Author's Tangents: So, this is a new story that I have started, and honestly, I have no idea where it is heading. But I absolutely love it, and I hope you can grow to love it just as much as I do. If you have any objections to this story, let me know. Well I suppose you can just read and enjoy it. I don't have much to say except please review. I love hearing from my readers, and I love hearing opinions of what you want to happen. But thanks for checking this story out, and I hope you sincerely enjoy. Oh yes, a p.s. here, if you find mistakes that are displeasing you so horrendously, I apologize, I was editing this late at night. Please forgive my transgressions.

The Rancor of Sugarplums:

That night I had the strangest dream. You were there, yet I could not find you, for the entire world was black and crying. Spinning and spinning, my feet tripped over each other, and I tumbled into a dark pith of horror. Suddenly, the sky lit up and I imagined, or maybe I saw, white clouds floating across the abyss, beautiful, beautiful clouds of the purest white. I felt a cool splash of waves wash over my feet, and I smelled the foul stench of a salty sea. My mind fell blank, and I realized I was standing on water. Peering down, my mouth fell open in horror. A streak of loathsome white splashed across my sight and there you were. Drowning deep and deep in that filthy sea, just sitting on the ocean floor and drowning. Screams filled the air and I noticed they were mine. I tried to reach you. I tried but my body refused to move. Chains barred me to my treacherous spot, and I saw you glance up at me, gasping for breath and bleeding profusely from thin but gushing cuts. The crimson blood melted through the water like a languorous snake prowling towards the hunt. Your eyes pleaded, and I stood there like frozen marble. All I could do was scream as you floated away from me. Finally, you eventually faded as I watched on, and my body shook with a cold, fearful spasm.

Then I woke. My breath was short and ragged, and my intestines seemed to be tightening and twisting wretchedly in my stomach. Vomit flavor filled the saliva in my mouth, but not a single retch uttered from me. I stared at the wall ahead for only a few minutes, but they seemed to breathe into hours. My eyes followed the ugly, chipped, white paint of my wall until it reached a crevice in the ceiling. The crevice looked like a broken doll. A broken you.

Swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I noticed my body shaking slightly from the chill emanating in from my window. Or maybe it was shaking from the fear that caused my goose bumps to rise. I brought my knees to my chest and hugged them tightly, biting my lip until I tasted that irony taste of blood. Iron. What a disdainful word, and how disgustingly awful it tasted. Those chains that had latched upon my arms had been iron. I stared at my wrist and then curled it up against my chest as if it had been mortally inflicted with pain.

The dream . . . no, the nightmare was so impossibly unreal that it exuded reality from its depths. And something grabbed me from that nightmare. A slow, etching hand reached from the bowels of that rank sea that ate you. That hand snatched at my churning stomach and told me something was amiss. It squeezed my guts and seemed to be tearing them from me. Oh God, it was painful, yet nothing was wrong with me. But something was wrong. I knew you were not well. I don't know how or why I knew. Perhaps that nightmare had told me, but as my mind mourned, I began slowly to forget parts of that nightmare; so it could not have been only that. For a spider webbed inked across that nightmare pathetically, and all I could think of was you– no nightmare entered my head anymore. Were you the one tugging at my stomach? Were you the one screaming at my brain and causing a pounding headache? I grew confused, and I folded in on myself. I think I was mentally sick, and I couldn't fathom you being in trouble.

Suddenly, my fear became too much to handle, and I bolted from my bed, tumbling onto the ground as I tripped over the corner of my sheet. How pathetic. Reaching for the edge of my bed, I hurried to my feet and crammed my shoes on, not caring that I was wearing nothing more than boxers and a thin white shirt. My heart bounded. I couldn't comprehend this growing fear, and if nothing less, I felt compelled to go check on you. My fear was that great. I would bare the harshness of a blizzard for you.

Snow was whirling lightly outside like a winter wonderland full of dancing sugarplums. Maybe not, for it wasn't quite Christmas yet, however, all I could think was, "damn those sugarplums." I sprang through snow banks and puddles of gray mushy snow. My legs wanted to shriek from the bitterness of the cold winter, but I urged them on, and I knew would overcome physical need to bring you my crippled sugarplum, even if it was damned.

It's funny how breath forms that puff of smoky white during winter. The chill even gets to the lungs. That's how much winter burns. It kills the breath. A person could run and run as fast as possible to escape demons, but the winter will knock the breath right from the lungs sooner than you'd like. I didn't care about trivial things like that. These are the silly things that come to the mind in the most inopportune times.

Whatever, that's what I did. I ran and ran those miles to your house. I let that wind tear at my lungs until I felt ready to collapse into the frozen water called snow. I should have grabbed a jacket, but you were far more important than my jacket, damn, even more important than my ridiculous, torturing lungs. How cruel was this world? Someone more important than my lungs, you were that special.

Almost too quickly, your gloomy house spiked into view, like a towering horde of hell. Joy crushed my heart as I saw the soft, ebbing lights in your house shining through the windows and illuminating the night. That glorious light begged me with invitation, and I jumped the two steps to your solid, black wooded door.

I remember being little and sitting on your steps thinking, "This wooded door, why is it black? What a disgusting color." Then you'd come out and I'd smile at you, as if your door was the most pleasant portal in the world. That door. I had been right. What a wrenching, appalling color. It symbolized a bad omen, and I had always known somehow.

Black is a wicked color. Or . . . maybe white, the absence of all color, is the wicked color. For in the center of your door, there was stained white lettering, written by an angry, resentful person. It was a word I had never known until years later. Deuce. I had thought that it meant two, but I was wrong. So I suppose, whether black or white, I didn't care and it didn't matter, right?

As I reached your door, my heart bursting against my cage, I knocked so rapidly and powerfully that my knuckles, frostbitten and hurt, bled a soft red. I believed the urgent fear of my soul could reach the heavens, and I knew you would hear, but no one did. The night remained silent, dead of all life, and all I could see were the yellow lights glimmering from inside. Panic gripped me again. Why would no one answer? Obviously someone was home. The damned lights were on, and I was wrapped in my crushing, lunatic fear. Damn I tell you! The bloody lights were on!

A hissing sound gurgled from me and I latched onto the door like a leech sucking for life. No omen would stand in my way. I yanked it open, and it gave gently under my tyranny. Surprise filled me as the door slugged slowly open. It opened? There was no lock? Second wave of panic pummeled me. One thing was certain, that door was always locked, always. Nevertheless, the door caved in and creaked open so slowly that the world seemed to stand still. My breath must have stopped too, for I couldn't hear it, and the little puffs disappeared, and I felt myself choking . . . and . . . so maybe my breath stopped.

I guess I noticed your rancid kitchen first. For a longtime I had thought maybe it was always your limp arm that I had seen first, but it was only the first thing that I had remembered afterwards. So, it was indeed the kitchen that I saw first, and I saw the awful memories among the oppressive items displayed in your kitchen. I saw you and I sitting, eating stale cookies on your table. I saw us putting flowers in a broken glass to make your house smell normal. I saw those faded stickers on your fridge, stuck there by you and I. I saw the dented, ancient fridge. I saw an overflowing sink, filled to the brim with dirty dishes. I saw the hanging light on your ceiling, swaying crookedly to the fan. I also saw the stained, green wallpaper. The door was only a prelude to all of this mess that we called your "home."

I can't believe I noticed all that before I noticed you. I'm shameful; I admit. That paleness of your skin and those dark, livid, common bruises. How didn't I notice you first? That purple and green and yellow was always a part of you. You'd come over and I would see fresh ones grazing on the surface of your skin like infectious cows. You would never tell me what they were, but I always guessed. Sometimes I made wicked fantasies that in your pain you would come to me and I would kiss you lightly, holding you in my arms. I knew and knew and knew and knew and knew that you were in pain, but I never wanted to believe it. Those purplish fiends scaling your white, flawless skin were my first warning. I had clearly missed it.

So, there you were, and I just stared on. A wet, gluttonous slug smeared fluids up my throat, and this time, I retched all over that dirty tile. Crumpling to the floor, for my knees had given out from under me, I was mere inches from your curled fist. That curled fist which I had held so many times was paler than death itself. I grabbed that fist and trembled at the coldness more bitter than the wind outside. Your hand intrigued me, and I just stared at it through empty, soulless eyes. Clammy and icy, that's how I remember it feeling.

Perhaps I just didn't have the willpower to look at your peaceful face lying there. Maybe that's why I continued to stare at your hand as a sickening wrenching pain tore my stomach apart slowly. Then I realized that I couldn't sit there, and that's when my eyes moved tremblingly up your thin, frail body. Crimson stained your beautiful snow skin, and deep gashes cut through your clothes deeply. I didn't stop though; I made my eyes inch to your eyes, but yours were closed as if you were merely sleeping. You weren't sleeping though. You weren't dreaming of dancing sugarplums. I didn't have to see your unmoving chest and the absent white puffs of smoke from your lips. None of it, I didn't have to see to know. There was enough blood to know. The mingling smell of blood and that absent sound of smoking breath, it churned my insides, and I covered my mouth to stop from retching again. My grip grew tighter on your hand. That grip would have rendered any hand blue.

A gash stood out starkly on your forehead, a gash of already drying blood. A frying pan that created a thundering split to the skull perhaps? Or perhaps Professor Plum did it with a lead pipe in the kitchen? Crack, bang, pop, slam, blast, crash, snap, stab, thwack, boom, wham, belt, whack, and shot. That's all it took. One fateful connection with the skull and the reaper would come for you. That's what it looked like. Just one crack to the skull, and you were put into a comatose state. What am I saying? Not comatose, at least that has a chance.

I stared at the thick clotting of blood on your forehead, and I realized that you hadn't been put to rest so easily. There were multiple, sickening, gruesome stab wounds encompassing your body. They were so ugly, and I cringed to see them stain your beautiful soul. I must have been out of my damned mind. Stain was as bad as comatose. You were not stained. You were stanched in death!

Your poor body had been tortured before put out of its inescapable misery. Stab wound upon stab wound, as if bashing your brains in hadn't been enough. There had been so much raw anger and hate and tears. You hadn't deserved this. You had done nothing, absolutely nothing wrong. You were a prefect, rendering cherub of an angel, my little angel, but there you were, your halo all shattered to pieces and its illuminating glow deadened.

I knew something had to be done. Clinging to your drowned hand, I couldn't sit there and just stare. However, that's all I could do. I could only muster staring at your pretty, tainted corpse. And eventually, those tiny, pure droplets of rain swelled into my eyes as I bent over your corpse, bringing you into my embrace. I hugged you even tighter than the hand that I clung to pathetically. Precisely then, those tears began to leak, and they fell softly and docilely upon your pale cheek. I choked on the gurgling moans escaping my chapped lips. It seemed unnatural, and I just sat there clinging to broken remnants. And I could only think, what a cruel world. What a bloody and cruel world. On that ugly night, I began to despise everything whole in the world, for where did there exist a world without you in it? And all I could do was sit there a weep for a lost love. I couldn't even muster a shrieking cry for help. I didn't believe in anyone to help anymore. No one would come. No one would care as much as I did. For everyone was wrapped up in dreaming of dancing sugarplums while you dreamed of a shining scythe swaying crudely before the moon. There was no one at all. No one.