Bloodstains on the Grass

By Kenneth Dube

 

Hovering over my victims. I listen to their cries. Oh the power over my green abyss. I hover free, decapitating my victims. Is this what was intended at my creation? My maker reaches down out of the sky and paralyses me. I scream as he pulls my limbs off one by one. His smile is crooked and his eyes wild and intent on disassembling me. I scream; I screammmmmm...

Footsteps approach my door and bring me back to consciousness. Micro drops fall down my side, my dream slowly twitches away. Are the drops from my skin or the dew of a freshly dawning day? The dream was good. The dream was good. I fear not my master. He is the one responsible for my sins. They cling to his soul like the dust over time.

The lock clanks and the doors rattle, echoing inside these cold, metallic walls. The thrill of another day in the sun vibrates through me like static electricity. As the light cracks through the opening door and onto my body, it questions my morality. The light exposes the flesh and blood of my victims painted on me and my weapon. I question my own sanity now. The darkness is no longer strong enough to comfort and protect me. I feel so exposed. Am I evil? Am I a killer of my own free will? Do I enjoy the killing even if I don't have a choice? The light is so bright!

My master enters the light and his image becomes a shadow over me. His dark silhouette towers over me, his power over me immediately controls me. I am strong and dangerous; yes. He is more intelligent and cunning. He knows more of this world than I could ever know through infinity. I cannot fight his will. I don't want to fight his will.

He walks past me and the light shines on me brightly once more through the door. I am afraid. Maybe he will tear me apart. Maybe he will not bother with me. There are others here that can perform his evil works. All doubt shakes from me as he wills me forward from behind. I go obediently towards the light. I continue through the door and into the light. The sun beats down on me and warms the sleepiness out of me. My master resuscitates me and my blood pumps as my lungs cough out the cold nights and dust.

I am alive! I am dangerous! I immediately and unknowingly slash life nearby with my long, sharp blade. Their blood lubricates the flesh-crusted metal. The smell is good.

This is my purpose. I know nothing else. I like the taste of my victims. They know my feel. They know my voice. They cannot flee from me. I have power over them. I terrorize them over and over again. They can do nothing. I go into a frenzy, their flesh and blood sticking to the exposed parts of my body.

My master guides me to my victims. I am his faithful servant. Faithful and defiant, for I am dangerous. I am not selective nor am I discriminating. I would just as easily taste his blood and his flesh if he came within range of my ever-moving blade. I leave bloodstains on the grass. I slaughter for the fun and I slaughter to stay alive. Without my cutting blade, I would become useless and dormant. I prove myself each time through my victims so that I may see the sun another day; to leave behind my tirade the smell of fresh victims.

The roar of a small engine roared from the back of a summery lawn in the front of a small, one family house. Dust floated in the air, riding the sun's warm, early morning rays. An elderly man pushed the lawn mower over the overgrown grass. Each pass brought a stripe of order to the lawn. The front of the mower looked like jagged teeth and it seemed to roar contentedly as it was slowly pushed along.