The River Dyed Red

Dim street lights were seen reflecting in puddles of water, which clung to the curb. Frantic footsteps were heard running down the street, occasionally splashing into the puddles from the never ending rain that foretold the story of demise. “HELP!” cried a voice full of fear.

The voice belonged to a young man who, judging by his looks, appeared to be a rather attractive nineteen-year-old. He was dressed in informal styled black slacks with identical, slip-on shoes and a red, collarless sport shirt with some gray area under the short sleeves, descending in a stripe formation on both sides of his stomach.

The male's eyes were similar to dark, ocean water which seemed to sparkle in the dead of night. His hair was a very dusky shade of blond with lighter highlights here-and-there, which was a good deal longer than his upper back. His hair blowing in the harsh wind as he ran ever faster. If...if only things hadn't turned out this way...

“De...men..ti...a...” a ghostly voice called. “GET OUT OF MY HEAD, DAMN YOU!” the male known as Dementia called, as he just ran by a slanted street sign that had parts of it missing. What was still visible read “Hollywood Ave.”

Dementia turned and ran towards the north. Passing a block were the street sign was completely submerged in mud, Dementia's face grew more clammy. “Damn,” he muttered, “another few blocks to run. Then, I'll be at the bridge... But--” he paused as he shoved his upcoming thought out of his mind.

A medium sized bridge soon came into view. It was styled much like the bridges in Venice, Italy,and painted a bright white. There was a bit of sidewalk to the right of the side of the bridge with a fence along the sidewalk to stop passers-by from falling into and drowning in the deep canal.

Dementia was almost home free, or, so he thought, as the bridge became closer and closer. Seconds away from contact, his heart beat more so heavily than before. A bit of mud somehow found its way under Dementia's foot and had caused him to slip and slide right into the fence of a pier. Dementia clang to the chain link fence for support, and pulled himself onto his feet.

Noticing that the shed in the land area had no lock, he opened the fence, and hastily opened the doors to the shed. No doubt, it was filled with a fisherman's needs, which were hardly any use to Dementia. However, he discovered a long, silver machete in one of the tool boxes—perfect if he were to have to resort to hand-to-hand combat.

Placing the machete in his left hand, he continued to search the shed for useful tools. Dementia also stumbled upon some piano wire, a non-battery flashlight, and a bottle which could be made to spray liquid. When it came to improvising, Dementia was one step ahead of the game.

Dementia rigged his little “squirt gun” and rummaged through a first aid kit. Inside,he found some rubbing alcohol and some insecticide. He also discovered some fiery, red pepper juice in a bait and tackle box.

Dementia first took the rubbing alcohol and poured a good sum of the bottle into a glass that he had found on a shelf. Then, he added the insecticide, followed by the pepper juice. He shut his eyes and held his nose closed with his left hand, and began to stir the solution until it blended well.

He finally open his man-made spray bottle and poured the solution into it, shut the spray bottle, and gave it a quick, final shake. Dementia then made his way to the bridge with his new little arsenal, in hopes that he'd never have to use it. “Yes!” he said as he reached the sidewalk along the bride.

A very loud cracking noise was heard, and the sidewalk started to cave in. “DAMN!” Dementia swore as he grabbed onto the bridge's edge with his left hand, dropping the machete.”There goes one of my weapons,” he said in a gloomy voice.

After Dementia quit staring at the dark water and acknowledged that his machete was no more, he started to slowly pull himself onto the edge of the bridge. He did it very slowly, lessoning the risk of him falling. Finally, he hauled his body up far enough to rest his chest on the edge of the bridge, giving him a little while to catch his breath and clear his mind.

A heavy mist filled the air, which blinded Dementia for the most part. He could just barely make out the other side of the bridge. “This is definitely not good,” Dementia mumbled to himself. “Someone could easily sneak up on me in this mist.”

Out of nowhere came a very disturbing cackle. “H-hahahahaha!” the voice echoed. “Poor Dementia,” the voice taunted. “You seemed to have taken a rather nasty skid, there,” the voice went on, “I ever so hope that you're alright...”

“Wh-who are you? What do you want from me?!” Dementia said, with a clear tone of fear in his voice. “Tut, tut, tut,” said the voice, “how quickly you forget, Dementia, my good buddy. We go back a long ways—or, don't you remember?”

A silhouette slowly approached in the mist, getting closer to Dementia. It crept slowly towards him, still not visible to Dementia's eyes. “...AHHH!” Dementia yelled loudly, causing it to echo. A shadow tipped off of the edge of the bridge.

What more to cause a man to scream to his body's limit then this—a long, point knife stabbed into Dementia's hand, between his middle finger's knuckle and his ring finger's knuckle on his left hand. The voice came from the silhouette, now. “This is but a tad of a portion of the agony and misery that you have caused me over the years,” it said. “Out of all of the people that could've done what you did... Why did it have to be you?! My nearest and dearest comrade for years.” The voice paused and sniffled a little.

“Wh-who--?” Dementia tried to finish his sentence, but was cut off. “Who am I?! The one 'friend' whose life you destroyed!” the anger filled voice spat out. As he grew with rage, he started moving the knife downwards, towards Dementia's wrist. “AH!” Dementia yelled.

“SHUT UP!” the voice yelled as he just jammed the knife in all of the way that it could go. “YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO EXPRESS AGONY AND PAIN!” Lustrous, violet eyes were visible in the shadow, now. They were filled with hatred.

“YOU KILLED MY FAMILY AND SENT ME TO A MENTAL ASSYLUM TO DROWM IN MISERY AND DECEIT! FOR THAT, YOU SHALL PAY!” the enraged voice yelled. He grabbed the knife and held it in a manner so that Dementia could not and would not move. He started punching Dementia very hard in the face—after a couple of quick shots, Dementia's nose made this sickened crackling and snapping noise.

“AHHH!” Dementia cried. “P-P-PLEASE! STOP! I'LL DO ANYTHING!” Obeying his command or not, the shadow stopped and tilted his head for a while. “Yea,” he began, “I said that, too...” Dementia cried and gasped for breath for a few seconds before saying, “Akifia... Akifia... You don't know the half of it...”

Apparently a nerve was struck as the shadow known as “Akifia” opened his eyes quickly and kicked Dementia in the gut, through the gap under the edge of the bridge. “Shut up,” he said. “For what you did, you shall pay...!”

Akifia then twisted the knife in Dementia's hand, causing more unpleasant sounds and an even more bloody yell. Then, he kicked Dementia in the gut again. Finally, he pulled the knife out of his hand, gave one good, hard smack to Dementia's busted nose, and watched as Dementia fell into the canal to be swept away.

Sitting there and taking in what he had done for a few minutes, Akifia began to gasp and catch his breath. His throat had hurt from all of that yelling. “The river dyed red,” he had said. “So here it started, so hear it ends...”