The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 21

Lucas opened his eyes once again to an impenetrable darkness. Was this finally death? Had Mr. Moore finally killed him? He sucked in a deep breath. The familiar taste of basement mildew wafted heavily into his mouth—he was very much alive. He scurried onto his knees, checking his arms and abdomen for gaping wounds or missing organs finding only superficial lacerations inflicted by the broken window glass. A terrible ache passed through both calves like a ring of burnings coals passing through his flesh where Mr. Moore's had grabbed hold. All minor concerns. He was alive, though unclear why.

The mice broke out into a fit of squeaks welcoming him back.

Yeah, hi to you, too, he thought. He imagined at this point the mice were either laughing, or surprised to see him in one functional piece. He felt around in the darkness, grabbing a piece of stale bread and tossed it out into the darkness where it hit the cell wall, sending a deluge of blue fizzles in all directions. Why was he alive? He's given Mr. Moore every possible reason to commit the deed. And yet air still passed through his chest. Maybe Mr. Moore hadn't quite figured out how to dispose of him, yet. Maybe Mr. Moore had worse things planned. The dread these musings imbued served to only wish Mr. Moore would get it over with sooner rather than later. No more waiting, lying in a tank of darkness with a rampant mind. It seemed this prison cell, keen on preventing the physical body from escape, somehow performed quite the opposite on the mind, setting it free to pursue the most unnerving thoughts. He curled up on the floor hoping instead of negative thoughts, a new plan would emerge.

~~~~~~

Midnight passed slowly into the early morning hours. The two-head feline having completed its ritual returned to its place on the wall. Flesh hardened into another hideous blemish under the cool rag Qulin held against his cheek. He paced the kitchen as if his legs were ignited by an interminable flame propelling him from one end of the kitchen to the next. For the first time, the cat painting was the least of his worries. He forced his legs to bend at the knees and sat in the nearest kitchen chair. It rocked violently under his turbulent and agitated motions. The boy had tricked him—that insolent child, screaming and hollering. Moreover he felt such a seething contempt for his own foolishness. He had undermined his own principles. He glanced up towards the empty kitchen window. Som was to blame. It'd be the last time 'kindness' or 'friendliness' would be attempted. A grave fallacy each turned out to be. Just as he'd suspected—the concepts of friendliness and kindness—were untenable, nothing but utopian fog for the gullible, each ideal defrauding you long enough to let your guard down, at which point, tragedy strikes and everything you hold dear is jeopardized.

But for the moment, as frustrating as these findings were, a more pressing matter couldn't be ignored. Somebody must've heard the boy yell. If the nosey neighbors held true to their modus operandi, somebody was bound to come knocking, undoubtedly alongside the authorities. Immediate action was needed, the orchid elixir had to reach completion.

Som swooped onto the window and pecked the glass, enthusiastically.

Qulin shook his head, and barreled towards the crow.

"You have done nothing but give me unsavory advice," Qulin quipped, opening the window with such force the bottom frame splintered. "That boy nearly got away on account of your appeal to 'friendliness.' He tricked me into taking him to the bathroom which was quite the unpleasant experience I might add, and attempted escape through a window. What do you have to say for yourself?" The last remark rhetorical in nature.

Som shuddered, unprepared for the lashing.

"Nothing, finally you have nothing to say? How convenient." Qulin peered wistfully passed Som as if he was just another smear on an already dirtied horizon. The backyard with its many ditches and holes, the plant shed's door swinging on its hinges. A sad and distorted part of a mundane collage desperately wanting to find integration and meaning in the shifting and varying motions. Suddenly the garden door slammed shut, breaking Qulin from his contemplation. He returned his gaze to Som.