UNsung Winter Edition 2014 | Page 66

waiting children. Boston took a step forward, and then another, his shoulders slumped in yet another defeat. One hand on the shoulder of one of her sons, she watched Boston, a slim smile to her lips. “Look, I realize that you are settled in here...somehow...for some reason... but I really should talk to Cavan. I'm not sure what to do here. I am terribly sorry about this, but you have to leave...” Boston glanced back at the door, questioning how quickly he could find Cavan in the house and have him bounce out this family of squatters. His eyes were still on the door when he heard the sound. A faint wet slice in the stillness of the kitchen. Turning towards the sound, Boston was quick enough to see the woman holding the dripping knife in front of her son’s throat. Boston started towards this deranged madwoman, heart pumping, panic setting in only after the adrenaline had taken hold. The room seemed to stretch on forever. An impossible amount of space seemed to separate Boston and the children. The woman moved with impossible speed, moving the knife from one child's throat to the other, spilling their blood red ichor all over the meal she had prepared. The girl stared on with a helpless abandon, her eyes growing wider as her brothers' life spilled across from her, staining her hands and the table. It seemed that more blood was pumping out of the slits in the children's throat than should be humanly possible Boston thought to himself. It was too late for the boys, but Boston knew that he could save that sweetfaced girl. Those last few running bounds stretched forever, but Boston was able to wrap his fingers around the mad woman's wrist, trying to twist her arm back and get the knife out of her reach before she could push it towards the only remaining member of her family. Her strength was uncanny. Boston was yelling at the top of his lungs for Cavan to come and help him. “Run!” he screamed, “Get help!” Desperate for the girl to escape, Boston knew that he wouldn't be able to hold this situation back from going bad much longer. The woman twisted and gnashed at Boston, trying desperately to get her wrist out of his grip. The girl sat there, taking in the entire scene. Boston wrenched his head back to scream at her again and began screaming with renewed vigor. Flanking the girl on either side were her two brothers, the front of their clothes stained with dark blood, their eyes blank hollow blackened orbs, their heads turned, watching their mother struggle with Boston. With every small motion their neck would spurt with a sticky wet squelch. The coagulating blood pooled around their feet, their mouths opened in wide toothy grins. Their hands began to start reaching out, grasping at Boston's shirt and arms. “CAVAN! CAVAN! FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST!” Boston shouted at the top of his lungs, desperate for the burly Irish man to bust in the door and save him. The children's sticky dead fingers gripped into Boston's flesh. His muscles tightened and ached as he tried to wrench his arms away, while still keeping the twisting knife from the demented mother from finding its mark in his chest. Boston’s words turned into a whimper. In the second that Boston had looked back at the children, the mother's face had twisted into something that made Boston lose all control and drop to the floor, scrambling back on the blood slicked surface. The woman, if you could still call her that, stood above him bowing at the waist, bones creaking and cracking as her form twisted and bent, the long arm dragging the knife