Rinoa Cameron's character Little Tommy makes his second Halloween appearance as we continue his five year count down.
By Rinoa Cameron
The glow in the dark bones of little Tommy’s skeleton suit no longer shone. His makeup was smudged, but he didn’t care. He’d rather not be here, anyway.
It wasn’t the fire of the pumpkin’s eyes that bothered him, or the ghost, or the werewolf, or even the vampire. It was the angel. The lady in the corner with the plush feathers draped down her silver dress, the golden halo that fluctuated above her silken hair, and the axe clutched against her chest.
Little Tommy melted through the crowds, passing tables crammed with candies, kids racing around roaring at each other, scattered balloons, and party streamers. The ruckus continued without pausing. The angel paused, though. Her wings fluttered at his approach.
Tommy ambled closer, but maintained a distance. Angels didn’t mix well with skeletons – least of all eight year old, lost their glow, smudged makeup skeletons. He lingered about three metres from her gaze, poised beneath those beautiful sapphires.
The angel shifted her axe, revealing the well bloodied blade. The corner of her pink lips curled into a smile. Tommy wondered whether to return the gesture, but frowned when those beautiful eyes fell on the fast shut door.
Tommy knew its bolt wouldn’t stop or bar it – darkness already crawled through the seams, and clouds of blackened feathers spilled from the ceiling like the remnants of disintegrated crows.
Tommy trembled. The angel smiled.
Seconds later it came, unnoticed by the party, watched only by Tommy and the angel, who raised the axe to meet its outstretched fingers.
“I love you, Jamie,” the angel whispered to the headless apparition.
The decapitated shadow, whose char-black wings hung broken, gave no answer. It walked a predetermined path, leaving the blood spattered trail of a soul condemned to kill again.
The angel’s face beamed as she offered the softly glowing handle, and little Tommy shivered at a chill that caught his bones.
The rest of the party rolled regardless. Children laughed, adults chatted, and music pounded from the surround sound speakers, undeterred by the angel, the headless demon, or little Tommy’s glow-less shiver. No one shuddered when the shouldered axe twinkled in the disco lights.
Two small girls dressed as bumblebees danced. A baby in a devil’s outfit bounced on his mother’s knee, gumming a ghost cookie. One boy ran about howling through plastic fangs, while a pair of teenagers kissed in shadows. Not one of them noticed the march of the blade.
The bumblebee children buzzed and twirled, inches from the headless demon, followed by the lull of its angel. The enchanted axe raised, and little Tommy raced through the crowds, desperate to make it before the blade swung.
The angel spread her fluffy white wings. The bumblebees danced, and down came the axe.
Little Tommy made it with seconds to spare, but his knees buckled when the steel swept through his neck, and his eight year old head bounced to the floor. It skated on the polished tiles until one of the bumblebees kicked it as she pranced by in blissful flight. It rolled twice before settling, before bodiless Tommy blinked at the sight of his own crumpled skeleton suit.
Moments later his vision rocked like a boat on a turbulent sea. Detached fingers curled through his hair to retrieve his severed head, which was snapped into place with a twist upon the stump of bone that protruded from his neck.
Beheaded for the second Halloween in a row, little Tommy saw the headless axe wielder heave the blade back against its shoulder. The bumblebees bobbed and spun unaware.
The demon swung a second time, basked by the light of its angel. The blade sliced the air, but snapped to a stop inches from the paper wings, when Tommy leapt forward and caught the wooden handle.
Roars of rage erupted from the pit of the demon’s swollen neck. It staggered back, knocked the angel to the ground, then burst into clouds of black feathers.
The music picked up its beat and both bumblebees flittered across the village hall. A giggling ghost chased a werewolf. Plastic fangs gnashed at a mouthful of gummy bears, and a young Frankenstein’s monster pushed a wax crayon up his nose. People laughed and children played, and eight year old little Tommy felt fresh warmth in the renewed glow of his bones. He hoisted the enchanted axe, which still needed prey, and walked to where she shivered on the floor beneath a cloak of trembling wings.
Last year little Tommy knelt and begged, “Please.”
This year he took the axe that killed him and spilt the blood of an angel.