s massive. I digress, things were good, there was hope in the air, optimism in the blood.. I was working full time as a ship engineer building up old boats by the coast. Just lately work was getting thinner, there were less people wanting their boats repaired because of the credit crunch and I wasn’t really trained for anything else.
I remember working on an old sail boat, it was getting late I remember seeing the sun seeming to change the color of the sky to a deep evanescent red, it looked as if the planet was being set alight like a tennis ball covered in deodorant. I heard the usual noises of the coast, birds flying in the distant air, waves crashing against the shore, the sound of the paint brush against the wood of the boat, my heavy breathing, the smoke blowing in and out from the roll up I was smoking. There was this one noise, it was faint but far out of place it sent shivers through my arms, my heart slowed down as if prompting me to listen again for it. The noise, it was a squeal, a cutting squeal what made you cold. I stood up and looked around, a bird? It was too high, too in pain, it was suffering whatever the noise was. I looked around again and I saw a dead cat at my feet, there were a lot of strays around this area, but I hadn’t even heard it through the scattered nails and screws what I had dropped. Then I knew, the noise must have been the cat it made sense to think about it, the strays would always make eerie uncomfortable groans when they were dying. The night had made me tired and paranoid.
The sun had fully set now, I hadn’t finished the sail and had left my key for the shed at my Fathers. As I was about to shut shop, the squeal came again. I grabbed the torch from my satchel, and scrutinised everywhere I could, again the squeal. I felt the noise getting louder, like a swarm, I could feel a presence around the dock, I think it was around this time that I stopped thinking the squealing came from the dying cats. I stopped caring what the noise was, I was starting to think that I wish I hadn’t cared what it was, the cat probably wanted to know as well and look what happened to him. I tried to make it back to my jeep but someone was stopping me, I couldn’t see through the pitch darkness. I was polite, if not slightly panic stricken ‘sorry mate, could ya just move?’. Nothing. ‘Excuse me mate! I need you to shift!!’ I pushed him, I don’t think I had the patience when I was hearing squealing and having a guy not speaking or moving for me. His body, it was cold. I wasn’t expecting the clammy coldness of his hand, it felt dead. I wanted to push him again but I was finding it hard to breath, the salt air was for the first time in my life making it hard for me to breath. I composed myself, ‘Sorry. It’s late, my son's waiting for me at home and I promised I’d be back before his bedtime, if I seemed rude I’m just rushed. We alright mate?’. Nothing. ‘Alright then buddy, have it your way’. I pushed passed him, and got into my car, I had had a long day, my mind was losing its focus I realised I could just be hallucinating a little, it was fine. I knew I was hallucinating, that for me was a good thing.
The engine wasn’t starting, the battery was flat and I was getting seriously agitated at nearly everything. The squeal, I kept hearing that bone shattering squeal. Like a swarm of angry locus waiting for a sign to be apart of another plague, a squeal, like a hoard of rats being killed off instantaneously. There was a shadow creeping up against me, it was the mute. I lived a mile away, it wasn’t too far to walk I was more concerned about the mute following me, there wasn’t a lot of head cases around here, but you knew em’ when you saw em’. I didn’t want him anywhere near my son, so I tried to talk to him again, but it was like talking to ghost. I walked abit further, but every block that I walked I kept seeing his shadow around the turning I had just came. I picked up my phone for the non emergency police. Nothing. I was alone and too close to my house that I couldn’t go any closer without this maniac knowing where I lived. I picked up a bar laying close to the wall, it looked like it was used to support a small tree, but really solid, I started to sweat. I was using it to scare him off, I was using it to scare him away, then he’ll go.
The mute crept up like his leg had a wooden steak through it, I kept trying to scare him away but it wasn’t doing any good. So I hit him, I took all my rage all my hate and launched at him with no mercy, it felt very good. I felt a carnage flowing through my fingers, I was hating myself, I had truly been a murderer, the man’s skull in twp pieces, blood trickling down the street drains. The man’s hand flitching and moving ever slightly, it made me feel godly, Like I had power, power to take a life away. It was for protection I know, but it does give you a thirst for murder, it creates a rational sense for killing and it just feels right and natural. My hands covered in blood felt like they were being bathed in golden liquid, my merciless actions granting my nectar no mortal could have otherwise, then he moved. It wasn’t just his hand, it was his legs, his torso, his mouth. I felt he hadn’t spoken the entire time, but the squeals, it was him I could hear the squeals coming from his mouth.
I remember thinking ‘tomorrow I’ll be able to do better’, before I ran away. Each corner I could hear the squeals, there must have been so many of the mutes. I felt like I was paralysed, there really wasn’t a way out of this, my body stopped working, my mind stopped thinking. I ran away, away from the squeals, I ran as fast as I could, the oceans noises seemed fainter and fainter as I rushed to be separated from the noises. I couldn’t see where I was headed, then I remembered about my son, I wasn’t thinking properly, I ran so fast. I left my son in the middle of the mutes. I ran back then I went blank, I awoke and it was bright, there was blood on the streets, bodies covering the pavements and entrails spread across the roads. I ran to my house, to my son, I looked for him everywhere, he wasn’t in his room, his covers had been disturbed. I was frantic, last night I killed, then the killed became killers.
There I noticed blood, dripping slowly from the wardrobe, I opened it to find a small boys body covered up in my old bomber jacket, cold, still and curled up. My son, he was dead.
The Mutes were unstoppable I remember seeing that man break down in his hands. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an image so tragic since the war of the Mutes began. I started to think for a while what would happen if the world stopped bringing these things to life, they weren’t the undead they were just creatures made from anything from mud to water to cats to dogs to humans. No one was sure of what made them who they were, you could be sure that you were safe with your best friend but the next second you could be getting bitten/stabbed/mutilated by him/her the moment your back is turned. It became uncontrollable about twenty years ago when I saw him that morning clutching his son outside his house. I was only 10, it feels like it was only so short of a time ago the sun was dawning and there was a staleness of air. It was truly a new day, a time for a beginning, but it was our fate which led us into abhorrent torment. They were mannequin-esq their eyes always blank, their lips never open, the faces always expressionless
It was February, I remember because it was 3 days until my Dads birthday I was going to surprise the old man with a box set of Star Treck, I was strangely proud that he was abit of a geek and was probably one of the only things I could relate to him with. The Christmas just gone didn’t feel too great as I felt I was getting too old for the gimmicks of tinsel and plastic Christmas trees. I could see myself being a grumpy old sod for being more excited about the upcoming presidential inauguration, Americas first black president, I mean Fucking hell. White working class country having a president from the people that they once enslaved!? That’s massive. I digress, things were good, there was hope in the air, optimism in the blood.. I was working full time as a ship engineer building up old boats by the coast. Just lately work was getting thinner, there were less people wanting their boats repaired because of the credit crunch and I wasn’t really trained for anything else.
I remember working on an old sail boat, it was getting late I remember seeing the sun seeming to change the color of the sky to a deep evanescent red, it looked as if the planet was being set alight like a tennis ball covered in deodorant. I heard the usual noises of the coast, birds flying in the distant air, waves crashing against the shore, the sound of the paint brush against the wood of the boat, my heavy breathing, the smoke blowing in and out from the roll up I was smoking. There was this one noise, it was faint but far out of place it sent shivers through my arms, my heart slowed down as if prompting me to listen again for it. The noise, it was a squeal, a cutting squeal what made you cold. I stood up and looked around, a bird? It was too high, too in pain, it was suffering whatever the noise was. I looked around again and I saw a dead cat at my feet, there were a lot of strays around this area, but I hadn’t even heard it through the scattered nails and screws what I had dropped. Then I knew, the noise must have been the cat it made sense to think about it, the strays would always make eerie uncomfortable groans when they were dying. The night had made me tired and paranoid.
The sun had fully set now, I hadn’t finished the sail and had left my key for the shed at my Fathers. As I was about to shut shop, the squeal came again. I grabbed the torch from my satchel, and scrutinised everywhere I could, again the squeal. I felt the noise getting louder, like a swarm, I could feel a presence around the dock, I think it was around this time that I stopped thinking the squealing came from the dying cats. I stopped caring what the noise was, I was starting to think that I wish I hadn’t cared what it was, the cat probably wanted to know as well and look what happened to him. I tried to make it back to my jeep but someone was stopping me, I couldn’t see through the pitch darkness. I was polite, if not slightly panic stricken ‘sorry mate, could ya just move?’. Nothing. ‘Excuse me mate! I need you to shift!!’ I pushed him, I don’t think I had the patience when I was hearing squealing and having a guy not speaking or moving for me. His body, it was cold. I wasn’t expecting the clammy coldness of his hand, it felt dead. I wanted to push him again but I was finding it hard to breath, the salt air was for the first time in my life making it hard for me to breath. I composed myself, ‘Sorry. It’s late, my son's waiting for me at home and I promised I’d be back before his bedtime, if I seemed rude I’m just rushed. We alright mate?’. Nothing. ‘Alright then buddy, have it your way’. I pushed passed him, and got into my car, I had had a long day, my mind was losing its focus I realised I could just be hallucinating a little, it was fine. I knew I was hallucinating, that for me was a good thing.
The engine wasn’t starting, the battery was flat and I was getting seriously agitated at nearly everything. The squeal, I kept hearing that bone shattering squeal. Like a swarm of angry locus waiting for a sign to be apart of another plague, a squeal, like a hoard of rats being killed off instantaneously. There was a shadow creeping up against me, it was the mute. I lived a mile away, it wasn’t too far to walk I was more concerned about the mute following me, there wasn’t a lot of head cases around here, but you knew em’ when you saw em’. I didn’t want him anywhere near my son, so I tried to talk to him again, but it was like talking to ghost. I walked abit further, but every block that I walked I kept seeing his shadow around the turning I had just came. I picked up my phone for the non emergency police. Nothing. I was alone and too close to my house that I couldn’t go any closer without this maniac knowing where I lived. I picked up a bar laying close to the wall, it looked like it was used to support a small tree, but really solid, I started to sweat. I was using it to scare him off, I was using it to scare him away, then he’ll go.
The mute crept up like his leg had a wooden steak through it, I kept trying to scare him away but it wasn’t doing any good. So I hit him, I took all my rage all my hate and launched at him with no mercy, it felt very good. I felt a carnage flowing through my fingers, I was hating myself, I had truly been a murderer, the man’s skull in twp pieces, blood trickling down the street drains. The man’s hand flitching and moving ever slightly, it made me feel godly, Like I had power, power to take a life away. It was for protection I know, but it does give you a thirst for murder, it creates a rational sense for killing and it just feels right and natural. My hands covered in blood felt like they were being bathed in golden liquid, my merciless actions granting my nectar no mortal could have otherwise, then he moved. It wasn’t just his hand, it was his legs, his torso, his mouth. I felt he hadn’t spoken the entire time, but the squeals, it was him I could hear the squeals coming from his mouth.
I remember thinking ‘tomorrow I’ll be able to do better’, before I ran away. Each corner I could hear the squeals, there must have been so many of the mutes. I felt like I was paralysed, there really wasn’t a way out of this, my body stopped working, my mind stopped thinking. I ran away, away from the squeals, I ran as fast as I could, the oceans noises seemed fainter and fainter as I rushed to be separated from the noises. I couldn’t see where I was headed, then I remembered about my son, I wasn’t thinking properly, I ran so fast. I left my son in the middle of the mutes. I ran back then I went blank, I awoke and it was bright, there was blood on the streets, bodies covering the pavements and entrails spread across the roads. I ran to my house, to my son, I looked for him everywhere, he wasn’t in his room, his covers had been disturbed. I was frantic, last night I killed, then the killed became killers.
There I noticed blood, dripping slowly from the wardrobe, I opened it to find a small boys body covered up in my old bomber jacket, cold, still and curled up. My son, he was dead.
The Mutes were unstoppable I remember seeing that man break down in his hands. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an image so tragic since the war of the Mutes began. I started to think for a while what would happen if the world stopped bringing these things to life, they weren’t the undead they were just creatures made from anything from mud to water to cats to dogs to humans. No one was sure of what made them who they were, you could be sure that you were safe with your best friend but the next second you could be getting bitten/stabbed/mutilated by him/her the moment your back is turned. It became uncontrollable about twenty years ago when I saw him that morning clutching his son outside his house. I was only 10, it feels like it was only so short of a time ago the sun was dawning and there was a staleness of air. It was truly a new day, a time for a beginning, but it was our fate which led us into abhorrent torment. They were mannequin-esq their eyes always blank, their lips never open, the faces always expressionless
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