Eight

• Rebecca Nguyen, Grade 9
• Poetry
• 2010

The wind hacked away at his body, throwing twigs and fragments of dead, dry leaves into his eyes. Massaging his sore right eye with his index finger, he continued to walk home, unaware of the person who followed behind. After taking five hurried steps, James heard the click clack of a pair of shoes trailing slowly behind. ‘Click, Clack, Click, Clack, Click.’ It stopped. Shifting his head to a ninety degree angle, James surveyed the scene from the corner of his eye. Showers of leaves fell from the trees, fluttering wildly in the air. The street lights dimly lit in the cold evening. Apart from that, there was no living soul to be seen.
Relief washed over James.
Ba- Bink! Crash! Metal rubbish cans, which sat at the further corner of the road, fell to their sides. In a fraction of a second, James was sure he had seen a black leather shoe before it had disappeared behind the tall wooden fence. ‘What was that?’ thought James as his heart forced the frozen blood to circulate his body.
Fear surged through James’ body, his arms covered completely with goose bumps - each as small as the tip of a sewing needle. He quickly looked away and increased his walking pace. The further he walked, the thicker the stench of rotting corpses drifted into his nostrils.
‘Wha-What is that disgusting smell? What’s happening?’ he asked himself in distress. He pushed himself further against the invisible force, struggling to keep his coat from flapping carelessly around in the blasts of air. The wind continued to whistle and scream into his throbbing ears.
As he turned and took the path bending towards the left, the screams of insanity instantly stopped. The horrendous stench which had attacked him earlier vanished. James, feeling confused, hesitantly looked behind once more. To his surprise, there stood a man, dressed in mourning clothes. The old, feeble man stood staring glumly at a tree. He slowly opened his mouth and uttered the words, “My kite is stuck in the tree. Won’t you help me?”
And so James did. But as he climbed the great oak tree, the rough hands of the old man grabbed him by the ankle. The chilling, tingling sensation of the hands drilled into Tim’s limb, forcing his leg to go limp like a soggy sheet of paper.
“Gotcha!” cried the old man, “Your mine! Mine!”
The world at the moment became engulfed in the waves of black. Lost in the sea of unknown, James could feel them, pressing their nails into his body. He screamed for help, knowing well there was no one to save him. His scream bounced off the invisible walls which confined him in the little black box. It echoed in his ears, imitating and mocking his cries. His scream soon became nothing more but a distant, harsh whisper.
Welcome. This is the 8th division, enjoy your stay.