Blood Storm

A gathering storm rioted and jeered outside of his one bedroom loft. He knew they were not going to calm down anytime soon. He was Judas, and they would not stop until they drew blood.

He paced back and forth earnestly running his hands down his face and scratching the top of his head so that his thin limp hair frizzled uncontrollably. Something hit the window with a loud bang and he jumped back before crouching down, arms wrapped around knees, in the far right corner of his living room.

They hung him in their minds the minute the boys face hit the news. Sweet, innocent, pure and then a bloodied mess on the floor. He shuddered as memories flooded his mind with such force he felt the bile rising in the back of his throat. How did he become this person? Just a shadow of his old self with images of red and white- blonde hair, blood red, peach skin and burgundy.

His mind flew back to the summer of 1998. He was freshly 18, excited to graduate and move on to a career as a journalist. His bags were packed and loaded into his little red Ford. The future was his and he could taste it like sweet cream butter. She wanted to say goodbye, taking his hand and leading him into her house. He followed her up the stairs and to her bed and they made love on purple lilacs and butterfly sheets. His hands explored the wonder of rounded hips and full breasts as he moved inside of her for the first time, and they were alive as they took that leap together.

Sun streamed in and kissed their naked bodies when they were found, intertwined in lover’s passion, embarrassed, but lazy from exertion. There is no wrath like a father’s wrath and this would haunt him for the rest of his life. He saw his dreams slip between his fingers in slow and painful motion as the judge slammed the gavel and they stamped the scarlet letter to his forehead. She was 15, too young for you, too young to consent.

Child molester! Pervert! He heard the calls now, fresh as they rattled the glass of his window. The voices pounded into him until his heart ached with the weight of it, their long and vicious arms squeezing the life right from his chest. This is who you are! They jeered.

His mind went back to that day, trying again to piece together what he had done and why. It was cold and he almost decided not to go, but he wanted to get out of the house and taste the wind on his tongue. He started up the peak at his usual pace, enjoying the sound of leaves crunching beneath his feet. He was supposed to go left, up to the ridge where he could watch the sun peak over the mountains to the east, but he went right instead down towards the pond. Why did he do that?

So many things that happened that day seemed out of place. It was too cold for a walk, and he went the wrong way, and if only he had chosen differently. The boy was in the cabin by the edge of the pond, and he was still warm- his skin, his blood, but his eyes were vacant and hollow. His face was sweet like he had just woken up and might ask for a bowl of cereal, and he looked like he should be in zip up pajamas running down a flight of stairs with his blonde hair bouncing.

He was too late to call for help, for help had already arrived. He felt relieved that the park ranger came by so quickly after his discovery. He saw the look then, eyes that held accusations and hands that trembled slightly. It was you, your hands are red, red with Danny Masterson’s blood.

He jumped slightly at the sound of his window cracking and the yells from outside grew louder. He recalled his mother’s voice softly crooning “Tom, they haven’t arrested you, they aren’t going to because you didn’t do it”. The voices closed around him like iron bars and he knew he could not escape it. They had hung him already, strung him up on a tree, and the angry storm would only get louder, until they drew blood.