From a Whisper to a Scream by Charles de Lint

Author:Charles de Lint
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-05-19T16:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

He was trapped again in the cold place, lost in its dark and its silence, his enormous body folded in upon itself in a fetal position as he attempted to conserve what little warmth it still held. But the cold lay within as well as without—there was no escaping it—and the darkness was thick and constant. The silence was absolute.

There were few distractions.

Mostly he lived in his memories, which formed an endless streamof-consciousness parade that wasn’t always pleasing.

He didn’t like remembering his childhood and the basement where his brother took him and made him pull down his pants so that his brother could press his hard sex up into him.

He didn’t like to see the teenager he’d been, already so obese and unwanted, always in the shadows, playing with himself as he peeped in windows, getting beaten up when he got caught.

He didn’t like it when his wife was there, screaming at him because she’d discovered what he was doing with their daughter. Why couldn’t his wife believe him when he told her how much their daughter loved it? They all loved it. All the little children loved it. They all loved him.

The little children.

He liked thinking of them best. He liked the memories where he stood, towering over them, love in his eyes as he smiled at their pale little faces, with eyes squeezed shut and wet with happy tears, little bodies trembling with eagerness as he showed them what he wanted from them, showed them what he liked to have them do—with each other, but mostly, oh, mostly with him. He would rearrange them in his mind—their little faces, their little limbs, their little torsos, their little sexes—just as he used to do before the cold dark claimed him.

He liked doing it better here. It wasn’t so messy. There wasn’t all the blood. Their precious little hearts didn’t stop beating. Instead they lived on and on and on, no matter what he did to them.

But mostly there was only the dark and the cold, and the memory of the harridan-sharp blade of his wife’s anger cutting at him while his daughter, his precious little daughter, stood there staring, so frightened of him—frightened of him, of all people—when he loved her with all his heart and soul.

When she came to mind, he’d call out to her. He’d call and call and call. He could hear his voice escape from the cold dark, carried on the back of a midnight wind, looking, looking, always looking for her, because, of all the little children, he’d loved her the best.

She’d been had, though. She’d told secrets she’d promised to keep, so she had to be punished. But he still loved her—that was why he had to punish her. She had to learn her lessons, she had to learn never to tell, so that they could be together again.

Surely, she could understand that? Surely, she could see that it would only hurt for a little while and then they’d be together again and

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