Paradox Intrusive

Chapter One

The night was cut deep open. Ten black birds flew from the cover of the late night into the morning's brisk. The next day, those same ten birds would fly back, in the opposite direction, towards the night again. This would keep going on and on. Generation after generation; there was no remorse. When Horace's father spoke to him of curses, back when he was a young boy with auburn, curly hair and meekly pale skin... he did not believe it. Most children's minds fancied the idea of these fantastical concepts. Even the grave ones, whether by warning or otherwise, would become quickly swept up within waves of endless curiosity. Horace, however, was not one such child. Horace was a skeptic through and through. When he later transitioned towards adulthood, and his once brown hair slowly darkened to a sturdy black... he knew not what to do when his father died. Little by little, piece by piece; the curtains would begin to unravel. As a cashier, slow days at the convenience store gave him time to reminisce on better times. It did not come without sacrifice, like a shout from his older boss, Mr. Seung. The man was grey... still with a head of hair, but barely hearing or sensing *anything* except for when Horace was slacking off, somehow. But still, there was no change in his life. Among many others, there *was* a curse. There was a curse, his father said to him. And such a curse, would be *so* potent, that it could not be removed by thought alone. This curse set along the damnation of others. Those who heard it, those who imagined it, even those who *dreamed* it. Without a second thought, it would fall upon persons like predator to prey. No condolences could be made, as they would only fall on deaf ears. Yet, it did not matter in what form that it came, his father said. He explained that long ago, it originated from a single, unknown source. That *source* then "drew" the curse into many forms. Masterfully and eloquently condensing it; stiffening the foreign concepts into letters, sculptures and pristine forms of art so that it may become known. Known to the mind, which ultimately influenced the body. But from it, sparked war. He did not specify. But he recalled to the best of his recollection those very words. Horace did *not* believe in these fairytales. After all, what was a curse to modern, minimum-wage life? He thought. And still it remained intrusive. Of course, he was the one who had asked to hear it. His father, who first uttered the mere string of sentences to him when he was very young, had recently passed away. It was only then that he told Horace at the hospital deathbed what he had done. In his dying days, he explained further what needed to be established in order to remove the curse... in order to "cleanse himself", as his raspy, dry breath had put it. Horace simply had to "give it away", to someone other than himself. Convince them of it, and let it simmer. It did not need much convincing... but just enough to matter. And the only reason he gave it to his son was to get rid of it, himself. Or at least Horace speculated, through numerous apologies and old tears. So, skeptic that he was, Horace could not simply forget what had happened to him. That many years ago, in his spare time, he tried desperately to place pieces of the puzzle back together from his mind. But strangely, it was failing him. One late evening, towards the cusps of twilight, he headed to his black car in the parking lot. As per usual, he got in, and began driving back to his small family home in the neighborhood.. Except, when he got in, he found that the trip felt oddly... short. Shorter than usual. Much shorter. The once familiar route became a foreign landscape that reminded him of absolutely nothing. Horace slammed on the brakes, his car jerking to a sudden, uneven halt. The hot Arizona roads stretched endlessly before him, shimmering under the relentless sun, and yet— nothing seemed amiss. Despite the empty expanse, an inexplicable urge gripped him, pulling his thoughts toward an unfamiliar shortcut. He shook his head violently, and struck his palm against his temple. Something was clearly wrong. "...What is going on?" he said to himself, through the sound of the quiet, almost muted radio in the background. The feeling was so perplexingly compelling... but it made no sense. He had never taken any other routes back to his family home before. Fully conscious, Horace decides to take the main route home. He stepped on the gas again, and begins driving. When he does, the moment only hits him that he's taking an unfamiliar turn down an empty road he's never been to before. But it hits him far too late. His phone lit up in the nearby passenger's seat. It rang normally, and he is forced to abruptly brake again when answering it. Upon his view of the caller ID, it appeared to be his older sister. Perhaps she was wondering why he hadn't been back from work already, he thought. When he answers, there's the sound of serious, pain-staking soobbing. Through the phone, she almost sounded as if she's on the brink of tears; the very edge, the precipice. "...Hello? Jessica?" Horace calls out. "Jessica, what's wrong?" At first, there was no response. The line goes absolutely quiet. Then, there was a faint laughter coming from her voice. It eerily built up into something deeper, more grotesque, monster-like... and completely alien to him. Then, her voice returned. "I'm sorry what happened to you, brother." Jessica said. She repeats this line. Over, and over, and over. Until the words no longer even sound like words anymore. Until they do not sound like anything remotely *real*. Horace's heartbeat quickly escalates, until he outright panicks. He unfastened his seatbelt and tried to press frantically on the phone screen, hoping to end the call. He was in sweat, cold-sweat. And just as he was about to leave the car, a loud horn is last heard as a truck slams directly into his vehicle. But, he was alright. His arms flex, and shiver defensively in front of him at the thought of the impending crash. But nothing was there. Nothing besides the fluttering of wings. A sudden flock of black birds trashed against his windscreen, as they beat themselves up against it all at once. This knocked the very life out of Horace, who only ducked and screamed like a coward, as he tossed his phone somewhere to the side. The loud thuds continued, louder than the heaviest of hail, until it finally all came to a deafening silence. When Horace lifted himself up, all he saw across his once clear windscreen was a goopy red, engulfing the entire thing. It dripped down precariously onto the roof of his car, and hastily covered all the windows, his movements frantic as he turned, his chest tightening with a surge of unnerved shock. Then, he jolted from his seat... still screaming, but this time with a delay. He realized that something was clearly wrong, especially as he felt a strong tug back from the strapped seatbelt still around his body. Was he... asleep? "Was I dreaming all of that?" he quickly thought, hands pressed firmly on the wheel as if clutching onto it for dear life itself. When he slowly eyed his way over the passenger's seat, his phone was also just there. Safely and neatly placed within the center, where he last left it. Although he certainly lacked the courage to drive again, and with his heart profusely racing... he decided to gather the last, leftover remains of strength that he had and pressed on. After speedily pulling to the side and taking a short break, he did not seem deterred by the road any longer. He pulled out his GPS and managed to navigate his way home, the unease lingering despite the absence of further interference. It's a smooth ride back. He did not even begin to feel remotely bothered. Horace is surprised by that fact, even. It came with the strangest feeling of bliss he had ever felt... something that he can't quite describe, but almost left him on the verge of laughing. As a result, he chuckled a bit as he pulls up into his driveway. It's like he doesn't feel like if he's even there. Perhaps the fear from the dream earlier knocked something more out of him than he had originally believed, he thought. It's just a thought, however. As when he emerges from the driveway, he was immediately greeted by his sister, who opens the door before he even has a chance to reach for the house keys in his pocket. "Took a detour on the way home?" She questioned him immediately, as her typical brunette hair and cold, amber eyes greet him oh-so-familiarly, "You took about thirty minutes longer than usual." "...Hmm, something like that," Horace responded, indirectly avoiding her gaze a little. He seems preoccupied with his mind, but still remembered to reach for his other pocket. "Here, take it," he finally uttered out, handing her his car keys, "Just don't hound me over reaching home a bit late next time I do; you're *not* mom." Jessica scoffed, and relinquished the keys from his hand, as he walked off to the black vehicle with her usual, impatient gait, "Yeah, yeah—" she remarks, as Horace watches her get in, then ponders to himself if that was even a good idea. He futilely contemplated as if to tell her what had happened, or to warn her *not* to get in the car. But before he even has time to react or change his mind, the engine starts up again, and reversed her way out into the street, as she drove away in oft hurry. The two siblings would typically alternate their work cycles, where contrary to him, she was a bartender. They also only carried one car between the two of them, so they had to simply make the best of it. As Horace stepped into the empty dwelling, he shut the front door behind him. He did not know how much he needed— practically savoured this peace until now. The house was eerily quiet, but it gave off no indication of anything for him to worry about. Physically and mentally exhausted, Horace took to the stairs over the warmer lighting of the living room at once. He did not hesitate to look around for anything out of the ordinary, skeptic that he was— but so far, nothing like that had emerged. Then, as he reached the top, he is left only to gasp. He could hear the sound of wings flapping. Shadows of many winged figures etched themselves onto the wall, swerving in constant motion like a swarm of angry bees. A black bird sat along the edge of the railing, preening itself idly before turning its attention to Horace. Horace began to laugh madly, clearly aware that he was hallucinating again. As he moved forward, he attempted to bat the bird away with only his hand. To see if it moved; to see if it did *anything*. He did this again, and again, up to the third time... as he consciously realized that his body was stuck in place. Every time he moved, his body continued to reset to the top of the stairs before he had a chance to even touch the creature. But now, he was practically immobilized. He can almost hear it laughing. Almost sense it, not through those usual chirps and chitters that any normal bird would produce. Utterly defenseless, the black bird stepped over slowly from the ledge. It latched onto his shirt, the talons puncturing the fabric and grazing his skin with needle-like pricks Immediately, it would begin to pluck at his left eye, until he could hear himself screaming within. It would continue to pluck, and pluck, until he felt like there was nothing left, and his vision became blurred, and obscured. It eats away idly at his right eye, but mainly focuses on the left. The pain was too real, each time it struck senselessly, and endlessly eating away at the remnants. Finally, he fell. And it caused him to barrel back down the stairs, shifting like a bag of rocks with each residual thud. Everything came to a lush, pinnacle of bright, overencompassing static. Horace thought he had bit the dust again— but that was the problem— *he* was still awake. There, he laid on the bottom of the stairs, body racked with pain. When he looked about, he instantly checked for his eyes. Both of them, just in case. No blood. He assumed that he had fallen down the stairs, however... as the pain was far too great to consider anything else. As he tried to get up, it pervaded his bones. Horace eyes up to the stairs, and holds back a curse when he sees nothing there. He could feel it— his skepticism slowly beginning to crumble... but still did not let up. He had obviously just eaten something he wasn't supposed to, and wasn't seeing any ghosts. His father was a madman to have even considered it— a curse. Horace tasted a bit of blood in his mouth, spitting to the side of the floor and attempting to climb up the stairs again. He was determined to get to his father's old room... to see if there was anything in there that might have explained any of this at all. Gradually and painfully with both of his hands gripped on the railing, he groaned... and reached towards the top of the stairs once more. When he did, his entire world caved in to the shadows of the unlit hallway. Suddenly, Horace felt as light as a feather. His mind, unburdened and unshackled by any weight, held a relative ease. And suddenly, the pain was gone. He continued moving, but not on his own accord. Slowly, he felt his body saunter over to his own room— completely forgetting about his father's room— completely absent on turning on the lights. It opened the door, and he soon found himself lying on his side, desperately trying to fall asleep. No sleep came, and his eyes remained wide open throughout the night. He heard his sister return later that night, turn on the lights, and enter into her room... but that was it. The day proceeded like normal. And the next day, all the same. Horace continued to work his job as a cashier at the local convenience store, got home around the evening time, and handed his sister the keys to the family car. He talked, albeit curtly (as he always did), and his life remained more or less the same. There were no negatives associated with Horace's life. It was an everyday, regular run of the mill work life. There were no curses, or anything of the sort. Yet, in the back of his mind, to the very edges where his sanity remained, stood a wall of words which perpetuated him into this deep, unyielding trance. And it follows: Ten black birds flew from the cover of the late night into the morning's brisk. The next day, those same ten birds would fly back, in the opposite direction, towards the night again. This would keep going on and on. Generation after generation; there was no remorse.