FICTION SERIES

#8 Blood of the Covenant — Chapter 7: Not What I Ordered

A paranormal fantasy

I sucked in a huge gulp of air and I knew I was seated on a sofa. I was disgusted by the single animal hair that rested delicately on the carpet. My knee stung where my nails bit into me. Physically, I felt everything.

A door gently slammed like a peel of thunder. I clapped my hands to my ears to protect myself but the air exploded against them and nauseous disorientation attacked.

The voices were coming at me again; loud, unrelenting, and infuriating. They whispered screams at me. As he pushed his hands against mine to help block out the noise, he pulled me to my feet and hurried me to the bedroom. Every step reverberated through my head like a shotgun fired into my temple. I tried to move slowly to limit the excruciating pounding, but I was dragged at his frantic pace. The pain weakened me beyond the ability to resist. I don’t know if I fell onto the bed or if he pushed me, but he somehow swept me up into a bundle. Pillows and bedding bombarded me and I urgently wrapped myself up in them desperate to create a safe, quiet fortress.

I could still hear movement from the lounge room all too clearly, but at least they were trying not to speak. It would help if they stopped breathing!

A pale hand invaded a crack in my fortress and then was gone leaving a small purple box with a long white cord and a dwarf ant’s tunnel through my fortress wall, barely enough to see him through. Strange how clearly I could still see him. He raised his eyebrows and gestured to me with a small earpiece in each hand as if to say, ‘May I?’ I appreciated his silence — it made me appreciate not wanting to slaughter him for a moment.

My hands stayed firmly clamped over my ears though all my strength had been eaten from my muscles by horrible little pain mites that were now gnawing on my bones. With gentle strength, he easily slipped his hands beneath mine. I relented and my hands lifted enough to let in the harsh scraping sound of the covers moving around me. I was about to scream and shove my fists into my ears until my knuckles met inside my brain and put an end to my personal mind apocalypse, and then I heard the music.

It was loud, very, very loud, though strangely soothing against the now slightly drowned cacophony of life.

The door slammed and it almost sounded distant. Almost. That was good. I could still hear the multitude of unknown voices but they were no longer screaming, they were just talking loudly somewhere nearby about fry-pans.

“Sorry, man,” the child said. I could already recognize his too old voice.

“Yeah, soz. How’s ahh, she, they. How is Bex?” I did not recognize the girl’s voice. It was sweet and pretty; flowery like a young girl’s but with a solid and confident edge.

“Thanks,” he answered after a moment. He was barely audible as if he had only mouthed the words and just the sound of his breath drifting over his lips had reached my ears. It seemed a rather strange and out-of-place response.

“Yeah, sorry it’s so small,” the girl spoke again. “I figured you wouldn’t want,” she stammered. “To hear it.” I stiffened. What? I desperately wanted to know… But my fortress. But my protection. But knowledge. But pain.

“They’re Stuttering,” he said, sounding depleted. Wait, what? Stuttering? Who was? I was? They? Who? “I told them.” His voice was still little more than a breath, though he spoke with more clarity this time.

“Oh,” the child responded, speaking quietly too. “Oh. Oh, OK, I guess. Are they hungry then?” Yes, I am. Always.

“NO!” his voice boomed, though I suspected that he had not spoken any louder than the others, just with more authority and I sensed, with disgust. Why disgust? I am hungry.

All was quiet, my mp3 player had silenced. I pulled it closer to my face and was surprised that despite the blinding darkness of my fortress, I could still clearly see the faintly glowing words. The music player had not stopped. I shook it, but that did nothing. I looked closer and realised the sound level was set at one. I turned it up until I could barely hear it; level thirteen. Why was I surprised by anything anymore? I mean, really?

The door opened so excruciatingly slowly; whoever was there, though I already knew, was taking his sweet ass time. He was doing it for me, ensuring as little noise as possible filtered through to hurt me, yet I still wanted to jump up and rip the door open through mere frustration. Seems patience is not one of my strong points.

I took a calming breath and pushed the pillow away from my face. “It’s OK, it stopped,” I assured him. His relieved sigh was audible as he flung the door open, finally. He sat beside me on the bed, ungracefully bouncing on the edge as he took my hand. I let him. I still didn’t have the energy to fight it anyway and I didn’t really want to. A worry etched his features as he pursed his lips. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Are you…” he swallowed. “Are you hungry?”

Dur! “Famished.”

He slumped forward and sighed, defeated. “OK, Benedict,” he called without lifting his head.

The child’s face appeared at the doorway, apprehensive and apologetic. “Are you sure?” he asked. Still with his head hung low, my man-child nodded. The child came into the room with a tiny, furry animal in one hand. A mouse? Understanding was instant. My jaw dropped. They wanted me to eat THAT?

He stared at me with painfully bloodshot eyes. The pink irises paled against the red. Then, I saw the shock and fear in them. “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” he said, shaking his head, his eyes wide with sudden realization. He squeezed my hands and his eyes pleaded for forgiveness. “GET OUT!” he roared.

I threw myself into the pillow and locked the covers around my head when it started again. This time was more terrifying. This time, the voices around me had changed. His demand was deep and guttural, a horrifying tortured growl, like an angered supervillain about to bring down his ultimate revenge. I balled my body up tight, hoping this episode would not last too long because it was so much worse.

I knew it was coming. I knew the child would answer and his voice would project hideous distortion. I held my head and wept.

“Calm down. It’s not his fault,” the girl said. Her voice was still beautiful and calm though stern and deep. It did not sound harsh or distorted, or even loud. The episode was over already; however, I still cradled myself on the bed, sobbing.

He peeled back the covers and his lips were at my ear, matching the rhythm of my movements perfectly, never touching me. “I’m sorry, baby. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s gone now. I’m sorry. It’s gone, I promise.” I wept, unembarrassed, as he whispered apologies until the exhausted darkness claimed me once more.

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Chapter 8: Reality Bites

As I stood, I looked down at myself for the first time. I was a sight of dramatic disaster dressed in satin boxer shorts, similar to the ones I occasionally glimpsed beneath his jeans and a flimsy singlet shirt that was twisted awkwardly around my torso. My clothes were clean. My body was clean. My hair felt a little tangled and matted, but nothing a brush could not rectify. Should I be this clean?

I looked at him accusingly.

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Copyright © 2021 Kai Parker (adapted from Awakening by Porle Joen — also me, lol). 2021 queer reworking — LGBTQ2SAI+ Paranormal Fantasy.

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.