Nightmare Memories

Who Holds These Memories?

 

There was never a clear view, he had no desire to move, so from where he sat in the damp cold mud there was never a clear view. Low leaves obscured his vision, the thick bark of the tree, which serves as his shelter were details that were firmly imprinted in his mind. A small bug ambled past, blue yet purple yet gold, the wing casing shimmered in the bright sunlight.

Voices… He looked up, his attention distracted away from the tiny critter. He knew the male voice and grinned, burying himself deeper into his bolt hole. An expert in this game, he could remain concealed for hours, stubborn and determined to win.

The second voice, he did not know, was also male and spoke with a thick accent, his words foreign to the child. He frowned and pulled away a few leaves of his camouflage curious, but still unable to glimpse the scene distinctly.

“Xunus dos talinth dos gumash veldri pholor l’shinduago mal’rak?”

The words haunted his memories.

What followed happened so swiftly, that it was over in just a few heartbeats, but would remain imprinted upon his mind forever.

A young woman entered the clearing carrying a crop of apples in her arms, her golden hair caught the sunlight, her voice softly singing, her step light, the shift she wore clung to her long legs as a cool breeze whipped through the trees.

The two men, near identical men, save for their garments turned to regard her arrival. The stranger growled angry words, with a tone of accusation. A sword leapt to his right hand so swiftly, the hidden one had to clasp a hand over his own mouth to prevent his gasp escaping.

“No One.” Came the reply to the foreigners’ harsh demands.

The stranger simply raised his left hand towards the woman, keeping the point of his sword aimed directly at the speaker.

All the apples tumbled freely across the soft grass, falling from her slack grip, though the woman still stood still on her feet. Before the last apple dropped to the ground, the foreigner had crossed the short distance to where she was rooted to the spot. He appeared to move impossibly fast. Sword re-sheathed as he stalked around her immobile form.

That all took just a few moments and there was never a clear view. The two, near identical men left together shortly afterwards, both chattering in the same alien tongue, neither glanced back to the maiden in the sunlight, captured immobile by a wicked spell.

It was dark by the time he crept from his favourite bolt hole, he was not sure if he had fell asleep or not, but tears stained his young cheeks, his clothes, muddy, wet and cold. His bare feet padded softly over the damp grass to where the woman stood still. He didn’t understand her motionlessness, he wrapped his tiny arms around her legs, burying his face into her thighs as he had countless times.

Her shift was drenched in cold, dark, sticky blood that pooled around her toes, it stained the child’s face as he clung to her, begged to her to move, to answer him, to cuddle him.

The vile spell exhausted its hold on the dead woman and she crumpled to the ground, her head slid away, released from the magical hold, discharging more gloopy gore. The child blanched as the head rolled away, a maliciously sharp barbed garrotte wire still entangled in her flesh and blood matted hair.

 

He woke up… The dream was always the same… There was never a clear view.

 

 

Anne Harrison.

Originally written December 17, 2015 – Added to the blog 18.05.17