Moon Light

A story of loss, betrayal, with an ending that will shock you all!- Inspired by shutter Island-Short story

Richard Larose sat down to a cup of Joe, with his pen fastened in an unforgiving grasp. Rays of sunlight filled the room of his home, much too large for a single man.

Journal Entry September 10, 1929: John Henry is a disease that cannot be cured. Keep in mind I have never hated a man in my life. Even the most devout Christian would feel instant hatred for the man in the bleached blue jacket. His delirious way of life makes me sick, yet I envy that asset greatly. Fear embodies his soul with great comfort and welcomed passion. Nonetheless, John always seems to elude the furious grip of reality. The way he looked at you, with those stone cold eyes, you were sure he was leery of everyone who roamed this earth. And you were sure the feeling was mutual. For if we all could be amidst  his violent imagination, we ourselves could experience death first hand. 

Richard Larose was a bitter man who inhaled oxygen and exhaled death. Literally, the stench of his breath could consume any man with sorrow. Just some advice, this is not the man to infuriate, even the most outgoing of men would not dare to come within 10 feet of Richard Larose, the ultimate example of a disgusting human being.

 

 

The Trees

1929 was a year to be forgotten, yet I believe the memories are tattooed to the cerebrum of the men who managed to survived. It was raining greed, and the wind blew with a stench of fear. No man dared to walk on Roberts avenue, without a gun, locked and loaded. There was no margin for error, you walk that street with the up-most confidence, or death awaited you. The sidewalks were the catwalk, in which the residents were viewing for their next victim. Funny thing is, only one house on Roberts, and three brittle trees. One house that bestowed a vicious amount of fear for locals, and a lethal amount at that. Residing in that home was John Henry. And let me tell you, never trust a man with two first names.

.......................................................................................................

A man of small stature passed Richard, strolling with his children on a beautiful day. “Top of the morning to you!” exclaimed the joyful man, his grin was contagious, yet his eyes were wary from years of torture.

“Top of the morning to you”, Richard mimicked the man, snickering. The man’s grin faded away after Richard’s impolite greeting.

“Excuse me! The Great Depression took your manners away as well!” Richard ignored the remark as it did not even affect his composure. As he did always, he proceeded away with perfect posture and a crooked smile that gleamed from a mile away

“Children. Stay here, Daddy has to go to the bathroom.” The fat man with great anger followed Richard, sneaking between trees and bushes to stay a good distance from his target. Without ever acknowledging or looking behind him, Richard began to sense a looming presence. Yet he did not feel the need to acknowledge  a vile presence, one of which that permeated great amounts of negativity.

“Why? Why are you affected by a slight mimic?” Richard said, while never making eye contact, or the slightest acknowledging of his stalker, “YOU are a man of low self-esteem.”

Without a response, the jolly fat man proceeded to stalk Richard, ever so quietly following him in step. Richard entered his rustic house leaving the door open, the stalker entered on fully  extended tiptoes. Slowly he pulled out a switchblade from his fur coat. As he did so his heart beat raced,his breath  slowly grew cool. Vines of sweat beaded from the top of his head to the side of his chin, his beard sopping wet. “God help your soul”, the man said, “I watch your step, day after day. And you sir, make me sick!” Before he could finish his sentence, the switch blade drenched with sweat had fallen from unforgiving grasp. Richard had already grabbed the man by his collar, with it a unwanted handful of fat and baggy flesh.  One hand fastened to his collar, one fastened to his hand. A furious grip crushed the fat man’s brittle palm, yet his scream was muffled by Richards’s fist. The final blow came to the man’s head knocking him out effortlessly.

September 11, 1929. The fat man, the one I continue to watch is no longer to be a nuisance; he knew too much, he had to go. Rich grabbed his jacket and proceeded out the door.

The End

12 comments about this story Feed