rm-r comic Halloween Contest 2013
You Had Your Chance
A year after a man snaps and murders his wife, he finds something peculiar in the Outlands.
Tracy doubled over, arms splayed out in front of him, one hand still loosely clutching the knife that had blood and bits of feathers on it. Droplets still clung to the rail, the magic briedly swirling a horrible crimson for a moment. He fought the feeling rising in his chest, pushing against his ribcage and up his throat. His fists clenched and he tried to curl in on himself, a sob racking his body. It hurt terribly. It wasn’t supposed to! The knife clattered to the floor, and he clamped his hands over his heat, letting out a terrible howl, his voice hollow and hurt.
It had started with her, a year ago. Sometimes he felt like it was all a mistake, sometimes he thought that he let the rotten magic of Halloween mess with his head, amplify the feelings he had known were there all along, but then he remembered her.
He hated this. This wasn’t how he was supposed to feel; he was doing this to get rid of that feeling, but it remained stuck fast in his chest like a dead weight, suffocating him. He howled again; it was her, he knew it, it had to be. She hung over him and behind closed eyelids, he could still see her in his last moments, tears shining in her eyes as she reached for him. Blood smeared her mouth, but oh she was still beautiful, moreso now than ever as that awful pity finally left her features, replaced by an unplacable coldness, face frozen in realization and sadness. He didn’t want her there, in his mind’s eye. Even now, she patronized him, shamed him, and it made him sick.
Scooping up the knife, Tracy staggered to his feet, still shaking uncontrollably; hot, angry, confused tears streamed down his face. He hated her. He hated how she’d hurt him, chipped away at him over their time together, how even now she wouldn’t give him peace. She tormented him. He stumbled out of the room, away from the magic pool, the blood from the knife trickling onto the floor in little clots every few strides. He drew his wand, and with a flick of his wrist, disappeared from the empty lobby.
The world dissolved around him, the light lobby being replaced by a stark, sudden darkness.
It was cold.
The Outlands were always cold.
His wand clattered to the ground, forgotten, as he moved forward, into the wood. This was Banshee territory. He’d been told stories of the Banshees as a child, angry souls infused with a dangerous magic, those who were wronged in life fated to a half-existence in the Outlands for an eternity. They had no memories of their lives, he was told, hearing their death-omen shrieks. All they remembered was the anger and violence that had snuffed out their life. All they knew was to attack and try to fill the hole, the emptiness that could not be remedied in death.
He slid down an incline, entering into the clearing. The dark was cast away, an odd light filling the area, radiating off of their wild, wispy bodies. They moved quickly, flying past him, scratching at his face and back and chest, whatever they could reach. They pushed and bombarded, wanting nothing more than to tear him apart. He dropped to his hands and knees, one of the spectres having torn a large gash in his chest. He didn’t move. He couldn’t move, they swarmed around him, smothering him.
Then it came.
It was brighter than the rest, who were all smoky figures of light. It sped towards its fellows, dashing them away, claiming him for itself. The spectres retreated, some hovering a few feet away, others hovering in treetops, watching and hoping it got bored with him.
He breathed shallowly, the gash on his chest burning. It slunk up to him, shoving its face, contorted in anguish, up to his, and tired eyes met the hollow, black sockets.
He reached out, fingers passing through it in an attempt to grab at the creature. “Do it,” he said, bitterly. “I deserve it.”
The spectre looked down at him with cold features. A moment passed and he couldn’t help but wonder if it even knew who he was. That notion was cast from his mind as quickly as it had come. He would have given a snort of humourless laughter if it hadn’t hurt so much. Of course it knew who he was; he murdered her.
It backed off, shrieking terribly, the sound piercing his skull and reverberating inside of him,. He watched as it came screaming towards him in a blur of light.
Tracy’s limbs went weak beneath him, and he collapsed, blacking out as the spectre moved through his body.
All was quiet.
Minutes, days, weeks - it was unclear. Time seemed not to exist in the Outlands. However long it was, Tracy awoke, raising himself to his hands and knees again, careful not to pull the clotting gash on his chest.
The spectres remained in the treetops, snapping at each other whenever one made to take a shot at him. They weren’t allowed to, and that was perfectly clear. Still looking up at the huddled Banshees, his fingers brushed something cold and slender, and he looked.His wand lay beneath his fingers, retrieved from where he’d cast it away miles back.
He wasn’t dead.
She hadn’t killed him. she protected him from the others, who were still nipping at each other over the stupid little Fairy at their feet. He took his wand and stood, shakily, gathering his bearings and searching for her.
Once they saw that he was standing, they advanced on him collectively, driving him from the Den. He stumbled his way back up the incline, their shrieks ringing in his ears as he clambered away from them.
He broke the brambles at the top of the hill, and all at once, the shrieking stopped, leaving an awful, painful silence pressing in on him. He looked back at the Den, light headed and trying to swallow the heat that was pushing its way up his throat.
He raised his wand again, trying to visualize home past the image of the screaming Banshee that had been branded, white-hot, into his mind’s eye.
"G—" he choked. "G’bye, luv."
It had started with her, a year ago. Sometimes he felt like it was all a mistake, sometimes he thought that he let the rotten magic of Halloween mess with his head, amplify the feelings he had known were there all along, but then he remembered her.
He hated this. This wasn’t how he was supposed to feel; he was doing this to get rid of that feeling, but it remained stuck fast in his chest like a dead weight, suffocating him. He howled again; it was her, he knew it, it had to be. She hung over him and behind closed eyelids, he could still see her in his last moments, tears shining in her eyes as she reached for him. Blood smeared her mouth, but oh she was still beautiful, moreso now than ever as that awful pity finally left her features, replaced by an unplacable coldness, face frozen in realization and sadness. He didn’t want her there, in his mind’s eye. Even now, she patronized him, shamed him, and it made him sick.
Scooping up the knife, Tracy staggered to his feet, still shaking uncontrollably; hot, angry, confused tears streamed down his face. He hated her. He hated how she’d hurt him, chipped away at him over their time together, how even now she wouldn’t give him peace. She tormented him. He stumbled out of the room, away from the magic pool, the blood from the knife trickling onto the floor in little clots every few strides. He drew his wand, and with a flick of his wrist, disappeared from the empty lobby.
The world dissolved around him, the light lobby being replaced by a stark, sudden darkness.
It was cold.
The Outlands were always cold.
His wand clattered to the ground, forgotten, as he moved forward, into the wood. This was Banshee territory. He’d been told stories of the Banshees as a child, angry souls infused with a dangerous magic, those who were wronged in life fated to a half-existence in the Outlands for an eternity. They had no memories of their lives, he was told, hearing their death-omen shrieks. All they remembered was the anger and violence that had snuffed out their life. All they knew was to attack and try to fill the hole, the emptiness that could not be remedied in death.
He slid down an incline, entering into the clearing. The dark was cast away, an odd light filling the area, radiating off of their wild, wispy bodies. They moved quickly, flying past him, scratching at his face and back and chest, whatever they could reach. They pushed and bombarded, wanting nothing more than to tear him apart. He dropped to his hands and knees, one of the spectres having torn a large gash in his chest. He didn’t move. He couldn’t move, they swarmed around him, smothering him.
Then it came.
It was brighter than the rest, who were all smoky figures of light. It sped towards its fellows, dashing them away, claiming him for itself. The spectres retreated, some hovering a few feet away, others hovering in treetops, watching and hoping it got bored with him.
He breathed shallowly, the gash on his chest burning. It slunk up to him, shoving its face, contorted in anguish, up to his, and tired eyes met the hollow, black sockets.
He reached out, fingers passing through it in an attempt to grab at the creature. “Do it,” he said, bitterly. “I deserve it.”
The spectre looked down at him with cold features. A moment passed and he couldn’t help but wonder if it even knew who he was. That notion was cast from his mind as quickly as it had come. He would have given a snort of humourless laughter if it hadn’t hurt so much. Of course it knew who he was; he murdered her.
It backed off, shrieking terribly, the sound piercing his skull and reverberating inside of him,. He watched as it came screaming towards him in a blur of light.
Tracy’s limbs went weak beneath him, and he collapsed, blacking out as the spectre moved through his body.
All was quiet.
Minutes, days, weeks - it was unclear. Time seemed not to exist in the Outlands. However long it was, Tracy awoke, raising himself to his hands and knees again, careful not to pull the clotting gash on his chest.
The spectres remained in the treetops, snapping at each other whenever one made to take a shot at him. They weren’t allowed to, and that was perfectly clear. Still looking up at the huddled Banshees, his fingers brushed something cold and slender, and he looked.His wand lay beneath his fingers, retrieved from where he’d cast it away miles back.
He wasn’t dead.
She hadn’t killed him. she protected him from the others, who were still nipping at each other over the stupid little Fairy at their feet. He took his wand and stood, shakily, gathering his bearings and searching for her.
Once they saw that he was standing, they advanced on him collectively, driving him from the Den. He stumbled his way back up the incline, their shrieks ringing in his ears as he clambered away from them.
He broke the brambles at the top of the hill, and all at once, the shrieking stopped, leaving an awful, painful silence pressing in on him. He looked back at the Den, light headed and trying to swallow the heat that was pushing its way up his throat.
He raised his wand again, trying to visualize home past the image of the screaming Banshee that had been branded, white-hot, into his mind’s eye.
"G—" he choked. "G’bye, luv."