Fireworks. darkness.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
he awakes in the room. but what did he do to get there?

Submitted: December 16, 2010

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 16, 2010



Darkness. Stretching out for seemingly endless miles in every way. He was unsure of the direction he was even looking in; his bearings lost amidst his mismatched thoughts. He sniffed the compacted air, desperately trying to separate the different odours. Sweat. Damp. Beer. Blood.

His head was thumping, felt as though it was pulling away, being tugged out, painful and precise, in each direction. Slowly he rolled himself forwards, a soft silky surface beneath his gripping fingernails. The movements churned his stomach, vomit formed in his mouth, though he swallowed it back down, trying hard not to retch.

His grubby hands found their way to his deep brown, clogged up eyes, and scraped out the handfuls of sleepy dust that lay within them. He then brushed away the crumpled blanket from his knees, and swung his legs over the side of the low mattress, momentarily shocked at the lack of height. He drew his knees in close to him as he took in his surroundings. It was terribly dark the only light source being a lone light bulb, flung down from the high ceiling and hanging loose on a dirty white cable, ending just four feet above the once clean, fluffy black carpet. Now it was matted, cut up or pulled out, and covered in all kinds of strange objects.

Unlit candles, half of them burnt out, sat against the three walls that he could see from his position. They left space for the door, and the broken cupboard. The candles were mostly plain black, although there were red ones in the corners, and a few white spread about, in no particular pattern.

In the centre of the room, under the light bulb, was a much larger candle, an averaged sized pair of hands would only just barely be able to reach all around it. The candle was black, with a swirly white pattern creeping up from the bottom, thinning out so it didn’t quit reach the top. One long stretch of the side was burnt away, leaving the pure white insides blackened.

Scattered about on the carpet were various objects; an open silver penknife, the blade blacked beyond saving; a box of matches, also open, and mostly used; a fair few lighters were scattered about, varying in colour and style, barely any gas left inside any of them. There were empty cigarette packets in every direction, piling up, as were newspapers, all with stories of tragic incidents involving a murderer and fireworks.

The man rose up from the flaky mattress; hand on temple he stepped shakily forwards, groaning as a shard of broken glass lodged itself in his right foot. Not bothering to remove it he picked up a purple lighter, the one with the most gas left inside, and lit half of the candles along the walls either side of him. With the light now brighter he could see the walls, and they stretched far higher than the light could reach. The black paint had almost completely worn away, every so often a piece of peeling paint would flick down from an unidentifiable part of the wall and the candles beneath would burn it up. Underneath the paint there would either be more black paint, or the dirty grey drywall would be exposed. Stuck upon the walls, presumably with blu-tac, were unprofessional pieces of paper, varying in size, though each containing mesmerising pencil drawings.

They were all fairly disturbing pictures.

He picked up the black candle closest to him, and brought it close to a nearby drawing, to gain a closer look. There was a sweet wild rabbit drawn in the centre, it was harmless alone, but the background showed him in a desolate waste ground, and when he leaned in closer he could see these hungry men, with skin so frail and tight you could see the outlines of their bones. These men were hunting this unsuspecting rabbit. He moved the light to another drawing, which showed a girl with her brains shot out against a wall, her slumped against it, eyes dead and open. Another had a man hanging himself on a tree, and another with perverted men grabbing at a young girl, who was screaming and shying away with fear. Another contained a graphic scene, with a brightly coloured sky, and a chaotic mess of people, though it was hard to determine exactly what was happening.

Each drawing was immaculate, and told a story. They were so realistic it seemed as though he would be able to see the next scene within the story they each told. He didn’t want to keep looking, but his eyes didn’t want him to stop, it was that powerful imagery.

He turned his back on those walls, facing instead the mattress he had been sleeping on only minutes ago. He now noticed it had once been a king-sized mattress, though it had been roughly cut in half, and piled one half on top of the other. Because the walls were fairly close together, the mattress was squashed and lumpy. It was not the pure white it had once been; now it contained mould, damp and many mysterious stains. Apart from filth, and possibly living fungi, the only other objects upon the mattress was a squashed pillow, red and rather ripped, and the thin, slightly soggy, scarlet blanket, crumpled up by the pillow where he had left it.

He flung himself back down on the mattress, sat up nearby the pillow. He would have been reluctant to even go near the mattress had he been even slightly clean, but because the dirt and grim of god knows how long were crusting on his skin, he didn’t actually care. Using the light from the candle, he located and removed the shard of clear glass. Immediately, crimson blood spurted from the wound. Although it disgusted him, he knew he had to do it, so he lowered his head and put his lips upon the wound.

After a few hours perched on the edge of the ‘bed’, mulling over his thoughts, he pushed himself forwards to land on the grimy floor. On his knees, he swirled around to face the mattress. The stuffing inside was dark grey, mud encrusted and falling out. Without even bothering to grimace, he stuck his hands elbow deep inside the lower portion of mattress. This took some time; it wasn’t easy; there was a dark substance causing the insides to stick together, and the force of his touch did not make it fall apart the way it should have done.

Once elbow deep his fingertips found a strangely familiar surface, different to the mattress stuffing though. Unable to place it, he wondered WHAT he put under here, WHEN he had done it, and WHY.

He was near the head of the mattress, so he began to trace the shape of the surface right down the other end of the bed. It ceased about half way from the end. The shape appeared to be rounded, with lots of dips in it, of which the inside was sticky, lumpy, soft, and then depending how deep it went it would become suddenly hard. There was a weird sense of movement within each dip.

The end part of the shape was round, soft at the edges and then hard in the middle. He grabbed it with both hands, which fit around with ease; it seemed to be a big squishy stick. He kept a hold, and began sliding his hands down each side and toward the other end of the bed. This was fairly difficult as he had to push his right arm in further, and consequently his face became very close to the mattress. The smell was awful, and he found himself having to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose now.

The shape became thicker and squishier as he went along. It stopped abruptly just as his hands could no longer fit around it. The end was similar to the other, except larger. Leaving it, he traced along to the other end of the mattress, feeling for any other things. Near to the end he thought he brushed against a small mass of long, super-thin wiry bits, like hair, but unable to relocate it, he went back to the ‘stick’.

Curiously he put his hands underneath it, and experimented with lifting it. It was heavy; because it had the weight of the mattress on top of it as well he wasn’t sure. When he began trying to drag it out, it stuck fast, as though being held on to, and wouldn’t budge. No amount of force would move it, and though curiosity and frustration ate at him, he had to give up on it. Instead, he attempted to scoop out the strangeness from within, so he could get a better sense of what it was.

That didn’t work either. It was all kind of attached or something. Defeated, he pulled his arms out. He looked down, his hands were a deep red, maggots were writhing with wonder. He immediately flicked his hands downwards, slamming the maggots to the floor with one small, quick movement. He could stand any amount of dirt and grime upon his face and body, but maggots on him was taking it too far.

Hand to his temple. He couldn’t remember at all what he might have placed under the bed. His hand left smearing red marks upon his forehead, but without a mirror the only indication of having done so was the sticky feeling it left upon his skin. Disgusted and repulsed by the strange substance, he looked around the room, his eyes clicked on to the broken cupboard. With decisive steps he ambled over to it, and proceeded to tug on the door of it. It broke off into his hands, but he just dropped it to the side. Inside, amongst objects such as paper, pencils, cello tape, a large knife, expensive looking and broken up dinnerware, a mirror, was a two litre bottle of water.

He opened the water and dribbled some of the contents over his hands. He rubbed it in and scraped at the dirt with his finger nails. With his sleeve he wiped the dripping water from his forehead. He then watched as all the liquid spilt from his hands to the carpet. The fluffy black carpet now had a damp patch, but it was unnoticeable, and it wasn’t like he could ruin the carpet anymore than it already was.

He opened his mouth and dripped some of the water in, realising in the process that it was stale, and had probably been in that cupboard for months before he found it. He was so thirsty he kept drinking though, because it appeared that there were no other consumable liquids in the room.

Looking around as he drank a piece of brightly coloured A5 card caught his eye; it was on the floor by the damp patch. Curiosity caused him to set down the water and stoop to pick up the card. Under closer inspection he found that the bright colours were firework images, and the writing told him there was a firework display for bonfire night at a certain time in a certain place. When bonfire night was he had no idea. It had to be recent events though, because the card was pristine, and looked like it had literally just been dropped into the room. It was out of place here.

Reading the words on the card got him thinking of how pointless and insignificant fireworks were, like almost all other inventions ever thought of or made.

His mind a-flutter; he had to sit down. The floor beneath him was littered with lighters and paper, still damp from the water; nevertheless he allowed his calf muscles and spine to relax, dropping him down into the foetal position.

His mind felt broken up; things were racing by in his head, steaming along, causing a whirlwind of pain and disorientation. He slammed a hand to his temple, hoping to ease the pain within. He felt nauseated, disgusting and almost dead with the pain. Images, sounds, feelings and smells. Crowds. Dark. Fire. Death.

After an hour of just being, he realised he was no longer under the control of the evil pain of remembrance. He still had no idea what had happened to land him in this room, but seeing inside the mattress was sure to give him the answers he so desperately desired, without the side effect of pain. He sat up, and poured the rest of the water down his dry throat, rising shakily to his feet. He dropped the bottle to the ground, discarding it without a single thought for it.

From the cupboard he bent and retrieved the large knife he had overlooked when he had been searching for water. At the mattress he began blankly breaking into it with the knife, cutting it up in chunks, with no expertise. Folds of the filling fell at his feet, covering the surrounding area, he could move neither way without standing on top of it. It was like a dirty snow falling around him, showering him with the grey insides. Callously he carried on, until he felt the knife hit into something more than mattress. His senses then came back to him, and he began to slow the pace of his movements. Cautiously he began to slice into the mattress around where he had hit the underneath, the answer to his question.

As he cut away he realised there was no more white or grey, there were only deep red-stained mattress pieces. There were maggots everywhere in this deep part, but he didn’t bother trying to avoid them.

Gradually he realised that he could do no more with the knife, so he flung it across the room, and began to peel away the fillings. It was damp and sticky, and an unpleasant smell had formed. As he peeled away the filling around the length of the cylindrical shape, he saw what it was. He dropped the stuff in his hands, moved them to his mouth, retching all the way. Suddenly realising that his hands were covered in what had to be blood from this, he flung them away and vomited to his right. He was down on his hands and knees, vomiting again and again. He had nothing in his stomach to vomit up though, so all he could do was spit.

After he was done, he rose and looked at the severed body part. It was a leg. Left or right he did not know. The foot had been removed, and there were chunks cut out of the leg, like someone had tried to eat it, after it had been removed.

The memories came back to him in a cycle of images, not stopping, flowing round and round, and making him nauseous again. They were like a film, and he was watching on a metaphorical screen inside his head. They went so fast he used his mind as a remote and mentally slowed the images down, and he could see them in flashes.

Started by showing him a Saturday evening, dark, though barely seven o’clock. With Mark, them on their way to the firework display. It was cold, and all he could smell was the greasy odour of fried fast food.


He and Mark were having a laugh, though he felt on edge for some reason, and was only half laughing and listening.


An hour before the fireworks began, so they could be of help setting up. Flash.

Setting up the fireworks with Mark, putting them in straight upwards positions.

Flash. The beginning of the display.

Flash. The sky full of colour.

Flash. Mark on his back, on the floor.

Flash. Paramedics.

Flash. Fireworks still going.

Flash. Others on the floor.

Flash. A massacre of dead people surrounding the area.

Flash. Red.

Flash. In this room.

He had missed something. He fast forwarded, and then slowed some down further, to see what had actually happened.

Smelling the food; Walking with Mark; Setting up fireworks - slow down, watch carefully.

Flash. Setting up the fireworks. Straight positions. Supports to hold them steady. Moving back, out of the way for when they go off.

Flash. Beginning of the display, fire in the sky, each bang sending sly shivers down his back. He was excited and pumped with adrenaline, but not because of the actual display.

Flash. The first firework gone wrong. Hits Mark in the stomach. Forces him down.

Flash. Everyone dead.

Again, he must have missed something… When they were setting up.

Flash. Setting up the fireworks, watching Mark set them up dead straight, adding the supports, starting again. He moved the focus onto what his own hands were doing. Setting the firework, dead straight, adding supports.. NO, setting them at angles, with supports. Aiming them at people. He was going to shoot them with fireworks.

Flash. Paramedics.

Flash. Massacre.

Flash. Red.

Flash. In this room.

Rewind. Red? Strange...

Flash. Massacre.

Flash. In the hospital with Mark. Not really bothered.

Flash. Hacking at Mark with a knife. Cutting him up like Steak.

Flash. Running. Shooting. Then in this room.

Realisation set in. This was his own, his personal hell for after death. Set up by his imagination, with the help of the devil. This was how every day would begin for him. The only food source being Mark, sandwiched between the mattress halves. Only a leg left. Until it was finished, there would be no signs of any escape.

Reluctantly, he arose, and stood over Marks leg. He bent down, and took a bite. Maggots swirled around in his mouth. Rotting flesh tumbling down his neck. Blood smudged across his lips. He tucked in.

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