"Hollow Vessels" by Christopher Scott

Hollow Vessels

by Christopher Scott

You’ve heard of my kind. You’ve seen us in movies, read about us in books, maybe even crossed paths with us. They portray us as monsters, diseased with rage and eager to self-destruct. They show us damning those we surround ourselves with, forcing the cross we bear upon them. For most of us this is far from true, but for those of us who are irrevocably addicted, the fables of our corruption can’t compare to the true beasts we are.

I used to be the violent type, the worst of us, binging on spirits as often as I saw fit. Consuming the warmth of my victims drop by delicious drop, leaving behind hollow corpses in my wake. I was truly a beast unleashed. My control was easily usurped by unrelenting chaos and an unquenchable thirst.

That all changed when she found me. I woke surrounded by victims from the previous night. The monster within was retreating, leaving behind only fragments of memory and the demons who gnawed away at the man I was. The morning’s sunlight tortured my already hazy eyesight. Birds began to sing, their symphony rattling in my brain like shards of glass, each note a throbbing puncture to my already weakened psyche.

I sprang up quickly, desperate to find a fragment of protection against the supposed beauties of the new day. As I inspected the cold, empty vessels that surrounded me, my sight was drawn to her silhouette approaching from the entrance of the alley.

Her beautiful dark hair bounced with every stride towards me. Her face bore the lines of a life of sorrow, marks my own face knew all too well. But it was her brilliant green eyes that broke me. They stared down at me with pity, surveying the aftermath of the night before.

“I know your demon,” she said, reaching an inviting hand to me to help me from the broken asphalt I occupied. “I recognize your pain, I understand your suffering.”

I couldn’t bring myself to respond. My monster’s instincts urged to unleash hell on her, to paint her flesh in a mass of crimson for simply daring to speak of my torment. But the human side of me, which I ignored for so long, fought the urge. As I struggled with my demon’s fury, her hand rested on my shoulder and tamed the beast in a way I’d never known possible.

The demon resisted her comforting gestures, contorting my features into expressions of madness, but fell prey to her sudden embrace. She slunk to meet me at my level, pulling me in close. “You’re not alone, you’re not alone…” she began to chant, holding me tight. Her compassion swelled through me, filling my soul with overflowing warmth until my body could no longer contain it. Tears streamed down my cheeks into my unkempt beard. I held her close, and never let her go.

Months dissolved since that fateful morning. Every passing day is a step towards being more like my beloved Linny. I love her not only for believing in me, but for so many reasons I cannot begin to describe. She claims to love me as well, though I cannot fathom why, but through the acts of that love I recognize that what she says is genuine. I know that she cares for me more than I could ever care for myself, but not nearly as much as I treasure her.

I’ve migrated from the darkness of that alley to reside in her loving home, finding a blissful reprieve in the beautiful, isolated wilderness. I’ve distanced myself from the creature that inhabits my soul, but cannot seem to break the tether that binds us.

My spirt has been tarnished by my haunting past. I pray soon I will rid myself of the evil within for good, but until that day I unleash the monster’s rage only three nights a month. When the full moon bathes the surrounding mountains in a glowing lunar blanket, I hunt.

The routine has proven to be an effective step towards my goal to regain control over my life. The isolated woods are my salvation, my outlet for my ailment.

I will enter the woods again tonight. She knows not to follow; I couldn’t bear to allow her to witness what I become. I flinch at the thought of her perceiving my claws wrap around my victims’ necks as I consume them. I dread her observing my monster blossom when it’s been fed.

I kissed her deeply as I left the house. Her shimmering, tearful eyes conveyed her understanding and mercy. She knew the process I was going through and the goal of weaning myself completely, though those eyes brought a pang of guilt to my soul. I left the cabin with my gear. “I love you, sweetheart,” I yelled as I strode, “soon I won’t even need these outings,” I said, trying to convince the two of us.

The first night was torture for her, waiting alone in the house, longing for my return to help battle the nightly chill. She contemplated tracking me down, to glimpse my hidden form. The following night she had no choice when our dog bolted into the woods searching for me. Trailing the mutt, she found me in a small clearing.

The man I was had been buried deep, oblivious to my surroundings. She witnessed my monster's rage, the bodily fluids of my victims covering my flannel. A twig snapped, as did my attention, but it was not her I saw, it was the person I hated most—myself.

The demon lunged forward and attacked the object of its loathing. Viscera covered the ground as screams rang through the trees. Broken teeth sprinkle the blanket of leaves at my feet. The monstrous actions were a blur; I saw nothing but red. Linny was gone.

I regained consciousness outside the following morning, drenched in a sticky crimson.

My name is Scott, and I’m an alcoholic. My demon slaughtered my better half.