Murderous Memories

• Emily Parker, Grade 9, Richard Johnson Anglican School
• Short Story
• 2015

Excellence Award in the 'Read Write Repeat 2015' competition

It was beautiful. A song of broken bones and bloodied bodies. A melody of bittersweet tragedy.

Flecks of blood trailed through the water like lazy cigarette smoke as he skimmed over his jagged knuckles. A fresh set of nicks and cuts marred the skin, and by tomorrow would be a rich blue in hue. Old soul music lulled from the corner of the blood streaked room, and Jack’s foot tapped along to the rhythm.
‘Oh how grand of a time we shared, my lady…’
His voice was croaky and raspy as he spluttered the words into the humid summer air, and this was the third time that week that the crimson stains clung to the blade of his knife like a newborn baby and its bottle. A bowl of stained water sat atop his lap, tiny ripples climbing up the tips of his fingers. Just as the waves started to reach as high as his knuckles, a dull thump rocked the wall and made Jack’s nails dig into his palms. Rotten youth.

As Jack creaked the rusted hinges outwards into the back yard, freshly clipped grass filled his already enlarged nostrils. They were flaring in and out with each shaky breath once he saw the tiny fingers grasping at his bag of fluoro tennis balls. The little boy’s eyes widened at the blood splattered man who’s face could be a dead ringer for a tomato.

Jack could have almost grinned at the thought of having his hands wrapped around that petite and unscathed neck. If I don’t get to him, god knows cancer will. His muscles became taut at his own thoughts and a bitter taste danced at the roof of his mouth.

“Oh how I would love to see you gone Jacky.” Jack frowned at the muffled whispers of his father. He was in the bathroom again and Jack’s ears were pressed suction-cap tight to the flaking wall of his bedroom.

“Milking all of my money, you little-“Jack’s hand had left the wall to cover his ears, knocking over his cup of ‘Oregon Fresh Orange Juice’. Hands pressed against his spine, playing the instrument of bones in a symphony of shivers as he awaited the thundering footsteps.

“If I don’t stab the life out of him, God knows cancer will.” His father’s voice was venomous but feather light, as though he knew Jack was listening in. Jack’s chest deflated momentarily as his mind reeled at the unknown word. Miss Heathrow had taught them that morning to spell it out in your mind and Jack was eager. (Cancer, cancer, can-cer, c-a-n-c-e-r).

“We’re all on a timeline that ends in death, might as well pluck some off at 1866 and call it a fruitless attempt at surviving.” Jack shivered in the boiling heat of his room. He knew what that word meant.

“If I don’t get to him, God knows cancer will.” (Death, death, de-ath, d-e-a-t-h).

We’re all on a timeline that ends in death.

Such a sweet, sweet song.