Thread: Lamb (revising)

I was reading back through the novel I was working on, and I didn't like the way I was writing it, so here's another go. I'll update you periodically. Thanks for reading.





In the streets they cry out for wine; all joy turns to gloom, all gaiety is banished from the earth. The city is left in ruins; its gate is battered to pieces. So will it be on earth and among the nations, as when an olive tree is beaten, or as when gleanings are left after the grape harvest.










Lamb
Isaac started walking a bit faster by a small, midtown shack. His mind worked vigorously to cancel out the screams of the woman and her child. He knew he should keep moving, but he paused for a moment. Her scream had the keen effect of tearing deep into his wax-filled ears as the grungy creature touched her over again. Isaac heard a loud, blood-curdling smack, and he fought with himself to keep going but he couldn’t. Nor could he move to stop it. A state of frozen agnosticism barred every one of his joints. People pushed past Isaac in the heat of the crowded roadway and shouted at him to get out of the way. A little boy wore a ponderous smirk as he stared from a tree above at the horrified look on his face.
Inside the hut, a little girl with blonde, matted hair and blue/green eyes (about the age of five) sobbed quietly. Suddenly, she gave out a series of piercing screams until moments later, tears ceased to flow from her eyes, and she lay lifeless on the dirt floor. Beyond the door, blood trickled from her neck until the man shoved her body out with his foot, having to pull his pants up a bit to do so. Inside, the woman sobbed bitterly. Isaac just stood there, staring through the opening that served as a door to the building. He stood there petrified and unable to do a thing. He could remember a time when he would of torn the man’s hand off and shoved it down his throat.
Soon grief was mixed with hatred and the woman cursed the man. She slapped him and shouted with the agony of a damned soul. A loud crack resonated from the hut and her shouting was reduced back to weeping, the weeping that only comes from someone who has given up hope and accepted the meaningless performance of being.
Comforted by the sweet coming of death, she no longer struggled. She waited for that moment when it would be over. No more pain. No more suffering. All she would feel is the cold, sweet arms of nothing. When he was done he picked up his crude, flint shiv. She smiled slightly at the thought of escape from her torn body, and a tear rolled down her slender face as the man turned away tucking it into his belt. “Please” she whispered. The man paused for a second, turned around, and stared. Her eyes begged for the sweet release of death, and in his, nothing was found. He had no pity in his heart. So he continued out the door satisfied and without a second thought. Isaac turned around and rejoined the flow of the surging crowd.

~

Isaac’s home was a shack made out of two by fours and sheet metal nailed between trees. Above his small, straw bed hung an oil lantern rescued from the remains of an old grocery store. He fueled it on whatever he could find. On one wall hung a fifty-two year old, 30-6, Remington, semiautomatic rifle. He saved it from the basement of an old house. In the floor of his home, there was a small hole, covered with a piece of a plastic plate to keep water out. He kept a half-empty box of 30-6 shells there. The walls were limbs woven together with willow. There was a small garden outside.
At home, he proceeded to carry out his daily chores as he ached inside. This didn’t include much. It was just a list of things to keep his mind occupied day by day. He weeded his sparse garden, gathered firewood, raked leaves away from the fireplace, and sharpened his knife (a wide, flat-beveled knife with a centered point and a sharp false-edge). When he was done he went to the river where he bathed and collected water. The walk home was long and Isaac was tired. He lived a mile’s walk from the river so as not be found by anyone using it.
A deep sleep came upon Isaac when he returned. He slept for countless hours. He didn’t want to wake. He didn’t want to be brought back to life where women were raped, children were pests, and men were murdered to satisfy another’s unrestrained thirst for blood. No matter how much Isaac didn’t want to wake, he did.

Sorry about the formatting. I'm pasting this from Word.

~

Silence covered the woods. It rested over the trees like a blanket. It was past time for breakfast and Isaac was ravenous. He ate the last of his provisions and was still hungry. He had eaten two apples, a chunk of venison, and a scrap of bread, and after that, he was still hungry, so he picked a couple of tomatoes that weren’t quite ripe. There was a berry bush not far from Isaac’s home. It became the source of his attention. After the bush was picked clean Isaac still was not filled, so as a small field mouse scurried by one boot, Isaac’s other came heavily down upon it. He ate it without bothering to cook it and then washed it down with a swig of whiskey. The mouse didn’t fill him up either. It seemed that he was bottomless. He couldn’t fill himself with food. No matter how much he ate, the void would not be closed. What else could fill him? If not food then what? There was a hole screaming to be filled.
A migraine suddenly consumed Isaac and everything seemed blurry. The blanket of silence fell and was replaced by a sharp ringing inside his head. Darkness spilled over his eyes but they burned as if he were staring into the sun on a bright day.
As he fell to the ground he seemed to catch the image of a small lamb standing in front of him. The lamb was bleeding all over its body, but it didn’t cry out. It just stood there. Blood streamed down its face and the lamb just stood, looking at him as if he were the one to be pitied. It didn’t even blink. The last thing he remembered before he hit the ground, was throwing up.
“Water,” he whispered with a hoarse voice. Isaac was drowning in thirst. His canteen had only a few drops left in it. He crawled to it, drained it, and became furious. He cursed everything he knew. He hated himself. He stood by and watched the world shrivel up and die because he was too scared to do anything about it. He wasn’t a man anymore. He had lost touch with the fire inside him that urged him to stand in the rain and shout, “I am alive!” He wanted to change the world, but he couldn’t; he was neutered.
His anger festered up in him in seconds, and it poured out of him. He tore down the rusted shack and started throwing things with a childish temper. He kicked up his garden. “Why?” Isaac cried. Tears spilled down his cheeks. Isaac took the now empty whiskey bottle and broke it against a rock. Blood covered his arm as he began to cut deeper and deeper, but he couldn’t get deep enough! He hated himself. The pain felt good but there wasn’t enough. Rain spewed from the sky and swept the blood from Isaac’s arms and the tears from his face. To the ground Isaac fell dropping the glass. On his back Isaac opened his mouth and let the sweet liquid satisfy his raging thirst. It rained for hours, and Isaac lay there thinking, crying, hating.
Eventually he wrapped his arms in rags and just sat in the pouring rain again, thinking. He thought about numerous things. He just thought for the rest of the day, as he was drenched with rain. It wasn’t until dawn the next day that Isaac got up and undid what damage he had done to his home. He replaced the broken boards and nailed them to the same trees as before. Isaac replaced the jagged metal on them and weaved the walls together again.