Halloween Fiction: the sculptor: 11 of 11

*** part: 1234567 8 9 10***

Thomas started driving to their old apartment out of habit on the way home, so it took him twice as long to get to the new house as it should have.  He stopped for dinner on the way, comforting himself by thinking about Violet’s unanticipated superstitions, by her willingness to believe Moira’s fiction.  It made him feel better about himself, at least he had not been trapped into actually believing it despite what happened. During the hallucination it felt real, but honestly, self torture althe had more rationality than that.  As long as he kept reminding himself of the logical explanations – like those terrible neighbors playing jokes on him – he was on solid ground.  He only got as far as feeling like he could understand Moira’s madness, before Violet’s incomprehensible credulity acted like cold water washing over his psyche.  He grounded himself in his sanity.

When he got home, he was exhausted.  He locked the door, threw his coat down on the couch and got a cup of water.  Then, he went to the bedroom barely looking at the door to Moira’s unused study.  It was still closed and locked, with the cupboard inside of it, all the sculptures trapped behind that set of closed and locked doors.  He was doubly safe. He had nothing to fear, no reason to be anxious. After locking the bedroom doors behind him, he told himself he was invulnerable.  The new bedroom was blissfully soothing, too, all grays and muted blues.  Once inside it, he started to relax.  Sipping his water, he decided that he should just let himself fall asleep.  There was no point in torturing himself by reading or watching tv.

Slowly he stripped and climbed into bed.  Every muscle was sore from the move and the nights of restless agitation.  Each atom of his body was begging for restoration.  He entered the darkness of sleep before he had finished pulling the covers over him.

Sometime during the night, a sharp pain in his right shoulder pulled him unwillingly out of his slumber.  The pain had spread to his right side before his eyes could focus in front of him.

Instantly, terror overcame him as he looked into the eyes of viciousness standing tall upon his chest, blade high above his head ready to bear down.  Just behind viciousness, struggling on the bed, he saw anger, being restrained by compassion, but still able to laugh and say, ‘I told you we’d kill you, you son-of-a-bitch.’

In the moment before viciousness could bring down his weapon, Thomas thought it was ironic that he was being murdered by a delusion.  How could her madness have been telling the truth? How could a fantasy cut with such merciless rage? Only, now it was too late for him to ask – his thoughts flowed out of him with his blood.  His logic could not help either Moira or himself.

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