Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection by Anthony Barnhart

Author:Anthony Barnhart
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781449544270
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2009-08-09T16:00:00+00:00

Book Three

May to October 2012

Chapter Twenty-Two

Carla’s Sonnet

“That which is the most awful of evils, death, is nothing to us, since when we exist there is no death, and when there is death we do not exist.”

- Epicurus (341-270 B.C.)

Mark emerges from inside the house. He stops for a moment on the front stoop, looks up into the brilliant morning sky. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and for a second he has escaped the trauma: but his closed eyes betray him, and he sees again the carnage and feels once more the warm blood splashing across his face. He opens his eyes, returns to reality, feels the towels held tight in his hands. He steps down from the stoop and moves to the S.U.V. Anthony stands and greets him. He asks where Kyle has gone, and Anthony mumbles something, points down the street. He can see Kyle standing underneath a distant tree, hands pressed against the bark. Mark shrugs and grabs the handle to the side door, rips it open. He crawls inside. He looks over to the man, who is trying to bottle his tears. Mark bites his lip, says nothing, and begins scrubbing the blood off the leather seat. He can hear Anthony behind him:

“How could this have happened? How could this have happened?”

Mark doesn’t answer. He only scrubs harder.

“How could this have happened?” Anthony asks.

He tosses a bloodied towel to the side.

Anthony leans against the side of the Explorer, stares at the house.

“How could this have happened?”

Mark pulls himself out from inside the vehicle. He turns and faces Anthony, and with a fierce

fire in his eye, he says, “It happened because we became numb. It happened because we became complacent. It happened because we forgot what the world is really like. And now we remember.”

∑Ω∑

Harker lied awake in bed. He pulled the sheets tight around him, fighting off the early spring cold. He stared at the ceiling with the muddled wax, and he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep. But all he could see was his little angel, his beautiful daughter. He saw her running through the meadows, laughing and giggling as the kite danced in a rhythmic ballet upon the wings of the sky. He saw her clinging to his side, begging him to make EGO waffles before she caught the bus to Elementary School. He saw her lying in her own bed, with the purple polka-dot comforter and the Disney princess pillows, and he remembered sitting beside her on the bed, holding open a copy of The Little Engine That Could, telling her the story of courage and heroism in the face of great odds, hinting that she could continue to be proud in class even amidst the pestering of bloated-chest bullies. These memories of his baby girl, the jewel and gem of his life, refused to give him rest, tormenting him with their sweet reminisces.

Anthony sat upon the makeshift toilet in the lowest part of the church. His stomach curled.

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