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The Chronicles of Timmy Dorknit

Updated on May 24, 2015

MIrror Mirror: The Dawn of Men, Part 1


As the boy laid sprawled in the puddle, he tried to catch his breath and attempted a feeble guess at recalling what has happened. The night sky above spiralled in an electric and hypnotic mesh of blue and black with flecks of mist-grey interspersed all around. The treacherous moon had long ago took its leave, leaving the battered earth alone, in the dark, at the mercy of the looming tempest. He now remembered vaguely what had happened. He fell.

The boy tried to fathom how long he had been laying there. A deepening, throbbing pulse, kept signalling from the back of his swollen head, telling him to pull weight of it. May be it was bleeding even, he could not tell. All he knew, was how agonising it felt. Timmy tried rolling over, to get his legs under him. But all the response he had from his muscles were fatigue and jolts. His hollow husk shivered from the cold that was setting in, as the swirling clouds of cool, dense fog, emanated out of nowhere and settled in comfortably in the forsaken grounds of the church piazza.

With each passing minute, as he regained control of some of his senses, Timmy’s body now felt the pain that the sudden shock had so mercifully kept at bay. He made an attempt at moving again, albeit slowly this time, drawing the damp air and mist in at every pull of torso. But fortune yet remained wary to accompany the lad this fateful night. He remained motionless, drenched, muddy, in a mangled soggy carcass, resting lifeless in the cater that had formed around him. No sign of life was to be seen from the boy apart from his strained shallow breath, which screeched at the walls of his asthmatic air tubes as they streamed out in large chunks. He opened his eyes for the first time in what seemed like had been ages, to a macabre vista of impending doom and gloom. As he scanned the skies for any signs of hope, at the farthest corner of the skies, as far as the eyes can turn, a thin line of electrostatic charge discharged into the atmosphere and crackled all the way down to middle earth to be lost somewhere deep within the velvety dark which had consumed the earth. And then, then it started raining. Again.

The rain pierced through the swirling, unseemly and ungodly mist and once more resumed their aggravated volley against mother earth. This time though, the north gale did not pick up to toss the deluge off of their course. They fell in a steady, streamlined stream, cutting through the atmosphere to resume filling up Timmy’s own little puddle of the earth.

All the boy could do was stare at the deep end of the sky, feeling nothing but remorse. A remorse that gnawed deep at the back of his conscious mind. At least whatever was left of it. This gnawing taunted him, laughed at him, and ridiculed him, for not being able to function, for not being whole, for being a mere husk of his glorified former self. As the sky kept roaring, with the thunderous clouds badgering each other to create more baby thunders, he was pulled from his spinning, uncontrollable, barrage of thoughts by his ESP signalling that he was the object of a hunt, by someone, by something.

Then the boy heard barks, emanating as if out of nowhere coupled with heavy weighed pads thumping on the soft mud. Thump thump thump, topped off with splash, splash, splash. Timmy heard their heavy breathing, their panting, the irritated growling of their voice that told him that he was deemed an enemy.

Timmy knew what he had to do- either double back or scale the house again. But he was already spent; his mind dawdling, barely able to keep track with the vicissitudes of the evening. He didn’t have the strength, the moxie that only the uncouth youth have the pleasurable acquaintance with. He now remained a mere shell of the boy he was. The hounds, approached even nearer, unnerved by the smell of blood from the heap that lay before them. It was not often that master let them venture on a blood hunt. The hounds were near as though he could almost feel them breathing down his neck.

The Great Dane jumped around the corner as if it materialised, abruptly, out of the dense white mist. It foamed at the mouth, with its blood shot eyes challenging the spread-eagled boy to make any hasty move. Timmy watched out of the corner of his eyes helplessly as the Dane stopped at his tracks, a few feet too close from Timmy’s puddle. As he observed intently the Dane baring its razor sharp set of rancid yellow teeth, Timmy failed to take stock of the Bloodhound that crept into his vicinity following suit its pack leader.

The only reason they still didn’t attack was because they have been trained to stall not tear. The boy found no hope of escape. His heart dutifully fell into a rhythmic pulsation of countless cyclical beats per minute and he felt a mind numbing terror that could only be felt at the precipice of imminent death.

The Dane approached slowly, in a posture as though ready to bounce on the helpless boy if and when necessary. The rain kept pouring allowing the inhabitants down below still no chance at redemption or respite. The sky was forevermore the darkest shade of velvety black and did a brilliant job at hiding the smoky red comet trail, up high above.

Alarmed by the sudden rush of newly released endorphins, Timmy acquired the required jolt and sat up abruptly. Feeling nauseated he hauled the rest of his mass on legs flimsy and held back the acidic vomit that chugged up from his inwards. The boy still had trouble standing. It’s been only a couple of days since he had his leg braces off and the fall from the rotten old house has not been to his favour. Timmy watched wide eyed with horror, as the Dane measured him and approached his vicinity one measured step at a time, threatening that his next move would not be shown such clemency. It took its time, snarling, baring its razor sharp teeth. As it thumped on the ground, little tremors passed by. The boy draped in the jet black, spandex garment, almost had his heart stopped in the middle of a beat, when he heard the growling at a low timbre from his behind. He realised what might just have been the nick of time, his predicament. The beasts were circling him in. They would tear and bite and gnaw but only strategically.

Without having any other thought, without looking for any other outlet, without any sense of apprehension that he might plummet again and fall deep into a never ending hole which engulf time and men for eternity, Timmy grabbed hold of the precariously rusty bars of the nearest window pane of the sodden and ginger looking, shoddy old house and started scaling upwards for the second time in the night.

Timmy fretfully, in sporadic motions, took a grab here and a hold there. He kept hauling his bloodied and bruised self up the side of the house again, without looking, without thinking whether the hunt is still afoot. The hounds jumped at his uncalled for motion and snapped at the fast moving feet of the little boy, only to miss them by a split hair of a second. The dogs jumped again, as far their strong sinew filled muscles would allow them, only to miss their target. They groaned in self-pity as they observed their pursuit fading slowly away, in a mist of rainwater and fluttering cape.

Timmy could now literally see the light at the end of the tunnel. He almost was in reach of the window neatly placed on the second storey of the house. It overlooked the grounds of the plaza and only missed the silhouette of the church building by a few crucial angles. Some sort of light still radiated out of the fogged glass panes, giving a sensation of warmth and hope, of a new beginning to come.

He found it increasingly difficult to keep hold of his footings as the downpour blinded him and lubricated the moss laden nooks and crannies of the withering away of a household. The raindrops stabbed away at his eyes like ice cold needles until he no longer could keep his eyes open, even for a glimpse, to manoeuvre the path that laid ahead. Yet he clambered on, knowing fully what lay in wait down under. He braved a look downwards, finding his hunters standing rapt in their watch, their bloodshot eyes trained at his silhouette. If he concentrated enough he would still hear the hounds moaning at a betrayed loss of a hunt well deserved, amidst the roaring of the murderous storm in the backdrop.

Timmy Dorknit somehow reached the window that he longed for. He started seamlessly to pull out the rust laden bars one by one, being careful this time to keep his foothold fixed and his load bearing arm grasping the wooden sides of the window pane tenaciously, rather than one of the bars. The bars flew in quick succession out of the boy’s way and plummeted to the ground forcefully scattering the stalking hounds. As he forced opened the pane by mere inches, eye scathing yellow light made a futile attempt at flooding the pitch black church piazza outside. Timmy casted one look at his retreating pursuers, thanked his lucky stars and somehow slipped through the barely opened gap in the window like a chink acrobat with lubricated ease.

He took a breather; this night had been unreal. The last few days had been surreal. Day of days came calling unannounced, unwelcomed. Things never went along with how they were planned, with how they were supposed to be. The little suburb of Blo-me Town laid in apocalyptic waste along with the rest of the devastated world. The last vestiges of civilisation was not to be seen in this demonic deluge. The world this day was a dark, lonely place to be in.

The perks of planning a run-of-the-mill elaborate breaking in and entering was that it was less complicated, shrouded with lesser surprises. With all the bases covered, the mastermind would know the exact surprise that was lurking around every corner. But the day of days came in a little too early, chugging times allotted on planning an elaborate raid out of the window and out of commission. It was supposed to be a simplistic task of breaking in, entering and gathering evidence. To gather seminal clues on who the impostor were. It was to tear away at the façade of this masked vigilante and task him to his crimes. It was to learn of his secrets, to better mingle in to the shadows. To become an adjunct of the night, it was to become invisible.

He always had the inexplicable suspicion that the predecessor at the office of the minister had to be the one. But never could he ground his apprehension in the logic of hard cold truth. So when the suspicious man charged of pederasty lay bedridden at the local clinic, bloodied and bruised and crippled from the beating of the crowd, Timmy knew there was not any time better opportune. The successive incumbent chose to keep the office of his predecessor locked, taking up his quarters within the derelict castle that housed the church. So when the impostor was nowhere to be seen, lurking around the church piazza to gain unwelcomed access to his former lair, Timmy thought it opportune to act out detective- as it were. So he took stock of his resources, spent time measuring his outlet of incursions, staked out the quarters of the former man of god but never could he find an open window to carry out his exploits. And when the time for full measures drew nearer and nearer, the whole world went spiralling down the “day of reckoning” rabbit hole.

Timmy looked out the window he slid through. Flickering lights from the church next door lit the grounds, casting an eerie silhouette of the church building, enmeshed with a spray of rain water interspersed all over. High pitched hums of many voices resonated through the long stony hall, casting an eerie echo that would even disturb the slumber of the most dead. The new priest led the rather unconventional prayer, his voice soaring above the rest of the mass only to plummet to allow the chorus to fill in.

It seemed like it was the dead of the night, albeit the sun on any other day would still be a few hours shy of setting. The rain hammered everything in its path; the trees wobbled and rustled perilously. As the lightning made its premiere, the night sky cleared as if someone invisible was casting a million floodlights at the darkest void of the sky. Then the sky dimmed again, and switched the world back to its dismal old self. But the prayer kept on at a steady hum because some still had some hope. Some still believed that the world might not end in this rather unfortunate December night. That the fucking Mayans were wrong.

Timmy felt a pang as he reminisced of life of old. It was only a few days shy of Christmas. He gratified himself many a moments, polishing spick and span his newly acquired gear- a stun gun, clearly giddy thinking of the holiday excursions that would be spent well. He thought of the prospective horror laden faces of the unsuspecting crowd, as they scampered off in every direction possible, having jolted by the revolting vision of the faux father Christmas of the mall, succumbing under the effect of a 1000 volts and sitting in a puddle of piss and bowel discharge.

The only church in the little suburbia of Blo-me Town played host to anyone who would want a shot at quick redemption before they bit the dust. The world as they knew it was coming to an end. So they sang the gospels, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, pimps, accountants, lawyers and mobsters alike. The nuns hid and huddled in the shadowy corners, battered and bruised and raped. The men before cleansing their souls of all gunk, thought it prudent to have just one last shag. No other chaste women were around. The new priest Father Maxwell was too shocked to protest. His rather gentle and meek composure, lead the people of the town appreciating its new father incumbent much more amiably than the former pederast; who now lay in the abandoned community clinic, hanging on, to a contraption called life support, for dear life. The unruly civil society, deemed it fit to take matters into own hands and made an attempt at lynching the man when they, not unlike Timmy, thought he was the masked vigilante roaming the streets committing the widely reported atrocious acts of buggery. However, they hadn’t a shred of evidence to corroborate that the he indeed had been parading round and about as the masked vigilante. But what they had was belief; which is what the world used to be fuelled on in the olden days.

Former father, priest, confidante, the chivalrous role model to the community at large, was rescued from the gallows by the “by the book” town sheriff (or the stupid sumbitch as Timmy called him). He had the pederast admitted to the community clinic under armed surveillance, after having assured the blood thirsty mob that due process was to be had. And the rest was rest. With the world gone to the dogs, no soul were bothered any longer about the days of abysmal indulgence of yet another “sheep turned wolf” religious leader.

The mass gathered at the Church section of the dilapidated castle praised their apparent savour Christ and prayed that he gift them mercy. Yet the worst tempest of time immortal gave no wind of dissipating. It soared and growled, roared and pounced like some unruly, unholy mythological monster and wreaked havoc on everything in its path. The people ran, scattered like the mice they were; heading for the port, heading for the borders, seeking redemption where no respite was to be had. Thousands of years of civilization of men were reaching its centuries’ foretold timely demise. The constituents of the last vestige of Adam’s sons and daughters retreated back into their hovels- at least who still lived. Some prayed, some sought clemency, some gave into penance for a shot at a second chance, to have the assurance to traverse over to the kingdom of God and heaven. While some of the more incorrigible and complacent of the bunch sought solace of the enticing bosom of alcohol and narcotics, traversing over to the dimension of blissful ignorance and apathy.

Timmy breathed in the musty air of the quarters and pulled on to the latch tied securely beneath his chin to take his mask off. He now got a better view of his surroundings and took in everything with rapt attention as much as he could in the dim light of the one single lamp that lit the preserved room. It was clear that the quarters of the molester have been in disuse after his forced vacancy. Dust formed fine powdered layers on every furniture in the room. Nothing was touched and yet the lamp was lit. The whole room was in a state of disarray, in an unkempt state of abomination.

Timmy could no longer linger on his thoughts, for he knew that his presence was no more a matter of secret. The hounds usually were confined within the kennels on the other side of the castle manor. He being the quarry to the hounds could mean only one thing- someone wised up to his incursions and took to offensive measures.

The boy draped in the drenched spandex garment, donning a rather comically large cape, started on a trot. He flung the belongings of the owner at random, looking for clues, hints at every corners and crevasses. He looked under the mattress, in the duvet. He tore them off mercilessly to see whether anything was hidden carefully within. The boy then frantically shifted his acts of vandalism to the neatly kept library of the quarters. He rifled through the books one by one, flickered across the pages and chugged them away when deemed irrelevant. He forced opened all drawers, cupboards and cabinets in the vicinity, everything which were capable of secreting things away. Nothing could be found of import. Nothing could be found but unsuspicious household items and sundries. In a fit of rage the boy then plied off the fabric heavy carpeting glued to the floor. Searched through every nook, crannies and crevasses to find sum total of nothing. Then he remembered one harshly learnt valuable lesson from the past. He skipped over to the other side of the quarters and snapped shut the bolts to the only door to the room, assuring the continuance of his unwelcomed incursion with peace.

Then the study at the farthest corner of the quarters caught his attention. Sitting at one corner of the room was the table where the pederast whiled away at his leisure many hours, scribbling on something what could only be assumed was his journal. Timmy also remembered seeing the red leather bound book, held clutched tightly to the pederast’s bosom while he served his Sunday sermons. It had to be somewhere within his quarters. The mass which caught the former Father, Dominic Purell, that one fated Sunday in the WC, with little Elliot down on his knees apparently choking on something unpredictably large and brown, did not give him the chance to escape unscathed, let alone given the scope to gather and take away his belongings. Neither did the new incumbent take up his quarters in his predecessor’s chambers, appalled at what might have went down within those four walls unbeknownst to the rest of the world. So it had to be here. It had to be.

Timmy breathed in heavily, outraged that all this trouble was worth for nothing. He just had only one last shot. He limped-approached the table with determined heavy steps and traced his gloved fingers over its smoothly furnished decorative veneer. It remained almost dust and grime free than the rest of its counterparts in the preacher’s quarters. Timmy without pausing to invest in any more brain matter on the irregularity swivelled over to the other side and slid open the drawers one by one and scanned their contents, tossing aside anything his swirling mind did not register important. That red leather bound book was yet not to be found.

The boy felt an inexplicable rage, something that is only felt at the loss of something so deeply craved but not to be had. He pounded on the surface of the table and repeated the aggravated blows with both his forearms until they were numb. The rain battered the windows at a steady cacophonous stream to almost secret away the hollow sound that emanated in succession on every blow. Timmy leaned on his forearms, butted precariously on the table top. He looked at his jagged silhouette on the grimy surface and tried to remember something that he had just forgotten. To recall something crucial that had just happened. To vent away his frustration, for the umpteenth time Timmy pounded on the table top, only to realise this time the muffled sound that emanated from within. Surprised at the unexpected progress, he pressed his ears close to the surface and tapped his fingers in quick succession. The table sounded like a husk, like it has been hollowed out within. The boy revelled at what could be the redeeming factor of this night and scanned overzealously to gain access to the secret which lied within. He scanned every inch of the table for any notches or latches, which could open up the gateway to immeasurable treasures, but stopped midway when he heard thundering footsteps clambering up the stairwell. The footsteps were then accompanied by barks and demonic growling. Timmy’s heart frantically skipped a beat.

He traced the grainy underside of the table, with numb quivering fingers as a measure of last resort. The footsteps became heavier as they drew even nearer. Timmy sweated in profusion as he leaned his tracing arm in to the open of the table. He looked at his hazed profile on the table top, interfered sporadically by the sweats which ran down the thin of his nose and volleyed one drop at a time on his reflection. And just when he had given up all hope to find the thing that his heart desired the most, his index tumbled and then ran across a small depression on the underside. The boy almost by an act of reflex found the notch and slipped his finger deep into the crevasse. The table with a moaning creak hesitated for a brief pause and then let swing open from its underside, on a full fulcrum, a secreted compartment.

The cacophony of the outside world screeched into an abrupt halt. Everything stayed in a state of stasis as the wide eyed boy stared with unbridled lust at the single content of the hidden drawer. He was mesmerised so much so, taking in every detail of his long awaited quarry, that he failed to take heed of the ominous escalation of the tempest outdoors, of the looming tempest about to happen indoors, of the distant shots of half a dozen cartridge rounds fired somewhere outdoors and most importantly he failed to heed the doggedly bludgeoned door that was just about to give in.

It’s almost as if though on a reflex, a muscle memory which sparked without fail every time danger larked around the darkest corner, Timmy donned on his dark ceramic mask. As the mask slid down his temple and as Timmy grabbed that red leather bound book, the door of the room busted open in a storm of dust and noise. His hunters rocketed in, foaming at the mouth and growling at a deeply gravitated timbre which could unsettle even the most strongly constituted man. So without much ado, Timmy turned on his heels at aimed for the nearest window, only to catch a fleeting glimpse of their master who glided into the room, with her white cloak fluttering, her voice screeching.

She urged the dogs, “seek ‘im, seek ‘im”, pointing all the while at the quickly dissipating silhouette of Timmy. At one giant leap, the Great Dane latched its razor sharp jaw at the fluttering end of Timmy’s escaping cape. Timmy felt the horrendous juddering pull at the back of his neck, only to be thrown further into his aimed vector with added momentum as his cape tore off. The boy in a rush of adrenaline and heart-aching heartbeat put all his weight on to the balls of his feet and launched head first into the closed window.

As the rusty old bars gave away, Timmy felt the shattered glass splinter sporadically at every random direction. He felt the scathing stab of fragmented broken glass cutting away at his cheek as he succumbed for the second time this fateful night to the effect of gravity. As he plummeted, Timmy rolled in mid-air unknowingly. He made a futile attempt at grabbing hold at something but eventually found the back of his swollen head cushioning the blow of the softened mud. Soon after the rest of his body followed and padded securely in the soft bosoms of mother earth. He felt the water rushing into his soon to be puddle and breathed out an air of contempt at a world so cruel.

And as he trained his eyes for the last time at the house tonight, Timmy caught a passing glimpse of his hunter as she briefly stood vigil in front of the broken window. And what the boy saw was the ever so familiar silhouette of the person he held so dear to heart; of the only person he knew would remain true to him; of the only person he loved the most in the world- sister Ursula.

(To be continued).

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