When You Wake up and Scream
Chapter One.
"Filthy child!"
Conán's mother spat the words at him and he flinched away from her. The three-year-old knew that he was in trouble.
"Mummy –"
"Don't you Mummy me! You're no child of mine, you little brat … what am I to do with you?" She slapped the child, who didn't make any sound but stepped back from his mother, his dark brown eyes downcast and dirty brown hair flopping over his face. He sniffled and whimpered slightly, ashamed of himself, knowing that he deserved the slap.
"I'm sorry Mummy."
"Damn right you should be! What are you sorry for?"
"I'm sorry because I am filthy."
"That's right! And why are you filthy?"
"I am filthy because I sin."
The child knew the answers. They had been drummed into him ever since he could remember, usually accompanied by the bitter slap of his mother's hand.
"And where will you go when you die?"
"To Hell."
"And don't you forget it! Get out of my sight!"
Conán Connolly sat bolt upright in bed, his breath catching in his throat. The twenty-year-old man looked around himself, his skin prickling as he relieved the feel of his mother's slaps again and again. They forever haunted him, and he loathed her. He loathed her more than anything in the world, and even now that she was dead it brought him no peace.
She had died last year. Conán hadn't bothered to go to her funeral. After all of the pain she had put him through, he no longer cared what happened to her body. The only thing that pained him was the fact that she hadn't died at his hand.
Conán was uncomfortable, and he knew that he couldn't get back to sleep now. He also knew what he had to do, and he got up, his feet soft and soundless over the filthy wooden floor of the dingy flat he lived in. Outside, the cars rolled past in the distance, but apart from that the city of Dublin was silent.
"And where will you go when you die?"
"To Hell."
Conán got changed slowly and methodically, his eyes glinting madly in the darkness. He felt nervous, but there was a stirring inside him, a stirring of excitement. It had been so long …
It was cold outside. Conán pulled on some gloves and headed for the door. He walked silently down the steps and out of the block of flats that he lived in. He moved down the street like a predator, silent, unseen, careful. He kept to the shadows, out of sight of the few drunken people he passed. He enjoyed the feeling of watching, but of not being watched himself.
He scouted around the outskirts of the city centre, his eyes peeled until he spotted what he was looking for.
The homeless man looked up at Conán as he stopped in from of where he was sitting, huddled against the wall as the rain began to spit around them.
"Any money?" he croaked out. Conán smiled.
"That's all you guys ever say, isn't it? I'll bet that you could make a fortune if you asked the right guy."
"But all I get it smart mouths like you, lording it up over me all because you have a place to go, and you've had a decent life."
"I have had nothing close to a decent life." Conán grinned. "So you're mistaken there."
The two men watched each other for a few seconds, before Conán looked around at the empty street, before looking back at the homeless man. He smiled hauntingly. The homeless man watched him wearily and then stood up shakily.
"Where are you going?" Conán asked him softly.
"You're a weirdo. I'm out of here."
He began shuffling off. Conán watched him go, smiling before walking after him, his feet once more silent. He came up behind him, pulling out the knife from the inside of his coat as he did so. He tapped the hobo on the shoulder. The shabby man turned, but didn't see the knife until it was too late. His eyes widened, but by this point the knife was already imbedded deeply into his chest, and blood was flowing out of the wound, over the hilt of the knife and onto Conán's gloved hand. Conán pulled the knife out sharply, and the man slumped to the floor, gasping. Conán watched him for a few seconds, enjoying watching the man writing in pain, enjoying seeing the beautiful red of the blood standing out against the pale slabs of the floor, running over it, spreading into a pool and becoming dark against it.
The homeless man was a lot stiller now, his breathing becoming laboured, his eyes becoming dull and rolling slightly. Conán softly dropped to his knees beside the dying man and pushed his head back, softly and almost lovingly. He held the man's head like this as with the other hand, he drew the knife firmly across the exposed throat, feeling the knife juddering as it ran across the throat, leaving a neat scarlet line that rapidly deformed as it ran down the man's throat and covered his clothes, and joined the pool on the floor. Conán knelt beside him, gripping the knife tightly and breathing heavily as he watched the man dying.
Eventually the man was still, his eyes still open but unresponsive. Conán grinned.
"And where will you go when you die?"
"To Hell." Conán whispered, standing up, and walking softly and soundlessly away.
Conán's mother spat the words at him and he flinched away from her. The three-year-old knew that he was in trouble.
"Mummy –"
"Don't you Mummy me! You're no child of mine, you little brat … what am I to do with you?" She slapped the child, who didn't make any sound but stepped back from his mother, his dark brown eyes downcast and dirty brown hair flopping over his face. He sniffled and whimpered slightly, ashamed of himself, knowing that he deserved the slap.
"I'm sorry Mummy."
"Damn right you should be! What are you sorry for?"
"I'm sorry because I am filthy."
"That's right! And why are you filthy?"
"I am filthy because I sin."
The child knew the answers. They had been drummed into him ever since he could remember, usually accompanied by the bitter slap of his mother's hand.
"And where will you go when you die?"
"To Hell."
"And don't you forget it! Get out of my sight!"
Conán Connolly sat bolt upright in bed, his breath catching in his throat. The twenty-year-old man looked around himself, his skin prickling as he relieved the feel of his mother's slaps again and again. They forever haunted him, and he loathed her. He loathed her more than anything in the world, and even now that she was dead it brought him no peace.
She had died last year. Conán hadn't bothered to go to her funeral. After all of the pain she had put him through, he no longer cared what happened to her body. The only thing that pained him was the fact that she hadn't died at his hand.
Conán was uncomfortable, and he knew that he couldn't get back to sleep now. He also knew what he had to do, and he got up, his feet soft and soundless over the filthy wooden floor of the dingy flat he lived in. Outside, the cars rolled past in the distance, but apart from that the city of Dublin was silent.
"And where will you go when you die?"
"To Hell."
Conán got changed slowly and methodically, his eyes glinting madly in the darkness. He felt nervous, but there was a stirring inside him, a stirring of excitement. It had been so long …
It was cold outside. Conán pulled on some gloves and headed for the door. He walked silently down the steps and out of the block of flats that he lived in. He moved down the street like a predator, silent, unseen, careful. He kept to the shadows, out of sight of the few drunken people he passed. He enjoyed the feeling of watching, but of not being watched himself.
He scouted around the outskirts of the city centre, his eyes peeled until he spotted what he was looking for.
The homeless man looked up at Conán as he stopped in from of where he was sitting, huddled against the wall as the rain began to spit around them.
"Any money?" he croaked out. Conán smiled.
"That's all you guys ever say, isn't it? I'll bet that you could make a fortune if you asked the right guy."
"But all I get it smart mouths like you, lording it up over me all because you have a place to go, and you've had a decent life."
"I have had nothing close to a decent life." Conán grinned. "So you're mistaken there."
The two men watched each other for a few seconds, before Conán looked around at the empty street, before looking back at the homeless man. He smiled hauntingly. The homeless man watched him wearily and then stood up shakily.
"Where are you going?" Conán asked him softly.
"You're a weirdo. I'm out of here."
He began shuffling off. Conán watched him go, smiling before walking after him, his feet once more silent. He came up behind him, pulling out the knife from the inside of his coat as he did so. He tapped the hobo on the shoulder. The shabby man turned, but didn't see the knife until it was too late. His eyes widened, but by this point the knife was already imbedded deeply into his chest, and blood was flowing out of the wound, over the hilt of the knife and onto Conán's gloved hand. Conán pulled the knife out sharply, and the man slumped to the floor, gasping. Conán watched him for a few seconds, enjoying watching the man writing in pain, enjoying seeing the beautiful red of the blood standing out against the pale slabs of the floor, running over it, spreading into a pool and becoming dark against it.
The homeless man was a lot stiller now, his breathing becoming laboured, his eyes becoming dull and rolling slightly. Conán softly dropped to his knees beside the dying man and pushed his head back, softly and almost lovingly. He held the man's head like this as with the other hand, he drew the knife firmly across the exposed throat, feeling the knife juddering as it ran across the throat, leaving a neat scarlet line that rapidly deformed as it ran down the man's throat and covered his clothes, and joined the pool on the floor. Conán knelt beside him, gripping the knife tightly and breathing heavily as he watched the man dying.
Eventually the man was still, his eyes still open but unresponsive. Conán grinned.
"And where will you go when you die?"
"To Hell." Conán whispered, standing up, and walking softly and soundlessly away.