Late Fall in Fort York
That’s it, I’m packed. Just need to pocket this journal and my Percs, two things I’ve learned that I can’t live without.
If anyone reads this they already know about the nightmares. Darkness. A single lightbulb hanging aqueously from a tree. Weeds encroaching on my limbs. Sea life gliding by, patiently waiting for my struggles to cease so they may slowly feast. Strange burning around my throat. A man as old as time itself smiles toothlessly above; my own teeth broken and sliding down my throat on a coppery river.
And every time I wake my brain feels aflame. I dry swallow the Percs, never remembering to keep water by the bed. And then I write in this journal before I forget what I dreamed about. The reading the next morning is usually amusing to say the least, at least in the light when my subconcious is not so threatening.
Yet every morning for the past fourteen days only two words greet me from the otherwise blank pages: Scanlon Creek. My childhood home where we lived with my grandmother. And home of the Tillman Massacre.
Scanlon Creek has laid buried in my heart like a dirty secret for decades. But suddenly it’s calling me, almost taunting me to return, promising me that this pain will end once I reconcile myself with Tillman. My grandmother too. And myself.
Time for one last cigarette before bed. Hitting the road first thing. Praying that I’ll leave the nightmares behind, but knowing that my baggage will be heavier than I expected.
Learn more at www.richard-todd.com.