The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller (29 page)

"We can’t sweetheart. I'm sorry." Simmons’s
right hand was poking out from underneath a large mass of stone.
The hand wasn’t bleeding, or moving. Isaac wondered if he was
really saying sorry to his daughter, or Simmons. "I'm afraid
he's—"

Boom!

The bar beside them burst into flames
sending a ball of fire blazing through the roof.

The wood crackled.

The fire burned.

Dozens of black spiders rushed out of the
flames and scampered across the floor. Isaac squished a few of the
spiders under his shoes on his way to the door at the far end of
the large room. Virginia opened door number one and stepped into
the small entranceway. Isaac followed, carrying Amy in his
arms.

Virginia gazed through the darkness ahead,
searching for the front doors, but at some point, the corridor must
have caved and the doors were now blocked. They would have to find
another way out. Virginia led Isaac past the table to the only
other door in the room, left of the fireplace.

Behind door number two was a dining room. A
long, oak table stretched across the rectangular room, many tall
chairs sat underneath. The fire had already spread into the kitchen
around the right corner and threatened to engulf the dining room.
Isaac set Amy down on her feet and ran over to a window on the left
side of the table.

“Stand back,”
he yelled.

Then he snatched one of the dining room
chairs by the backrest and golfed it through the window. The wooden
legs shattered the black glass and the chair toppled outside in the
rain.

One after the other, the three carefully
crawled through the jagged windowsill and ran out into the storm.
They didn’t look back until they reached the edge of the dark, hazy
forest.

The flames now ripped through the dining
room. The circular pillars at the front steps snapped and crashed
to the ground. One of the columns fell backwards and tore through
the front double doors. And in the distance, serrated bolts of
electricity lit the gloomy sky as the stone mansion voiced one
final roar before collapsing into a grave of fire and ash.

Author's Note

Thank you for purchasing The Gift of
Illusion. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed
writing it. The manuscript sat on the shelf for eight years
collecting dust as life went on by. But Isaac's story always
haunted me, or
taunted
me, and the time had come to set it
free. I'd love to know what you thought.

mailto:[email protected]

In the meantime, I'm working hard on a novel
about a woman who's given a chance to get back a child she lost
during labor. Look for it in 2012. I'll also be releasing a book of
poetry in the coming months called The Rebirth. I've included a few
poems after this note as a preview, and a short story just as a
bonus for following me this far. Thanks again for the support. For
the latest updates on current or future projects visit my website
or become a fan on Facebook.

http://www.richardbrownbooks.com/

Richard Brown

May 2, 2011

Instinctive

Gliding through the highest trees

A bird whispers with the breeze

The beauty of the bank, it sees

A serpent swaying on the clay,

Gently stalking out its prey

To live yet another day

Upon the desert of this land,

Where with the rustling of the sand

Are placed in reach of nature's hands,

Who so suddenly can break

The home, the throne that all create

The knot of life unto the lace

Bound with skin, and buried deep

Beneath the light where none can creep

Their thirsty eyes upon the seed

Growing bigger, faster—further

To the point where fear will hold her

Awake—I pray, from the claws of murder

Slowly sneaking from behind

The shadows of its filthy swine

To then commit another crime,

And escape without a scent or trace

The patient earth with smiling face

Replenishes the old disgraced

Into a much more worthy creature

Capable of expanding features

To teach the lesson like the teacher

For all the many to be so born

Without a choice, to be so sworn

Into the circular eye of the storm,

With winds to shake the deepest core

Of all that sheltered you before,

Will be able to shelter you no more!

Guardian Angel

One time I thought I could control

This ever-changing role;

Of visions never clear—

Of angels to appear.

I knew not in my mind

Of creatures this divine,

Never hoped or prayed to find

A love to last all time!

But in the dimmest light it's there

With a sense so calm and fair

Shone off my soul, reflects

A promise to protect.

While now I wake within this need

Of thoughts never believed

To be true, until I see

Its shadow still behind me!

Of Love Of Hate

How is this social restlessness

Only a lesson of the heart?

Drowning out the mortal crest

With emotions torn apart!

Oh distance, (what a time ago)

Treading pathways, all to seem

One step too far to ever know

The outcome of the dream!

Waiting, watching deep inside

The eyes of I—a sky so high,

Aboard the endless flight of love,

Fearless as I fly inside

A soul of which always ignored

The passion of a loving word,

Sheltered with its fabrication

Of a child’s imagination!

Twisting shades of silent gray,

With an imminent sacrifice

Of unknown pieces to create

The perfection of a life!

Spiraling, I hope to bring

Status to the whole I serve,

Crying out and wondering

What person—now, will emerge

From the sand, holding hands

In body, mind, and spirit—

Reaching out to understand

Why no one wants to hear it!

Of love—of hate, I hold inside,

While always constantly deny

My heart that part in trust we see

Recycled in the same disease!

are you happy
now?

He woke on the bedroom floor, his arms
crossed over his chest, trembling.

His first thought—after establishing where
in the hell he was—was how he’d arrived there.

There on the carpet, on his back.

Had he rolled off the bed, hit the floor,
and bumped his head?

He couldn’t remember.

The room was dark and smelled of things both
strange and unfamiliar. A ceiling fan spun above him, and for a
moment he stared upward and watched the blades cut through the air.
When he tried to sit up, he felt a sharp wrenching pain in his
abdomen. He cried out and laid his head back down on the
carpet.

After a moment he tried again to pull
himself up and again failed, but instead managed to roll on to his
side. He groaned and struggled for a quick breath. The air was cold
and hard to breathe.

And then he saw the blood.

Lots of it.

Someone had stabbed him in the stomach and
left the knife buried inside the wound. The blood soaked his white
undershirt and trickled down in small streams to the carpet.

He was sure now he had passed out, likely
due to extensive blood loss, though by the grace of God, he wasn’t
dead. Dying, but not yet dead, what a hospital was apt to label
critical condition.

Naturally he wondered who stabbed him, but
whoever they were they obviously weren’t here now. They’d fled,
believing they’d killed him, and so he’d piece that puzzle together
later. If he was going to survive, he needed to find help, and
soon.

Where was his wife?

He slowly reached for the knife and wrapped
his fingers around the handle. He jerked at the blade a little and
then screamed a lot. He wanted to pull it out, and thought he
could, but the pain was excruciating.

Still on his side facing the foot of the
bed, he took his hand off the knife and grabbed at the bed sheets.
Using the sheets as a grip, he slowly dragged his body closer to
the bed until his back was up against the mattress. This motion
proved to be absolute agony to his wound but necessary
nevertheless. On the floor, he was helpless. In order to reach a
phone, or find his wife, he needed to stand up.

He let go of the sheets, which he had
painted with bloody handprints, and now placed his hands on top of
the mattress. He took another quick breath and then began to lift
himself on to the bed. The pain hit him harder than ever as the
knife gently twisted inside him, and for a moment he thought he
would lose consciousness.

Exhausted, he sat there for nearly a minute
with his head down, a mixture of spit and blood drooling from his
mouth.

Lying next to him on the bed was his wife’s
pink robe. She wouldn’t be happy with what he was about to do next,
but when was she ever happy anyway? He was her burden, his illness
making him unable to work and provide for her, and she’d never let
him forget it—yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Never.

He loved her still, even if she would rather
him be buried in the backyard.

He grabbed the robe with his left hand and
bundled it up as best he could. His right hand went around the
knife.

A tug and the blade came out with little
resistance. An upsurge of blood followed.

He winced as he pushed the pink robe on to
the exposed hole to slow the bleeding. The robe was instantly
ruined. Somewhere the old hag was having a heart attack.

From the bed he rose to his feet and
stumbled toward the bedroom door on the other side of the room. He
passed his dresser, still applying pressure to the wound, the
excess robe dragging on the floor behind him, and stopped at the
entrance to the master bath.

The door was open. He heard the sound of
splashing water. The mirror above the sink showed only a bleary
version of his face.

He stepped closer.

A hot steam met him in the doorway.

As he stepped inside he looked over at the
shower. The peach colored curtain was closed and the water was
running. He called out to his wife but received no response.

He set the bloody knife down on the counter
and wiped away much of the steam from the mirror.

He looked like a sack of rotten potatoes.
His sunken cheeks. His old, gray skin. His chaotic hair.

Again he cried for his wife, and still she
just showered and said nothing. He wasn’t surprised.

She treated him like he didn’t exist.

He bowed his head.

An empty bottle of pills was in the sink.
His medication. The doctor said it would relax the nerve endings in
his brain, help him to better focus his thoughts in a productive
manner. His wife always said it kept the little lunatic inside on
lockdown.

They were both right.

But then she had cursed at him and poured
the pills down the sink, he now remembered.

Why would she do that?

He limped toward the shower and snatched
open the curtain. There she was, the old hag lying naked on her
back in two inches of brown water, multiple stab wounds in her
chest and stomach, while the showerhead above rained hot water
down, washing away the fresh blood as it bubbled up.

She brought it all down on herself. She let
the little lunatic out to play.

Are you happy now?

He threw the pink robe over his dead wife
and backed away from the shower. He picked the knife back up from
the counter.

The killer smiled at him.

A haunted smile, reflected in the
mirror.

A smile all his own.

Then he drove the knife deep into his chest
again and again and again until fatigue beat him—until he collapsed
to the bathroom floor, the black plastic handle of the blade
protruding from his bludgeoned belly like a gravestone.

He lay there, tranquil, hoping the next
breath would be his last.

And knowing this time he wouldn’t wake
up.