Some things in this world don't have no place in the light.
Dark, cold, alone, evil everywhere.
You've come to the right place to meet your worst nightmares.
Just call me Harlow.
Harlow Buries His Past
Harlow buries his past.
The night was still, the air heavy with an oppressive silence that seemed to suffocate the stars.
A shovel pierced the ground, breaking the silence with each slow tap.
The grave was freshly dug, the earth piled haphazardly around its edges.
The only sounds were the distant chirps of night creatures and the shuffling steps of a man moving back and forth across the sandy ground.
Harlow Greer stood alone, his breath forming small clouds in the cold night air.
His hands trembled and shook as he held a crumpled bouquet of white lilac in baby's breath.
He knelt, placing the flowers gently on the grave, a offering to the life that had been stolen from him.
His heart ached with a sorrow so deep, it felt as if it would consume him whole.
Lighting a match, Harlow brought it to a crude cigar.
The small flicker illuminated his grief-stricken face for a brief moment before the darkness returned again, leaving only the faint glow of the cigar tip.
His silhouette, hunched and uneasy, moved like a shadow across the desolate scene.
Missy, oh Missy! He wept, his voice a broken whisper in the night.
What have they done? How, how?
Tears streamed down his weathered cheeks, his face seeming to age twenty years in the span of six hours.
How can this be? Be happening? God damn it! God damn it all to hell!
His voice rose in anguish, then fell to a mutter as he tried to gather his shattered thoughts.
We've got to. I've, I've got to.
Overcome with grief, Harlow looked up at the dark sky as if seeking answers from the heavens.
But the stars offered no comfort, no solace. Lost.
Harlow sat at a table inside his cabin, the familiar surroundings now alien and cold.
Missy's thin, gold necklace with its delicate locket lay on the table, a haunting reminder of his loss.
His body convulsed with sorrow, the hitching cries erupting from his throat echoing in the empty room.
He was living his worst vision of hell. He takes a swig from an old bottle, the harsh liquor burning its way down his throat, offering a fleeting numbness.
Smoke hangs heavy in the air, the remnants of a once warm and welcoming home.
We've got to, got to get a move on. They gave me till, till sun up. He muttered to himself, his voice breaking again as rage and despair intertwined.
Oh, how could, why? God damn you, Virgil. I just got to get this rate down so I ain't never forget it.
Ain't never forget what they did. What they done. What was it they was saying?
Harlow broke down again, weeping uncontrollably. He takes another swig, the alcohol doing little to dull the pain.
Latin? Neko, Neko Kaido? God damn it. What was they'd be saying again?
He scribbled furiously in a worn notebook, his mind racing.
Mord, Mord, Mordeth.
His eyes widened with realization, then narrowed as despair sunk another level deeper.
Tifico, kill my girl, my girls.
His voice hitched, eyes filling with tears. He wiped them away with a handkerchief, trying to regain some composure.
After your mama got the TB and the Lord took her, you are, you was, such a good girl.
Ain't never done nothing but help tend to them folk and me and do good everywhere.
Everybody, but what they gone and done to you ain't, ain't.
Anger rose within him, white-hot and searing.
Ain't no cause for, no god damned cause. Now I know, now I know alright. There ain't no god, no sir.
And if there is, well I got my own words to spit in his face if and I ever do meet him.
Huh. He shook his fist at the ceiling, his contempt palpable.
You hear me? You hear me? If you up there tell me, strike me down right now.
You hear me? Tell me why. Why you so cruel? Why you done this to me and my family?
What we ever done to deserve this? Don't be blamein' no devil or no Lucifer or no Beelzebub for this one neither.
You did this. They did it cause of your damned book. All bullshit.
He breaks down again. Just bullshit. Bullshit.
Suddenly as if on Q Thunder claps outside, lightning. Harlow's anger gives way to a bitter broken chuckle.
So, I got your tension now do I? Bullshit. How about all them knights, me and Missy, sitting here with her mama, holding her hand while she wasted away to nothing with the TB.
Her coffin up them buckets of blood and puke and snot, too weak to lift her head to take a ladle of water. Barely suck a lil rag some.
Lips so dry. Cracked. You put her through hell. Hell!
His tears flowed freely as he continued. The memories too painful to bear.
We begged. We begged you for to help her. Even if it meant for her to go on and pass but no. No.
You. You let her linger for seven months. You let her fall apart and rot and goddamn choke on her own snot and puke and gasp for every fucking breath she tried to fit in her lungs.
She begged us. Begged and begged. And we begged you.
He paused, trying to catch his breath, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface.
You. You was not with me and Missy. No. No. You wasn't there to look in her mama's eyes every damn day and a night and watch the light go out a little more by the day.
You was not holding a good woman's hands that used to be strong and made good food and stitched rags for neighbors and always was there to lend help to a friend.
Harlow takes a swig from the bottle angrily.
Everybody was a friend far as mama was concerned. Hands that never hurt nothing.
Me and Missy was holding those hands like a skeletons when she took that last breath.
Harlow's voice trembled with rage and sorrow. Closed eyes as he remembers the past.
That last goddamn breath where we could hear the rattle in her body for so long.
It was just me and Missy when we saw her eye roll back white and her face go.
Oh, her face. That one eye rolled back, but the other looked fixed on me.
Oh, I saw the life died in that eye, but goddamn it ain't never gonna forget that eye when mama passed.
He let out a sorrowful wail that felt like it would last forever.
We watched her mouth peel open and that last coffin spat shot her last lung full of blood right up in our face.
The smell wrought. We didn't care. It was mama.
Mama, they said you took her, but defiant anger flared again, white hot and consuming.
You never deserved her. What kind of God would do that to a good woman?
What kind of God lets the devil run amok in this world?
Kids getting killed and maimed. Good people dying for no good reason or suffering,
while then banker bastards and shit on a shoe sole kinds live fat and happy.
The bad people. You let the bad people take over.
Why did I spend my whole damn life praising and teaching and spreading your word? Your lies.
I've been a fool and now and now my my a horrific guttural whale engulfed Harlow, the grief unimaginable.
He bellows and throws the candle from the table to the floor and now Missy.
Gah, Missy. You let them do it. You turned a blind eye. Again. God damn it. No, no. You told them to do it.
You made it all happen. Your book of lies. The book I believed in my whole goddamn life and now you made them use it to... to...
Oh, Missy. Why, oh, why? Missy.
In the deepest grip of despair, Harlow hastily throws the notebook and a few belongings into an old, tattered carpet bag.
He had to escape, leave behind what had once been his home.
The cabin that held so many memories was now a prison of pain and betrayal.
With one last look at Missy's necklace, he turned and fled into the night.