Writing Blood Brothers

[Justin]

It was a Tuesday night on I-85 at a 123 miles per hour, and I was rather drunk. A pig had just picked up my trail, no telling where he came from, everything was pretty blurry.

That happens, turns out, when you're rather drunk.

Blue flashing lights always spook me. I play it tough for the Bacon's sake, but they always set me right jumpy. Product of living poor and reckless.

And it so happens, turns out, being jumpy at a 120 mph, drunk on the highway, ain't a good mix.

I don't remember much after the blue flashing lights suddenly went into my blind spot; almost like they were little orbs of fire behind a small tree. The light of them bounced off my mirrors and the trees, waking the ghosts of dead poor folks in a mighty rage; but I couldn't see the lights themselves.

It was like God was on my tail.

Appropriate. I'd always felt I was just three steps out of his grasp. Like he was aching to pull me down into hell.

I always did see things a little different from the way I was supposed to. In my mind, it wasn't the Devil lying in wait. Like so many tongue-speaking Brother Sams or Sister Shirleys of my past had warned me of.

In my mind, God was the bad guy. Like a hungry, fat wolf. Fast, sure. But I was faster, for the time.

Not that day. Big oak trees don't bend the way you think they might when a hunk of steel hits them going real fast. Nothing like the cartoons.

That was 1968. It was a big time in the South. Lots of noise about lots of things I didn't give a damn about. It's amazing how much 35 years of observation can do to change a man into something altogether different from what he was.

I didn't die right off. You'd think I would have, but it happens that way I guess. The pig did. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Rain falls on the just and wicked, alike, they say.

When he found me, I don't have the faintest idea what I looked like. I don't remember ever being aware of what was happening. I naturally assumed Godsatan had finally caught me, and I was in hell.

It burned there. Mostly in my head. I felt like the pentecostal tongues of fire were dancing in my brain, mocking my poor luck at being born unwilling to kneel. Or fall down, whichever term best suits your idea of church.

Point being, it fucking burned. From my head, the fire followed my spinal cord and I felt like the branches of my nervous system were whips. They lashed me again and again. I felt like Jim Christ; Jesus' twin brother who got the short end of the stick when it came to life after death.

After a spell, I could feel the muscles in my body literally being eaten away. The whipping was gone now, but it gave under a feeling that seemed like being boiled alive in vinegar. My bones ached from the inside out.

I had an uncle with lukeimia once. He said it felt a lot like that. He shot himself with his .22 rifle. Man never would've hurt a fly on a turd. Shot himself. Deacon at his Baptist church. Shot himself. Wife cried and lifted her little hands toward heaven in supplication as her husband lay there dead in an open casket while everyone sang Amazing Grace. He'd shot himself.

No. God is the devil. Or the devil is God. Take your pick.

My eyes, bless it, that was the worst. I still feel that pain, just thinking about it. Felt like they lost all substance. Didn't go away, just melted into semi-liquid. I could still vaguely percieve light through them, though. Like they were functioning, even though they were soup.

I wasn't at all suprised when I sat up, suddenly. Almost like being startled awake from a too-real dream. Except I knew this one had been real. I could still feel the shock in my body from the nerve-whips. My hands still ached under the strain of broken, torn, and now reforming muscles.

Only now I wasn't drunk. I was sober as an honest judge--if there were such a thing. I was in a hole, too. Cold and deep. I was waiting on the next round in hell. Staring at the blackness, staring at me. I could see the whole chamber like it was light from inside the dirt and rock, but I also knew it had to be black as pitch. No light source, other than the non-glowing, illuminated walls.

Something moving, barely discernable against the luminescent peatbog black.

"Hello, Bran."

-Justin

[konnerbelly]

I have seen it. The whole storyline about hongkong being the tomb of this "black blood/kowloon king" - then some stuff about guarding it, his ressurection, the great battle at the end of the series.. it would very likely fill another 12eps.

[The Spectacular Professor]

[FONT="Comic Sans MS"][CENTER]Actually, [B]konnerbelly[/B], this thread isn't about the show [B]Blood Brothers[/B]. This is the Anthology, where members are encouraged to discuss literature or make their own fiction, fan-based or original. This particular thread is one of [B]Justin[/B]'s fictions, which just happens to be called [B]Blood Brothers[/B].

If you want to discuss the show [B]Blood Brothers[/B], there might be a thread for it in [URL="http://otakuboards.com/forumdisplay.php?f=44"][COLOR="SlateGray"][B]Sight & Sound[/B][/COLOR][/URL], the movies, television and music forum. If not, you're welcome to make your own for the show.

If you have any questions, feel free to PM me or anyone else on staff. Thanks for contributing to discussion on OB![/CENTER]

~Ace[/FONT]