(Real Demon in Bald Punk’s Bed–picture removed*)
I gazed into the dark, not knowing who I was or what I was about to do. But something told me the object in my hand held the clues. I lifted it as if it weighed nothing and brought it close. I was surprised to see my dull eyes trapped inside its blood speckled surface. I was equally as surprised to see a hat on my head shaped like one a bishop would wear, or a mitre worn by some of the Hessian soldiers in the Revolutionary War. I lowered my gaze, hearing words spoken in a brutish language, and saw a bayonet in my grip. I lifted my head, using my inner senses to search the surroundings. The beings were very close. And I knew what they wanted me to do. I was the one. I was a Hessian soldier, and I was going to kill an Immortal. I was going to kill Max Beckley…
I followed Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” outside our rental cabin in the dark and misty Catskill forest. The air was cool and smelled of sugar maples, fresh pine, and a hint of vanilla. The latter had me wondering, where was its source. Because whenever death is near, there’s almost always the lingering scent of vanilla.
I walked around our white Ford Explorer. Benny passed me. Spotlights clicked-on from the top of the A-frame roof of the small cabin. New light twinkled in the gravel driveway, which came up from the dark road and curved to the back of the cabin. Beyond was a small field of cut grass. I tried to see if anything lurked in the shadows. Benny moved into the field and waved for me to hurry.
“I’m not sure I’m going,” I said, having doubts about running off, back in time with Benny. We were going to Brooklyn, 1776. How were we going to get there…
Benny did not slow until he was at the edge of the field. He entered the forest and then was gone. The spotlights went off. I turned to look for lady friend, who had been at the cabin door. She was nowhere in sight. The cabin had vanished, too. I ran to catch up with Benny. My clothes *magically changed. I now wore high stockings, white woolen breeches, a linen shirt, and woolen waistcoat. When I felt the metal mitre on my head, I knew I was dressed in a Hessian soldier’s uniform. Unlike the rank-smelling and filthy British redcoat uniform I had worn last night, this one was spotless. I lifted the sleeve to my nose. I smelled vanilla.
I charged through the forest, holding the mitre steady, barely able to keep up with Benny. He was following old Dan Tucker, who continually called back in nasal utterances.
It was too warm for the heavy woolen coat. Thankfully, we paused. Benny was sucking in air, much like myself. Old Dan came between the trees and handed me a musket. It did not have a bayonet.
“I think they’re close,” old Dan said.
“We’re in Brooklyn, wow,” I said.
“No, we’re not far from the cabin,” Benny said.
“In the Catskills,” I said.
“Yes,” Benny said.
I ran my head through my sweat soaked hair. I was damn confused.
“They know we’re here,” old Dan said.
“Do they know we’re going to kill one of them?” I asked.
“They’re the reason we can travel back in time,” Benny said.
I threw down the musket. “I’m not killing anything or anyone.” I flung the mitre off into the dark. I took off my waistcoat and let it fall away.
“You’re not going to kill anyone,” Benny said. “You will bear witness, and you will write…”
My dreams were like mud. Deep thick, caked. I woke slowly as if from a drugged daze into surreal brightness.
A cloud of sunlight penetrated the gauzy inner curtains in my bedroom. It was good. But of all the things to pull me from such a dark slumber, it was the smell of blood that made my eyes to flicker and fully open. I flipped away the sheet to see dried blood stained my hands.
Who am I? No. Worse. What am I?
*Sorry, I removed the picture of the demon in my bed from this post. It was freaking me out. The reason I posted it in the first place was because when I thought of what an alien soul looked like, I saw a strange fire that reminded me of that miserable succubus. I hate her. She works every day to destroy me. I would say more about her, but I think she craves the light of attention. LF agrees with me on this. (We rarely agree on anything nowadays.) So I’m cursed. What else is new.
*I hate using the word *magically. I owe you guys answers. Actually, Benny does. He knows I write this blog. He reads it, too. At some point, I promise to ask him a load of questions for you. And even though he said the aliens helped us travel back in time. I still want to know how.
Note to self, buy vanilla-scented cologne. This way I’ll never smell death until it’s too late.
More coming soon…