Here's a story I wrote. It needs a little work, so all feedback is appreciated.
Moloch
He had almost begun to enjoy mindlessly humming out the nonsensical incantation before it struck him.
“Moloch.”
The word glibly slipped off of his tongue and pierced through the clutter as the only intelligible word amidst the gibberish, ripping him from his almost euphoric and slightly terrified state of half consciousness. Embalmed with fatigue, he forced his eyes to discern the clock on the wall opposite of his bed. Obfuscated rays of moonlight dimly lit the hands upon a blank face that melded into the wall.
3:00 AM
His fluttering muddy mind subsided and his eyelids settled shut. He could slowly begin to make out a pair of faceless figures, fragmented by his interlaced fingers that pretended to cover his eyes. Flesh coloured veils had been stretched across their faces, erasing any recognizable features, but he could still see how they writhed.
Their shadows danced across his now closed eyes as his hands muffled his ears to no good effect. The shrieks filled every pocket of sound that he was able to contemplate. Seething, guttural screams panned in and out of his scattered mind before he opened his eyes again.
"Ixtab memoria. Moloch.”
The words subconsciously fled from his chest and through his mouth, shattering the stained glass windows of silence. Moloch had pulled him from his sleep once again. He strained his eyes to make out the vague hands of the clock on the wall in his bedroom with one small window.
The words bounced around the room and established themselves in echoes that haunted his ears with the dense silence that only comes about at 3 AM. It’s a very specific type of emptiness that catches the sounds of the room from days past. Sounds that like to wander around for months, maybe years at a time, before they become audible.
Hearing these noises rattled his skull, with a scowling grin creeping across his cheeks. A unique form of beauty underlined the room’s memories of sickened self loathing and sleeplessness. He was disgusted at the thought of the echoes of days past returning to him when he least needed them. He was disgusted because he would never hear them again. He had already forgotten their final cries.
The sun hadn’t come out yet and he hadn’t had but two hours of sleep. He was so exhausted that he could barely move a muscle, but he knew that on nights like this there was no point in tossing and turning until it was an acceptable hour to wake up. There were more productive things to do.
Even if he could fall asleep, he didn’t want to risk dreaming. Not tonight.
As he sat up in his bed, the sheets falling to his waist, he noticed that the air was noticeably crisper than usual this morning. He rubbed his hand across his face to wipe the thin film that his attempt at sleep had left behind. Dried riverbeds clung to his cheeks. He had been crying in his sleep.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Before he walked out into his living room he heard a choir of faint whistling. He had only just noticed that he could see his breath when the early morning air bared its teeth and sunk into his flesh. His folded his arms to ward it off to no effect. He began shivering erratically. An observer might think that he was having a seizure.
Once he had gotten a hold of his uncontrollable shaking, he saw why it was so cold. The large window at the front of the room had shattered. As the brisk winter evening whispered sweet nothings to him, he remembered what the sound of breaking glass was like. The shards scream in terror as they are ripped apart from one another, turning a singular unit into a legion of disparate and equally useless bits.
He couldn’t tell how it had happened. What looked like equal amounts of glass on both the inside and outside of the house gave no indication as to whether it had been done by something trying to break in or escape. It was as if the window simply looked inward and destroyed itself. Panic slithered through his veins and his heart raced to purge the breathless being from his body.
His eyes began to dart around the room, trying to spot anything else out of the ordinary. His gaze rested on me for a few moments and he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. I was sure he had spotted me, but he relinquished a foggy sigh before heading off to the kitchen.
By the time he had gotten to the kitchen, I had just finished pouring his drink. The first thing that caught his eye was the flicker of light that caught the rim of the glass. I could tell it made him uncomfortable. His eyes widened momentarily before he was struck by a wave of familiarity. He picked up the glass and took a massive gulp.
He sat down at the counter, directly in front of me, resting his head on his hands. He was looking at nothing while I happened to be in the way. His thoughts played out on his watery eyes. I leaned in until I was mere inches from his face to catch a better glimpse.
A single dark spot on the floor was soon joined by several before they all pooled together. Staying with his head down is only making the puddle grow, but looking up ensured a worse alternative. Black heels scattered across the floor and stopped right next to the pool. The heels toppled and now he could see a faceless figure lying beside him, motionless, soaking the cloth that covered its face with vibrant shades of red.
I poured him another drink. Hopefully he wouldn’t start seeing clearly. My face would surely terrify him, even though he was the one who brought me here. He didn’t need anything new to remember. I waited for him to finish his second drink before I leaned in and tried to look inside again, but the only thing that I could see were his hollow eyes. They were sifting sand. They flickered with pangs of guilt and sorrow. For the first time in years, I saw him blink. Perhaps it was an overexpressive wince.
I grabbed the bottle of spirits and began to pour him another glass when he took it out of my hands to do it himself. His actions were efficient and confident; it seemed as if he was no longer quivering.
There were two ice cubes in his glass that had shrunk to the size of peppermints. He flung these onto the floor before filling the glass to the rim. When the spirits were drained from the bottle they flowed thickly and heavily, a clear tar that preserves its victims after first burning their flesh.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
When my last glass was filled, I brought the bottle down to my waist and let it slide from my fingers. I counted the seconds before it hit the ground. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. That’s much too long. I looked down. What was left in the bottle wasn’t even sprawling itself across the floor any longer, as if it had been there for minutes.
I gazed back into Moloch’s blackened eyes as I sipped my drink. The unwavering intensity at which he returned the stare told me that he was starving. Sips turned to gulps and my glass was empty once again. I sat in silence. Dawn would be coming soon. I savoured the darkness while I could. It swallowed me whole and I slipped loose from the grip of my surroundings. Suspended in the serene blankness, a lightness that I had never felt before.
Moloch grunted and stomped his hooves.
My free flowing suspension came to an end as I crashed back down into my stool. My stomach throbbed and I doubled over, forcing my eyes closed as if it would ease my nausea. I could see the pool of blood forming from my dripping nose once again. This caused the churning in my stomach to burn with a blistering acidity that bored through my stomach lining. Averting my eyes I can see her lying before me, her face bloodied, her eyes looking right back at me without seeing.
My heart stabbed my chest as I choked out a sob. I opened my eyes again and Moloch was looming over me, awaiting his feast. I closed my eyes again to find myself clutching my stomach as a boot pulled itself back. My eyes wandered up the leg to see whose boot it was. He was glaring. A bitter snarl infected his face, which was usually endearing and kind.
I was helplessly whimpering, scattered between two equally horrific worlds. I opened my eyes again to find Moloch with his face directly in front of mine. His horns cast shadows on my face in the pale moonlight that wandered in through the open window.
I had begun to heave and convulse. Moloch rose and stood before me. I closed my eyes again and saw the vermillion stained floor below me. The floor opened up and the room fell out from under me into a valley of flames. Her unfocused eyes remained motionless and his hand reached back out toward me as they made their slow descent. Soon the flames began to dwindle, leaving me suspended in darkness once again.
Moloch grunted and stomped his hooves.
I was snapped out of the darkness and found myself back on all fours in my kitchen, still jerking, stomach writhing. One heave finally struck the right chord and the poisons frothed over my stomach and rose up and through my throat. I vomited a sickening sludge that spilled out onto the floor and all over Moloch’s hooves.
“Moloch,” I uttered as I began to fade away. Any attempt to fight the allure of unconsciousness was futile. I sunk into the floor and saw Moloch, looking down on me. His face grew blurry except for his dark and empty eyes. The eyes that had seen me longer than I was aware of. The eyes that had been to my past. The eyes that had fought to keep me safe from not only others, but myself. The eyes that had washed away my memories with their tears.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
He awoke on his kitchen floor, disoriented and groggy, as the sunlight that was trickling into the house began to pour in. He sat up to discover a broken bottle of scotch to his right and vomit all over his shoes. The scent flooded his nostrils and he stood up to escape it.
The backdoor of the kitchen opened up to his patio and he wandered out and sat in his chair. It was soaking wet. He was wondering if it had rained last night when he saw a splotch appear on the ground before him. Slowly more and more rain droplets found their way to the ground before blending together, darkening the concrete. He clicked his vomit-caked boots together while he watched the rain painting the ground for a moment longer. Slowly, he raised his head to the sky. The rain flicked his face lightly and began to drip off of his cheek. Whatever had happened last night, he wanted nothing to do with it, he decided.
He got up and went back inside. Water fell from his face and onto the kitchen floor, which made him uneasy for reasons he was unsure of. He leaned against the counter and sighed deeply. It was then that he saw it.
A glass of scotch, filled to the brim. Two large ice cubes bobbed in the drink as if they had just been plopped in.
“Moloch.”