[m] [Journey] Knuckles in blood

Thump. Thump. Thump. Your heart beats at a violent pace, echoing through your ears like a war drum. The rhythm synchronises with the approaching sirens, until it drowns out every other sound. Thump. Thump. Thump. They are coming closer, are they here for you? Thump. Thump. Thump. Your body tenses. Is it finally time to show the world the legacy your father left you with?

Just when you’re about to drown in your own chaos, a soft voice reaches out to you, a serene calm amidst your violence. ”Are you alright there, son?” A woman in her late 60s stands before you, her weathered face wrinkling against a warm smile. Years of kindness etched in her face as she reaches a hand out to your arm, her touch as gentle and welcoming as a warm summer breeze. Like a grandmother reaching out for her long lost son, she stares at you with the promise of unconditional love.

You notice the strong scent of her perfume as it envelopes you. A sensation of calm and belonging rushes over you, your body beckoning you to be at ease as the woman’s hand finds your arm. A strange sensation, but have you not longed for it ever since you were a child? Is it not peace you’ve always wished for?

Will you let the scent wash over you?

Will you listen to the peace it's offering?

The old lady whinces when you slap her hand away, a pained frown lingering on her face as she rubs over the bandages covering her weathered hand. One would half expect her to lash out to you, to cuss you out for being a disrespectful brat. Yet, when her gaze lifts to meet yours, you find nothing but kindness.

Her smile softens, her kind eyes taking in your features. While she stares straight into your soul, it is not pity you find in her eyes, it's the promise of peace. Is she oblivious to see you for who you are? Or does she see past your tough exterior and find the boy buried deep within - the one who desperately craves the safety he never got growing up?

"It's alright, son." Her voice washes over you, a beacon of light in this cold world. "Here, for your bleeding nose." She holds out a clean, self embroided, white-with-blue handkerchief. Another helping hand, this time while respecting your boundaries for personal space - but a helping hand nonetheless.

Will you accept it?

Or will you yet again bite the hand that's trying to save you?

Well, well. Look who just rolled a magnificent 2. Who knew it would turn out like this? Are you really that tired of fighting this continuous war within you? "It's okay, son." The grandma's calm and soothing voice lingers in the air. You breathe in, and that is all it takes for the powerful scent of the parfume to reach you, to embrace you in its figurative arms. Your worries fade, your pain disappears, and your traumas lift from your shoulders. How nice. Your body stands no chance, it doesn't fight back.

"Come, son, let me bring you away from here." You hardly hear her voice. As you begin to move, the tug of a warm hand holding your wrist, the dark alley fades to a blossoming lavender field.

So serene...

So peaceful...

Within the blink of an eye, the world around you flickers, fading into a haunted tablue of wilted flowers and barren lands, a surreal tapestry of decay and desolation. Yet, as swiftly as the night surrenders to dawn, the grim spectacle disappears, the sunny skies and lavender fields returning before you. Huh?

How bizarre...

The grandma halts, turning towards you. "What's the matter, son?" She asks, genuine concern written all over her face. She tilts her head, after which her sweet eyes drift away from you and take in her surroundings. The chirping of birds reach your ears, as true as the sun warming your face.

"Just a little further.." She motions, but she no longer touches you, she no longer moves to guide you. "I'll tend to your wounds at my place, I couldn't bear.." Her voice trembles, her hand on her heart. "Merely standing by as those cops closed in. What if they got to you?" Oh, her heart bled as she looked at the state the poor boy was in. Such a fighter, he was. So strong.

As the grandma continues leading you through the field of flowers, time seems to lose its usual grasp on reality, slipping through your fingers like the petals of the delicate blossoms surrounding you. With a twinkle in her eyes, the grandma gently beckons you forward, her weathered hand pointing with a sense of anticipation. "Over there, son," she says, her warm voice soothing.

Following the direction of her finger, you catch sight of a quaint structure in the distance—a charming wooden house that seems to have sprouted organically from the vibrant tapestry of the flower-filled field. The small abode exudes an inviting charm, nestled amidst the blossoms like a secret waiting to be discovered. With each step, the scent of blooming flowers becomes intertwined with the aroma of home-cooked delights.

A gentle smile plays on her lips as she gracefully turns the key in the lock, the door yielding with a soft creak, revealing an interior that echoes the character of its owner—cozy and steeped in the rich hues of a life well-lived. But most of all, the place feels like home. Something you have always craved for as a kid, and perhaps, something you still crave for as an adult.

"Come on in, make yourself at home. Would you like some tea?"

She welcomes you in - her home is yours. At least, until you're ready to leave once more.

Where are we? Please. Can't you see, boy? Can't you see the place you just walked into? Didn't you notice the threshold you just willingly stepped over? A chill runs down your spine, the coldness an oddity compared to your warm surroundings. The fire crackles in the hearth, but you feel nothing of its warmth.

"Someplace beyond the city, dear." The grandma answers you honestly, she hums as she crossed the room towards her kitchen, filling the kettle and letting it heat up on the stove. "Don't worry, son, you're safe here with me." She turns to meet your gaze again, a warm smile plastered on her lips.

Before you can even consider grabbing a cookie, your eyes notice something scratched into the side of the table. It seems to be scratched in quite the haste..

Do you truly long to return to the tumultuous existence of strife and hardship, back to the struggles with your past, including the challenges tied to your mother? Take a moment to recognize the peace and contentment that surrounds you in your current circumstances. Can you not feel the palpable absence of pain, the serenity that envelops you now? Why are you still fighting the hand trying to help you? She's helping you. Helping. You.

"Oh, the path down the road leads straight back into the city, son." She answers calmly. "Wander it and you'll be back before you know it." She speaks again, grabbing a cookie for herself and taking a bite. There's nothing threatening about her as she sinks down onto one of the chairs. She sighs softly as she massages her bandaged hands, weathered from old age, worn down under years of labour.

Your hand fumbles through your pocket, but there's nothing to grab at. A disconcerting realisation washes over you - you have nothing on you. Not your phone, not your wallet, not even your house keys - nothing. "I want to help you, son." The grandma's eyes linger on your hand in your pocket, before they move up to meet yours. "Why do you ask?"

The shrieking sound of the kettle disrupts the serene air, screeching and roaring. The grandma doesn’t get up from her chair, waiting for you to answer her.

Her hands move tenderly over her aching palm, the bandage wrapped meticulously around her hand and lower arm. ”I burned my hands a while ago, son,” she confesses, truth hanging delicately on her words, yet a sense lingers that the full narrative remains untold. Despite the tremor in her hands, she interlaces her fingers, placing them on the table. She remains quiet as you raise your voice.

The kettle continues its shrill protest, its wail even drowning out your frustrated outburst. Unbothered by your ‘tantrum’, the grandma rises from her chair and crosses the room. The room is enveloped in a hushed stillness as she removes the kettle from the stove. It lasts and it lasts as she fills the cups with steaming hot tea.

Only after she delicately placed both cups on the table next to the two of you, does she regard you again. ”She can’t come here.” The woman states. Blandly. Matter-of-factly. She blinks, as if she doesn’t understand your anger. Why would it matter? She didn’t belong here. This was no place for a Pokémon like that.

As you turn your back on the elderly lady, a bone-chilling silence descends upon the room. The air thickens with an ominous tension, and the temperature drops to an unnerving degree. The chair behind you creaks as the grandma rises from it. A gust of frigid wind sweeps through the room, the fire - once a comforting beacon - struggles against its force. The feeble orange light of the dying flames cast grotesque shadows that dance menacingly across the room’s walls, until, at last, it flickers for the last time leaving nothing but darkness behind.

In the inky blackness, you hear the haunting sound of a teacup being dragged across the table. ”Thread carefully, my son, for some doors, once they have been closed, can never be reopened.” Her words hang thick in the air, a warning, a threat. Her voice remains calm, but lacking its previous warmth. ”Stay - let me help you. Please.” Her words echo through the room. You hear her footsteps, dragging, approaching.

Run. Your body beckons you. Run. Your instinct screeches not to turn around - a primal, desperate urge in your chest pounding like a relentless drumbeat, beckoning you to flee. Flee. Get out of here. And most importantly: Do. Not. Look. Back.

Will you listen to it? Will you remain standing in your quacking boots and face what is behind you - or will you take your chance and run, run towards the promise of sunlight behind the front door?

It's all up to you.

Thud. Thud. Pause. As you turn around, the air becomes dense with an unnatural stillness. The feeble light that once clung to the room now reveals a ghastly transformation. The elderly woman stands, but her form is twisted, a far cry from what you saw before. Her limbs elongated and contorted in unnatural angles, dark claws edging her fingers. Her eyes, once warm and inviting, now gleam with an otherworldly luminescence, reflecting an abyss that stares straight through your soul.

A sinister smile curls around her lips. She takes another step forward, and, suddenly, she materialises before you with a disconcerting speed that defies the law of nature. The temperature around you plummets as her skeletal, long fingers reach out. She pauses, the claw an inch away from your chest, pointing straight at your heart. ”All I want is to protect you..” Her voice is a distant echo from the kindness she once spoke with. Cold sweat runs down your spine. Run. Any sane person would.

The grandma hesitates, before her claw-like finger lowers, a frigid touch as it pushes against your sweater. ”You can’t outrun it..” She whispers. Mesmerised by the mad thumping of your heart. "But I can make it easy for you.." She adds, a sinister promise to a boy who has never been given the easy way out.

”No more agony..” she continues. ”No more torment..” Her words hang in the air, laden with a promise of relief. Gently, she taps your chest, the razor-sharp claw slicing through your sweater like a knife through butter. Her cold gaze fixates on your response to her icy touch. Before you can grasp the situation, her finger precisely lands on the spot where your heart beats fervently. Abruptly, it ceases. A pause lingers, stretching what should be two heartbeats into an agonizing century for you.

Her tap resonates again, and miraculously, your heart resumes its rhythmic dance as if untouched by the unsettling interruption. Her obsidian eyes, however, remain fixated on your chest before slowly lifting to meet your gaze. In that gaze, she unveils a silent demonstration of the power she holds — a mastery over life's delicate pulse. The unspoken message is clear: she possesses a control you lack. "Don't make me do it the hard way," her threat lingers. "I'll make it painless." She can make it easy. She can bring you the solace you desire. The peace you've been craving for all these years. All you have to do is..

”Drink it, son.” Her bony fingers lift the teacup to your face, urging you to drink. The steam rises, its burning heat creating a stark contrast to the chill in the air. Its inky colour is a far cry from what tea’s supposed to look, and as the wind blows through the house, the rancid, rotten smell reaches your nose.

”You don’t have to feel a thing, I promise..”

Easy? Is that really what you want?

Don’t you have things to fight for?

Remember, some doors, once closed, can never be reopened: are you ready to close the door to your life?