The Giant's Sneer

Warning: contents of death and alcohol  

My only claim to fame was not meant to end like this.

All I ever wanted was to see what they would say. The notion of my plan first appeared when my bleary and puffy eyes were watching the late-night news, after forgetting to change the channel after QI. The small box TV with the two antennas bent like trees in a harsh storm filled the room with its flickers. The slightly static image lit everything completely, highlighting the sinking sofa underneath me and the carpet of empty cans. Intermittently my vision became blurred, as my eyelids struggled to hold their own weight. I soon gave up. My calloused hands gripped onto a room-temperature cider can, the dregs waiting at the bottom like how a wrinkly old man would wait for death any day now. A harsh, red light encompassed the room entirely, painfully forcing my eyes to open wide with the help of a loud and pompous voice.

‘ Distraught family members and close friends still on the lookout for the “lovely” and “friendly” schoolboy. Fourteen-year-old Thomas Fern is still missing after not returning home after being out with friends”. The reporter's stern yet monotonous voice. “The place of disappearance being the well-loved nature reserve of Wilderness Park. A place also known for  fifteen disappearances in the past ten years.” 

A woman with bulging blue eyes took the reporter's place, a thick layer of make-up slowly sweating off in thick drips. A squeaky London accent announces her pain and worries for her “lovely boy”, wiping away tears that you could only see if you squint hard enough. Though I did not worry so much for the boy, I believed he just ran away from home like I wished to do at his ripe age. No, I was more intrigued by these “distraught” family members and “close” friends. Now, I knew absolutely nothing about this boy, he looked his age, and the weary school picture smile slightly hinted at his “friendly” nature. Yet, before he went missing, how truly “close” were these friends and how much did this clown-faced woman love her “lovely boy”?

It was a simple thought, too simple. What would they say if I were to go and “disappear”? Would they notice? Will my mother, whose only worry is the Lotto, go on live TV and cover her face in make-up and cry for the world to take pity on her? I know the walk, I did it a few times as a young boy, there were no disappearances then, so no one was truly worried. I had a plan, a detailed plan.

I would tell my co-workers about how I would bravely go and find this boy and bring him back to his worried family. Focusing on how “I know the walk like the back of my hand” and how truly upset I am for this poor boy. I would then tell my mother, not mentioning how she will need new make-up, who will then spread the word faster than a plague. I would do this adventure, find a place to hide for a couple of days then emerge back, safely, and alive. Not with the boy, he would be gone by now.

As soon as I could rummage for my old climbing gear out of the loft, I had people coming up to me in the shop, exclaiming my bravery to me. My neighbours were knocking on my door to wish me luck. I was the town hero, to them. I had never heard my name so many times. It was spoken by strangers, on the TV, my mother, old friends and despised co-workers. I felt known by the world; I had something to my name. My own name. My face was even in the newspaper once. I found my raggedy, greying beard lying on the tarmac, crushed in the shape of a car tyre. An image which never left my mind on my short-lived rescue mission. Even at the beginning the flashing cameras and yells of luck did not drown out that small worry eating me away. The track was more difficult than I remembered, my stiff boots struggling to get over the rocks and the rotting wooden steps. Golden, browning, and yellow leaves littered the path, somewhat brightening the darkening skies above me. A bitter breeze grasped the leaves and twirled them around me like ballerinas sending a chill under my coat and through my bones.

I found my “home” for a couple of days, an uneven clearing with a small, yet still big enough for me to fit through, cave opening behind it, almost shaped like a giant’s cold sneer. The dark smile being an emergency hideout if anyone were to try and find me, yet the opening became darker and smaller as the night went on. All around me, ants the size of raindrops scuttled to their friends, picking up seeds the same size as them. I sat under a tree and watched their little lives play out, wondering about what the others were thinking and when would be the best time to return home. Contently, I sat and imagined the looks of praise and relief when I emerge, safe and sound. 

An all-familiar crunch of leaves echoed around the clearing, causing my heart to leap. Twisting my head around, the noise appeared to ripple around the trees. Almost as if they were whispering and echoing the sound. Another sound, from directly behind me, was louder and clearer. I threw myself up, grasped my bag and without looking I launched myself into the mountain’s mouth. The drop was longer and colder than I expected. Landing on my chest I felt an uneven, chilled ground, causing my lungs to sting and a yell to escape me. Every breath I tried to take; a thousand knives stabbed into my lungs.

My vision is blurry now, I can only breathe every minute or so, the stinging becoming all too familiar. My legs and arms are numb, bent like my TV antennas, trying to signal for help. I can feel a warmness trickle down my face. I can see the newspaper again, my morphed and broken face stares back at me. A harsh, guttural moan echoes in the void. Before I can take my last, I can feel my hot breath bounce off the ground and into my face. The giant's groaning fills the room. My last screams for help. 

Written by Kit Evans