Page 133 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

to leave, but finally I put down the grapefruit and made my
way into the darkness of the streets.
“The outside was dark, terribly so, yet I could see far and
clearly. There was a sense of enclosure to the darkness, as
if it were a structure built up around the world, providing
shade. My feet were still tucked into my blood-soaked wool
slippers, and they made a comical squelching sound as I
tiptoed around. Whenever they creased from my movement,
little red bubbles appeared. I remember at one point as I
wandered around, I noticed the branches above my head
were creaking from the constant breeze. But when I looked
closer at all the pretty autumn colors, I realized they were
moving all on their own—they were waving against the
wind, probably trying to shoo away the gigantic moths that
were playing about their branches.
“There also seemed to be a kind of melodic absence tolling
somewhere in the background of the world. It was tiny and
fragile, and the slightest thought could block it out. I think it
was just a fancier form of quiet—it reminded me of cursive
writing made from silence. The air was incredibly soft and
forgiving, and I moved about as though I were in a dream,
never worrying about tripping or falling. Lesser technical
issues were completely resolved during the Darkness—you
never had to worry about splinters, tripping, swallowing
wrong, stubbing your toes, frog-in-the-throat. It were as if
all the jagged edges of the previous reality had been blunted,
if not entirely removed. That’s not to say the Darkness
lacked subtlety. The nuances were exquisite, I assure you.
I could feel the shadows trickle over my skin, tickling like
cobwebs against gooseflesh. And whispers could become
various kinds of insects. I once whispered the story of Little
Red Riding Hood to a pet of mine, and suddenly all these
little red crickets were hopping out from the corners of the
room. Nasty-tasting things, crickets.
“Anyway, enough of all that. This is my last story, and
I’ll hear it finished before you cobble me into some kind of
136 | Mark Anzalone