Smoke Filled Sanctuary ;2
There was no lights on in the empty house. So long had there been any that the whole shell barely pulled out from the negative. Withdrawn from the world with it’s half caved in roof and partially pried foundation. Grief emblazoned through the rafters, begging for collapse. Nature taking it’s interest in massive payments, reclamation without respite. If eaten whole, orchestra swell into untrodden and full forgotten territory. It once held his Name. The scribe of family and blood; histories bleached by none other than times irreverent passin’. It felt like home, if it had shifted to a different dimension. Or maybe he had. Boyd couldn’t rightly tell anymore.
One heavy step onto the porch threatened the element pressured wood, announcing his entry into the past. Each subsequent move, a howl of ghosts. Hinge torn and gallows- mast sunk, Boyd wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to pry the entry open. Storm door long flung, windows smashed to absolution, he took the handle in both hands and jimmied. As if nailed into the opposing angles, it didn’t budge, winding Boyd’s sails towards futility. One last smack at it with angry shoulder held no success either, forcing him to back off and find other entry.
Rounding to the back door, he was slightly embarrassed with himself that he didn’t go straight for the obvious. A gaping hole that poured out into a field of unkempt bluegrass. Through it, the faint outline of what was once his kitchen...Their kitchen.
“Hoy-wa der’, what-a-da-fuck you think your’ea doin’ here?!” A slurry pond of syntax and context collided so violently Boyd was thrown off guard. A hunkered figure, gaunt and desperate smeared itself from the blown-out darkness. Shotgun nose aimed and ready to deliver. Between the nod and the twitch there was no missing the narcotic situation the poor fella had emboldened himself with.
“Now easy son’, I ain’t here to cause no harm...” Voice as relaxed and palliative as possible, Boyd held out his hand, palm forward. ” Put’er down...” He cooed at the junkie as one would a rabid coyote.
“Geet-OUT for’ I shoot yuh good!” Spittle response as the stranger advanced; the world weary rags coming to light as they both pulled from the door frame. Moonwhite filling in abstract details, like the fact that there was no shell in the barrel, gap-toothed firearm ready to suck air. Before any remarks about the ineligibility of his opponents play, Boyd swore he felt the air move in uncertain ways. Like a match burning atmosphere, microfilm zephyr evaporating the moment. The addict some how recognizing he’d been caught in the bluff, primed the barrel and lunged it forward. Boyd’s reflexes paid more attention than his brain, jerking him back in response, causing the pipe to plow at his temple. Taking a sample of both hair and sebum the shotgun reamed past, pulling along the cargo of one stinkin’ body to near-miss collision. Rebar in boots allowed for Boyd to pivot, watch the man crumple into a string-cut puddle on the porch. Two stroke-beats of flailing, a murmered curse, then a desperate scramble for the gun.
Maybe it was the miles of exhaustion loosening the elastics of his reserve, but muscle memory won the spacial gambit ’tween mercy and malevolence. Laying down a stomp so severe Boyd heard the man’s graphite bones fracture. Subsequent scream riddling the night with a foul echoing swarm, a writhing carapace that gargled clemency.
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