Sophie (P.2)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A second part in an ongoing series, etc etc.

Submitted: June 17, 2012

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Submitted: June 17, 2012

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2012
A djberry story
Sophie
As I left the diner and its distinct smell of a furniture store and walked on the parking lot fresh with steaming tar I worried about my sister – did she go see that doll, the distraction for families that, for me, felt more like visiting a Somalian secret prison complex complete with an artificial intelligence, only Sophie is a doll, a porcelain menace.
The sensation when I looked at her was that of suffocation, no escape, my eyes were locked on hers and when I left the museum my memory had fleeted me – it was Sophie. Or was it the opium?
No.
No in all actuality it was a different chemical that had entered me as though it housed an archaic - insidious as high radiation - injection of poison. Long story short, since seeing her I have been unable to reach myself, I’m just dust. Ashes. Perhaps she woke me to the delusions of the world or took ownership of the free will we all believe to be such an obvious advantage and asset of our species yet when our brains are guided seconds before an action or a thought is it any wonder a scientist could have tried to take advantage of this knowledge and worked hours in a lab developing a way to pay off the mortgage of our collected consciousness?
I was worried. How much did she know - if she knew anything? Firstly, though, where is she? Had the leather-face man grabbed her? Does she still have a pulse?
My head pulsated with visions of the man with the leather face. How behind that aged mask hid no person, instead a vacuum, a deadness of an essence that paradoxically never knew life.
I glanced around in the cold, rubbing my hands between shivering knees. God, I thought, Hope Falls is bleak. True to the economic climate, Hope Falls is littered with abandoned demolished domiciles, damaged windows of decent sized holes from rocks, disintegrating horror shows of old gas stations, deserted hotels and motels, destroyed businesses now surfaces for amateur graffiti, dark streets with dim or absent lights, and a dreadful atmosphere absent of any attractions or an arcane power that secretly has kept the city alive. It was, however, just hours from the dreaded time when the last signs of the black nights' nightly unwind and failure amid murky morning mists - approaching bluish gray clouds that lay low over darkly contrasted treetops, soggy barn roofs, shined tin shop rooftops, sullen sawmill spirals illuminated by dusty sodium vapor parking lot lamps, and the morning birds park at full speed, sit, and sings at a falsetto all but asking no less than a fist pounding from yours truly.
With a head in the universe of the psyche and physical world I felt a cold detachment from what had happened and the reality of my sister missing. Instead of feeling baffled and melancholic I was questioning myself about why I felt baffled and melancholic instead of feeling aghast. Why has taken the place of how - so why is it, then, if we can end this solipsism, that my sister is missing and I am standing here, eyes only rows of celestial crystal balls, doing nothing about it?
I was saying these asinine remarks over and over - like a person on a hallucinogenic questioning the existence of their shoes, which is experienced as hours - but I finally snapped out of it thanks to the arrival of my sister. I never did go looking for her.
In sinuous strides my sister made her way from two garbage bins overflowing with cardboard, from where she had appeared in a thick haze of marijuana smoke, to stand ready for a salute a mere meter from me. In eyes of watered silk she looked at me with dusky-blue irises that were at once angry and condignly content, she then lamented my seemingly irrational anxieties. She urged me to calm down and so we both sat on a six-inch curb where the endless, motionless cityscape slept under the universe’s crumbling door.
“That was quick”
“Quick?”
“Yeah. Indeed, you were in there for like five seconds. But holy, has it ever turned into Black Sunday out here while you were racing the town’s clock to its striking of its fifth judgment, holy shit. Jesus Christ, why are you sweating so much?”
“Five seconds?”
“Why are you sweating, did you see a dead person or something?”
“A dead person?”
“Yeah, kiddo, or, you know, see something? What’d you see, not that hobo that scared you at the Hope Falls Carnival a few years back, remember that? When he jumped up and down for the duration of your carousal ride, snapping pictures, snap, snap, snapidy-snap, hopping away, up and down, in complete bliss, you were all that was on his mind and you’re all that’s on my mind now so . . . now . . .I-I- . . .. What . . . did you . . . see? Very simple. One more time, did you see anything?”
“Sophie! The Sophie doll!” Sidney hollered as she approached my sister and I, lumbering along as though all that was missing to complete the image of her trek, her journey, towards the two of us had been an old hand-carved cane for her to wobble her weight on-and-off from with a noticeable and timid tremble. And that putrid smell she amplified, an intense incense both salmon-like and rusted aluminum, dragged on the atmosphere like sludge.
“A minute.”
“The doll? Why are you here at this hour, how . . .”
“The doll! The doll, don’t ask questions! Come see!”
“A minute,” my sister repeated with one raised eyebrow.
“To hell with your minute,” Sidney pushed her chin onto her upper chest, leaned close to my sister's frustrated face, peered upwards with agony before hiccupping into the mist in the direction of a molten-golden bloom of color, which quivered and on occasion haphazardly disappeared. Green zeppelin shaped intense eyes were wide open and when the putrid mist hovered and rested over one of the eye-shaped objects that were implanted into the sky, like shadow-sketches of a human hand on a cave wall, the glistening presence of the vehement eyes closed like a casket.


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