Soul Reaper

“She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world.” ― Joanne Harris

Source: We Heart It

Source: We Heart It

By day Shelby was a beautiful sight to behold for sure. She had an internal allure about her that drew new patrons into her bookstore every day looking for a variety of words, which she kept well stocked. The regular cliental often gathered in the coffee area at the back to share their experiences and interactions with Shelby. It was said that she had a hypnotic, cleansing, and enjoyable affect on all she encountered and that’s what kept them coming back for more. What her patrons didn’t know was that when she looked into their eyes she could reach into their soul and find what ailed them, and to be sure, she reflected their unhappiness back through her knowing orbs as confirmation of the source before proceeding to heal their spirit at little everyday. Occasionally, she would encounter a client that had been sorely wronged by another and to make it right, she would seek them out in her dreams at night. When she slept her spirit wandered the world and beyond, looking to turn predators into prey. She siphoned the life force from evildoers to replenish her strength so that she could continue to help the people who entered her bookstore and heal their spirits with more than the words they sought for comfort or escape.

***

Joanne Harris’s quote sponsored by Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday prompt inspired this short piece.

 

 

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Snatched: Breaking Through the Surface

Credit: Smithsonian Magazine

Credit: Smithsonian Magazine

The sedatives coursing through Jane’s veins ran thin as she began to crawl toward the surface. Little by little she banged her head against the glaciers holding her deep under. Trapped in the frigid waters she fought frantically to reach the surface, feeling as if she was splitting her head wide open, right down the middle in the process. A myriad of visions flashed behind her eyes. Dust clouds stirring in the night’s air; dancing in a tunnel of yellow rays. Staring up at the half-lit street lamp. A red rag pushed toward her face. Trying to pry the arm and cloth away to no avail. Suffocating unable to breathe, scream or get free. A struggle. Overpowered. A smothering red rag doused with the toxic stench of gasoline and motor oil. Silent screams. Dust motes dancing. A brutal bite to the neck, labored breathing, a then nothing.

***

Other scenes previously posted.

First Scene An introduction to Jack

Gas Station

Home

Waiting

Snatched (a morsel)

Credit: Me

Credit: Me

From his lazy-boy, Jack intently watched the camera’s monitor and sipped scotch on the rocks as he chain-smoked one cigarette after another. His lady had started to come to and was struggling to reach the surface. Watching her every motion stirred the beast lurking inside and he grew hard with anticipation of hearing her cries and seeing the fear reflect in her eyes. As he watched the monitor, her head tossed gently back-and-forth on the pillow as if in refusal to come to while delightful deep wincing sounds rose up and out of her chest. Her long-lithe limbs twitched in protest against the metal shackles that were fastened to chains and secured to D-rings mounted beneath the bed to the floating cement floor. His proper planning this time would payoff in a big way. A few trips to the hardware store and a couple of weekends spent on DIY home improvements would make things much more convenient, comfortable, and interesting.

Snatched

Anchored to a merry-go-round upon the high sea, all I wanted to do was sleep. Swaying back and forth, and round and round the oppressive fog began to lift. I was feeling pretty woozy, so I focused on my breathing.  Breath in. Breath out. Inhale and exhale. Inhale through the nose and exhale through the mouth.  Deep cleansing breathes just like Yogi Master Ly, taught me. He would be proud.  The world lurched forward and violently jolted back.  Was that an earthquake?  What the hell was going on? Evidently I exited the pleasant merry-go-round, and stepped right on to the aggressive tilt-a-whirl while I was busy focusing on my breathing exercises.

It was a matter of when, not if, I’d be tossing my cookies in to the air.  The nausea surged with every tilt of the world.  I wanted off this ride, badly.  I attempted to lift my leg to position my foot to the floor, and nothing. Not good, my neurons were seriously misfiring and forgot to send the message to my leg and foot to move off the bed.

As I lay motionless and weak it occurred to me I never figured out why placing one foot on the floor managed to control the spinning in the room, but it did so I went with it.  I sent up a silent prayer to the Gods of Alcohol, and promised to never drink again if they would grant me mercy this one last time.  It was a simple prayer consisting of only necessities; get one foot to the floor, stop the world from spinning out of control, and make it in the toilet or trash bin – either was really fine by me as long as I didn’t have to change sheets it was all good.

Another failed attempt to move my leg sobered me up some. Determined to move a leg, I raised my right arm to assist and was met with resistance.  Immediately I raised my left arm and discovered the same resistance was holding me back.  Panic-stricken, I raised my head from the pillow and forced my eyes open.

It was very dark in the room but I could see the chains tightly suspended in the air and now felt the cold metal cuff’s biting in to my wrists. I was strapped to the bed. My legs were secured, which was why I couldn’t move them.  I jerked at the chains furiously, yet they wouldn’t give.

As I peered around the darken room I tried to swallow the terror that was threating to overtake me, and to think. I needed to think. My brain felt like cottage cheese. The small mushy curds that refused to stick together, like my thoughts.  Things I knew, my raging headache was not alcohol induced, this time, this was not my bedroom, and I was most definitely in some sort of trouble.

The bedroom door opened casting a muted yellow ray of light across the room, but I didn’t see anyone. In the silence, I called out “who’s there?”

-To be continued-