Flying Circus by Bloodyspaghetti[]
One morning, I woke up to the noises of airplanes flying outside. I didn’t expect any airplanes to be this close to the house. Most modern aircraft shouldn’t even fly this low, not to mention that there are no airports anywhere around here. The closest one is a couple of hours away. There shouldn’t have been a way any plane would fly this close to me. Alas, it still happened. Looking at the window, I saw the craziest thing, a fleet of colorful antique planes circling all over my house.
You could say it was a flying circus of sorts. Every plane had a different color scheme and a distinct color design to it. They way they all flew was captivating, I stared at the peculiar occurrence in the sky for a while. Until one of the planes, a red one. I think a Fokker Dr. I dropped something. A crate.
The crate landed with a loud thumping noise in my yard. I wasn’t too happy about that, considering I had no idea why the airplanes were flying above me, neither why they dropped something in my yard. I didn’t really have any time to ponder any of that as the planes ascended into a cloud, in a spearhead like formation, and disappeared out of sight, one by one. As if they had never even existed.
Curious, perhaps, foolishly so, I went to grab my toolbox and proceeded outside to crack open the crate which by the way had my last name written on one of its sides.
I was lucky it didn’t turn out to be a bomb. With my luck, it could’ve been.
In fact, the crate contained a sack with something spherical and heavy in it and painting. The painting was one of a man hanging by his neck from the branch of a leafless tree. One whose face I wish I didn’t have to see again. The detail in the painting was frighteningly astounding. The face belonged to a man that I knew. We came from the same country, in fact. He was the eldest son of the greengrocer in my neighborhood. He looked like he has aged quite a bit in the painting, which would make sense considering the fact that it’s been twenty years since I’ve last seen him. And frankly, I was glad I didn’t have to see his face in that long. It would’ve been better if I didn’t receive that crate at all.
My country, during the nineties was a hell hole. It still is, but today things are better arguably. My father refused to take part in the ridiculous bloodshed between countrymen, between what he considered brothers of the same land. He was fresh out of Afghanistan at that point; he had enough of war. My father was in a minority. Most of the locals were knee-deep in the ocean of hatred. There was a political turmoil going on. Before the war had officially begun, there was rioting. It was limited, but that was enough.
That limited rioting was enough to rob me of everything and scar me for life, quite literally. I remember that day as if it was yesterday. My parents had sensed something was going to happen that evening and so, my elder siblings and I were told to stay indoors that day. They were right. Something did happen. The jaws of hell opened up beneath our town and a horde of vile demons crawled out of it.
Hyperbole, maybe, I’ll be honest, I’m not sure.
I know that they looked very much like humans. They probably were all those people I’ve seen in the streets when I was growing up, but they acted like savage beasts. I was fast asleep when there was a shattering of glass followed by a loud bang, one a rock would make. Somebody had thrown a rock through one of our windows. I woke up and made my way out of my room.
Dread watched over me as I saw masked men in the house, holding my mom and my sisters. They were crouched and shaking uncontrollably as they awkwardly walked. Dad was trying to fight them all off, but they were just too many. My brothers tried to help, but they were all beaten down. One of those odd men spotted me and charged at me. I felt his fist sink into my gut, with the air escaped out of my lungs as the man kept on hitting me again and again. I didn’t know what was happening, but I saw piles of people beating my father and my brothers. I tried fighting back. I swear, but what could I do? I was six at the time. All I could do was watch as the masked fiend was landing his frenzied blows on top of me. I remember seeing the others drag my mother and sisters somewhere, and then I heard cries. Banging noises and more crying.
I haven’t seen them since, in fact, I haven’t seen anyone since. Only my brother and I survived.
He and I somehow managed to stay alive during this vile assault. Those people, no, those monsters, they were clearly on something. They didn’t speak any language I’ve ever heard before or since. Something was wrong with them.
One of them set fire to the house, and one of the neighbors must’ve noticed the commotion running inside with his rifle, he ended up gunning down one of them while the rest crawled out of any opening they could, like cockroaches.
Most of my family was dead, beaten, and tortured to death. The house burnt down to a pile of ash. My whole life was destroyed. I was fortunate enough to be adopted quickly and taken abroad. The scars, they still remain, both mental and physical, I’m still reluctant to go near fires, and masks set off an agitated beast’s reaction within me.
My brother, he wasn’t so lucky. While he remained physically unscarred his mind, it couldn’t bear the pain. He crumbled apart before me; he couldn’t adapt to the new life, sank into alcohol, and ended up dying a few years ago, just as he had gotten sober and started getting his life in order. The complications of alcoholism…
I hate that I have to think about this, but I wasn’t given a choice, the memories were thrown in my face. I put the painting down and pull pried the sack open. The object inside made me sick, I was reliving that punch to the gut from all those years ago. Inside the sack was the decapitated head of the man who had nearly beaten me to death, eyes, and tongue missing. His hair and beard were overgrown and gray, and he had a scar under his left eye.
Seeing that scar made mine hurt. Before the fire was lit in my childhood home, the monster that was trying to kill me with his fists decided to remove his mask revealing himself to be the son of the greengrocer. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was foaming at the mouth. I was paralyzed by both fear and pain, my face covered in blood, snot, and tears. He pulled out a knife and proceeded to cut himself in the face. I tried to scream, but nothing but dry coughs came out. To my horror, he pulled the knife out of his own flesh and let out an ecstatic cry as his head fell back. I tried crawling away from him. I wasn’t even thinking, my body was operating on an autopilot. He caught me.
The next thing I know a searing pain was traveling under my right eye as the mad creature was on top of me, enjoying his handy work. He looked like an abomination from the lowest reaches of the inferno. At that point, I started passing out.
My face caught on fire once more when I saw that head. There was no doubt about it. It was him - it was his head. There was a note attached to the back of it, so I took the note and dropped the head, the sack, and the painting back into the crate as I started losing feeling in my face due to phantom pain and ended up contracting the police. There was a whole legal mess in which I had to prove I didn’t kill a man I hadn’t seen in over two decades. Eventually, it was ruled that the head was indeed his, and there’s no explanation as to how the head made its way to me because apparently the rest of his body never left my hometown.
I’ve never shown anyone the note, but I think that it is the key to this whole mess. The note said, “One has been dealt with, the rest shall follow in time. Your guardian angels.”
Honestly, I’m terrified of these guardian angels of mine.