Pit

Note


Below is a fictional short story written for a university project in 2015. Every once in a while I will come across stories I’d written in the past, and will be publishing them here so I can have them all in one place. This is not a very “warm” story, and has not been edited from its original form.

 


She reached her arm across the table and laid her hand across mine, nearly spilling my coffee and rejuvenating a sort of comfort in myself knowing I would be able to perform my actions alone – those actions which certainly needed privacy and could not be observed. The latter point of which, Jessica, or Jess as she so liked to call herself had been quite a personal burden and moreover a horrible hindrance to my work and progress between the ranks of the order to which I had associated myself. 

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I just don’t believe you’re quite my type. I apologize for how long it’s taken me to realize that.” she picked up her coffee and sipped it softly, perhaps in an attempt to quell the awkwardness that she thought enveloped the two of us.

“That’s alright,” I said. “I understand where you’re coming from.” 

“You do? I’m so glad. I thought this would be much worse.” she said.

“No, no, I’m quite alright.” I responded, looking around the room. She began to speak again when I noticed a couple that sat just beyond my left shoulder in an embrace over their terrible choice of food. They snickered and laughed, though inaudible, I could feel their radiance. My heart began pounding and thumping, forcing my blood through the veins of my neck, which I felt would burst soon. Yet they did not, and continued to expand my arteries in a fashion perhaps similar to the urethra, moving ejaculate through its tiny tunnel into whatever may lie in waiting on the other side. 

I sat there, in that squalid blue booth of the run down diner in the middle of our small town and peered into the young lovers, my brain beating in euphoric hunger, my hands twitching, my teeth grinding, my feet tapping, as Jessica sat across from me, uttering slow dead words into my closed ear. The girl wore a light blue dress with short white heels, she had good skin, smooth skin. It was lightly tanned as well, but I could see the tan begin to dissipate as my eyes felt their way up her legs. Her hair was of a light blonde hue and softly rested itself over her shoulders, which was as far as it could reach. The boy dressed himself in darker colors. He sported a hideous dark brown collared shirt and black pants. It appeared as if he had taken to wearing sandals, a choice which one might say was untimely given the season. His hair was a smooth brown and parted to the side, yet it looked like he may have been wearing a hat shortly before. The strong fluorescent light, which was far too bright, floated down upon me and blistered my skin.

“Are you listening to me?” Jessica inquired.

“I am,” I answered.

“I just want to know if you’ll be okay with all of this.” 

“Yes, I assure you I will be fine,” I answered. And, out of some cosmic coincidence, or perhaps a stroke of luck, the young couple stood from their booth. The boy removed himself first, then the girl, who tripped ever so slightly on her way into the standing upright. She looked into the boy’s eyes, expecting him to laugh; he did, and they shared a long kiss before clutching one another’s hands and making their way towards the diner’s exit. I could feel their radiance again, but much stronger now. Both had retained their virginity in their young age and were both obviously nervous of the date, or possibly what was to happen next. After all, that had not been the first time in which I would move my predatory eyes onto one or two beings of this nature to find out some time later and after a good deal of exhaustion that I had been correct about my assumptions. I watched as the boy opened the door for the girl, and they stepped into the night, letting inside a flutter of cold air, which lingered in the cheap diner. I kindly informed Jessica that she would be finishing her drink alone and that I was to be leaving then. 

Standing up, I felt the blood beating in my head even stronger now, and it had spread to my chest, as it always does. The beating is like the flow of a slick parasite, eating its way to my every extremity and burrowing itself inside, bumping with life. It would be in my legs soon, and I made my way out of the diner into the cold air outside. I turned to my left as I watched the young couple slowly make their way down the avenue. A cold breeze swam between the wretched gray buildings surrounding me and touched my skin. I removed a box of cigarettes from my jacket and slipped one between my lips. I lit the end aflame and deeply inhaled its earthy taste. Upon exhaling, the smoke seemed to swirl with my visible breath and spun into a slim vortex before dissipating a foot or two away from me. I began walking in their direction, slightly faster than they were walking. I reached into my pocket and found my small black tin. I stopped for a brief moment, unscrewed the top of the tin, and lightly clutched the spoon that hung from its top. I used it to scoop a small amount of heroin up towards my nose. I insufflated the substance and almost instantly, the beating had subsided and my blood cooled itself. I began walking behind the couple once again. The Light Bearer spoke to me:

“You’re gonna do it again?” he asked. “Yeah, you’re gonna do it again.”

“Should I?” I asked him.

“Yeah, that beating is driving me fucking insane. And I need to eat, very soon.”

“Are you sure?” I asked again.

“What the fuck are these two worth?”

“I don’t know,” I began. “How am I supposed to know?”

“We know these things.”

“I suppose so,” I said.

“Do it.”

“I will.”

Breathing in deeply through the filter of the cigarette, I made the decision to stop speaking aloud, lest the couple hear me. They passed under and out of light, appearing and disappearing quite often. I was gaining on them, and through another stroke of luck I managed to crawl through my shadow. I am not sure if the Light Bearer had pushed me through, or if I had managed to control my psyche enough to release those modes of conduct which I felt reasonably sufficient for complex human interaction into much more primal modes, which at the core of my self I had learned to love. The transition hurts, not in a physical manifestation of pain, but rather, an emotional one. This, my Shadow, this was the virus of life. My brain bled its previous depressed and undetermined state into the void, and I felt a strong urge to weep as I felt memories and simple pleasantry wither. All that was to remain was the ecstasy in all that I had loathed just moments earlier. I rubbed my knuckles into my eyes as the maggots of my Shadow slinked their way into the every crevasse of my consciousness, binding it together once again in determination and disgust. I rested for a moment, but persisted that there was still a job to be done. I opened my eyes wide and shook my head wildly before pressing onward. 

I saw them move beyond the remnants of the weak yellow street light, and knew that they would soon be out of my reach. It was quite simple, really. I moved quickly and quietly closer and closer to where I assumed them to be, and once I was near – I saw they were sitting at a stop, waiting for a bus – I crept into an alley a few feet from the small shelter and began weeping for whatever artificial affliction I would describe if they would be so kind as to help me. This was typically the nature of humans, even if they would not assist me, they would at least be curious enough to peer into the alley to find the source of the wailing. Clutching my stomach and staring at the ground, I waited. I became focused on the ground below me, which was littered in disgusting filth. I kicked empty containers and crumpled papers away from me as I cried. I wanted to slide down to the ground if they looked at me, but at this point the filth was too much to-

“Hello?” I heard a boyish voice whimper from my left. “Are you alright?” the boy asked. 

Oh yes, this would most definitely work. After all, I was a handsome man of twenty-seven at this point, I was well dressed, and my hair was quite tame given the circumstances. I assumed the boy to be around seventeen or eighteen based solely upon his looks and style of dress. He most certainly knew that I was not homeless, and he would probably believe himself well-mannered to help a man that was not too far from his own age. Still looking up, I saw his female friend standing in the threshold of the alley, so that she may think herself safe from the mysterious things that lurk in the darkness. The boy was walking towards me.

“This hurts so bad, man,” I began. “I don’t know what to do. I think I might need to go to the hospital.” I whimpered. He moved even closer now.

“Dude, what happened? Hold on…” he turned around to the girl. “Chelsea, can you bring the water over here? This dude is really hurting. Is your phone dead yet?” I could hear her mumbling in high pitched concerned bursts as she tip-toed her way into the alley, occasionally snapping her eyes around her friend to try and get a good look at me. She handed him the water, and he waved it towards me. “Hey, hey, come on man, you’ve got to drink some of this.”  he said. I took sips from the water, periodically looking up at the two with a twisted face, continuing to emulate some sort of ridiculous pain.  

“Thank you,” I began. “Will you guys sit with me for a moment?” I said, pretending to be out of breath.

“Of course,” the boy began. “Let’s sit with this guy for a minute, Chelsea,” he said turning around. Her voice was still a shrill inaudible mousy squeaking. How the fuck did he tolerate that? They both sat on yellow milk boxes that the boy managed to find around the side of a garbage can in the alley. 

“I’m sorry,” I began. “If you guys miss your bus I can drive you wherever you need. I hate to be a burden, I just have these anxiety attacks every once in awhile. And thank you so much for coming to chill with me. Sorry about the circumstances.” I laughed for a moment, and they felt comfortable enough to do the same.

“Were you in the diner?” the girl said.

“I was. My girlfriend dumped me, and halfway down the alley I just couldn’t breathe anymore.”

“You were coming down here on purpose?” she asked.

“I park my car on the other side of this alley sometimes,” I pointed down towards the darker part of the alley. “My car’s down there.”

“Oh, okay.” she said. It got quiet for a moment, and I fidgeted with my hands and feet, trying to look nervous.

“What are your names?” I asked them.

“I’m Donnie, and this is Chelsea,” the boy said with a light smile.

“I like those names,” I started, “they fit well together.”

“Thanks,” the boy said as the girl giggled. I smiled back at them.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked.

“Uh,” I began. “Charles?” I said.

“It’s good to meet you, Charles.” the boy said. 

“Look, I’m really sorry about this whole-” I began.

“No, don’t worry about it. You are totally fine. We’re here to help” the girl said. The boy nodded his head.

“I appreciate that. At least let me give you a ride home. I’m feeling much better now. It’s the least I can do for you.” I said. They looked at each other and both gave a careless shrug.

“That would be great, Charles.” the boy said. 

Is there a baseball bat in my car? Shit… wait, yes, yes there is.

“Awesome,” I said, standing up. “It’s just this way,” I pointed to the end of the alley. they followed me, but remained a few feet behind laughing and talking to each other quietly. As we approached the end of the alley, I turned to them. “Give me just a second? My car is parked in a squeeze. I’ll just back up over here and you guys can get in. Sound good?” They both nodded and remained in the alley holding hands. 

As soon as I rounded the corner near the parking lot at the end of the alley, I sprinted for my car. I stepped inside and reached into the back over the empty bottles and packages of cigarettes for the baseball bat that I knew waited for me. I grabbed it and set it neatly on the back seat of the car. I turned the ignition and put the car in reverse, backing up towards the alley. I saw their faces in the red brake lights and took a deep breath through my nose before peeling a cigarette from an almost empty package in the passenger seat and pressing a flame to its end. I stopped neatly in front of the alley and slowly stepped out of the car. I could feel the Light Bearer watching me. I smiled at the couple and motioned for them to come towards the car. I made my way to the back of the car and opened the door. They were less than two feet away from me when I reached for the bat. It was smooth and wooden. Its reverberation against harder objects always felt… interesting in my hands. They stood near me as I stared into the back seat with my hands on the bat. 

“Light Bearer?” I said aloud.

“Yes?” he answered.

“Bring me rebirth.”

“In due time. Bring them to me.” he said.

“I will.” I inhaled deep once again and heard the girl speaking to me. 

“What was that, Charlie?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I laughed. “Chelsea, can you hold something for me?”

“Sure,” she said. 

I drew the bat from the back door, cocked it quickly,and swung it directly at the girl’s head. The bat cracked a bit and the girl limply dropped backwards against the wall of the alley. The boy had been looking away until he heard the crack, at which point he started to quickly back away from the girl and I, however, he did not run. I easily caught up to him and beat him in the head as well, but I hit him repeatedly and with quite strong motions, similarly to one attempting to chop down a tree or perhaps chip away at the stump where the tree formerly was. The anger in my shadow must have driven me to that. There wasn’t really any reason to hit him as many times as I did, yet it felt good at the time. There wasn’t much left of his head by the time I had finished.

I popped my trunk and removed a large black tarp that had been rolled up under hammers, axes, and a couple other tools of the trade. I flattened it over the asphalt and rolled the friends up in it together. The boy’s head had been caved in to the point where he was completely unrecognizable, and various types of bodily fluids draining from his head poured out into the tarp and over his friend. I was not even sure if she was still alive or not, and I did not care to check. I carefully rolled the tarp up into one heavy sack which I lifted into the trunk after what seemed like hours of laborious struggle. I threw my jacket into the trunk with the bound lovers and slammed it shut before lighting another cigarette and stepping inside my car once again. The trip home remained quiet. I did not play any music, nor did I hear much from the gloomy town’s faint glow. When I arrived at my home on the far outskirts of town about twenty minutes later I stopped the car near where the forest began. I pulled the tarp and its contents from the trunk and dragged it slowly across the forest floor towards the Den. After thirty or so minutes of pulling and struggling I reached my destination. The Den was a large hole in the ground not far into the forest where I would come for these and similar endeavors. It was covered by plywood, which I flipped over before dropping to my knees to look down inside. I tried to see the Light Bearer in all his glory, I begged for some clue or movement to help me know what he looked like. Maybe a hand or a wrinkled dead arm which would reach up to grab the sacrifice which I prepared to present to him. Yet, as always, he was not to be seen.

“Light Bearer?” I asked.

“Yes?” he responded, impatiently.

“What would you have me do?”

“Set them ablaze. A trial by fire.”

“And send them to you?”

“Yes.”

“I will.” I responded. 

I rushed to my house and back, retrieving a bottle of lighter fluid and my cigarette lighter. I opened the tarp and gazed upon the victims’ innocence one last time before flooding their bodies with fluid. I shook the tarp from under them and lit them ablaze before lightly rolling them down into the Den, where I could hear their skin popping and squealing for the Light Bearer.

 

 

 

 

 

Image source:

https://www.google.com/search?biw=1920&bih=1007&tbm=isch&sxsrf=ACYBGNSDY992bMqigaI8idfsvBTkGOMw1Q%3A1568080591022&sa=1&ei=zwJ3Xex5zYeCB9zao7gL&q=scary+hole&oq=scary+hole&gs_l=img.3..0l6j0i8i30.2203.3775..3887…0.0..0.77.467.7……0….1..gws-wiz-img…….35i39j0i67j0i10.0h0dAtRdi6I&ved=0ahUKEwisne20k8XkAhXNg-AKHVztCLcQ4dUDCAY&uact=5#imgrc=GQxXWTdMf20HdM:

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The Doctor

I don’t recall how I got here, but there are too many needles in this peeling white room.

 

I just woke up… I can’t feel my face or my left leg.

 

The doctor’s been gone for a while, and I can smell blood.

 

I’m so tired. I think I’ll go to sleep.

Clicks

It’s tough to open my eyes this late in the winter. Goddamn, it’s cold in this house. It’s been cold in this house for as long as I can remember. I know she doesn’t love me anymore. She hasn’t even looked at me in days, and now I feel like we’re neglecting David… she sure as hell is, anyway. The boy’s too young; he needs more attention, especially from Lisa. A boy needs his mother. Ever since her mother died, she’s looked like a ghost. She wanders around the house, all pale and sickly, and doesn’t say a word to either of us. Of course, there’s no more work in her future, but we’ve known that for a while. And the whole place just reeks of decay. Not so much in a literal sense I guess, but I haven’t seen a living tree since we moved here. The floor is gray, the paint is gray, the furniture is gray… I could go on… it’s just all dead. David has an attraction to this house, which I suppose is the only reason I haven’t picked him up and moved back home yet. I’ve seen him laughing and prancing around more than a couple times. He says he doesn’t have any friends at school, and that he doesn’t need them. I don’t see why it would be hard to make friends when you’re six years old.

I could hear the boy screaming a few nights. The first time, I couldn’t help but run to him, but he was asleep. I woke him up and all; he didn’t say anything about it.

 

“Paul,” I heard my miserable wife moan from a couple rooms over.

“What,” I answered.

“Come here.”

“Why?”

“I need some help…” I could hear it in her voice. She was fucked up. She was always fucked up. It made me sick. I put down my computer and dragged my feet to the other room. Lisa’s shirt was covered in whiskey and the whole room smelled like stale cigarette smoke.

“What is it?” I asked, lazily.

“I spilled my drink,” she slurred her words, “I need more cigarettes. Can you-“ she began before I slammed the door, cutting her off abruptly.

“Lisa! Can you not understand that you have a six-year-old son to take care of?” I sharply whispered, moving closer to her.

“I know my son better than you…” she said.

“What the hell does that mean? You are constantly drunk, and you have left your life behind.” I was beginning to walk away from her at this point. “You can’t work, you can’t cook, you can’t clean, you can’t take care of your son, what else is a mother good for?”

“I love my son,” she responded, tearing up. Her lip quivered in an ugly sort of way and she leaned back slowly onto the whiskey-soaked couch.

“It sure as hell doesn’t look like it.”

“Paul, I need more cigarettes.”

“No. You’re being pathetic,” I said, turning around.

“Paul-“

I slammed the door on my way out.

I walked back to where I was, and sat down once again with my computer. Lisa wailed from atop her whiskey-bed, but I knew she’d stop soon. I put my head in my hands, rubbed my face and eyes, and tried to shake off the disgust.

“Daddy,” David called from behind me. I turned around and looked at my son. “Why is mommy crying?”

“Come over here son, I’ll tell you all about it.” I said, trying to think of some believable, legitimate reason why his mother, my wife, didn’t give a damn about either of us anymore. He walked over to me and jumped into my lap near my computer. I set it aside and hugged him tight.

A soft clicking began to echo inside the house. It must’ve been the air-conditioning.

 

“It won’t last long.” I heard inside my ear. The whisper turned my ear canal cold, so cold. It burned, but I held my son nonetheless.

 

“You’re right,” I said, stroking the boy’s hair. “Mommy will be just fine soon enough.”

“What?” he said. I held him a couple inches away, then, and gave him a concerned look.

“What do you mean… what?” I said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh, well, your mother will be fine soon. Don’t worry.” I said, squeezing my son tight once again. He giggled as I squeezed him. “What’s that, David?” I said, smiling. He sat back against the cushion with me now. David pointed into an empty corner of the room, near the stairs:

“That’s not what he said!” the boy yelled, laughing much harder now. His laugh had grown from infancy, from simplicity, into something more wholesome and much more intelligent. It frightened me.

“Who is that? Your imaginary friend?” I said, smiling at him. Lisa had stopped wailing.

“No! I don’t know his name,” he said.

“Oh, no?”

“I call him the dog because he runs like a dog!” he said, before laughing again.

“What? People don’t do that, silly.”

“He’s not like you, daddy.” I heard a faint thumping noise from upstairs.

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t have any hair and.. and.. and.. he doesn’t have any…” he paused for a moment between his stuttering, “Fingers!” he said, laughing once more.

“What happened to them?”

“I don’t know. They are gone. He has a really big mouth, too!”

“Does he talk too much?” I said, forcing a smile, then.

“Nooooooo daddy, he has a long.. a long.. sideways mouth.” He said, in a very matter-of-fact tone. I looked David in his eyes for a few moments and neither of us spoke. After a few seconds, David grabbed his cheeks and pulled his mouth open, as we so often do as children. He laughed again and looked around the room.

The thumping upstairs was growing more present.

“What’s so funny, son?”

“He’s so skinny!”

“That doesn’t sound very funny.” I said, grabbing David under his arms. I picked him up and set him on the ground. He stopped laughing… and began crying, looking up at me. His lip quivered and his eyes watered as he cried quietly on the floor. “What’s wrong?” I said. The clicking started again now, it was louder.

 

“It’s them.” The cold returned, through my ear canal. It burned and burned. I held my finger inside my ear for a moment before the pain subsided.

 

“What did you say?” I said, leaning towards David. “David, hey, son… what did you say?” he looked forwards, away from me, still sobbing. I could hear Lisa begin to start wailing again, this time in more of a piercing shriek that resonated well in the empty house. Added to the screaming was this guttural clicking that I couldn’t seem to identify. It had been getting louder and louder.

 

“Go get it.” The cold voice said. It was unbearable, and I pushed my head into the cushion. I cupped my hands over my ears, trying to kill the cold in my head, and drown out my wife’s incessant shrieking from the other room. David began to make noises as if he were scared and uncomfortable, as if he were cornered.

“Daddy, listen please!” he said, shivering. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening, but looked around for someone or something. The shrieking became louder and louder and I curled myself into the chair, cupping my ears still.

 

“GO GET IT.” It said, this time I stood up and screamed aloud. I momentarily removed my hand from my ear and my palm was speckled with blood. After falling and writhing in pain, I looked up to see that my son had run into his mother’s room. Lisa’s screaming stopped, and the clicking stopped, but, of course, I had to go get it.

I quickly jogged up the creaky wooden steps towards my room at the end of the hallway, upstairs. I walked closer and closer to the threshold, but I didn’t feel anything, and I didn’t see anything, just darkness. There were no lights on, and I didn’t want any on. I stopped my running and slowed for entry into my room. I walked very softly and very slowly towards my dresser, until I heard it again.

A

Click

Click

ClickClickClickClickClick

Click

Click

I turned towards the source.

Through the glass, on that northern winter night, the moon illuminated a portion of my bed. Upon this portion of my bed sat an entity, an entity resembling a man in almost every way. Its skin was whiter than snow, and its naked hairless body was severely malnourished. It had its head bent over, so I could only see its back in its entirety. With every click, it jumped, or jerked, its shoulders back ever so slightly. I was in front of my dresser, but still looking at the… thing. I continued to stare for about a minute or so before it slowly reared its head towards me. Its eyes were beady, large, and black. Its mouth sat as a sliced opening below its eyes. It didn’t turn around fully, and I heard it click again. Looking away, I reached into the dresser and slid a 9mm pistol from beneath my socks. I walked downstairs. The clicking followed me all the way down.

A

Click

Click

ClickClickClickClickClick

Click

Click

I thumbed back the hammer.

That’s when I yelled for them:

“David! Lisa! Come look at this!” David ran from Lisa’s room, sliding across the hardwood floor into the living room. He came out with a smile.

“Daddy! Did you listen?”

Lisa slowly followed:

“My cigarettes?”

That was when I lifted the gun, aimed it towards David’s torso, and pulled the trigger twice. His body went limp quickly and slumped in a pile onto the floor. Lisa’s eyes grew wide, processing my actions. I pointed the pistol at her, and then fired three shots into her head and neck. Her head knocked backwards and her entire body hit the floor at once behind it.

I heard the clicking behind me still. So, I pushed the cold handgun into my head and pulled the trigger.

 

Click…

Snow: Chapter 2

II.
The cocaine ran me; I felt it flowing through my veins like a virus. It controlled me, worked me. It gave me a reason for just about anything. At 22, I had been using cocaine for about five years. I didn’t begin using habitually until I was 21. It wouldn’t be too harsh to say that it controlled my life. I was constantly buying coke from John up until now. The cocaine was exploding with energy in every muscle in my body as I stomped on the ice below me on my way to my car. I felt like a god; I could not be controlled and I could defeat and control whatever I wished. I stared for a minute at my car before cocking the baseball bat over my neck and slamming it into the door.
“God dammit! I fucking love it!” I hit the door a few more times before rearing my sweaty head towards my house, where my mother stood glaring at me.
“Get the fuck inside. Get the fuck inside!” I said, pointing my left hand at her. She quickly stepped back inside and slowly closed the door. I tore my car door open and sat down quickly. I rolled down the window and roughly smacked the side of the car, as if signaling somebody else to drive. Rolling the window up afterwards, I questioned my reason for the smacking. I started the car and stepped on the gas without hesitation. I was cruising at a good thirty-five miles an hour down Acorn Avenue before my tires gave up on me, slamming the passenger side of my vehicle into the trunk of a parked car.
“Hahaha… Ohhh shit.” I said, quickly looking around to see if anyone had witnessed the collision. “Fuck it.” I said, grabbing the steering wheel as hard as my hands would allow and cutting it left. I was not bothered by the wreck, and I assumed nobody had seen it, so I continued speeding, sliding around corners until I reached Greg’s street. There was an ominous feeling about as I slowed myself then, breathing in the air. Though my windows were all the way up, I smelled something horrible. The street had a smell of death lingering about it. Trashcans filled to their brim and distasteful furniture sat along the curb of seemingly every house. “This place is a fucking shit hole.” I said, realizing soon afterwards that I lived only a couple streets away from this one. I looked to my right and saw Greg’s house. His home looked like less of a house and more of a small manor of sorts. Although old, Greg’s house was not too shabby, and I became slightly jealous. I screeched to a stop over the curb and looked into Greg’s house. Clutching one side of my nose, I inhaled again in an attempt to put more cocaine in my system. Sure enough, my throat became numb again and I felt the usual rush. This time was different though. I felt this incredible ecstatic rush, but overpowered by a blanket of anger and hatred. I yanked the key from the ignition and grabbed my door as quickly as I could. Without hesitation, I stepped halfway out from my car and grabbed my baseball bat that had been riding shotgun. I slammed the door hard and inspected the dents I had put in my car just a few minutes before. After looking for a good minute or two, I vigorously stomped up onto the sidewalk and down Greg’s shitty layout of bricks and dead flowers making a “walk way” that he may have thought looked nice. I approached the door and looked into the window. I did not see Greg. I grabbed my nose again and inhaled. I was ready to go.
After about thirty seconds of standing to check for witnesses, I turned my head, biting my lip. I retracted my elbow and shattered Greg’s front door.
“Come out you fucking piece of shit! I know you’re in there bitch!”
“Mark.” I heard Greg’s voice drift calmly through his dark hallway.
“I said come out here, faggot!” I said, looking down to spit on the fancy carpet in his foyer.
“Mark… we can talk about this.” He said. All of the pain that Greg had caused my mother, and therefore myself, brought me to believe that violence was the only option at this point.
“I’ve been putting up with you screaming at my mother all these years and now you beat her? Do you not understand who you’re fucking with right now!” My goal was to frighten Greg, although I spoke nothing but the truth.
“Mark, just calm down.”
“I said get out here.” I stated in a slightly more calm tone.
“Mark, I have a gun.”
“Oh do you? You have a gun? You? You fucking pussy! You’ve never seen a gun in your goddamn life!” I said, stepping through his threshold then. “Greg… Greg. All you are is a worthless waste of life.” I gripped my baseball bat and slammed it into the legs of a small table on the left side of his foyer. The table crumbled opening a drawer where various work items like staplers and paperclips had been. “I’m telling you, I’m not fucking around this time.”
“Mark, don’t make me shoot you.”
I still couldn’t see Greg; I could only hear his weak, cowardly voice.
“Fucking shoot me then! Shoot me!” I took a pause, walking deeper into his house. I was passing glass pictures and vases. “Oh these are nice.” I said, before swinging my bat at them. Glass covered the ground I walked on towards Greg’s gutless voice. I jumped up and down on the glass, making sure it was broken and pleasing the demon inside of me. I slid around the corner swiftly and I glared at Greg sitting in an especially dark corner of his living room. Sure enough, Greg was shaking a revolver with two hands nervously. “You are no man. You see, people don’t fuck with my family, understand?” I said, approaching Greg’s fat shaking body.
“Mark… Mark, I promise. I swear to Jesus Christ this wont happen again, I swear!”
“Oh. Oh, I know that already” I said, reaching into my pocket.
“Wha… What are you… you doing?”
“Oh just… nothing.” I pulled my driver’s license from my wallet. Grabbing Greg by his throat, he dropped his weapon.
“Who’s powerful now? Huh? Who’s the boss, bitch?” I easily slid the card horizontally into Greg’s drooling mouth. Greg tried to say something, but with the license in his mouth, it was very distorted and slurred. Saliva dripped from the card and onto his hardwood floor as he cried in fear. Grunting and snorting all the while, I wiggled the card around in Greg’s mouth.
“This will only hurt, well… a lot to be very frank.” I laughed.
“Please… please. What…” I heard Greg spit just before I powerfully kicked him in his ribcage. I had always dreamed of giving somebody a Chelsea Smile, but I figured I would need a knife for the operation. Since I didn’t have a knife handy at the time, I figured the I.D. would work. Exactly as I had hoped, Greg grew two cuts along the sides of his mouth as I continuously kicked him. His screams only stretched the cuts over his cheeks until they nearly reached his ears.
“Now that’s a pretty fucking smile!” I said jokingly, kicking Greg in his groin this time. His screams were muffled by the huge amount of furniture and other useless shit comprising his living room. Greg’s face was now covered in blood rolling over his two chins onto his chest. I could tell he was going into shock after all of his screaming.
“Hey buddy. Hey, Greg. Greg!” I smacked him in the face, trying to wake him up. I wanted Greg to experience as much pain as I possibly could inflict before I did what I needed to do, but the cocaine was pushing me to use my baseball bat. I wielded the baseball bat high above my head and promptly slugged the top right side of his fat head. The loudest crack I had heard since I hit that car before flew in and out of my ears. Greg’s head was slightly caved in and I laughed harder and harder with each swing of the bat. After three or four hits I had pulverized his head into nothing but a circle of pulp. His head drooped over his chest and the blood flowed from the lacerations in his skull onto his old Grateful Dead tee shirt. Just the sight of this wasted man sparked feelings of lovely amusement inside of me. “Oh shit dude… didn’t mean to do all that.” I kneeled down around his body for about thirty seconds before I stood up and prepared to walk away from the scene. “Oh you’ll be fine, don’t be such a pussy.” I said, ruffling what hair he had left on his head and smiling. About three steps away from the body, I felt a strong urge to hit it again. I turned around and slammed the bat into his chest, completely knocking the body onto its side. This covered the floor in more blood than I had supposed there was, and it pleased me. I licked my lips and turned around to face the cold air ahead.
The pull of my thumb against the flint of my lighter stung, but warmed the air momentarily as I lit a cigarette on Greg’s porch. Lifting my head I took a huge sighing pull from my cigarette and exhaled, watching the mixture of smoke and steaming air flow from my mouth and nose. My mind was overflowing with adrenaline and burning warmth. I had absolutely no idea what I was thinking and I was having a hard time remembering how I got to where I was standing. I did not know why I was feeling what I was feeling; all I knew is that it was good. I could’ve stood there and bathed in my homicidal bliss for hours, but I knew that it was time to go.
The cocaine was slowly but surely working itself out of my system. I felt a strange tingling in the back of my head, a consistent signal that the drug was leaving my body. For a split second I found myself unaware of where I was or what I was doing. Driven by fear, I closed my eyes and shoved my knuckles against them. Pressing into my eyes always brought about a beautiful array of colors that completely covered my spectrum of vision. Coming off of cocaine is really hard to deal with, and I couldn’t tell if what I was doing to my eyes was making it better or worse.
“Christ,” The colors were growing more intense with each second. All the while I wondered if the colors I saw while pressing my eyes were normal effects of the act, or if I could possibly have some sort of serious mental problem. I quite often ignored problems that I saw with my body and its function. I knew that my body was deteriorating, but I really didn’t care too much. My skin was an unhealthy pale, my hands often shook, my knees were weak, and I was seriously underweight. However, this time I was seriously worried. I didn’t know what was wrong with my eyes and it scared me. I quickly removed my hands from my eyes and felt a rush of blood into my head. I stumbled slightly through the snow towards my car and collapsed, my head spinning, my vision fading. I woke up to a burning rash on my cheek, which had been buried in the snow for days it seemed. I pulled my struggling body from the pile of snow adjacent from the sidewalk.
“Aaahh!” I cried, speaking in tongues of which I had never heard. Through my babbling nonsense, I thrust myself over the curb and vomited onto the street. Struggling to breathe, I continued to vomit before my chest seized up, dropping the rest of my body onto the sidewalk behind me. My breathing could be heard from yards away. The constant wheezing from years of smoking topped by the liquid vomit trapped in the back of my throat certainly made for a strange squeal. After waiting a few minutes, I sat up. I clenched my face, holding back sour disgusting burps crawling from my throat. Waiting a few more minutes, I stood completely upright. Surprisingly, I felt okay. I walked over to my car, got in and started it up. While driving home, I experienced the best high I had experienced in quite a while. This high was equivalent to no drug I had ever taken before in my life. I felt high all right, but it felt strange, a good kind of strange. This high felt natural. My body had released some kind of chemical that calmed my entire body while making me feel completely empowered at the same time. I was unstoppable, yet I figured I would take it easy on others. I watched my way throughout the slippery streets around town, making my way to my home quicker than usual. Just as I grabbed the icy cold stick, putting my car into park, visions of my recent run-in with Greg invaded my thoughts.
Blood covered the wall as I rounded a corner into a dark room in Greg’s house. I looked at my feet and saw Greg’s as well. Bent backwards in all kinds of heinous ways, Greg’s body lay in a corner, still dripping. His head was almost nothing, ribcage caved in, and arms spread wide. I looked up from my steering wheel back in my car and smiled. I patted my leg softly and felt the bag of cocaine still in my pocket.
“Cool” I said softly. My eyes were drooping and I was tired, but Greg’s corpse lay in my mind, waking my up, but keeping me calm at the same time. I looked down at my shaking phone to see a call from Peter.
“Hello?” I said calmly.
“Yo yo! What’s up playa?” Peter’s voice cut into my ear, destroying my serenity. Peter was used to talking to his mother, who was (legally) deaf, and had to be spoken to loudly. He lived with his mother up until about two years ago, when he split his kneecap with a saw in a metal cutting warehouse he worked in for minimum wage. Since he had to piss clean for the job itself, it was needless to say that he hadn’t spent much time on the job before slicing himself. Unemployment and workers compensation will not be paid if the employee doesn’t piss clean after the accident. And since he wasn’t making much money and really didn’t have any friends at the time, he had no drugs to use. Like myself, Peter pretty much gave up after high school and lived with his mother. Due to what he saw fit to call a blessing in disguise; he was able to move away from his mother and into an apartment in a really shitty part of the neighborhood. Peter’s poor mother was left to waste away in her home alone. She was always a big drinker, but she always treated Peter well. I knew that she would die soon, whether it was from intentional alcohol poisoning or some other means of suicide.
“Big Pete, what’s goin’ on?” I replied in an attempt to retain the calm that I had held but a few minutes ago.
“Nothing really, dude. I was just checking up, seeing if you wanted to chill tonight. I heard you got some of that good stuff. You know, that white girl bro. Anyways, I was thinking you could come chill at the crib, we can hit a few bumps, you know, call some bitches up. I was thinking about hitting up Daniel and Ken too, like gettin’ the boys back together again. What do you say bro?”
“Yeah I can do that. I plan on gettin’ some kind of repay for this white girl though. Can’t have y’all using up all my shit, especially some this good.” As soon as I finished my sentence, I realized that I hadn’t told anybody about the cocaine, and there was only one way that Peter could know. “Wait, Peter, what the fuck? How the fuck do you know about the shit?”
“Pfft” he took a sarcastic-sounding breath outwards before speaking. “Man, dude, Stacy is everywhere all the time.”
“What? How did she even know?” Normally I would have panicked at about this point in the conversation, but I was not worried now.
“Man, she said she saw the god damn bags hanging right out your shirt dude. Your boy John, what happened to that mother fucker?”
From nowhere, I heard sirens moving quickly about the streets surrounding mine. I quickly stepped onto the icy street and balanced my cell phone between my cheek and shoulder. Throwing my hood over my head, I marched down the sidewalk towards my front door.
“Shit, Pete, I gotta call you back. Wait, wait, matter of fact, I’ll just see you at your place tonight.” I said, ripping a key ring and a handful of lint from my pocket.
“Alright, well what time do you…” I hung up on Peter before he could finish his sentence and slipped my phone into my pocket.
Cramming the key into its slot and yanking it sideways was not enough to budge the door’s handle and I slammed my fist onto the door.
“Ma!” I exclaimed, attempting to get her attention in urgency.
“I’m coming.” I heard my mother whisper from the living room.
Ma opened the door for me, and I hopped through the threshold, in a ridiculous attempt to avoid the police. I sat in the living room, listening to the fading sirens as my mother talked strangely to the television.
Did I do everything right? I know there weren’t any fingerprints… what about the credit card? Could it have left some kind of imprint in his mouth? Could they tell what kind of baseball bat I was using? Could they trace that back to me? I sat, wondering all about what could and should have happened with the police, until something inside me told me to move. Stepping up the stairs and into my room, I slipped my phone from my pocket. After finding Peter in my contacts list, I sent him a text message. “B ther @ 9”. It was Seven O’ Clock.

Snow: Chapter 1

Snow

I.

“I said… I lied Ma.  I don’t know what else to tell you.  It’s really not that fucking hard to understand.  Again and again you keep going on and on and on.  I fucking lied, alright?”
My mother completely changed her stance, standing in the way she always stood when she was upset.  Her left leg became shorter than the right; she placed her hands on her hips and opened her mouth up.  Every time she raises her wretched upper lip my mind drains void and I clench my fists.
“Why would you lie like that Mark, what the hell are you lying for?”
“Ma, I’m not even gonna answer that question.  You know yourself I don’t give shit about anything you say.  I lied, that’s it.  Shut your fucking mouth Ma.”
“You know Mark…” she began to say before being so appropriately interrupted by myself.  My mouth, wide open in disgust didn’t even get the chance to close before a statement thrust itself out of my throat.
“I said shut up Ma.”
“Mark I’m starting to get real tired of you talking to me that way.”
Without thinking, my feet pushed themselves across the squalid carpet shreds towards the decaying green door.
“Mark. Mark, where are you going?” I heard my mother speak in her strong New English accent. I had no reason to answer her; she didn’t care what I was doing. I shook my head and continued brushing along the carpet. My fingers gripped the raw, numbing handle of our door holding the cracks together.  I ripped it open and felt a rush of bitter, biting air that froze my fingers solid.  Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I felt the crisp ice crunch underneath my feet.  I lazily shuffled out towards my car hoping my shoes would stay dry.  Touching the handle of my rusty green van, I looked up.  I scanned the neighborhood with my small swollen eyes jumping from house to house.  “Every goddamn house is the same.” I said to myself.  I attempted to find any difference in the gradually deteriorating shacks that lined the sidewalks of Acorn Avenue.  It was a movie in my vision, a horrific and depressing sight to see. These were the houses of worms, of rats, slugs, and maggots. A few chuckles jumped off of my tongue as I shoved my key into my car, jerked it left, and opened the door.  For whatever reason, I felt as if my car would be warmer on the inside than it was on the outside, it wasn’t.  “Fuck!” I screamed, slamming my brittle palms onto the steering wheel. I twisted my hands towards my face in an appalling fashion, exposing the lumps of bones along my wrists. My hands were red and pulsating. The white flaky snakes skin holing onto my hands made me turn them away. I turned the car on, and a CD started up with it.  A song that I had left on when I stepped out last began to play from the middle; the first word that pumped from my speakers was coincidentally…  “Fuck.”
“Oh… shit.” I giggled. “Haven’t I said that enough already?” I imagined the artist in the same situation as I was.  “heh… haha… hahahahahahaha!” I started to laugh hysterically and slam myself against the broken seat I was sunken into.  The laughing continued for two or three minutes until I looked out of my foggy glass window into my house.  My mother was standing in the door, crying.  My smile drew back into a dead stare, as if I had acquired her as some kind of target. “There she goes again, again with the crying.  Stupid bitch doesn’t even know what she’s crying about…  heh… haha… hahahahahaha!” I started to laugh yet again, this time a sharp, vicious, sadistic laugh.  I reached my fingers up to my forehead and scraped my nails across the sickly white plastic I called a face.  It peeled, just as I thought it would, and I bled a little bit. Just as the laughter began to get even more intense, I felt the warm air exhale from my dusty AC units.  The air burned my newly opened cuts but I remained calm while the warm air soothed my body into a healing sensation.  I rested in my car for a while, pondering my next move.  I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew why.  There were only two things on my mind… coke and money.  I knew I couldn’t get either of those things from where I was so I gave John a call.
The phone began to ring.  I could feel myself slowly becoming insane.  My feet tapped nervously, my hands shook as the ringing in my ear slowly faded in and out.  “Fuck” I said yet again, recalling that John answered his phone every time I called him.  “Shit… something’s up.”  I pulled the car into drive and slowly slid across the smooth ice down the street.  As any person would know, it’s especially hard to drive over ice. But living in Colorado, I had grown used to pumping my breaks and slowly handling the gas to get anywhere. Every turn I took, right, left, right, left… same, simplicity.  Everything was the same. Every house, every mailbox, even all the cars looked at least somewhat similar.  My old brown tires fell into and popped out of every pothole under the broken black ice.  I moved slower than I thought, around every turn, down every dip, up every hill until I arrived at the dilapidated brown house with the swinging blue shutters.  My car, just now warming to the temperature I desired, pulled off up and over the curb aside John’s house.  I grabbed the warm pleather that was slowly sliding off of the handle on my door and prepared to make my way outside and into John’s house.  The instant my fingers clasped the handle, I paused.  My body had completely stopped itself, a gripping paralysis holding me. I couldn’t speak and I obviously couldn’t move. I could only stare; stare into the object in front of me until the horrific hallucinations took me. I knew what was coming, and I wasn’t going to try and stop it. Looking upon my hands, I felt a rush of orgasmic warmth roll over my shoulders and crawl up my neck.  A high-pitched, meditative ring reverberated in and out of my ears on both sides.  The ringing gradually sharpened and grew into an even more soothing, pulsating sensation.  My eyes locked on the dirty broken nails glued to my fingers.  My history, my past, slithered into my brain, I drifted.
“Mark I really with you’d just go to school.” I heard my mother say.
“Ma I was fucking sick of school to start, why would I ever go back.” I screamed to myself aloud.
“Damn Mark, how much of that shit you gonna do?” John’s voice floated into my ear.
“Chill the fuck out John!  I’ll do as much as I want. It’s my fucking money!” I screamed aloud.  The ringing became more intense and my nails burrowed into the handle of my door.
“I love you, Mark. I’ve never loved anything this much.” Christina’s voice blasted into my ears with an cutting energy that I would forever remember.
“I love you too.” I said aloud, responding to Christina’s voice consuming every thought in my ever-intoxicated mind.  I could hear her voice again, ripping my brain to shreds.
“Fuck you Mark! I fucking hate you!”  Those words… kill me day after day.  I heard them, haunting, harassing, burying and manifesting themselves in my entire body.
Images quickly drew themselves into my mind, my sight went black, my motor skills were lost, and I was choking, drowning, asphyxiated by the air that I breathe.  There was spit, water, or vomit, something in my throat. I tried to swallow but the paralysis gripped me.
I was in a room. Only a single light hung from its cracked ceiling. That one light dangling so sinisterly between cracks and holes in the concrete lifted my spirit to see.  It was the only glimpse of hope in this desecrated hopeless hell. The light was covered in a yellow crust, the source of which I did not know.  I felt a monstrous darkness consuming my entire body, a hole caving my chest inside of itself.  I still couldn’t breathe.  Gasping for air, attempting to calm myself, I inhaled an odor.  The room smelled so putrid and vile, a stench that strangely enough, I recognized.  Shuffling my feet across the filthy concrete seemed to move me but only a few inches, my only desire to end this nightmare.  From my right ear, I heard a booming crack.  I looked up to the sound to see a man surrounded by blinding light.  He stood so comfortably, looking down at me from a wooden staircase.  From what I could see, his face looked shriveled and dead.  I screamed at the top of my lungs in panic and horror several times, causing my eyes to itch and water.  Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I reached my trembling hands between the thick strands of hair standing on my head.  I gripped my hair and pulled my hands downwards as quickly as I could, thinking it might calm my fear somehow.  The pain of each strand slowly being unnaturally ripped from my scalp only added to my loss of sanity.  I looked at my hands covered in blood and wet strands of dark brown hair, and couldn’t help but scream again.
“You… you’re funny.” I heard the man state in a tranquil and harmonic tone.
“What the fuck is this!” I screamed.  I had never heard my voice like this before. My throat became slender and small squealing yelps attached themselves to my every word. The man chose not to move.  He waited, watching me wailing and quaking in anxiety and laughed.  His laugh sounded familiar, some wicked, repulsive howl that I thought I had heard somewhere before. The man lifted his right leg and violently kicked the door he stood adjacent to in the purest of rage until he stopped laughing.  He turned around, released one last chuckle and slammed the door behind him.
“Mark! Mark! Mark!” I heard shrieking in my right ear.  I opened my eyes, and I was in my car again.  I let out a massive sigh of relief, realizing that the horrific situation I had been so thankfully removed from was but an illusion.  I swallowed sharply and opened my mouth.
“What?” I peered up over the armrest of the van to see John’s girlfriend, Stacy, standing nervously at my door.  Her peeling face, so diseased and pallid, poured tears down the sides of the bruises and cuts opening her cheeks. I will say, even though Stacy was not the hottest thing around, I still had somewhat of a crush on her. I would often fantasize about fucking her and I could never tell why that was. Was I actually attracted to this girl, or was it just thinking of the possibility that John would blow his brains out in the back of his Ford Explorer because I fucked his “fiancé”.  She did have a nice body, or at least it was above average. John had her in the palm of his hand with the drugs, and their need to get high together. She’ll believe anything when she’s high. Nevertheless, I always looked at her the same way. I looked at her as if she was a dog, a nuisance, something that needed to be gotten rid of.
“It’s John! It’s John! Please come inside god dammit! He needs help!”  Without uttering a word, I pushed my door out into the freezing air, draining all of the warmth from my skin.   I stood up and sighed, stretching my chest into a yawn.
“Mark… Mar… Mark. Please, help me this is urgent.”
“Stacy,” I looked her in her right eye.
“Shut the fuck up.” I could hear her choking and gargling her throat and I looked at her with a slanted eye.
“Oh god. Oh god.” she cried, facing her back towards me. Stacy sprinted towards John’s house in fear, climbed up his front porch, leaned over the rail, and vomited violently into the dead black bushes that wilted unevenly around his home.  Something was obviously wrong, yet I still could not recognize the severity of the situation, or what somebody else may consider severe.  At this point, I had walked from the sidewalk to climb up his porch, as Stacy had done.  I stepped away from her wasted undernourished body and the fetid malodor of the vomit that continuously poured from her throat.  I walked through the threshold of the open doorway and tripped on the poorly installed carpet that surrounded his “living room.”
“Wow… how do you guys live in this shit hole?” I asked Stacy. She was still vomiting. I wanted to laugh at her, but I knew that after a delirious overdose (which I believed this was) she would have passed out by now. In what daylight shone through the apocalyptic haze blanketing the town, I saw John’s old ripped jeans lying on the floor, connected to the aging skateboard shoes he was sporting every time I saw him.  I rubbed my hand against the rough, dirty drywall until I found a plastic switch.  I paused for a moment, wondering what horrors I might be exposed to with the simple flick of a switch, and hesitantly turned the light on.  John’s dry corpse lay in the middle of his living room halfway under a rotting table in front of his torn leather couch.  I walked two steps closer, and stared down at John’s body.  The floor around him was littered with a bloody needle, a tube, a spoon, and what looked like his drug of choice scattered all over the carpet.  “Fucking retards,” I said to myself, softly kicking the evidence around the body. I could hear the cries and screams outside from Stacy.  I was quickly growing tired of the ugly masculine yelling coming from outside I flipped my body around and faced the door.  I poked my head out of the doorway.  “Stacy! Would you shut the fuck up! Jesus Christ the fucking cops could come any minute now and you’re screaming like a little fucking pussy! Shut the fuck up you stupid fucking cunt! Get in the house!”  Stacy lowered her voice to a nearly silent whisper, slowly dragging her feet across the cold carpet.  She sat down on the couch and put her face in her palms, weeping uncontrollably.  “God… dammit Stacy! You two are the stupidest fucks on this planet, I swear to Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Mark I don’t know what to do. He’s dead,” she said, shakily sipping from a blue cup that must have been filled with some kind of alcohol.
“Alright, listen.” I looked Stacy dead in her eyes for a few seconds, and then began to pace the floor around John’s carcass.  “I’m going to run in the back and get rid of his shit.  Every bit of it’s traceable.  I want you to get the fuck out of here and forget this ever happened.  Go home and forget.  Don’t call John’s mother, don’t call your mother, don’t call the police, and don’t call anyone.  And don’t you ever fucking tell anyone that I was here.”  Stacy removed herself from the couch and walked slowly out to her car.  I felt as if I was having a normal reaction to this death, just as I did to my father’s. It wasn’t too strange, seeing a lifeless body strewn out like a rag doll. I felt myself grinning a bit. John was the last person I actually gave a shit about. He constantly asked me for rides, he always overcharged for the goods, or used mine if he didn’t have any. John was an asshole, and he deserved to die. If anything, his death signifies the growth of society. I sighed yet again and kicked his head. It shook a strange way and I found it incredibly amusing. After kicking his empty body, I looked through the window and saw Stacy pushing her head against her car door and screaming once again.  “God dammit… Stacy! Leave! Now!” Stacy flung her car door open, sat down inside her seat, and I turned away.  Realizing this was a moment of opportunity for myself I ran into John’s room and looked through his drawers.  “Come on, come on, it’s got to be here somewhere.”  I ripped his mattress from his bedframe and saw two small bags filled with white powder, and one with yellow powder.  Each bag was probably about an eighth of an ounce at most, and I was slightly disappointed.  “Dammit. Well, it’s better than nothing.” I peeled the white bags from the bedframe and put them in my pants as quickly as I could.  Running out of John’s room and through his threshold I realized Stacy was still in her car.  I couldn’t coach Stacy anymore. I was wasting my time trying to calm her down and keep her out of trouble. She fucked up and so did he. I was sick of doing things for people without thanks or pay. Stacy can take what she gets she probably deserves it. “Christ… You know what, fuck her.” I said, after already having made a decision in my head.  I sprinted to my car, and pulled the door open as quickly as I possibly could.  My shaking hands struggling to insert the key into the ignition, I realized my luck in the situation.  A long smile grew across my face as I turned the ignition, pulled my car into drive, and slowly rolled away.  I began to laugh as I felt the bags surely filled with cocaine tucked neatly into my pants.  My hands caressed the old white shirt I was wearing. I always wore these thin white shirts because I thought they showed off my pectorals. I hadn’t worked out too much in my life, but I figured that I would at least try and show off what I have. Why should I even have to show it off anyway? Women should crucify themselves for a chance to be with me. I can’t stand knowing that John had a better chance with most women just because he doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone. “Persistence they say, that’s the key… that’s the key… persistence.” I wondered aloud how this could be. Persistence in my mind was being bothered to the point of murderous intent, as many of my friends often had done. My train of thought always continued until I had no idea where I had started.
My car bounced its way all the way to my house with a horrible squealing coming from my engine.  For just a second, one second, slow, barely squeezing itself into time… the music stopped, the noise from my car stopped, I stopped smiling, my heart dropped.  Then, from nowhere, I heard the snare and double bass explode from the drums wailing from my speakers, my heart shattered, and my eyes opened wide, as did my smile.  “Fuck yeah!” I screamed as loud as I could, pulling down Acorn Ave, I realized that I would be safe, and my mind was completely elated.  My mind felt better than it had in a good while, as if it had been healed.  I knew that I wouldn’t have to deal with drug dealers for at least a week or two, which was nice, but the thought of dealing with new ones was an annoyance.  I hated drug dealers, and though I had been a drug dealer myself, I found them to be the most bothersome, disgusting, scum of the earth.
Trying to ignore these thoughts as best I could, I danced out of my car and skipped across the street towards my house, the bags of cocaine still protruding from underneath my pants.  I walked down the cold path, my feet so hot with excitement; I melted the snow beneath them.  I ripped the door open once again with a half grin on my face, and instantly felt another rush of warmth, healing my dried brittle face.  I used the term “half grin” to describe the way I smiled. For some reason, whatever the type of happiness I was feeling, only one side of my mouth would curve upwards. Half grinning, I flicked the light on, and turned my head into the living room.  My smile instantly dissipated as I saw my mother consumed within herself, crying hysterically.
“Ma…” I said.  My mother’s hands were covering her face, her body jerked up and down, tears streaming in between her fingers.  I had never seen her so upset in all of my life. “Ma… What’s wrong Ma?” She sniffled, trying to hold back her squeals:
“He… he hit me.”
“Who hit you Ma?  Who the fuck hit you?”
“Greg hit me.  He hit me a hundred times.”  I knew that Greg hit her; I’m not even completely sure why I asked. She had been with Greg for years now, and he’s never stopped drinking, or screaming at my mother. But Greg had never hit my mother, not until now. I had been eagerly awaiting an excuse to beat Greg until he’s dead, and now I had one.
“Ma I’m going to his house.”  Ma didn’t say anything, a signal to me that what I was doing was fine with her.  I ran up to my room, and carefully pulled the bags of cocaine out of my pants. Fortunately, the bags did not break; sparing me the pain of losing something I felt I had won. It was mine after all. John shouldn’t have done what he did, but after all it’s not like it wasn’t expected. I found the coke and it was mine. I couldn’t make up my mind, it was like some morally right therapist was bitching at me and for a brief moment of time I pondered whether I should even use the cocaine or if I should even go to Greg’s house. All the while, I shook some cocaine out of its bag into a small mound onto the desk before me. I pressed my driver’s license down and chopped the cocaine up until it was ready to be shifted into a solid line. I pressed my nose down to the desk and inhaled.
At first, I did not really feel anything. However, about twenty seconds after that my throat became incredibly numb and a feeling similar to an adrenaline rush captured my consciousness. “Oh.” I grunted, moving about the room in random pacing motions. “I’m gonna fucking kill that guy! I’ll kill him!” I picked the bag of cocaine up from its bottom and put it in another bag that was conveniently sitting inside my desk drawer. This, of course, was a bag that I had used for drugs before, and will most likely use for drugs again. My room had always been a haven for drug abuse. Where not only myself but friends and even drug dealers on some occasions would come to test the product. My room had a warm and comforting feeling about it while the world surrounding it was grey and melancholic. Even with the feeling of being here, my anger still persisted. I reached under my bed and inhaled a cloud of dust, experiencing the most uncomfortable feeling I had in a while. I obviously wasn’t supposed to be breathing in the dust, so I usually kept my distance. I should’ve known under my bed, my bed there would be dust. I lived in the most disgusting environment that many would call borderline homelessness. I wanted to vomit, but momentarily slowing my breathing seemed to help.
I grabbed my baseball bat from underneath my bed and gripped the hard rubber handle as tight as I possibly could. My hands felt like scissors. I knew if I gripped hard enough that I could break this bat in two with none but a simple squeeze. I spared the bat for then, as I knew it would be necessary for the task I had ahead of me. I stood up and shook off the dust that evenly coated my hairline. After checking my face in the mirror for a good hour as it felt, probably ten minutes in reality, I opened my door. My mother was still whimpering downstairs. Her weak and powerless cries gave me a sense of power. This was a strange feel for me. I usually laugh or at least feel some kind of swoon at least from the pain of others. I love to see tears; I love to know that people are being torn apart on the inside, even funnier on the outside. I especially loved to see women hurt. Those lazy neatly packaged pieces of shit were only good for one thing. I knew I was right. I knew women were pieces of shit, and that wasn’t going to change… but I didn’t hate my mother. She was just like them all, a worthless skank. Hell, if she weren’t my mother, I’d love to see her kill herself. However, this woman raised me; she cared for me when nobody else did. I had a lack of a role model to look up to my entire life, and that’s where she failed as a mother. But through all of the love I felt for my mother, I still thought she was stupid and useless; she probably deserved to be hit. Nevertheless, I knew that she was family and I had to do what was right.
“Hey Ma… Ma… you hear me?” I said from the top of the staircase. Ma didn’t answer, she couldn’t. Her choking sorrow was clogging her throat, preventing her to speak. “Ma, I’m going to Greg’s,” again, no answer. I ran down the stairs and out of the door.

Daemon (NSFW)

It is on rare occasion that the analysis of a sick man may be broadly known, but in the case of Martin Talley, all shall see the derangement of his actions.

Talley lived far from the lights of life in a decrepit building about a mile from the highway. The weeds about the morbid estate constantly scratched at the itchy rotting wood from wall to wall. They climbed inside through windows and holes, as vines, inviting disease-ridden critters and varmint to make home in the squalid filth as well. They liked the darkness, as did Talley. There was never daylight around that building, yet the weeds still grew. Talley let his senses feast on the crippling darkness and malodorous stench that gave him company there. It was on a mattress in the middle of this tiny one-floored building that Talley could be found. He would lie on a mattress stained by the unforgiving nature of his semen and excrement, tempted by ideas conjured within his infected conscience.

Talley was quite a rotten and disordered man. He didn’t move much, for he was much more comfortable on his mattress in the dark. But when he did, he liked to roll around on his shoulder in a sort of manic insanity, or a euphoric dementia, rather. High pitched, wavering, swirling frequencies swam about in one ear and out the other. Those tunes alone were enough to drive any man insane. They carried doubt where they moved. These were the whispers of the dead, not so much in a literal sense, but they were what Talley heard nonetheless. He often envisioned – in his hallucinations – a pianist in that room, playing these sorts of melodies for Transylvanian funerals and satanic rites.

Talley had a wild smile, a yellow, wet grin from ear to ear. He had wide hazel eyes, too. But, you see, Talley did not have any eyebrows or hair, for he had cut them from his body with a shaving razor. They were sure to grow back, unevenly though, for Talley did not have a mirror. He had quite a large mirror for a good few days that he found in the abandoned building, but after noticing bodies in his peripheral vision, appearing and disappearing whilst looking up and down, he smashed the mirror with the blunt end of his shaving razor and cut his palm. What a shame that was.

He was quite a slender man with a long neck, much thinner than most, as a consequence of starving himself. Talley usually did not wear a shirt, because he did not like them. As a result, his exposed ribcage was constantly battered, and turned a sort of spotted blue color, which gave way to contrast with his pale sickly skin. Pants were a must-have however, as he could often find ecstasy in rubbing denim against his genitals. Talley liked to bite and pick at his skin as well, and his forearms took the brunt of the damage. He especially liked to bite his inner wrists and arms, for that is where he felt the most pain and drew the most blood. The fingernails that once grew on his lanky fingers then sat in a neat pile beside his mattress. The sting of such exposed flesh was a delicacy. How sad it was that there was not a soul to hear him screaming. He screamed in pain, he screamed in madness, he screamed for liberation, and for God, who left his calls unanswered.

How Talley survived in those conditions is a question never to be answered. But aside from the man himself were his actions. Talley was a murderer and sexual deviant. And how could he not be? Unfortunately, Martin Talley’s father was not a particularly kind man, and his mother spent the majority of her life inebriated. Nevertheless, Ol’ Daniel Talley was quite a demon, and he most certainly did not care for Martin. When baby Martin was about ten or eleven, after his mother died, his father took it upon himself to make the boy’s life a living hell. They moved to a very small and unpleasant neighborhood to live in a cramped and dilapidated house, and inside of that house, Martin could find no solace. Ol’ Talley came to burning Martin with a cigarette one evening, and decided that it was quite funny. After all, they were equally responsible for mother’s death. To make matters worse, Ol’ Talley was a sort of chain-smoker. He often pulled down Martin’s pants to burn him on his buttocks or legs so that no caring passerby could help:

“This boy! Somebody help this young man! Police! Police! Little boy! Who has done this to you? My God, what are these dots? Have you a disease? You are safe now, boy.”

This, however, did not happen.

Oh, but all the while there was quite a heavy psychological type of torture that often went along with these things. Father’s incessant screaming and beating slowly began to drive Martin to the brink of insanity. As he stood on the edge of madness, his father stood behind him, quite eager to give him a good old push. Ol’ Talley continued to burn Martin well into his late teens, at which point he began to cut the boy with knives and razors as well. It was made certain that the man very well hated his son.

It was in the dead of night on one October evening that – a now twenty-something and mentally deranged – Martin took it upon himself to cease the physical pain, for he knew that the mental pain was inescapable. Martin made haste to the bathroom and found his trusty shaving razor! He licked the edge of the blade, and drew quick pressurized blood from his tongue. After fumbling around for none more than a minute longer, he came across some sort of pills, which he placed in his pocket. Making his way into the living room, he found his father passed out in a cushioned chair; Martin proceeded to wake his father, and placed the razor against his throat.

That was when Martin found his vengeance!

He told father to take all the pills in the bottle, and not to move. There were probably thirty pills in the bottle; Ol’ Dan would die for sure. Martin sat before his father then, and waited for him to die. He took his father’s cigarettes and began chain-smoking himself, occasionally standing up and burning his father in the face or neck. After about forty-five minutes, father began to seize and gargle and stare off into an abyss quite near where Martin sat. He tried to breathe, but air only made its way in in very short gasps that sucked more saliva into his lungs. He coughed and coughed and slammed his head against the edges of the chair. Five minutes of that went by before Martin decided he was no longer amused, and cut the man’s wrists. That was the fate of Ol’ Talley. What a painful death! And it must be mentioned that the boy carefully carved ‘faggot’ into his father’s chest like an artist, with his work of brilliance. It took him years to complete, but it was finished… a red painted portrait of an abusive man: not for sale. Talley could not help but set the curtains in the house aflame, and before long the entire building was enveloped in flame. He choked on the fire’s black billowing smoke until he lost too much air, and passed out. Miraculously, he awoke outside of the building shortly after the fire had ceased. Talley ran immediately to avoid the law’s intervention, though that was one quiet night and there was not a soul to be seen.

Talley did some wandering and some thinking, but his mental state deteriorated just as he imagined his father’s charred and lifeless body. It was after his endeavors as America’s lunatic vagabond that he decided he would settle down in his gray building in the middle of nowhere.

Though it did take him a while, Talley eventually realized in his everlasting madness that he may like a toy to play with. He managed to find a few while following himself inside the wood near the building. His first was a very short and fat woman, quite hideous, actually. Talley crept his way into her home, then raped and beat her to death. My, how she was afraid! She did love to say “Please! Please! Please! Don’t kill me! Please!” She loved that word, please. Talley found it very humorous, for there was no earthly way he would let her live. After he raped the woman, he beat her to death with a small brass clock very near where he found the woman. Talley dragged her back, which was quite arduous, and placed her in the bathtub in a back room. She remained there to be fondled and raped further. Talley found necrophilia to be quite glorious, as he felt he connected with the dead in a way he thought impossible. And it was truly nice to have her there as a toy. After quite a while, he wondered how the woman might taste, so he gave it a go. By then, the body was infected with maggots and other small bugs, but this was of no concern. He loved the taste, sort of like the canned food that his mother would feed him before her passing, and he thought of her in his feasts.

Soon enough, there was not enough flesh to even pleasure himself with, and Talley set out for more victims. He took his second and third and fourth all within about a month. What fun it was for the poor man! He ate and fucked his fill, and he was quite well, as well as he could be before they found him. They took Talley from his home and placed him in places he had never seen the likes of, where he was surely uncomfortable. He found, inside these places, that God was ignoring him. Mother Talley’s childhood prayers that were so reassuring would go unanswered once more. Poor Talley never found the building again, or the critters, or the bodies, or his mattress. But perhaps what Martin Talley missed most was his father, for he knew that if the man had lived another day, he would not find himself in the company of demons. Nor would he find himself in the Seventh Circle.

-E.L.