A rusty, middle of nowhere house fell eerily silent. A mother became stricken. The strings that once moved freely were now constrained.
Fatherless children, uneducated, cared for her. They ran no more outside the solid brick walls. The house began to rot, as did the mother, as did the children. Simplicity in the lifestyle turned them into modern day cavemen. Storytelling with clay and mud on the flaking kitchen walls. Know better, they did not.
The messy hands caused the house to fall into an unstructured disaster.
The mother, with her dainty tissues and cups of tea read Dickens in a far away place, unaware of the future she had left with her children.
The house was no longer a house. It was a cave, where the children were trapped.
Intelligence was slipping away.
Humanity was slipping away.
The paintings fell upon every wall, each one getting more desperate, more rushed.
The children were dying. Their pleas could not be concealed anymore.
“Help me” scrawled itself across the cracked wooden floorboards in long streaks of crimson. Sanity unravelled in that cave. The crumbling walls shook with vigour as screams were ejected from the writhing children.
The eldest boy frequently saw hefty men galumphing around the site, shutting doors, keeping the children in.
The others could not see the men.
The eldest girl would constantly throw herself at the walls, screaming verses of mercy, but to no avail was she rescued from the hole in which she was trapped.
The youngest boy was afraid of the dark. Dark was that house, those souls.
Matches became the saviour, for the warmth that radiated from them was the only warmth in the cave. Occasionally, the flames would wriggle free and lick the walls.
The eldest boy became very angry when the flames got loose.
New bruises arose on the skin of the others, the dirt and grime covered in layers of blood and tear.
Eventually, the abuse stopped. The matches were all gone.
The supplies grew smaller and smaller, the sound of growling stomachs lingering in the air at the end of every day.
The children began to deteriorate rapidly. The middle children held the young as their little bodies slipped into an everlasting slumber. The elders would march around the perimeters, checking if anything had left itself for them to feast on.
No sane being went near that cave.
Enraged, the elders became. All morals and respect had dissolved when the lives of the young were taken.
Ferocious fights would constantly break the deathly silence that coated the cave. Punches were thrown, legs were swung. Skin became tattered again, hair flew out into the trees.
The fights were breaking point for the middle children.
Screeches of suicide rung throughout the house from the children, one by one.
The withering grey carpet became stained red. From the continuous tears, mildew crawled into the floorboards and up the remaining cracking walls, into the remaining cracking children.
The boy no longer saw men, but his dear mother.
Mesmerised, he became with her. Every time she came into his sight, the morbidity vanished and there was just her. Nothing was wrong when mother was around.
Only when several more ants than usual had scuttled their way in was it when he noticed the eerie silence, the rotting stench.
The eldest girl was the only one that got a full ceremony.
Petite daisies were collected and placed all around her, all over her.
Eventually, she was a mountain of flowers, so delicate, so beautiful.
She was both of those things without being covered up. Taking away the flowers, her true beauty was exposed and nothing was keeping her hidden.
However, death had already possessed her, the beauty pointless and depressing, for it could never be revived.
The boy ran.
He ran from his haunting mother, screeching at him from every angle.
He ran from his decaying loved ones, pleading for mercy as he stumbled past each of their lifeless forms.
The cave, in which he had been trapped for so long, disappeared from sight.
The cave kept that them hidden from beauty, from life.
The tragedies would forever remain, forever haunt the collapsing heap.
Sprinting through the underbrush, a man.
Running with rage and ferocity flaring in his eyes.
The boy saw the metal machine he clutched tight.
There was nothing left of the boy.
Bullets sliced into his heart, his arms, his legs. Tearing him apart, breaking his physical form completely.
No legacy, no proof of existence.
His fragile state was not remembered, nor did it remain.
Maybe the cave was a better place after all.