On Black Wings (2 page)

We just had that walk done. He was so proud of it.

His body, I don’t recognize anymore, it’s just a burned mass of hot ash, dropped onto the walk like a sackcloth full of ashes thrown out from the backyard grill. His remains dropped on the front walk with a sickening thud, a shower of hot sparks exploded from my Brad, burned up and gone, nothing left of him but a cloud of cinder and soot.

Was this war? Was this some weapon, some hell unleashed on us from some enemy we see on the news everyday? Men with flags and guns and religion they proclaim to speak peace but the Devil is in their hearts as they preach hatred and incite those to murder.

Why did we celebrate these people, give them a voice, to let them spread their words of hatred and death? It all felt like some perverse ballet of find the crazies and give them a voice, as they incited others so the other side can come and drop their bombs and create more hatred and crazies so the cycle repeats itself again.

Has the world come to this? Have we went beyond the point where there’s no turning back?

At that moment, I wished we would launch all of our nuclear missiles and take the rest of the world down with us into Hell. Let loose the birds of Armageddon, please God, let the soldiers in the silos still be alive to fire back at whoever did this to us. Murder them all, justice by the fires of Hell, all of them need to burn.

If we kill, wouldn’t we would be just like them?

How wonderful would this world be if we could say no to war, no to killing, no to killing others because they don’t look like us, don’t speak our language, or believe the same things we do? Where people could live in trust, where religions could be based on peace and not death, where the gun was never worshiped, and the bomb never placed on an altar?

Can’t for one moment in the history of this messed-up world just say no to our addiction to war?

I suppose some things are too simple to ask for.

I walk down the stairs behind myself, watching my older self kneel in front of the door, the ashes of the poor woman’s life blowing away. I feel sad for her, I cry for her, I feel the tears flow freely down my face as I watch her kneel, the blood running from her knees, watching as the last few ashes of her life twist away in that sickening wind.

Am I watching myself die? Is this what it is like?

I look at my shirt, pink with the number 17, the one my mother bought me on my seventeenth birthday. My shorts are my typical gray cotton boxers, sneakers with no socks, and my hair in its typical unkempt mess. My cell is probably in my pocket, discharged again because I’ve been on it all night.

I’m seventeen again, my stupid younger self, so stupid and silly, wasting her time at the movies, on my phone, on-line chatting with friends, doing stupid stuff like shopping and talking about boys with the wolf pack down at the mall.

The ashes blow by like snow outside.

My older self is heaving, crying, and she can’t even reach out to say goodbye to the ones she loved. I cry for them too, because they are my family too, ones I never knew at this point in my life because I am so young and stupid. I never imagined I will have children, the joy of bringing them into this world, and the wonder of sharing my life with the man I love.

Loved. Gone.

Gone and I never knew him.

Why am I here? Why am I staring at myself, behind the older me, watching her wail and cry, as all the last moments of her life blow away in the deathly wind. Everything she knew, gone to her, and I can’t help from feeling so sad. I remember waking up this morning, walking downstairs for my typical breakfast of cold pizza and diet soda, and brushing off my parents so I could sneak out and hang with the kids from school.

The older me, she’s paralyzed. Is she dead? She’s still breathing, but I know she’s dead. Everything else she knows is dead, so why shouldn’t she be as well?

I want to walk up to her, to hug her, to let her know everything is going to be all right. To hug her like my mom, which I never had a chance to do since she passed away without me ever being able to say goodbye. I stand behind myself, trying to reach out and touch my shoulder, kiss my ear and tell me everything will be okay, we’ll survive, and we will get through this like we did every other hard time in our life.

The things my mother used to tell me when I ended up on my bed crying about some silly thing I never had control of anyways. We always did survive too, especially when I thought it was the end of the world, but she said to trust her, that she would give up everything for us children, and that despite what happened, we always had each other and we would get through anything together.

I watch my older self and I wonder what she is going to do? Follow the ones she loves into the storm of ash and cinders? Would she walk into the fire to be with the ones she loved? Why throw your life away? I know, they meant the world to her, but a part of me wonders that she should live on in their memory, stand up, and honor them by accepting life.

Will I watch myself die?

Live.

Please God, let her live.

Something bumps the glass patio door behind me. I turn. A large black horse stands on my back lawn, ash blowing around him like the snows of winter.

A horse? A black horse.

Why does he live? Why is this horse immune to the fires of death that he himself isn’t swept away by the bitter wind? I walk towards the back door, the giant animal standing directly on our back patio, looking inside at me. What does he want?

Why are you still alive?

Ash blows by him, sticking to his mane and coat. His hoof scrapes the stones of the porch. He bumps the window again, leaving an imprint of his nose on the glass, his hot breath steaming the window. I place my fingers on the glass, inches from him, a solid world of nothing between us.

Who are you?

I stare into the animal’s eyes, black like night, the inky pools reflecting me. It stares, blinking a piece of ash free every few moments as the storm blows by the animal, but he stares right through my eyes so deeply I feel his presence in my heart. The ash blows by him in an ever-increasing torrent, his fur catching little bits and pieces before the wind comes again and sets them free.

It huffs again, almost impatiently, and throws its head to the side twice, as if to say, ‘come and see.’ I feel my lips part, and shake my head. Haven’t you seen what is happening? The bodies turning to ash, the death, losing the life I never had or will ever know?

The black horse stands defiantly in the storm of cinders and death, motioning for me to come.

I reach for the latch on the patio door, hesitating, watching the animal, making sure it’s safe. The metal latch pops free with a snap, and I hold the handle tight, for fear the horse would force the door open and expose me to whatever is taking the world away.

The horse blinks at me, as if to say it will be all right. Or as if it does not care. I can’t be certain which.

What do I do? I stop a moment again, wondering. I pull on the door and crack it, a couple small bits of ash blowing in, and I’m shielding myself with a pane of glass against the storm of death outside. The horse doesn’t seem to care at all, and it snorts out a puff of ash from it’s nose, trying to blink out the bits that blow into his eyes.

I risk placing my left index fingertip outside. If it burns off, at least it won’t be my whole hand, and I could live with the loss of some skin. I wince and prepare for the inevitable singe, heat, and fire upon my skin. I stare wide-eyed, wondering when the tip of my finger will light up like a cigarette.

No burn, just skin, and a hot wind playing across my fingertip. I risk placing it further outside, and get my entire finger out before a piece of ash hits it and I jump backwards, pulling my hand inside.

Nothing, no burn, no heat, and no ash. I inspect my finger and wonder if something outside isn’t blocking whatever is killing everyone. Is it the roof? I’m fine. The horse is fine. The black horse blinks, and scuffs its hoof twice, as if it’s getting impatient.

I can’t. I can’t do it.

I can. I put my finger outside again, and risk them all. Nothing, no ash, no burn, and no heat. I shove my whole hand outside and separate my fingers. Nothing, just the hot wind, and the occasional bit of sticky ash on my palm.

I still have my hand.

I slide the door open more, with nothing between me and the black horse, his coat covered with ash. The hot wind covers me in sweat, and I feel bits of ash start to hit me. The animal snorts in approval, and I shake my head no. It bobs its large head up and down as if to say yes.

No.

If I’m going to die, I might as well get it over with. I stick both arms out, and then realize the stupidity of potentially becoming armless if they both burn off. Yet nothing happens. Ash sticks to my arms, swirls around me, and the same hot wind blows my hair in my face.

The black horse backs up, inviting me to step further outside.

Why?

I step outside, my bare foot in my cheap tennis shoe, pressing into the back patio stones. The stone sits firmly under my foot, my foot not turning to ash, my skin not burning off, and my body not blowing away in the wind.

Why?

The black horse backs up again, as if to give me room. Bits of ash stick to the hair on my leg. I should have shaved, but that thought disappears as I step fully outside. Stupid silly thoughts. I worry about how I look when the whole world is burning away. This was me, it is me. I step away from the door. If I’m going to die, it’s going to be worrying about stupid silly thoughts of how I look before I’m incinerated.

Nothing.

I’m fine.

I’m standing outside, the sky now choking with gray clouds, ash blowing across the back lawn like a hot snowstorm of death.

Yet I am fine.

I raise my arms to my sides, trying to expose myself to whatever force burned them all away, yet I’m fine. Ash blows by me, the hot wind catches my pink number 17 shirt, and my hair catches bits and pieces of soot. I blink a piece out of my eye and step forward. The ground is slippery, so I nearly fall, catching my balance in a heartbeat, and keeping my eyes on the horse.

Why?

Who are you?

Am I dead?

I never heard of the dead losing their balance before, so I assume I’m alive. I walk towards the horse, and put my hand on his warm nose. I feel his hot breaths drift down my arm.

He is real.

I brush the ash from his long face, picking bits of it out of his eyes, his eyes closing as I brush over them, cleaning his coat off. No bit, no bridle, and no saddle. Just a large, black horse.

Who are you?

Why is everyone dead?

I run my hand up over his ear, knocking the ash out, and he neighs in approval. I stroke his mane, brushing the ash away, and the hot wind catching my back and blowing my shirt around. I feel bits of ash and soot hit my back, and I reach up and finish cleaning his mane.

The horse lowers himself to one knee in the front, as if inviting me to ride him.

I look around my backyard, ash covering everything, the lawn white with soot and the glow of cinders, and I blow a large piece out of my nose. I shield my eyes against the oncoming storm.

There is nothing left here.

There is nothing left for me.

I have never ridden a horse, and I know nothing about them.

I reach up, wrap my arm over his back, and haul myself onto the animal’s back. I have to struggle to get my knee over him, nearly slipping off, but I manage, and I’m lying on his back. I feel him breathing under me, and he whinnies and neighs before he stands.

I feel like I’m ten feet tall. I sit up and shield my eyes from the ashen wind. The black horse carries me away into the blinding gray storm.

CHAPTER II:

It’s Not a Dream

Silence, my ears are full. I’m cold.

I must have fell asleep on the horse. I see the sky, it is choked gray with clouds that drift by in silence. My face, it is oddly cold and wet. I still can’t hear anything. Did I fall off the horse? Am I looking into the sky? Why is everything so quiet?

I’m wet, from head to toe I’m wet. My toes, my arms, my whole body is so cold. Except for my face, it is wet, but it is not cold. Where is the horse? Where am I?

I’m wet, am I in a puddle, or in water?

My head is resting on rocks, I feel them pressing into my scalp. A rock is pressing into my deaf ear. Something is moving through my hair. What is it? It’s moving all around me, it’s like, I’m in deep water. My whole body is in water, my arms, my legs, my head - everything except my face. I’m lying on my back in water, and it is moving past me.

I blink, looking up at the wafting clouds above. I turn my head, and my nose fills with water, stinging and burning my sinuses, and I gasp for air, sucking in water into my lungs. I choke, I right my head, I cough and wheeze as I try to breath. My lungs burn as I try to cough out the water I sucked in, it hurts, I want to sit up, I want to cough, I want to cry and vomit and go away forever.

I try to sit up, and I feel pulling on my wrists. I pull harder, the rocks scratching against my back, the rocks against the numb flesh on my arms, a force tightening against my wrists. Something is holding me flat on my back in this river. I’m still coughing, it hurts so bad, and I can’t breathe. I’m gasping for air, and my lungs are on fire.

My ankles are restrained as well. I am so numb from the cold I can’t feel what is holding me down, it it a person? I wheeze and suck in a long coughing gasp of breath, and shove my head to the side, forcing my right eye underwater and open.

It’s blurry, but I can make it out. I am in a shallow riverbed, and someone has tied me down in it. A rope is tied to my wrist, likely my other limbs, and they are secured to rusty iron spikes banged into the riverbed. I pull harder, and they are stuck deep into the rocks and mud.

Another thing I see shocks me, beneath my body are hundreds of dead birds, feathers float in the water, and between me and the rocks I see hundreds of them. Why have they tied me to so many birds? Why are they dead?