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Tales of Torment Contest
Honorable Mention
The Rockby Justin Holley
I am an author, a horror author to be more concise. As a generalization, many of my ilk, including myself more often than I care to admit, take a bit too much pride in our craft. We forget that fiction does not always correlate with real life. And vice versa, that sometimes truth is indeed stranger than fiction.
So is pain and suffering.
I wish now, of course, that I had taken her literally, hind sight always being crystal clear. In my defense, however, who the hell would have thought that the thing really existed? Hell, everyone I knew, including some very bright and intuitive people, thought it to be nothing more than a colorful metaphor for her own thought process—her own internal torment.
That line of thinking is just an excuse.
Yep, we were wrong—dead wrong.
Now I live with this vague sense of melancholy. I knew the truth, on some level anyway, and did nothing about it. The only thing is that, what I thought was eating her from the inside out, ate her from the outside in.
Yep, all they found was a few tufts of blonde hair and one light blue eyeball, optic nerve still attached—not cool, not cool at all.
Now, the world is minus one hell of a talented web designer and budding literary genius. With the proper modicum of intervention, perhaps she could very well be with us yet today.
I guess we’ll never know.
I can’t even begin to describe the creature responsible for this most heinous situation. For me, there are no words that can express the cold influx of absolute premeditation that was involved in this prolonged, yet systematic, demise of someone that was anything but deserving of such a fate. There is no fitting word in my on-line dictionary, not enough ink in my pen, to portray the fowl thing.
I guess she herself, Brianna Wyland-Drake, described it the best, the only way she knew. In her numerous journal posts, she called it her “rock”. And what better way to describe this “rock”, but to let Brianna do it herself. I give to you, Brianna’s last journal entry, not much different than all her others. Well, except for the last part of course.February 11th, 2009
I’m trying to write today, my inner muse finally at rest and actually being encouraging for once, allowing me some peace and quiet. I’m actually feeling quite confident in my abilities today, so would like to get as much done as I can.
About damn time too.
But now that other greasy fucker is staring at me from the corner of the room again, damn it! He seems mean today too, his frown a little more pronounced, his rock exterior a bit more rugged, like he’s bristling at me. He’s probably upset that I’m about to write something meaningful—he hates that. He hates me being happy.
Happy? Hell, he just plain hates me, seemingly more and more each day. He’s been becoming increasingly aggressive lately, grumbling louder than normal, scaring me as he always has—just worse.
Oh shit, he’s creeping closer. He never does that. He’s not that brave. Unless he’s
finally decided to…oh no, he has. Please no…
So now you understand.
Perhaps you can see why so many of us overlooked the obvious until it was too late. I mean, Brianna’s very own husband didn’t even see it coming.
Perhaps he had his own monsters to bear.
My guilt now having overtaken me completely, I stand in her study. It’s a bit cluttered right now, unusual for her. But I guess Brianna is in no condition to deal with it.
Some insatiable quest for redemption from my sins of omission has brought me here, five states from my own home, in hopes of correcting some wrong. Or maybe it’s because I truly believe her “rock”, her torment, is still creeping around here somewhere. Part of me is hoping that it dissipated and vacated the premises along with Brianna’s soul, but the bigger bit is hoping that the fucker is still here. Because if it is, I’m gonna crush it. Fuck-an-A-right I am!
I’ve come under the pretense of looking for a diskette with some of my website information on it. I don’t think Brianna’s husband bought my story though, he’s pretty tech savvy. But in any regard, he must not care one way or the other, because he had no qualms about me rummaging about in here. After all, we’re all just searching for a little closure.
I find myself wondering if Brianna had finally found closure. Or at the very least, respite. I hope so, because a life time of pain is long enough.
I’m feeling a bit stupid, carrying around this baseball bat that I snuck in under my P-coat, but I’m taking no chances. According to Brianna’s journal, the creature is ungodly crazed and homicidal. I guess the thing has proven that out now.
There is her computer. As I reach out and touch it, I can’t help but remember all the e-mail correspondences, how helpful and diligent Brianna was. And I know that I am lapsing into a moment of self-pity here. I need to remember that this isn’t about me. Well, maybe it is, just a little.
As I walk about, remnants of her fierce struggle for life crunch beneath my feet, things like shattered flower vases, a cracked lead crystal candlestick, and plastic shards of what was once her laser printer.
She must have put up one hell of a struggle. Not hard enough though—I hope the bastard choked on her.
Glancing thoughtfully at all the little things that made Brianna special and unique, well it makes me sad all over again. What a waste.
Then a noise, just a whisper, catches my attention. At this point, I’m on pins and needles.
What was that? I’m turning around slowly, very slowly. I came here to face Brianna’s monster, but you know how it is sometimes, when we get what we wish for.
It is unfathomable. There before me is the incarnation of Brianna’s torment.
All I can see at first are the teeth, still dripping with blood, Brianna’s blood. Then I see the rock itself.
It’s terrifying, but something is amiss. It is cowering in the corner of Brianna’s closet like a lost soul.
And then I put my finger upon the matter. I see its weakness, its self loathing. The thing is practically begging me to kill it, to end its own torment.
Now I think that I understand. It has finally killed the only person it had ever cared for, just because it was in the beast’s nature to do so. I almost feel sorry for it—almost, but no cigar.
Call me selfish.
Perhaps suicidal in its irony, it has now flung itself at me full force, teeth bared, snarling and drooling. I am in no mood and so I swing the bat. Perhaps college ball has ended up being good for something after all.
Brianna’s torment nearly vaporizes as I smash it, bits of igneous cascading everywhere, learning that you don’t fuck with a horror author. Not one with a baseball bat anyway. And certainly not one hell bent on redemption.
Brianna, this is for you.
Closure—for somebody anyway.
© Holley, 2009