Try Not To Stare
Welcome to my mind.
Pull up a chair.
Don’t mind the bloodstains.
Try not to stare.
I’d like to introduce you to the clutter of my mind. Here is a teaser excerpt from Sixteen Seconds, due for release soon. This, my friends, is why I’m sick, in case you needed further proof. Here you go.
Sixteen Seconds, Aubrea Summer
Lyrique stood quite a bit taller than other dogs her breed, making the bandana around her neck the perfect hold for balance as C tripped through the debris. Lyrique moved with the grace of instinct, and C let her lead. The toe of her worn boot made contact with a solid concrete chunk, sending a surge of pain up through her foot. Lyrique let a soft whine out. C rubbed her head, assuring her she was fine. Lyrique voiced the sound again, stopping and nudging at her owner’s hand.
“Shhh. It’s okay. Let’s go.” C took another step forward, feeling something slide beneath her foot and catching her balance before she lost her stance. Again, the dog whined, lowering her nose to sniff C’s boot.
“Come on.” She urged her forward. Lyrique didn’t budge, standing firm in her refusal.
Something snapped under C’s weight as she repositioned her foot; something hard and thin. Fumbling through her pockets for the old metal lighter, she closed shaky fingers around the cold rectangular shape. The smell of fluid and smoke accompanied the flicker of her tiny fire as she lowered it to the ground. The forceful intake of her breath jolted the lighter from her hand. The flame died as it hit the ground. Now her hand trembled faster as the image burned in her head through the darkness; hair, bloody and clumped, lying beside her boots, beside the piles of bones. Gingerly combing the surface of the wet earth, C picked the lighter from the ground. The metal met her hands with a new coating, something wet and slimy. Closing her eyes, she ignited the mini torch. Slowly, she let nervous lids rise. She stood in the center of a butcher’s shop. Sun bleached, broken and scattered across the garbage, were human bones; legs, arms, rib cages, spinal cords, even the jaw bone and teeth of a small head extended from the dirt. Her stomach knotted, spin cycle kicking on. Lyrique growled, low and quiet. C capped the lighter, quashing the flame at the dog’s warning. She smeared her hand down her pant leg, wiping the thick red pulp from her fingers and her lighter. Willing herself not to think about it, she crouched low beside Lyrique, feeling again what she refused to picture squish beneath her boots.
Flashlight beams pierced the darkness alongside voices, the rear door of the delivery bay swinging wide. Orange bulbs sent a wash of luminosity from inside. Two men appeared in the doorway, each pushing a wheel barrow. The second man secured the door behind him before rejoining his comrade. Muttering inaudible complaints to one another, the men pushed their way to the opposite side of the scrap pile. C watched the dance of the flashlights as they headed her way, keeping her hand on Lyrique’s neck. The men parked their carts, removing the tarps from them. C swallowed her gasp as the first man lifted what must have once been a person from the wheel barrow. Hardly anything remained now, except for bone and hair. Together, the men took opposing ends of the corpse and began swinging it until they had the momentum needed. When they let go, the body flew, landing the length of a parking space away from C’s ducked vantage point. They repeated this until the barrows were empty, mindlessly brushing off their hands and rolling back up to the door. C pushed away the dry heave her stomach so desired. She was standing in the middle of their ghastly scrap pile. Gathering what remained of her composure, she opted to veer left before proceeding through what now lay ahead. This time, Lyrique followed.
Ridley pretended not to see the bones. He trudged through them like they were driftwood, watching the men exit the building, deposit their errands, and return. He wondered briefly how C was holding up; if she was wading through the same horror. His attention returned to the men, waiting for them to reach the door. He watched the last man in turn to close the door. He reached out, letting everything else in his mind slip away, finding the cold feel of the deadbolt in hot mental fingers. He waited, counting, letting the man slide the lock in place; allowing him time to walk away. He pulled, drawing the lock back, holding it in his thoughts until he felt it click open. Ridley let go, a short sigh escaping his lips. Patiently, he listened for their return. Minutes passed with nothing. Maybe that was all for the night.
Roland observed the side wall intently, waiting for Catch to return. He’d watched her scale the concrete like a cat, impressed by the strength the small girl possessed. He doubted the others could see much more than he could. Sam was at the far end, closer to Ridley. Roland waited, minutes feeling like days as he found himself worrying about this person he hardly knew. She was just a young girl, and these men inside were far from little boys. A large part of him was grateful C hadn’t gone in, though he wasn’t sure why. He felt protective towards her, probably because she’d saved his life. Having seen the flashlights come and go, watching them dump the dead like expired restaurant product, Roland silently urged the others to hurry. If you were to judge what was happening inside by how they decorated outside, you might reach the conclusion Roland had. This was a meat plant.
While you’re waiting on Sixteen Seconds, check out my newest short story,
