Oblivion the Origin

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: December 31, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 31, 2017



Oblivion the Origin

By Sydney Mosier

My whole life is a mystery. I do not know who I am or how I got here. My family is a missing piece, one more puzzle in the nothingness that is my past. My first memory was awakening in a large house, a window shattered and the front door open and hanging off of its hinges. I remember it was winter, the cold wind blowing snow into the front hall and freezing the skin upon my face. My head ached as I pulled myself up, fingers touching a sore spot on my temple and coming away with blood. Walking, I stumbled to the front door, legs shaking as the ground seemed to shift under me with every step. It was dark outside, clouds hovering over the moon and casting long shadows into the dark. There were footprints in the snow, smudged like someone had been dragged upon the ground. They led into a nearby forest, following a dirt path that was more deer trail then anything. It wound through the tightly clustered Aspen trees, branches scraping at me as I passed underneath. My gaze darted into the dark shadows, the trail becoming obscure as snow continued to fall. At first I did not see anything, but a slight movement caught my attention. A man lay on the ground, leaves and snow covering him as if he had made a halfhearted attempt to bury himself. I crouched on the wet ground next to him, fingers hovering over him as his chest rose and fell with shaky breaths. The man awoke suddenly, fingers gripping my shirt as I startled back. His eyes were wide, face twisted in pain. “Run Amal,” he choked. “Run, or you won’t make it out of here.”

“Why, who are you?!” I asked desperately. Was I this Amal, or was he seeing someone else who was not here?

“I am your father! What are you saying boy?” Screamed the man.

If this man was my father, why could I not remember him? Why could I not remember myself, who was I?

“There is not time! He’s coming, don’t let him find you. Run!”
“I’m not leaving you. If you say you are my dad I can’t leave you behind.”

I grabbed at his shoulders, trying to pull him up. My hands became slick and he nearly slipped from my grasp as he cried out in pain. That was when I realized the ground was not wet from the snow. I was kneeling in his blood.

“Oh god, what happened?”
“You foolish boy,” he whispered through the pain. “Leave me!”
“No!” I shouted, fingers digging into his coat as I dragged him back to the house. It was slow going, the man was heavy and the path was dark but we eventually made it. I pulled him in through the broken front door, leaving a blood trail onto the porch and into the house. I settled the man who called himself my father on the living room floor before rushing back to the door. It hung off of its hinges but it still closed.

“Find something to barricade the door,” the man told me as he coughed heavily into his hand. Blood splattered into his palm and on his lips. “And cover the window. He won’t be long, quickly now.”

I glanced at the shattered window, eyes darting around the cluttered room. A bookcase stood not far and I struggled to drag it across the wood floor. I was not a small man myself, but it was solid wood and old, full of thick hard bound books and encyclopedias. Shoving it in front of the window, I pushed it back at an angle to keep someone from pushing it in. For the door, I propped an old looking leather couch against it, wedging it on its side to make it harder for someone to break in. Darting room from room, I searched desperately for a phone. Every room I came across was of no help until I stumbled into the kitchen. My head was throbbing, blood still seeping from my temple as I spotted the phone I searched for. It was an older style, hanging on the wall with a curly cord. My fingers were frozen, white from the cold and red from the blood, mine and his. Shaking, I dialed 911 and waited.

“911, what’s your emergency?” A woman asked.
“Uh,” I paused unsure. “I’ve been attacked. There’s a man, he’s hurt.”
“What’s your location?”
I twisted the cord around my fingers, leaving bloody smudges as I tried to think of the answer. My mind came up blank, everything from before a thick haze of nothing. “I don’t know.” “Sir, I need your location.”

“I’m in a house, I don’t remember.”
“Sir, are you injured?”
I brought my fingers back up to my temple, wincing from the pain. “I think I hit my head.

The man, he said he was my dad, he’s bleeding pretty badly.”

“Alright, stay on the line while I contact emergency services.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, unsure. A sudden thud from the front room startled me and I dropped the phone.

“Sir? Are you still there?” I could hear her voice as the phone swung from the coiled cord, but I was no longer listening. Another thud echoed through the house and I searched desperately for a weapon of some sort. “Sir?”

A wooden rolling pin on the counter caught my attention and I snuck from the kitchen. Creeping down the hall, another thud and then the sound of what had to be the couch crashing had me rushing into the living room. A man stood in the doorway. He had to have been at least six and a half feet tall with a black trench coat that went past his knees.

“Where is he?!” The intruder shouted, a small silver revolver pointed at the man claiming to be my father.

“I don’t know!”

I crept forward, rolling pin brandished like a baseball bat. The intruder’s back was to me, if I was quiet enough maybe I could knock him out until the police arrived.

“Tell me now, or I swear I willkill you!”

“You’ll kill me anyways!” The bleeding man on the floor shouted, back propped against the coffee table.

I shuffled closer, freezing when a floorboard creaked underneath my boot. The intruder turned to me, face twisted in anger. His nose was broken and there was a gash above his eye bleeding sluggishly. I did not feel it at first, my ears ringing from the loud crack of the gun. It was my ‘father’s’ stunned expression that caught my attention, his gaze fixed upon my stomach. Glancing down, I felt horror as I took in the expanding pool of blood on my grey shirt. Then I felt the pain.

The rolling pin fell from numb fingers, hands falling uselessly to the wound as if to keep more of my life from seeping from me. I collapsed on the ground, gaze hazy as the intruder turned back the man. I could not hear what they said, ears still ringing. I heard the second shot though, and the man who claimed to be my father went still very suddenly.

The intruder turned back to me, silver gun gleaming in the moonlight. He shifted suddenly, gaze darting to the open door. I saw his mouth move but could hear no words. The intruder left, leaving behind boot prints of blood. I watched him exit, the door finally falling off of its hinges and blue and red light began to flash brightly on the walls.

I awoke next in the hospital. The police questioned me for days, but they were as confused about my past as I was. They could give me no answers, and as days passed I became filled with more questions.

They never caught the man who killed my ‘father’. He had called me Amal, but to this day I still do not know if in his pain he was really talking to me. But it seemed like a good name as any, so I use it. I search for the one who killed him, donning a mask as I hunt through the dark streets in the broken part of the city most pretend do not exist. I have yet to find him, but on my journey I have helped many others who cannot help themselves.

My name is Oblivion, for I am forgotten and unknown, bringing justice to the lawless.

© Copyright 2018 Sydney Mosier. All rights reserved.

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