Category Archives: death

Monster XIX

Monster XIX
By: Mia L. Hazlett
11/30/14

The box fell apart around me. Blinded by the sudden bright light, I wasn’t able to tell who pushed me off the table, but I was familiar with the feeling of smashing against a floor. Before I could get to my knees, the wind was knocked out of me. There was a duet of laughter as my eyes focused on a blur of both Maniacal and the Doctor.

As the air refilled my lungs I caught sight of one of the boards from my coffin. It wasn’t so much the board as it was the nail sticking out of it. Footsteps neared me and I lunged towards the board. In one sweeping motion, I grabbed the board and swung it around and caught Footsteps in the forearm. The board stayed in his arm as he grabbed my foot. I turned my body and gripped the board and gave it a twist with all my might. He hollered and shot upright as blood poured from his open wound.

I grabbed the board and was quickly on my feet. Before Footsteps had time to recover, I rushed him with the board across his face. I did my best to pull and twist the board, so the impaled nail would do irreparable damage. His howl only encouraged me. Finally, the cries of pain were coming from him and not me.

He lost his balance and fell over the chair behind him. It wasn’t me, but the adrenaline within me, that had me ponce on his chest and beat his already bloodied face with the board. His fist caught me in my jaw, but I still fought him. I had a fistful of his hair and repeatedly slammed his head into the concrete floor. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t losing. I was winning.

I came out of my daze and there was applause. I sat on Footsteps’ chest and he was motionless. At his head stood Maniacal. He continued to clap his hands. My hands wore the blood of my victim. I tried to stand, but toppled backwards and landed on my ass. The Doctor came over and did that thing with his two fingers on Footsteps’ neck to see if he was alive. He shook his head no, and left the room.

Maniacal came towards me and knelt inches away. “Well done. You’re one of us now.”

I couldn’t be one of them. I couldn’t be. I was a survivalist, not a heartless killer. It was my life or his. But as I sat watching Footsteps’ bloodied body, all a result of my rage, I thought to myself, I am a heartless killer.

Copyright © 2014 Mia L. Hazlett

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Monster XVIII

Monster XVIII
By: Mia L. Hazlett
11/11/14

I wondered what the sound was. Although I had never seen a waterfall, if asked to describe what I was hearing, I would answer, a waterfall. And then, the sound faded. Somehow with the absence of sound, my box brightened. I heard a machine of some sort. Maybe a drill. Maybe my death. But, whatever it was, it brought light.

With silence – no waterfall, no drill, no death – I looked to my right. I was still confined to my wooden space with my three dead survivalists. When I looked through the 3-inch drilled hole, I realized I was not buried. I was in the room where we made Cake Leftovers. I was on top of the same table. I don’t know if water has a smell, but it smelled wet. This entire time I thought they had buried me out in the wilderness, never to be found again. Instead, I was in a box and left to my own psychological torture.

Not knowing where I was, was better than knowing who I was with. I guess being buried in the woods, I would have starved to death. I completely assumed – no eating, no drinking –would lead to my death. Maybe all their hearts had to offer was a quick painful death of my now dead foes. I should have become cake leftovers. Instead, I saw three bodies getting closer. They stood in front of the hole blocking the light.

I waited. There was an eye. I stared at revenge. The eye receded, replaced by the tip of a knife.

“My turn,” I heard Footsteps say. No death for me. Just a terrifying existence.

Copyright © 2014 Mia L. Hazlett

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Monster XVI

Monster XVI
By: Mia L. Hazlett
9/25/14

I’ve never hurt someone physically. I’ve physically hurt. I’ve definitely emotionally hurt, and maybe even reciprocated. But intentionally inflicting pain on someone was not my thing. Somehow it was now my thing. Footsteps made it my thing.

To Footsteps, this was like making a cake. Preheat oven. Prepare table. Get mixing bowls, measuring cups and spoons, and ingredients. Gag, check. Restraints, check. Victim, check. In one bowl mix half the ingredients, in the other, mix the remainder. Situate victim just right on table, gag, and apply restraints. Blend ingredients in large bowl and stir for 3-5 minutes. Remove blind fold and tape open victim’s eyes. Allow mix to sit 2-3 minutes. Apply 3-5 bleach drops to each eye and allow to sit for 2-3 minutes. Pour mix into pan and place in oven for 35-40 minutes or until cake is done. Apply scalpel slices to victim’s naked body and individually duct tape 35-40 rats over slices. When cake is done, allow to cool before eating. When the rats are done, your victim should be dead.

I prayed for him to die of fear. He didn’t. I prayed for him to stop watching me. His eyes were taped open. I prayed to go deaf. I heard each muffled scream through his gag. I prayed for the torture to end, the rats ate him alive. I prayed for my own death. I realized, God had put my prayers on mute.

I stood outside and Footsteps met me with a huge duffel bag. We were in an unlit parking lot of some abandoned building. He weighted the duffel bag evenly over my shoulders. I realized I was carrying our cake, the leftovers anyways. The bag outweighed me, but I managed to keep up with Footsteps as I followed him through the dark. I heaved the bag into the trunk of the car on top of some shovels.

I began to cry in the back of the car. Footsteps started the car and chuckled at my tears. He turned the car around and I lunged forward, grabbed his forehead back, and sliced across his neck with the scalpel I had hidden up my sleeve. The car accelerated and slammed into the building.

When I opened my eyes, I was in complete darkness. I wasn’t in restraints, but my body was constricted. I tasted dirt and felt wood all around me. I heard a familiar squeaking and then felt a sharp pain on my foot. Place in coffin and bury with rats for 3-4 days or until girl dies. I was not going to be cake leftovers.

Copyright ©2014 Mia L. Hazlett

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Macy VIII

By: Mia Hazlett
4/11/13

My grandmother’s past was becoming my present. I wanted to consume every letter at once as though they were an enticing book, but each letter set heaviness in my heart with each word. It was only curiosity to get to know whom my grandmother was, which pushed me to finish each sentence.

Now I sat in front of her fifth envelope. It’s funny when someone is given so much power in a family, you just believe in their greatness, whether you like them or not. Glancing over her barely legible four letters I had read, I realized my grandmother’s weakness, her education. It never occurred to me she lacked an education. But maybe that is what made the letters so heart wrenching to read. She was so desperate to tell her story but she barely knew the words to express her years of misery.

Wen you wit a babee in you, boy you don’t feel reel nise. You don’t feel nise a tall. Macy, I dun hated dat der babee in me cuz my momma hated me cuz a dat babee in me. Wazn’t nuttin I cud do rite. She jus hated me.

But she dun luvved me sister. Me sister she wuznt like me. Well she didnt look like me. She wuz reel reel witelike. She cudda dun passd fur a wite persun if she want. But jus cuz moma dun hated me, me sister she tuk care ov me reel well. You see she dun new wut had happened in dem woods wit dem boyz dat dun killed our bruthers. She dun got da wurse of wut dem boyz did. Doctur dun sed she wud never have no babees. It wuz weeks befur she cud even walk after it dun happend.

But it don’t matter nun. I iz gonna hav me a babee and my sister, she reel happee fur me, even tho my moma want us to die. Yup, my moma told me she hope us both die fo we bring hur mo bad luk. She don’t want no darkee babee in hur house. She sed I wuz a bad gurl and it wuz my falt that boy dun dis wit me. I wuz alwayz wearin dem tite cloze round him.

Macy, when yur own moma hate you dat much, you lern to hate yurself too. And when you iz only but 12 yeerz old all you want iz yur moma to luv you. So 1 day I dun take a big rock and put it on da ground and dun fell belly furst on it. I dun nocked da air right out ov myself. It dun hurt reel bad. Sister came reel fast, but befor she culd stop me, I dun catched my breath and did it another. Dis 1 hurt me somethin reel bad and I woke up in the house with the docter man there.

Moma dun stud in da door and she dun hated me. I cud see it in her eyez. She dun hated me somthin bad. To dis day Macy I don’t no why. I dun killd my baby so we won’t bring hur no bad luck. Yes Macy, I dun killd my baby fur my moma and she still hated me.

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Monster IV

Monster IV
By: Mia L. Hazlett
3/16/11

I couldn’t say anything. Through the dim light and the small slit in my right eye, I saw a lean silhouette approaching me. I wasn’t sure if I turned my head towards her voice, but she was now whispering in my ear, “They’re going to kill us. I think I’ve been here for two or three days, I’m not sure. They got me on Sunday. Do you know what day it is?” I knew I had been brought down here with the dawning of a new day. If it was still the same day right now, then it was Friday. I went to bed Thursday night and they took me Thursday night. Today was Friday.

I don’t know if I told her it was Friday or was just thinking it, but our conversation or my thoughts were interrupted by steps outside of my small dungeon. The clang of the lock set Silhouette into an uncontrollable tremble. Her relentless grasp tortured my arm with a pain, but my mind transferred to that pain, rather than the aching of my ribs. I returned her tremble as the step with the light knock I heard at my house came into earshot, step, knock, step, knock… and then the maniacal laugh. She was right, they were going to kill us.

Silhouette screamed as they tore her from my side. I’m not sure if I reached out to hold her or if she had just not released her grip from my arm. I believed the latter, because she tore my sleeve and I now saw it dangling from her weak fist. She was thrown against the wall opposite me and all I could do was watch as Maniacal slammed his cane across her face. When I tried to turn away from her second blow, I was placed in a choke hold and made to watch as they beat her to death. She was right, they were going to kill us.

Maniacal crawled towards my face as it was thrown back to the ground. His low whisper terrorized more than his laugh, “You thought you could escape me? You thought I was going to never find you? I found you four years ago. How do you like that? I’ve been watching every little thing you do for the past four years. I could of taken you at 6:00 am in the parking lot at the park where you jog every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday morning. I helped you when you dropped your keys trying to get in your car after you bought your coffee and newspaper like you do every morning on the way to work. You let me come into your house and repair your air conditioner. I’ve been everywhere you go for the past four years. You can’t hide from me. I found you. I’ve got you. And just between you and me, you’re going to die here.” She was right, they were going to kill us.

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Macy IV

Macy IV
By: Mia L. Hazlett
1/22/11

It was a lot easier to hate someone because they were a jerk. A jerk was just that, a jerk. And that’s how I had always thought of my grandmother. But this letter made it much more difficult to hate her. I was beginning to understand the deep seeded abuse she cast upon me. Still, how could I erase a lifetime of hate with a letter, well I guess letters? I turned to the only person that could offer some sort of explanation, Macy’s daughter, my mother.

So much pain resurfaced in the two hour conversation we shared – pain for both of us. I realized my grandmother had reached from beyond the grave, and her hatred was revived as she forced me to open old wounds for my mother. When my mother cried, a chord struck in my heart as we relived a past that we thought was buried. As I leaned back on my couch, I regretted calling my mother. It never crossed my mind that my mother was a victim of Macy’s serial abuse too. Macy was a woman so wronged that she carried her wrath for two generations.

My grandmother prayed that my mother would take the routes of my aunts…marry light. But not my mother, Daddy was somehow darker than her. So I guess my baby picture delivered the third strike. My mother was dark, she married dark, and now she had an extra dark baby. She shared with me our first meeting. It wasn’t that warm fuzzy pacing the waiting room thing or waiting by the phone, but I was hidden from her for almost two years. A family birthday brought us together and my hell on earth began.

To those she loved, she was known as Mama. My mother called her mother. I called her Ms. Macy. She called me the black sheep amongst her pure lambs. You see Ms. Macy was the daycare for our family. My mother dropped me off at six in the morning everyday, except Sunday. Six days of relentless verbal torture from that woman…every single week. There was no reprieve. Just a self-hatred that formed from as far back as I can remember.

I sat on my couch for over an hour after my mother left. The letters begged for my attention as I tried to avoid them. I reached for the envelope with the tiny number two in the left corner. Tears streamed as I read each word. I cried myself to sleep that night.

That day at the lake chainjd my life Macy. Therr wuzn’t nuttin’ that happnd to them boyz Macy. Thats just how it wuz back then. Therr wuzn’t nuttin’ that wood happn to white peple dat killd cullurd folk. The thing wuz, white peple didn’t think or care that cullurdz luvd therr babeez. Becuz it wuzn’t only my life dat chainjd, but Mama wuzn’t rite aftr dat eether.

See my daddy dun got killd to. My oldr bruthr Tobias wuz namd aftr my daddy. Daddy shur wuz angree. You mite now think he dun run to therr houz and hurt them, but he didn’t do that. One them boyz walkd passd my daddy in town and daddy dun gave him a bad stare. Thats all it took back den. You dun lookd at a white man rong and you wuz cullurd, then they wood hurt you reel bad Macy. They wood hurt you reel bad.

I dun wish I hadn’t run after them people in the woodz Macy. I dun wish I hadn’t. But I did. Me and my couzin followd thoze therr men and I saw what they did to my daddy. Don’t know if you dun hurd about linchins Macy, but thats what they did to my daddy. They dun linched him.

My daddy wuz a big man. It dun took four of dem skinny white menz to hold onto my daddy. He dun faught dem men through the field, but when they got him to that therr tree in the clearing, therr wuz about twenty othr menz therr. Me and my couzin stayed up in the trees in the woodz, but we could see it all. As I looked past my daddy at the tree, thats when I new what they wuz gonna do to him. Therr wuz already a man hangin’ there. He was just hangin’ therr with no life.

I didn’t do nuttin’ Macy. I didn’t do nuttin’ but cry in that tree. They dun stripped my daddy’s clothes off and tied hiz handz round the trunk ov that therr tree. Sum men had whips and sum had sticks. They dun beat my daddy bad. They beat him till he stopped hollarin’. I thought he wuz ded, but when they untied him, he didn’t fall. My daddy stood aftr hiz beatin’.

A big fat man came on my daddy and hit him in the neez with a big long stick. Daddy fell back with a big crash and cry. Two ov them other men dun put a rope round my daddys neck. I didn’t know where he went as they gatherd in close round him, but then daddy was in the air. They dun threw that rope up over that branch next to that no life man. He kickd and screemd Macy. My daddy kicked and screemed.

When that man let go of my daddy’s legs, he didn’t screem no more. His cheeks puffd and his eyes lookd up. I stoppd lookin’ ’cause I saw one man bringin’ ovr sum fire. I new they wuz gonna burn my daddy. Ain’t nuttin’ no child should have to do, but Macy, I prayd my daddy wuz ded. Macy, I dun prayd my daddy wuz ded. My prayers wuzn’t answerd Macy. I herd my daddy screem to death. All the way to his death, my daddy screemd.

My momma did her best with us other ones after that. But she just wasn’t the same. She dun lost her sons and husband. They dun took the bodies somewhere after that, my daddys, my brothers, and that no life man to. So she lost her men and couldn’t even bury them. Not like all the big stuff that happens nowdays for dedfolk, my daddy and brothers didn’t get no funral. I don’t think it was the no funral so much that botherd her. It was the fact she had to keep cleanin’ the house of the boy who dun killd her sons, raped her daughterz, and got her husband ded.



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Sorry

Sorry
By: Mia L. Hazlett
Written: 10/19/07

The pain slowly seeps to every pore of my being. I cannot rationalize the words the doctor just spoke. He repeats the word, “sorry” with a gentle touch to my mother’s shoulder. Instinctively she pulls away, only to grab his arm for balance. He guides her to the chair that she had popped out of when she saw him appear from behind the “Employees Only” door. I’m not sure when my tears began, but I taste the familiar salty warmth as I slowly rock back and forth in my husband’s arms.

The funny thing about death, it’s final. Everything you wanted to say to that person dies with them. There is no, “I’ll tell them tomorrow” or “It can wait”, it’s just over. I try to tell myself that he already knew everything I was going to tell him, but I fail at suppressing my guilt. Guilt brought on by my own procrastination and lack of prioritization. Being a hypocrite, for the mere reason I have actually had the nerve to tell people they are not promised tomorrow. And I stand here with the guilt of putting a visit to the hospital off until tomorrow.

I finally collect myself enough to go and comfort my mother. She is rocking back and forth with a low moaning sound escaping her mouth. I can’t even fathom how her world just changed with those two words, “We’re sorry.” Those are words that are suppose to offer comfort, give you a sense of peace. They aren’t supposed to take your husband of fifty-five years away. My light rubbing of her back doesn’t take her out of rhythm, it only ceases her moaning and tears begin to roll down her face.

There are so many thoughts going through my head right now as I scan familiar faces in the waiting room. People trying to offer each other comfort after the morose news. I’m not saddened by my father’s departure. My father is…was…seventy eight years-old, so age compounded with his eight month battle with lung cancer doesn’t take you by surprise. It just hurts to know the only man you have known your entire life is gone. He was the first man in my life to love me unconditionally. The first man to fight for me. The only man that I can say I trust…trusted. And now he is gone.

My mother stands and slides her arm through mine with an unexpected strength. She wipes a strangling tear, smiles at me and tells me to take her home. My husband stays and does all the paperwork and my mother and I enjoy a silent ride home together. I don’t know what memories she is thinking about, but she occasionally lets out a small chuckle. We get home and I walk her into their…her… house. How can she be so strong, I wonder to myself. I straighten up the house and fall asleep on the couch. When I’m sure she is asleep I return to my home and join my husband in bed.

Being an only child, I try to figure out how I am going to take care of my mother. It’s not as though we didn’t help out with my parents occasionally, but they did have each other. But now that she is by herself, maybe she needs to move in with us. I ponder how I am going to ask her the question as I enter her side door. I call out to her and get no response. I tiptoe down the hall because if she is asleep, I don’t want to wake her. I peak through the door and see her tiny form confined to her side of the bed. I try to imagine what her first night alone must have felt like. As I continue to watch her, I notice something is missing: the rise and fall of the bedspread.

This can’t be happening! I rush to my mother’s side and try to stir her to consciousness, but her eyes are already open. She has a slight smirk to her mouth and a peace in her forever stare. I want to cry. But I am overwhelmed by the answer to my question. She couldn’t make it through her first night without my father.

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