Page 225 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

rush from his mouth, and I knew his neck had come into
the hands of the monstrous thing. The flashlight fell to the
ground, and a gigantic booted foot crushed it into darkness.
There was an enduring silence, and I began to wonder
if I wasn’t dreaming. Slowly, the smell of burning flowers
filled the room. And then the sound of light footsteps slowly
descended the stairs. For whatever reason, I decided to
stand up within the pitch. I had known the burning perfume
from a dream. Someone stood directly in front of me. They
knelt, their soft breath murmuring at my cheeks. I could feel
a gaze, even in the dark, falling across my face. I knew it
was a woman, with eyes that could pluck out a child’s worst
fears, turn pain into laughter. It could only have been my
mother, back from the dead. Tears rushed from my eyes.
Thin arms embraced me, cool lips pressed to my forehead,
and the softest hair played at my ears and cheeks. Only a
single word escaped my lips. “Mother.”
In a voice I didn’t recognize, a woman spoke to me.
“Indeed, my wonderful child. My Red Son. I am your
mother. Your true mother.”
The darkness of the room retreated from the woman’s
eyes, in which I could see my premonitory dream of her,
all flowers and fire. Her embrace seemed doubtful, like the
clutch of shadows. She whispered my name. As it passed her
lips, processed through the darkness of her body, it seemed
almost biblical.
From somewhere nearby, I could hear the strained
breathing of my father, whose throat was still in the giant’s
hand. The twins were nowhere in sight, but I could feel their
smiles at my back, burning like fallen angels.
A single candle was lit, no doubt held by one of the girls.
The woman’s hands drifted to my shoulders, slowly turning
me to meet the bloodshot eyes of my father. The candlelight
created a soft bridge between us, and I could see that my
father’s gaze, while afflicted with no small amount of pain
and hopelessness, retained its glint of lethality and poise.
228 | Mark Anzalone