Andrew M Bedford
15/12/2022
Image description: a light pink background contrasts a darker pink tree filled with a medium pink gradient of leaves. Red apples dangle from the branches and leaves.
By the light of a sullen yellow moon, The Killer skipped silently across a freshly mown field. Beads of water trailed from his shoes. Wetted trouser bottoms, socks soaked to the skin, tracks left in the dew. The Killer stopped and looked back towards the now seemingly distant homestead. ‘Not to worry, not to curse, the deed is done now more or less for the worse,’ sang The Killer softy. He was jittery and giddy. The pounding rhythm of his heart reverberating so forcibly in his head momentarily beating him almost senseless. Adrenaline…sometimes a friend, sometimes a foe. The Killer shivered as droplets of sweat forming at the base of his neck ran down the length of his spine, ice cold, excessive.
‘Breathe in, breathe out. Slow it down, slow it down, all over now…for now,’ he mused, a wry smile stretching slowly across his face, splitting his dry lips here and there.
Giggling softly to himself in the moonlight, The Killer watched the fog of his breath dissipate into the nothingness of the air above and around him. ‘But where does it go?’ He asked himself in a whisper, his eyes haphazard, wild. ‘Time now to count down from ten to one and back again’.
Suitably composed, The Killer turned and continued away from the homestead towards a glade of densely packed apple trees. He did not run, jog or skip, he loped slowly, deliberately casual. Reaching the end of the field, The Killer came upon a simple wooden post and rail fence painted a brilliant white. The fence line stopped just shy of the reach of the nearest apple tree’s canopy. He swayed and looked unhurriedly down the fence line, first to his left, and then to his right. The trees were uniformly planted in perfect spacing creating an obvious and satisfying pre-determined distance from the fence. The Killer admired this greatly; the precision, the attention to detail, the order, the structure. For a moment he indulged in a short space of comfort.
Like a prowling predator, The Killer launched himself silently atop the fence. Graceful as a cat, The Killer sprung forward into the tree nearest to him. Tactful and alert, The Killer proceeded to break and smash every branch accessible. A frantic, palpable rage exploded and uncoiled from within him. Fists, feet, freshly broken branches used as crude makeshift tools of destruction flew and whirled in every direction. In no time at all the tree was a ruin. Momentarily satiated, The Killer crouched at the base of the tree; shallow rapid breaths, listening, listening. After a moment he stood, silent, the only sounds were the soft rustle of the leaves from the neighbouring trees as a cool breeze caressed them oh so gently. The Killer’s tree would feel no such caress again.
‘Not to worry, not to curse, the deed is done now more or less for the worse,’ sang the Killer softly. In the soft glow of the moonlight a jittery and giddy cloak slid over him once again, intimately familiar. Adrenaline…sometimes a friend, sometimes a foe. The Killer looked back at his handiwork. ‘So, you thought you was pretty and beautiful, in bloom and about to bear fruit you was,’ he snarled. ‘Something a might special and wonderful-eh? Well, just look at you now my lovely, look at what I’ve made you!’
As the moon approached its apex, The Killer moved further into the apple orchard, walking a well-worn path that rose steadily towards a small crest. Rustling noises stopped The Killer in his tracks, he crouched again, frozen, a statue. Hearing nothing more, he rose slowly and walked on only for the rustling to start again. He stopped and upon crouching this time he noticed the source of his dilemma. Apple leaves, crushed blossoms, broken bits of branches, fragments of twigs covered the front of his trousers stuck fast by a glue of coagulated blood as thick as tree sap. The Killer reached for his long razor-sharp knife, its handle was still sticky with blood and in a similar state to that of his trousers. He picked the handle clean and licked at his fingers.
‘Salty and sweet but just a small treat,’ he warbled in a whisper. With lighting quick confidence, he ran the blade up and down his trouser front, cleaning off the detritus of his most recent devastations with little fuss.
When he was done and content, The Killer effortlessly slipped the knife back into its sheath threaded to his belt, secure, harmless. The Killer enjoyed the sweet apple blossom scented air as he resumed his trek along the path. As he reached the peak of the crest, he was immediately struck by a low warm light radiating from a window in the orchard cottage house, residing in the not-too-distant beyond. He stood, staring intently, his heart starting to pound in his chest as malice wed with intent. Beads of sweat formed again on his brow. Veins appeared like great dermal worms surfacing randomly from the base of his neck to both of his temples. He thought he heard a youngling cry out.
‘What luck and fortune smiles upon me this night,’ hissed The Killer to the sullen yellow moon as he continued deliberately casual along the well-worn path leading directly to the cottage.
***
Andrew Bedford grew up in the rough and tumble of Melbourne’s blue collar inner city northern suburbs in the 1970’s and 80’s. A latch key kid from a single parent family, he was aptly described by one of his primary school teachers as ‘has potential, tends to daydream’.
Paper Road Magazine 