Time: 12:46 PM Pages: 5 Word Count: 1253 Listening to: x Topic: Jamie’s turning
I know I said I’d do part two of Jamie hunting tonight but Jamie had other plans.
It was a humid July night and James McMorrow didn’t know where he was in the slightest. Maybe if he’d ever learned star navigation he’d have a clue because if nothing else, he’d never seen such a clear night sky.
It was an odd occasion for the homeless boy to lose track of where he was or where he was going. Most times it was as simple as follow the road or the train tracks—but somewhere is his fatigued, hungry stupor he’d wandered from the road and hadn’t been able to find his way back.
That was a day and a half ago. Maybe more; he’d lost track, to be honest, and out here all the days ran together. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a full meal and the pain and gnawing ache in his stomach was almost crippling. Not to mention he felt feverish and ill and sometimes the coughing fits could last several dreadful minutes. He wanted nothing more than to curl up his sore limbs and sleep right there in the dust, but he knew that meant certain death. Expending the energy to keep walking meant wasting away more quickly, but staying put left him no chance of finding anything or of being found. If he kept walking he at least improved his odds.
He was in luck, though, he thought. Perhaps it was only a mirage of his starved mind, but he could swear there were lights on the horizon. He couldn’t tell how near or far they were but if he kept walking, eventually he’d have to come across something. If he could just keep pushing.
He only needed to cover that distance and pray someone would take pity on him in his malnourished state to offer him even something as simple as a slice of bread. He could work for food, eventually, once he had a few calories in him to give him strength to keep going. He always preferred to pull his own weight when he could. Right now all he wanted, though, was to collapse entirely and give up. Succumb to the growling pain and the soreness in his limbs.
His sheer exhaustion grew ever more apparent in each footstep, dragged achingly across the dusty ground. He’d lucked out in that he hadn’t been suffocated by one of this big, dark, looming storms yet—the ones from which dust seeped into every crevice and strangled the life of plants and animals alike. He was less lucky in that it seemed one such storm had already swept through here and left neither water nor edible vegetation in its wake. He’d even settle to eat prairie grass if it meant getting the throb in his gut to leave him alone for a few minutes of peace. There was nothing for miles, only dusty plain as far as the eye could see.
How on Earth his mother’s ancestors had managed living in this hellish landscape for so long bewildered him. The thought of it was enough to distract and occupy him for a few yards of movement before another hungry growl ripped from his stomach, followed by a cough that rattled his lungs and scraped against his throat until it was raw. All he could do was wrap his thin arms around himself and try to keep from doubling over. All he could do was press on.
Somewhere, behind him, he heard the shuffle of footsteps. Hopeful, maybe for rescue of some sort, maybe just for directions, he turns. “Hello?” His voice comes out as little more than a rasp.
There was no answer and also no one present. Maybe he was so desperate that he had started hallucinating. So he turned back to face those twinkling lights that promised civilization somewhere not too far from here.
Another several minutes passed, each yard covered torturously slow. He was alone and hungry and sick and hardly had strength left in him to even stand. All he had was silence and the knowledge that somewhere up there, amidst the glittering stars, God sat on his throne in Heaven watching him as the shepherd tended to their flock.
He didn’t have the strength or voice to pray out loud but at least in his head he could say a Hail Mary—if nothing else, it would occupy him for a minute.
Hail Mary, full of grace.
Our Lord is with—
Hands clamped down on his bony shoulders like bear traps, fingernails like claws sinking into his flesh. James cried out in shock as the attacker yanked down on him with all their weight. James crumpled to the ground and the assailant followed, sliding one clawed hand to James’ throat and dragging the boy into his lap.
James did his best to fight, lighting his hands to the fingers that curled around his throat. His own thin fingers pried and pulled at the stranger’s, but the grip was too strong. His fingers were like ice and his skin like granite and his grip unbreakable and the more James tried, the tighter his assailant’s grip become. He could only just choke breath in and out of his lungs and his vision grew dark around the edges.
If he couldn’t pull the hand that choked him away, he would do his best to beat the attacker. Frail hands curled into fists and pounded at the attacker’s legs under James, but the man didn’t even seem to notice.
Then there was a searing hot pressure at his neck, the base of where his throat met his shoulder. James cried out once more, in pain, hot tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Something that felt like teeth broke through skin and muscle, sinking in to flesh like James’ throat was nothing more than a juicy steak.
As time passed with the stranger’s mouth at his throat, his already weak body only became weaker. The longer the attacker remained latched at his neck, the more tired he felt. If he thought he’d been fatigued before, he’d been blissfully unaware. His limps went limp, arms resting and on the legs of the attacker and fingers uncurled.
He was dying, James realized with a start. This was what death felt like. And all he could do was lay there like a gutted fish, too weak to even look at his killer.
Silent tears leaked from his eyes as he stared up at the Heavens. His parents would never know. Their boy, their James, would die alone and in agonizing pain at the hands of another, and he couldn’t even fight it. All that time he spent picking fights and he couldn’t even manage it one last time when it really mattered.
He shut his eyes. And he waited for it to be over.
And then there was a blinding light and voices and for a moment James thought he was dead and that maybe this was Heaven, but he was in too much pain to be in Heaven. Maybe it was hell.
He felt his assailant toss him aside and he hit the ground harder than he expected. Even still, he couldn’t force a cry of pain past his lips. That’s when he knew he was still alive. He couldn’t open his eyes or make a sound, but things kept happening around him. There was a scuffle, and some of the voices faded into the silence of the night.
One voice stayed with him. James could recognize that he was being addressed, but couldn’t comprehend what was being said, nor could he find the strength to reply. Something in his gut said he should nod, so he tried—but he wasn’t sure if he was successful.
Hands wrapped around him again, this time with no malicious intent. Gentle hands lifted him off the ground and he could feel each of his limps fall to the side. Dead weight, dangling from an almost-corpse. They dragged him down and tethered him to Earth. Each rise and fall of his chest seemed to drag on for an eternity, each beat of his heart seemed slower than the last. His thoughts were fuzzy and incomprehensible, even to him--if he even had any thoughts to begin with. His brain was too clouded for him to know.
The man said something in a hushed tone and someone brushed the hair from James’ face.
And then James McMorrow was dead.