Stuart Meczes - The awakening

The Depraved appear in the distance — hundreds of them, scuttling, jumping and crawling their way through the pouring rain. A sea of evil, surging towards me.

It had all ended so fast. I look down at my twisted, broken body and a bitter laugh escapes my lips.

Some hero I turned out to be.

I was meant to protect the world; I couldn’t even protect her. My eyes well up as it dawns on me that I’ll never hold her again, never smell her sweet hair.

I can taste blood in my mouth. I try to spit it out, but have no energy left. It just dribbles pathetically down my chin. More comes up to take its place. Not a good sign. I know I should get up, should fight to my last breath. I’m just so worn out, and without her, what’s the point anyway?

The stench of smoke and scorched metal fills my nostrils. An intense throbbing in my side draws my attention. I discover with a flash of nausea that a scaffolding pole has speared through my ribs, pinning me to the ground. I’m not healing anymore; I can’t even summon the will to try.

This is it then, the end of the road.

I’m going to die here.

I close my eyes, trying to let the images of her face occupy my mind. I want my last thoughts to be of her as I die. For some reason I can’t make them stay shut. The curiosity in me needs to see how it all ends.

The creatures surround me. There is a crescendo of baying and twittering laughter as they study me. Standing in the centre is The Sorrow. Even though the iron mask covers its face, I know it’s wearing a sick, triumphant smile.

It crouches down and presses a metal knee against my chest. The weight crushes all of the air from my lungs. I have to use all of my remaining strength to gasp the next breath.

The Sorrow lifts an armour clad arm up to its artificial face, the screech of the metal joints like rusty door hinges. There is a click as it unlocks the straps. The mask dislodges with a wet pop.

So this is how it’s going to be.

The excited chattering rises into an ear-splitting roar. There’s no escape. It starts to pull the iron face away, wanting to show me what lies underneath. I let out a long, final sigh.

Now comes the end of everything.

Sleep didn’t come easily anymore. When it did, it was restless and unsatisfying. As usual, I’d been lying awake for hours, existing in the itchy state of tired blood and wide eyes.

Leaning over, I lifted the corner of the mattress and retrieved the photo from its usual spot. My father stared back at me, his face brimming with youth and intelligence. Sadness tugged at the walls of my stomach.

“Morning, Dad.”

I’d never understood the emotion I felt. The man in the picture had died before I was old enough to remember him, yet every time I saw his picture it felt like my heart was breaking.

Ritual completed, I tucked the photo back into its place. Sinking into the pillow, I closed my eyes and prayed for sleep. The skull-rattling buzz of the alarm clock jerked me back awake. I swatted the off button. Lying still for a moment, I listened to the steady pattering of the winter rain on the bedroom window. It was still dark outside and could just have easily been night.

Another miserable day in London.

Heaving back the covers, I was hit by the bitter chill of the morning. Teeth chattering, I grabbed a towel from the back of the computer chair and padded to the bathroom for a shower.

After somehow managing to tame my hair into something resembling a style, I trudged downstairs and into the breakfast room. It was one of those open plan setups, the blue and white tiled kitchen blending into a carpeted area filled by a large oak table. The rest of my family were already assembled. My half-brother Mikey sat at the table shovelling Weetabix into his mouth. John, my stepfather, leaned over the work top, studying a newspaper spread out on its surface. He thumbed through the pages tutting at the headlines and shaking his head. He paused occasionally to take sips from the coffee mug clutched in his gorilla-like fist.

“More murders,” he grumbled, talking to no one in particular. “These poor buggers were found without any blood or organs in ‘em. Probably black market stuff. I’m beginning to wonder why we ever moved here. It’s supposed to be a good area!”

Mum, who was as usual darting around the kitchen like an agitated wasp, murmured an agreement. Bacon and eggs spat away in a large pan on the hob. Thick steam curled up in rolling loops before getting sucked away by the extractor hood. She glanced over. “Morning, Alex.” “Morning,” I yawned. John grunted without looking up. Mikey mumbled something indecipherable through his mouthful. “Breakfast in two,” she added and went back to tend to the pan.

Taking my spot at the table, I poured a glass of orange juice. A few minutes later an overcooked fried breakfast was set down in front of me. Mum was never going to win any culinary awards, but she did her best.

“Thanks,” I said, trying out a smile.

John closed his paper, and limped over, coffee in hand. Once seated, he absently rubbed his knee with one hand whilst drowning his food in brown sauce with the other. For a while there was no sound but the clatter and scrape of cutlery. Then John looked at me. He held the gaze for a second before clearing his throat. I sighed.

Here we go.

“Alexander,” he began in that tone. “I heard the school team are still doing trials, why don’t you give it a go?”

Mikey descended into a fit of laughter, dribbling milk down his chin. He cut it short when Mum shot him a reproachful look. John kept his gaze fixed on me while he waited for my response.

He might as well have asked me to pole vault Everest. There was no way I could ever join a football team. Not because I didn’t want to. I’d often watched the cool guys score goals and girls and fantasised about being the one in their studded boots. But I’d been born with an allergy to sports. I was liable to trip, drop, miss, foul and fumble my way through any game. Plus my fitness levels were worthy of any nursing home. Ninety minutes on a football pitch? Not a chance.

It wouldn’t be a problem if my family didn’t revolve around sports. John had been a pretty talented striker in his better years and even managed to get scouted for Chelsea’s youth team. That all ended when he’d beaten up a guy outside a pub after a night on the booze. The same guy had come back later with a crowbar and tested John’s reflexes for him. After months of surgery he’d left the hospital with a fake kneecap and a shattered future. He now worked as a sports physiotherapist, determined to make sure other people achieved what he couldn’t. I had respect for that and would probably have told him as much, if he wasn’t such a condescending dickhead.

Mum coached children’s tennis part time at the local leisure centre. She loved her job and always came home armed with stories about how little Jimmy had done this, or Katie had said that. Everyone tended to switch off, appeasing her with nods and smiles.

Then there was Mikey.

Brilliant at every conceivable sport known to mankind, the prodigy had chosen to focus on football. Already playing for the county youth team, it was simply a matter of time before a scout scooped him up.

So it seemed natural that I should follow suit. Instead I was the odd one out — the runt of John’s alpha pack.

I tried to think of how best to proceed without igniting a row. “Don’t think I’ll bother. You know football isn't really my thing.”