A different plain
By Sean van der Wath
The knife felt like jagged ice as it penetrated her stomach lining. Ice refined methodically for the destruction of warmth and life.
She tried to look at her murderer, but he had already turned his attention elsewhere. He was twitching, as if under a chemical spell. His eyes moved restlessly around the room. Her mother lay skewered up next to her father. Discarded like useless pieces of trash.
Nothing mattered to this man. Neither to him nor his friends. Although it took tremendous effort to move even in the slightest, she could see them out of the corner of her eye. They were digging in her mother’s heir loom; an age-old dresser given to her by her great grandma.
God only knew what they were looking for in there.
The house she shared with her parents was secluded. Edged into the foothills of a mountain side. The intruders had all the time in the world to attack them. Her mother had been right, all those times warning her dad that they should tighten up security.
The ransacking went on, and outside she could hear the call of a nightjar; a sound that could only be heard in these parts, a sound she always associated with good until now.
“No weapons, no money, no vehicles. What’s wrong with you people?” The head honcho asked. She could hear the anger in his voice, and this puzzled her to no end. How could he be angry at them for not having the riches he required? It was ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as her mother on the floor with her face turned upward, eagerly taking in the last moments of life before her heart gave out.
The human condition was ridiculous. Greed and strife all from our own doing. Never learning, always wanting. Surely the next step would be better for her. Surely the next experience could only mean a blissful release from all the agony she was forced to endure.
She closed her eyes and reached for it.