Dark Where the Shadows Run by Beverly Starr
	"Remember; remember the fifth of November..." "Shh," she says as the ash falls from the sky, the lyrical sweeping prose of the poem loud in her ears. "Can you hear?" "I can," he calls and his voice is sweet music to her ears. She grabs his hand, and they run through the empty streets, until he stops and pulls his hands from hers. "I can hear her!" He kneels and grabs a handful of gray dust, throwing it into the air above his head. "She's close, she's coming. Annie! Momma's coming!" She's distracted by the red ribbon tying her hair back, one end trailing over her shoulder. The string is bleeding. Her pretty white dress is ruined. The stain spreads slowly, crimson blossoming over her heart and down her breasts. "No, no," she says, shaking her head, pulling her hands away from the bloody dress. Horror overcomes her as she pulls the skirt away from her chest, needing, wanting, having to get it away from her skin. And still he dances. She looks up at him, opening her mouth to ask for help and then she notices the black smear creeping out of his mouth, bruising the skin around his lips. He twirls in the deluge, his hair lighting with tiny pinpricks of light. They catch and grow, engulfing him in an orange glow. His laughter turns to screams as she murmurs over and over, "Remember, remember..." * Strange, how easily she grows accustomed to the screaming. Sitting in the middle of the white room, she can hear it seeping through the walls, the vibrations echoing all around her as the colors swirl and darkness looms. She pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and rocks back and forth, feeling them, their pain, their madness. His voice is louder than the others, and her hands shake as she clasps them to her ears. She wants it to stop, prays it'll stop, but she can still hear their screams.  The smell of brimstone and ash clings to the back of her throat. She's afraid to close her eyes, afraid of what will come whispering in the dark. Finally, it becomes too much and her own raw scream rips from her throat. She collapses backwards, landing on the large sheets of paper surrounding her, the crinkling noise loud under her state-issued pajamas. Crayons and markers lay scattered about the room, colors she doesn't need bleeding onto the white cushioned floor. Manic now, the only colors she wants are red, orange and black. The colors of fire and ashes. Oblivion comes quickly in the form of a little red pill and a needle to her vein. Her rocking intensifies until she hears the screaming no more and when she climbs to her knees, she'll have no recollection of her hands seeking papers, each one uncovering a horror worse then the last. Black for the mist she draws swirling over and over again like a tornado over the wide open mouth. Red for the scarlet blood seeping though the walls, pooling on the cold concrete floor. Gray for the matches clutched tightly in her hand. Orange for the fire licking up her brother's legs, his guttural screams as it engulfs his entire body.
	Copyright © 2006 Beverly Starr