The heavy bang of metal on wood echoed and the eyes of Vince opened.
He threw down the shovel and tore his bare hands into the dirt, desperate.
Finally! Is this it?
The earth had sunk down and there lay the sides of a big box. Its timber was heavy dark oak, polished though worn. It was the size of the chest of Vince, strong and not broken in spite of being buried as long as anybody could tell. It was covered with strange inscriptions, elaborate designs around a central picture.
The central figure was that of a tall individual, bent to the falling through the wind. Their eyes were crossed out. Smaller figures were chiseled around them and each one in various poses. Others shook their heads, others stretched out to the plunging body in a frenzy of desperation. But every hand that touched was then pierced with an X, and the hands that turned were not pierced. The wood itself seemed to be making a verdict and nullifying the activity of those who dared meddle.
Vince stroked his fingers over the designs, and awe on his face.
Well-cut wood... and these carvings... So what does this have to do with my father?
He was putting his hands under the corners and attempting to loosen the box. A shiver ran through him as soon as his palms came against it.
It didn't feel heavy at all. As a matter of fact, it was lighter than it had a right to get. But it was not in his arms that he could feel the weight, it was in his chest. The box produced some feeling of ill omen, as though his destiny had broken in many twisting ways. Others were blocked, some were lost altogether, others bent into infinite uncertainty.
This is not an object but a choice.
Vince set his teeth, his breath became fast.
I… I need this.
He stroked the lid with trembling fingers, and slowly pulled it open.
A heavy mist burst out. It smelled strange and sweet like vanilla but with the wrong smell of decayed wood. Vince was gagging and covering his face, waiting until the haze had cleared.
As it cleared a book was therein.
It was huge, and was bound in leathers which tended to change to black, brown, and gray, according to the point of view. It was a wrong surface, as though it was unable to choose what it wanted to be. The sides of its pages shone like gold, now golden and now brown.
His throat was dry and Vince gulp-throated.
This... this is certainly black. So why does it look… alive?
He fumbled his hand on the cover nervously. He shivered with a shock, and the sweat lay streaming down his temples. His fingers were jerking, as though they were repulsed, yet he pushed them in, and held the book.
"Ugh!" he gasped, teeth clenched.
He pulled hard at the cover. It didn't budge. He pulled again, harder. Nothing.
Why will you not open! he blazed, knocking a fist on the surface of the book.
Frustration was about to bring him down. He was going to almost toss it into the dirt, but then the words of his father made the same sound upon his head as the note of a hymn cut into marble.
And make the thing dark crimson once more...
The word that kept on resisting, repressing.
Vince looked around at the shovel that was lying there. His hand reached out to his body, which shook.
J-Just, just suck this book, feed it with my blood. Why am I even doing this?
He was clawed at a half-dozen times by questions, but one voice was hearkened him and it was greater, clearer, more cruel.
It was himself that was speaking, but altered.
Because you're weak, Vince. You've always been weak. Just a human. Nothing more. Just a fragile, pitiful human.
The words cut him like knives and despite the fact that they sounded like him, Vince in his gut felt that these were not his words alone.
Oh, what the fuck I am doing... t-this is to Father! Vince swore to himself.
He picked up the shovel, taking it in the shaking hands. One palm was lying against his forearm, the point against his dirty skin.
SLASH!
The metal bit deep. A shiny streak cut through his arm and the dark crimson flew out.
"AHHH!" The scream of Vince broke the air. His eyes were filling with tears and he fumbled onwards, bending over the book. His blood was very thick and hot and it ran down his arm.
He bent back his wrist, letting the stream fall on the leather cover.
The book responded the moment it came in contact with the blood. The crimson was not soaked in--it slipped. It crept like an organism, trundling up and down the surface, making its way in and out of crevices invisible. The blood made Vince drop his jaw as it spread and linked, twisted into a line and then curved until it made one line.
An X.
The second he made was agony leaping through the belly of Vince.
"Ahhh! AH! AH!" He sank to his knees, with his gut in his hand. It was as if a thousand knives were sinking in him and chopping and twisting simultaneously.
His vision blurred. The ground was dropping out under him, the loose soil solidifying to glass, the new air dwindling to a suffocating smoke. The sky is breaking, half blue, half wallowing in eternal darkness.
A voice was passing over his ears through the haze.
It was mild, almost mellow, but with an undertone of evil. The tone changed and changed, sometimes male, sometimes female, never being the same.
And then blood-soaked hands came over his shoulders, and embraced him in a suffocating grip.