The night glowed darkly, in pulsing patterns, as I approached the road which led to the abattoir. The street was deserted, empty of people, and the lack of life and buildings made the area disturbingly quiet and desolate. On either side of me, barely-visible fences barred the way to darkness beyond, of which no light penetrated. The road itself was worn and antiquated; due to the lack of economic prospect in the area, the government had neglected to revamp the surfaces. This was a place left behind by society, forgotten, falling into disrepair. It was a spectre of the past, a place that was physically fading away. In the near-darkness, I felt my heart beat irregularly, and I felt the smothering of the air. All of the objects were coloured in shades of black, and they were virtually indistinguishable from one another. A feeling of anticipation and expectation hung about in the air, and made me yearn for the sound of a cricket.
I quickened my steps, as I thought about what I had to do. It was in consequence of the events which took place today at school. I had left home, as usual, with money for my lunch. And, as usual, I had expected that Bob would approach me, at the school gates, and demand me for my pocket money. Of course, this was a matter of routine on every school day, but , this time, I had felt indignant; fury ate away at my senses, at my thoughts, until I was this madman, enflamed with mad and dangerous thoughts. Unlike the previous times, I stood firm, and stonily denied his persistent threats, until he pulled my backpack backward, and lifted me off the ground. This had not happened before, and I was helpless as he took not only the money, carefully placed in my wallet, but also the wallet as well. That wallet had previously belonged to my father, before he died in a car accident; I had no other memories of him other than his favourite wallet, which was the only part left of him that the police could return. But that alone was not enough for Bob. He had, I believed, some inferior wish to reinstate his power over his schoolmates, to reassure himself of his power. That night, I had to be at the abandoned abattoir, and wait for him to arrive. When he does so, Bob will take a photograph, and would post it for all to see. The wretched Mark Edgeworth, standing, scared, before Bob, the bully of the school.
Of course, I had no other choice. And so, as I rounded the corner of the street, my heart beating with anticipation, I suddenly realised, with a start, that my hands were slippery and sweating as I reached for the corroded handle of the door. However, there was no need: the door was unlocked, and opened, rather too easily, into the stench of death and decay. I was in a mass graveyard, a death-zone which was stained with faded blood and faded will. The only light came from a small window, which opened up, near the top of a imposing wall on the other end of the room. In the centre, the floor fell away into a deep pit, from which no bottom could be seen; this must have been the place where leftovers and scraps were left behind, I thought chokingly. And, in between, stood rotted metal implants and sharp construction material, which was cluttered throughout the room. Steel walkways stood forebodingly above, held with thick, heavy rods which originated from the ceiling. A faded white object lay at the corner of my vision; around it were a soft, indistinguishable material . I did not go anywhere near it. Instead, I shivered, and waited, beside the door for Bob’s arrival, although I was certain that this place was not deserted. Something intangible was lurking and hiding in the darkness, festering on this decay, growing slowly. My legs prickled, sensing its presence. At least my torch beam kept it away.
It was almost a relief to see the door open once more, and to see the silhouette of a person entering the room. It looked around, with a degree of calmness which unwillingly impressed me, and made over to my location, wielding a digital camera.
“All right then, Mark?” Bob cooed, “didn’t get scared?”
And, waving my wallet with his other hand, he coolly threw it into the pit. I watched, stunned, as the wallet made a half turn in the air, and, slowly, as if time was still, fell into the pit. I did not hear it hitting the bottom.
Sneering at my look of shock, Bob fumbled with the camera. It was then that I finally had enough; I clearly heard a click, inside my head, as I looked upon the scene with a new perspective. The monster within me, hitherto silent and invisible, slowly opens its eyes. Slowly, the shaking in my legs stopped, and I began to smile.
“Here”, I said calmly, “I’ll help you with the camera.”
As Bob looked up, surprised, I reached for a can on a table beside me, and threw its contents at him. He looked on, shocked, as a brownish liquid splashed onto his face, his clothes, and his camera. Having felt invigorated and encouraged by the look of anger of his face, I reached inside my pocket. Right then, I immediately lost contact with a part of the world; I could only feel my anger, the strength of my hate and the pounding of my heart within me as I got out a lighter. It’s strange that I didn’t feel any more fear; as I lit the flame, I laughed, and as the realisation dawned on Bob too late, I feel the monster within me snarl.
The surrounding machinery and equipment suddenly glowed a bright orange, reflecting the burning hate inside of me.However, I felt calm, almost peaceful at that moment, as I stood by and watched him burn.