THE UPRISING

In a cozy little room surrounded by shelves of books and expensive seventeenth century European art Joseph Deluca sits at his desk. He is drinking brandy out of a crystal glass and inhaling the scent only a room full of old books could emit. There was a cool, tranquil tone to the room and Joe was more relaxed then he had been in a long time. Here, now, he was in his peaceful place. A place in his mind he had long forgot. He relished this moment, for he didn’t know how long it would last, or if it would ever come back again. But, he was thankful that he had it now. Too long had gone by without Joe feeling whole inside, without feeling relaxed, calm, peaceful. But he is grateful whenever he can find this place within himself where he can enjoy life, no matter how brief it is.

When Joe reached down and opened his desk drawer, to get himself a cigar, he noticed something that violently ripped him from this beautiful place he was in. He saw a picture frame lying face down. He didn’t have to flip it over to know what picture lied inside. But he had to look. He had to see it with his own eyes and not just his mind’s.

A tightening came upon his chest as if someone were trying to squeeze the breath from him. He felt his hands beginning to numb. He was breathing deep, trying to catch the breath that was fleeing from his body. A wheezing sound was coming from his lungs. He began to feel faint. But he had to see the photograph. He needed to. He reached for a small prescription bottle and withdrew two valium, which he quickly washed down with brandy. He took deep cleansing breaths and counted down from one hundred. The anxiety attack began to pass after a few minutes.

Once he had feeling in his hands again he took the picture frame and stood it on his desk. It was a picture he had taken with his parents almost twenty years ago. They were standing around a beautifully decorated Christmas tree with smiles that could light up anyone’s heart. They were all so happy and in love.

After a few moments Joe put the picture back in his desk, poured another glass of brandy and flashed back to that horrific night in which he will never forget.

* * * * *

A lightning bolt silhouetted the sky outside of Joe’s bedroom window. He was only eight years old but completely fascinated by this work of nature.

It began to rain heavily.

Large drops crashed against his window taking away the fascination he had a moment ago. Now, the thumping of rain against his window seemed as if it was knocking, asking him to invite it in. This frightened him. But he didn’t know why. He normally loved watching the rain, it made him feel calm and at one with everything. But for some odd reason he was afraid, afraid that this storm wasn’t just a peaceful one. This storm felt as if it was coming for him. He heard the thunderous sound of the Grandfather clock striking twelve midnight. This added to his delusion that something in the storm was after him.

Dooooong...Dooooong...Dooooong.

He shivered.

The pitch-blackness in his room was interrupted by the storm outside. The lightning would engulf his room periodically, leaving an eerie sensation for the few seconds it lasted. He was afraid to look back out the window because he was certain he would see a premonition of some kind that would paralyze him in fear even further.

He was about to scream out for his parents when he heard something that sent a painful jolt of energy down his spine. He heard his mother let out an ear-piercing shriek of fright, more terrifying then any nightmare he has ever had.

He jumped out of bed and ran to his closet. He slid open the doors, walked in and closed the doors behind him. He reached down and searched the floor for his flashlight. He was beginning to loose his calm. What if he couldn’t find the flashlight fast enough to get to his special room? What if the boogieman got to him before he could hide? He began to feel his entire body tingle with terror.

He found it.

As he turned it on the feeling of shock eased, but not fully.

On the back wall of his closet was a little door, almost invisible to the eye.

The mansion in which they lived was built in the early twentieth century and had three secret passageways. One in the kitchen, which went from a storage cabinet to an old murky room much like an attic. The second was in the dinning room floor, it lead to a small room that gave way to another exit from the house. The third was in Joe’s room. Inside his closet there was a small doorway that lead to a narrow flight of stairs that guided you to the back of the Grandfather clock, which was in the living room. This saved Joe lots of time. Whenever he wanted to get downstairs quick he would go through his closet, down the steps and out the Grandfather clock.

He opened the secret door and closed it behind him. Tonight, the staircase reminded Joe of a cave. It was eerily dark and cold with a strange smell that he couldn’t quite figure out. He used the flashlight to guide him down the steps. Once he reached the back of the Grandfather clock he was about to move it and step into the living room. But he heard something. He heard what sounded like whimpering. He bent down to the bottom of the clock where there was a piece of transparent glass separating the passageway from the living room. What he saw was more terrifying then any imaginary boogieman he dreamed up in his room.

When he peeked through the glass he saw his father and mother tied to separate chairs. They didn’t look beaten or hurt, just immobilized. There were three men surrounding them. One of the men was standing in front of his parents with a huge grin on his face. He had dark hair down a little past his shoulders and a five o’clock shadow. His build was that of someone who was obsessed with looks. Not too muscular but just enough that he looked in shape. He ran his fingers through his long straight hair with a look of extreme narcissistic pleasure. The two other men were sitting on the floor opposite him. One was playing with a knife while the other rocked back and forth as if he was an escaped mental patient.

"Now, John...Can I call you John?" The longhaired man asked.

When Joe’s father didn’t answer the man grabbed him by the back of the head and screamed, "I asked you a question, now answer me before I get creative with your wife! Can! I! Call! You! John!?"

Crying, he nodded yes.

The man tightened his grip on the back of his head and said in a low, almost childish whisper, "I can’t hear you, friend."

"Yes...yes, you may call me John."

"Good," the man said. Turning his attention to Joe’s mother he said, "Now, may I call you—" he began to laugh, "may I call you Mary?"