Temperature Rising (A Novella) - Prologue. Prologue

PROLOGUE

With arms folded and ankles crossed, he stood impatiently by the stove. But he was not waiting for the water to boil. It was just something to do to keep his mind off things.

Bad things--

It was getting late. He came home to find the house empty, which was very odd.

"Where is she?" he thought, eyes looking intently at the blue flame of the stove.

The emptiness of the house was deafening. Often, he would come home to the sound of a loud muffled thump-thump of the radio in her room. Now, there was utter silence.

He kept looking at his wristwatch, a gift from her on his birthday. This reminiscent object made him feel even more worried-sick even.

He turned off the stove. He was not even sure if he had refilled the kettle before putting it on the burner. He skittered to the door and put on his jacket hung by the coat rack. He stopped as soon as he discovered that her coat was missing as well. He sighed in relief. Perhaps she went out just as he was coming in and missed each other. Yes, that was it. Maybe she just went out for a walk or something.

"I swear, she's going to get one hell of an ass kicking when I find her," he said smiling, nervously though.

"Perfect," he said, glancing up towards the sky, cursing the rain. Now, finding her would be close to impossible. Worse, she would take her time and won't be home until she can or at least as soon as the rain stops. He'd be worried sick all night. It wasn't safe out there, not in her lifetime.

He slowly made his way across the dirt road, towards the woods. It was a shortcut, the fastest way to get to the highway.

He stopped half-way, looking at the ground before him. It seemed as though someone was quite in hurry and made a fall. There was a huge dent on the soft earth.

Anything could've done that. Though the road was narrow, a small car could still get through it. Perhaps that made the hole, a car stuck on the mud, desperately burning out until it could angle itself out of the rut.

Many people use this back road often. There were no lampposts or signs to give directions. They would easily get lost.

But getting lost was the last thing that'll happen to him. He knew the road perfectly well. He can find his way even if he closed his eyes. Besides being a pain-in-the-ass road, the woods were notorious for supposedly housing stalkers, muggers and rapists. Of course, he never really believed any of these rumours. Danger strikes at anyone, in any time, in any given place if you are not careful. He, obviously, was very careful. Besides, he never actually heard anyone who was done in the back woods before-not in the news anyway.

"Fuck," he muttered, after tripping over something and falling into the wet ground. He fell on his chest. It seems he underestimated his leap over the furrow and something that was protruding from the pool caught his feet.

"Damn it," he said, trying to prop himself up. He tasted the mud and some even went over his eyes blurring his vision. He looked forward over the path and saw a shoe lying on its side right in front of him. The shoe looked somewhat familiar.

He reached for it and when he saw the name scribbled inside, he threw it as if it was very hot. His heart was racing. It was her shoe; something must've happened...something terrible.

He looked back where he came from and focused his eyes on the thing that stood out of the muddied pool. He kicked at it with his foot and it gave. He jumped back as the thing slumped back towards the muddy waters. Was that a leg?

He crawled backwards away from the furrow until his back slammed against something hard-it was a tree. He breathed hard, closing his eyes that stung from his tears and dirt. It just couldn't be her-it's impossible. He'd find her back at home, watching television or maybe in her room already gone to sleep. Maybe that wasn't even a leg-perhaps just a branch. He could even be dreaming right now. That was it, this was just all a dream and he is in bed right now, sleeping

He sat there in the mud, his back against a tree trunk, trying to stave away those disheartening thoughts. All he could hear was the rain, pelting on the earth, on the leaves of the trees, on his skin and thumping on his skull. This wasn't a dream after all. Everything was too fucking real. And that definitely was a leg.

He had to find out. Something selfish-something defiant inside his head told him to look. It wasn't she. Why would he be afraid? He'd laugh even.

He had to look if only to make sure, before he'd call the police. Was it wrong to know-to be certain that it isn't your sister lying dead on the mud?

He stood up and went towards the pool. He stuck his hand down in the mud. Somebody was definitely in there. When his hand finally took hold of something, which felt like a shoulder, without hesitating, he flipped the body over.

A head full of hair surfaced from the mud and as it turned to reveal its face, the eyes gazed through him, open still. Mud oozed from its nose from its mouth. It was she.

He gave out a short cry of pain as if somebody just stuck a knife at his side. He quickly stood up, slipping as he tried to regain balance and walked away towards home. He didn't run. His legs felt numb. His throat tightened up and he was gasping for air. Finally, after just reaching a few feet from his sister, his feet gave way. He allowed the ground to take him. Kneeling and sobbing in utter surrender, he sunk down. Mud crawled at the back of his hands as he gripped on the earth. His cries masked by the roaring of the night storm.

Somehow, he found himself sitting at the corner of his bathroom. He didn't know how he got there. Traces of muddy palm imprints on the toilet bowl told that he spent a considerable time getting sick and throwing up.

Pain and denial surge through his thoughts. Even as every nerve and neuron told him the inescapable truth of his sister's untimely demise, his soul cried out for time's impossible chance of rewinding. He heard her calling his name, her voice so clear and sound. The thoughts of her were driving every nail into him like a tortured watermelon and soon he'd have to give up and face the truth...the melon pulverized.

He stood up from the corner, grabbing for the washbasin to pull himself up. His face caked with mud was almost abominable. He had to wash it off before going back outside to his sister. What kind of brother would he be if he'd showed up looking like that? Surely, she would get upset and won't talk to him for a while for embarrassing her in front of her friends. He started wringing a wet cloth and wiped his face, slow and steady as if peeling a banana or a lover rolling back the foreskin of his lover. That thought made him laugh...inside though. Outside, he was as cold as ice and would be for the rest of his life or so he thought.

The sun started to crawl along the Monday morning sky and he had to act fast. He didn't have anything to put her in so he took the shower curtain. That'll have to do. He'd have to buy a new one. She wouldn't like it. She kept the house extremely clean and well kept that it was if he was living in someone else's home. That reminded him to mop the floor afterwards. She'll be furious to see mud everywhere.

He stood at the embankment now, frozen. She wasn't there. He was sure he left her there. He must be losing his mind. Perhaps he really dreamed it all. He knelt near the furrow and tried to fish out any sign of her but to no avail. She simply disappeared, eaten by the ground. He looked up to the sky and offered to the heavens his frustrations. Soon new tears ran down his cheeks.

He stood up once again. Only then did he see the shoe, with her name on the inside, right where he threw it. She really was in there-in there, in the hole on the ground. But she wasn't now. The dead don't walk, do they?