The house whispered a beautiful melody, filling the lane with a mystifying tune for only those for which it was intended. The song’s sweet breath gently blew away the freshly fallen snow carpet covering Nathan Kensington’s driveway. But the scene was everything but tranquil.
“Nathan, please. This isn’t you,” a graying woman pleaded as she slowly pulled her broken body toward the empty street.
With a face as frozen as the icicles that lined his front porch, Nathan asked, “Oh, mother, isn’t it?”
Truthfully, he had no idea what was going on. Earlier he felt just fine, elated even; his college admittance letter came through the mail and his girlfriend sent him a text message saying that they dodged a bullet with a false positive. There was no explanation for his violent break; he could not remember the last time he had an even remotely negative thought.
Yet, here he was wielding a Louisville Slugger stained with his mother’s blood, and oddly enough he felt mellow – fucking fantastic, actually. So when he took another swing at the poor woman, a perverted cackle shot from his throat. He couldn’t tell if the sharp crack he heard was from his mother’s splintered skeleton or if his weapon was giving out.
“How about this, mother?” Nathan exclaimed, muting his mother’s agonized whimper. Her pathetic sounds reminded him of the smashed, dying puppy he had passed on the road one morning before school. “You’re little boy has grown up, at last.” Then in a single motion he smashed the bat into the back of his mother’s skull, but her pain wouldn’t end in death; there was no fucking way he would allow that. So he took to swinging the slugger until her head was an open bowl of a chunky brain-blood cocktail. His mother’s bed of snow had melted down into a crimson puddle. All of this made his stomach growl.
He crept back into the house, eying the ribbons of blood that lined the wall. His strangled brother was still lying on the couch, exactly where Nathan had left him. His yellow tabby Mumu perched himself on the living room coffee table, totally oblivious to the actions that happened moments earlier.
Nathan fell back onto the sofa in front of a shattered television screen. The realization of what he had done, or what it made him do, began to sink in. It was as if someone had simply turned off a switch inside of his head just long enough so he would ruin his entire life and change those of the ones he loved. His mother had just beaten cancer, and his baby brother had just come out to the rest of the family. Out of all the questions that were on his mind, he could only ask himself the obvious one: “What have I done? Fuck.”
The haunting, supernatural energy had abandoned Nathan, leaving him completely empty, a hollow shell of the man he used to be – or what he could have become. With his palm firmly pressed to the crown of his head, he sobbed and began rocking. He swore something had possessed him, had some kind of influence over him – it was the only rational explanation he could muster. But no explanation could save him from what needed to be done, what he had to do.
Not bothering to will the tears away, he walked past his dead brother and the stupid cat; he ignored the bloody caricatures he had sketched into the drywall depicting a melodic spell and its evil intentions, and he grabbed the revolver his mother kept in the back of the top drawer of her dresser, pressed the barrel to the top of his mouth and pulled the trigger, never flinching. His mother’s glistening, white curtains sported an entirely fresh hue she had never considered.