Purple Realm

People divide.
This much is known. We need a "them or us" kinda way of thinkin' so we can unite against a common enemy.
Some say that's purpose. Others say it's just a conduit for the hate that humans carry around inside 'em.

Way I see it, there's more than just a divide.

See now, we'll start off with religion. Sore subject for most folk, sure. People have their beliefs and so many hold them so damn tight because they're afraid they're gonna blow away in the wind. That's why whenever a challenge comes along, you'll find these supposed peace-lovin' God-fearin' folk turn nasty as you can expect from a common bandit.

'Course, they're not all like that. There's them with that "live and let live" way of thinkin'. Not just on the surface, condemning all those that believe somethin' different deep inside, I mean those either secure in their faith or just sensible 'nough to realise that life on Earth is meant to be lived, not spent lookin' at the heavens tryin' to figure out answers as old as man while their fellers suffer before sky-blind eyes.

Then you got your non-believers, and they have two basic types.

Your first guy mocks the believers, friendly or no. He believes himself above those taken in by the need to believe in an afterlife. He'll bait and goad the believer, belivin' him to be nothin' more than a fool. Cursin' mankind's stupidity, all that riot. Mostly there's part of him jealous of the believer for his capacity to believe, you ask me.

Your second guy's much like that peaceful believer I was talkin' about not too long ago. He's fine with anyone's personal opinion and doesn't look on 'em any less just for havin' a whole different outlook on life.

That's just how people treat each other as far as faith goes.

What about how they live?

I've met a lot of people in my life. I've lived a long time, and an eventful one at that.
I've met believers who do good things. Talkin' sugar and handin' out pretty favours for strange folk around, and I've asked, "why?" Nine times outta ten, person's scared of their god. They wanna get to heaven, scared of hell, n satan. They don't want their asses to boil in the fires of hell so they'll treat everyone like some kinda royalty all while secretly resentin' those folk. Cause they're scared, is all.

Then you got those more pious than-thou believers. They figure they believe more than any damn person else in the world, so the world oughta recognise that greatness. Maybe not, maybe they're instead the type just run around ignorin' pleas from their fellow man, or rapin', stealin', lyin' murderin' or nature knows what else because they can just rinse and repent.

Then you got your nonbeliever who figures life's too short to be nice. Nothin' after death but a pretty hole in the ground if ya lucky, so why not just do whatever you want and damn anyone else, because what's the point if this is all there is?

Then, somethin' else in entirety.
The nonbeliever who's good to his fellow man. Not 'cause he's scared of ultimate penance. Not a con-man or hustler lookin' for rewards.
Just is. You ask him why and he'll tell you that it's simply "the way he wants to live. The right thing to do."

Now, I ain't gone and told ya which one of these four I am. Or even if I fit into one of them categories.
Nature knows there's more than four types of folk out there.

Far as I see it, doesn't really matter one way or 'nother.
Ain't nothin' you can prove, religion or otherwise. People make up their minds based on what they see and what they think. My truth and your truth, well, they're probably two whole different animals.
Truth never comes into it. It don't exist, 'cause truth's a relative thing, friend.

So, here I lie, vaguely aware of the cigarette I loosely hold burning the tips of my fingers. It doesn't hurt, thanks to the half-bottle of whiskey that rests on the nightstand as lazily as I. The amber liquid had ceased its gushing waterfall and now drips those golden drops of numbness slowly, almost peacefully.

I stare at the bottle and chuckle. We are much alike. A lot can come out of a person all at once, but after a time you'll find there's not much left inside and you can do nought but drip, drip, drip away the remnants.

You can fill a bottle back up again, but can you fill up a person?

Take, take, take. There's only so much you can rip from a man, and you can't put it back. Once it's gone, the bloodied hole it left does nothing but fester and rot until it becomes nothing more than a pile of dust that chokes you.

...Which is why god, in his infinite wisdom, created the liquid which is currently pooling on my carpet. You can clear the dust for a time in a stream of searing, numbing nectar, and you can breathe again for a while.
It doesn't last.

Nothing lasts any more.

I took a job a few weeks ago. Dame needed something found, your standard broad with too much money, distraught over a stolen heirloom, recently lost her husband, needed a shoulder to cry on and a big, strong hero to help. I, of course, was more than happy to oblige. I hadn't felt a woman's touch in almost five years, and, I tell you, it was something to be wanted by such a looker.

Hell, she soon decided the heirloom was less than important. She suckered me good and proper. I thought.. Hmmm. I thought she may even be falling in love with me.

I can't remember if I thought it a little shady that she'd so quickly abandon the reason she approached me. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I know for damn sure that I didn't care. She'd give me that doe-eyed look, and everything else just... Dripped away.


They'd both been missing for 29 hours when I got the call. You can imagine how those hours were. It's not like I'm never threatened in my line of work, of course, but these were the only two people in this godforsaken world I cared about. I prayed for hours to a god I don't believe in, imploring the kidnappers to leave them well and unharmed.

Maybe that god punished me.
One was taken from me.

I couldn't look at his body. They told me I wouldn't recognise him, the damage was too... Well, they used the word, "mutilated".

Turns out what she really wanted was revenge on her dead husband. Or someone who looked enough like him.
My 5 year old son was a close enough match.

She'd taken him away from his class and locked him in her basement... And taken over a day to kill him, all because he somehow bore some resemblance to a husband who cheated her and died before she could get her revenge.
She'd come to me because she'd seen me taking him to school. It'd been planned all along. No heirloom. No love.
They found her covered in my little boy's blood, weeping with apparent contrition and pleading insanity. I don't know where they took her.

I can't blame the girl, she was nuts.

So, here I am. I can still smell her on these sheets, and all this brings to my mind is nights. Nights of me telling my boy to be good and go sleep while I stay up with the nice lady. Nights of sweating and gasping, being inside the woman who infiltrated my life to butcher it.

It's my fault.

The whiskey's stopped dripping, but there's still something left inside, it hasn't even reached the neck of the bottle.

There's nothing left in me as I reach for the knife. The dust chokes me, my body and soul perforated with countless holes.
Because after all, there's nought else to do but let the remnants drip away.

23 Western Avenue
"Let your hair down. You've got lovely hair!"
"No! I look like a witch when I do that!"
"Well..."
"I don't want to!"
"Yes, you do! Do it."
"No.."
"Do it. Do it! Go on! Just do it!"
"I'm hungry."
"Come on, time's running out already! Do it, do it, do it!!"

.....

"Fine. I've done it now. Happy?"
"....."
"What's next? Oh, the cape. Sure. Hands in position? Check. Candy? Check. Okay... Ready..."

~

17 Western Avenue
Thomas J Warnes is nine years old. Today, he's dressed in a simple white sheet with two holes for eyes. A cheap costume for halloween, but his family is on a budget.
The candy he brings home will be a treat for all of them - two brothers, a sister and his loving, tired parents.

Thomas is joined by two of his friends from school - Ben carries off his neck bolts well and Philip's mother has obviously spent a lot of time on his clown makeup. They've just come away from the faux-cobweb covered door of a lovely family they've just visited. This makes nine houses on this side of the street and there are exactly nineteen, including their houses, left to go. They all feel lucky to live on a big road, as their parents won't let them cross the road or stray from their street.

And rightly so!

Who knows who might live in those houses far from home?

The boys giggle as they make their way to number 19. They have pumpkins on the path and plastic spiders on the windows!

~

23 Western Avenue

"When do you think they'll get here?"
"They'll come. Their greed will draw them here."
"The candy?"
"Of course. That's what draws them near..."

~

19 Western Avenue

Wendy Kyle, laughter in her voice, called to the three boys as she closed the door. "You kids have fun now!"
She grinned and placed the bowl of assorted chocolates back on the end table in the hall.

Walking back into the kitchen, however, her smile slowly turned into concern.
"Honey, what do you know about that old lady a couple of doors up? She seems a bit weird to me..."

Her husband put down his book. He loved Wendy, but she was always doing this. Worrying. He looked at her. "Well now, I don't really know. I've seen her in the village. It's her cat, too, that keeps coming round the back and messing up the garden.
Harmless, though. Quiet. I think she lives alone."

~

23 Western Avenue

"Do I really have to do this?"
"Yes. Now practise. This has to go perfectly. Laugh."
"Hahaha.."
"That's no good. Louder. More sinister."
"I'm hungry."
"Well eat soon enough. Very soon...."

~

21 Western Avenue

Small voices ring out a gleeful "trick or treat!" in delightful soprano.
Thomas, Ben and Philip stand before the threshold of number 21, joy in their hearts and bags starting to swell with sugary treats.

Mrs Robertson answers the door, and the boys beam all the more brightly.

She's their favourite teacher. She's always smiling, and she knows all of her pupils by name.

Recognising the boys immediately, she complements them on their home-made attire, paying special attention to Thomas. She knows the hardships his family goes through - her smile is fixed as she slips a little more candy into his bag than she does the others.

He's a good kid, she knows. And it's great to see him smile - although not rare for the boy, quite the opposite. He's possibly the happiest child she's ever known.

Treats exchanged for smiles and effort, the children and their teacher part ways.

Mrs Robertson wonders if the children had been to number 23 before her. Nobody knows much about that old lady. She'd seen people go into the house, but, oddly, she'd never seen them leave...

~

23 Western Avenue

Thomas knocks on the big oak door.
No answer, and it's dark in there.
They stand, peering in the small window.
Perhaps there's nobody there.

The boys turn to leave.
The door creaks slowly behind them. It's kind of a spooky sound. All three turn back to see nothing but a black hallway.

They look at one another, none wish to step forward to peer further into the dark..

Except Thomas. Little heart beating quickly, he tiptoes a few inches further.

Nothing.

A few more inches, and the others follow slowly in his wake.

They almost whisper their halloween greeting.

Was that movement?

The boys are standing in line now, slightly unsettled.

They look at one another once more, and as Ben is just about to suggest they leave, a small figure bursts from the shadows, cackling loudly, her wide eyes fixed on the children with a look that could be described as insane.

The children flee, screaming, from the garden of number twenty-three Western Avenue.

~

"Happy now?"
"Well, it didn't quite go as planned, did it? You forgot the candy!"
"I just did what you said! And I'm still hungry."
"Okay. I'll take the candy. I'll fix this, and then we can eat. I didn't know they'd be that scared!"
"Good. Hurry back now. I'm starving!"

"Sure."

"Oh, love, before you go, feed the cat out the back, will you? I'll pop a pizza in the oven. Then it's home to your dad."
"Okay, Gran!"

Ask a lotta people about their experiences with rough times, and most share the same opinion, say the same thing.
"The nights are the hardest."
Be it loneliness, loss, struggle, whatever the pain, there's something about the soft sheets, silence and silky darkness that brings out the worst in most of us.

Maybe our minds get tired. Small assurances, little errands, the chatter of people walking about their everyday lives... Our brains focus on these throughout those hours of sun, so that when, finally, we retire to a still, black state with nothing but our own selves for company, we're so tired we can no longer block that little voice that taunts us.

Call it whatever the fuck you want, the idea's the same.

I don't understand it.

I find that nights are the best. Most breathing in the atmosphere in this part of our hemisphere, in this country, anyway... They're in the dark, alone as I.
I can concentrate. Think straight. I'm not distracted, confused by the rabble of everyone going about life as normal while I struggle internally. Failure to contemplate just how, how they dare go about their daily routines like nothing's wrong, when everything's fuckin' wrong.

I watch them busy themselves, seemingly important tasks to be undertaken as quickly as their feet, bikes, fancy cars will take them. Faces turned up to the sun. Laughter drifting along the air. Joviality coming off them in damn waves.

How can they live when everything's so wrong?

But, then, how can I sleep after a day filled with cold sweat, quivering and trembling like a newborn lamb? How, with nothing to distract my mind, do I lie there in the dark and fall asleep so easily?

Maybe cause tomorrow's a new day. Who knows what awaits me when I regain consciousness? I mean, I could be the same wreck I was today, right? Possibilities are pretty high for that.
But there's a chance, no matter how small. A chance that maybe, tomorrow will be a little different.
Maybe I'll prepare a meal, and enjoy it, thoroughly. I might get somewhere.
Maybe I'll look out the window at all those people living as normal, and decide I want to join the party. See the light. Live for today. Whatever.
Something may just click in there...
And maybe I'll have a better day.