Page 65 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1
P. 65
my sister dragged my hand behind her, down what seemed
an endless, convulsing hole.
I drew close to the monster’s ear and whispered, “Is she
not splendid as well, creature? Tell me, will you scream for
her?” The thing had apparently lost its taste for conversation,
which was forgivable, as its mouth was suddenly without
tongue. It seized my arm with incredible strength, tearing
my hand from the sucking wound of its face.
I felt my other sister slide into my free hand, her laughter
infectious. She tore across the claw that held me, springing
a honeyed howl from the bleeding trench of a mouth. “I
knew you would find your singing voice, eventually!”
she squealed. The thing reeled backward of my shoulders,
screeching and bleeding from my sisters’ joint assault.
Before I knew it, my sisters had been replaced by my
father. “And your last scream shall belong to me!” my great
benefactor roared. My father fell with such power that the
very air around him warped and crackled. Unbelievably, the
inhuman thing absorbed the blow, refusing to fall. Never
had I witnessed a creature capable of weathering such direct
exposure to my father’s power. Regardless, the creature
had been sorely wounded, its claws busy trying to stem the
flow of strange fluids that sprayed from its broken body. It
backpedaled until it found a wall and turned its furnace-eyes
upon me, silently promising a death beyond comprehension.
My father’s rage had grown beyond steel and bone,
sending waves of purest hatred rolling through me. He
roared toward the glaring monster with a fury that nearly
burned through my hands. I should have been impressed
by the speed and monstrous strength demonstrated by the
creature when it leapt sideways onto a distant rooftop, but
my attention was stolen away by the unearthly collision
between the wall and my father. Where once there was
concrete, steel, and monster, there was now only debris and
a dreadful echo. My raging father suddenly went quiet and
fell into fitful sleep, my sisters’ laughter unwinding into
68 | Mark Anzalone