Bloodstorm Read Free Page B

calculating the possibilities and the risk factor. If he could only get away with this terrible sin, he promised God that he would never be greedy anymore, would stop pissing himself like the lazy, filthy boy his mother kept accusing him of being; would begin to love his mother as much as he loved his father. Promise.
    Cautiously, he opened the door of his bedroom. A tiny but loud squeak whispered accusingly from the hinges. He stopped all movement. Nothing. Peering cautiously into the shadowy landing, he became unnerved by its darkened shapes, but stepped out, gallantly, regardless. Proceeding on bare feet, he crept along the wall, all the while holding his breath.
    Outside the house, rain started coming down like nails on tin, muffling any sound he made on the journey up the stairs. God was helping him, he could see that now.
    A few more inches and he’d be within the forbidden area of his parents’ bedroom. To his left, the cupboard waited patiently with its crisp, fresh sheets. The prize was his for the taking.
I can do this,
he thought.
Win one over on her.
    Suddenly, a heart-stopping sound floated in the thick air before resting in his ear. The soft TV sound from his parents’ room? The door from their room was slightly ajar, squeezing out dull light like a slice of margarine.
    Sneak by quickly. Hurry. She won’t hear you. God has put the TV on. Don’t you see? He’s honouring your promise. He’s a good God. Just make sure you keep your part of the bargain and be a good boy. Otherwise …
    In the harsh glare of the retreating light, lightning hit the outside. The
boy jumped, his heart skittering erratically in his chest. He moved guardedly but with purpose, passing the door, stifling all breathing as he neared.
    Suddenly, the margarine light touched the side of his face. He could feel it burning his skin, forcing him to turn in its direction like a rabbit caught in headlights.
    Unwillingly, he peered through the door’s open spine. The room was fitfully dark, broken only by the spare glow of the television. His damning eyes could see his mother on the bed, sprawled out on her back, naked, her breasts pooling like sloppy yolks. A swirl of pale smoke was provocatively misting over those breasts. He could see her sprouted nipples, and that most private of areas covered by her hair. He was horrified and ashamed, but his eyes didn’t move, held there by some invisible, demonic force.
I’ll go straight to hell for this. I know that, now. So will she.
    The television screen was flickering on her eyes, dancing over the skin of her face like a projection in a dark theatre. Her eyes refused to meet his, as if she had been doing something secretive, something darkly forbidden and wrong.
    Mum? he whispered, but the words were not formed, only imagined.
    Suddenly, in a flash of clarity, all was revealed. Blood. Brown creases where it had dried in the lines of her palms; red on her fingers like overused nail varnish; blood streaming from the slit throat, bright and dangerous.
    His mouth gaped open like a frog’s. His stomach heaved. He staggered back, shivering violently, his teeth clattering like castanets.
    â€œIt’s okay, little boy,” said a soft voice, from the far corner of the room, startling him. The owner of the voice was a big man with a blubbery face and insane eyes. He resembled a very strange baby – one that came out of its mother’s womb too late. The big man was naked, plucking at his bloody dick, removing bodily threads, like he hadn’t a care in the dark, bloody world. “What’s your name, little boy?”
    Suddenly, the boy could feel the burdening darkness all around and within, so welcoming to intruders, so generous to murderers.
    â€œCome here, little boy. I want to show you something; something magical and full of wondrous mystery.”
    The boy screamed, and ran from the room towards the stairs, seeking shelter. His left foot