The following is one of many installments for a story designed specifically for my blog. While it does step out of my usual genre, there are some things still not suitable for a younger audience. Violent/Graphic descriptions, strong language and sexual situations may be found through different sections. Each entry will tell a small portion of the story during different times and may not directly follow the one prior to it.
This story follows the direct interactions, as well as the deteriorating thoughts of a young man who is struggling not only with the relationships he has with those around him, but with the relationship he has with himself as well.
Finally, all work is strictly fiction and does not reflect the views of the author. Any resemblance to actual person(s) is only a coincidence.
If this isn’t your cup of tea, then avoid these excerpts and hopefully I’ll see you around my other posts!
“Scott honey, I’m home! Could you come up here and help me with the groceries?”
He was in his basement den, the one place where he could go to collect his thoughts and not have to worry about being interrupted. This room originally belonged to his father as a place to store his baseball tournament trophies, but after he ran off with his mistress, Scott claimed it as his own. Here was the one place he could store his literature and not have to worry about the dog tearing it to shreds. Here was the one place he could hang his posters and not have to worry about what the women of the house thought of them, and here was the place where he kept his authentic Japanese sword collection.
He was especially proud of his daisho, which he had come across in a local flea market. At first he had thought the blades were a cheap reproduction, as most of the ones he came across were, but these were the real deal. They were an authentic, fully functional wakazashi over a smaller tanto and fitted in simple bamboo saya, or sheathes.
“I’ll be up in a sec,” he answered somewhat distractedly.
He was standing in the middle of the room at the end of a wooden workbench, upon which were scattered several lengths of wire, two pair of pliers and two well worn quarter inch dowel rods. As he reached up to pull the chain on the light, he took one last appraising look at his work and smiled.
“…almost…” he muttered lovingly.
With a simple flick of the wrist, he plunged the room into darkness and if it wasn’t for the door being cracked, he might have taken longer to exit. But this wasn’t the case. And even if he hadn’t had the light from outside to see by, he could have easily negotiated his way around the obstacles between him and the door. It WAS his room now, and he knew it well.
“Aren’t you forgetting something,” asked a voice which had been thankfully quiet over the last few days.
“Get out of my head,” he growled in response.
“You know; they say the first sign of madness is not when you talk to yourself, but when you answer.”
He turned and pushed the door closed, only turning to leave after he had secured the simple latch and lock in its place.
“Now wouldn’t THAT be a sight!”
The voice chuckled softly. It was a raspy sound, one which reminded him of an old washboard, and it grated at his last nerve.
“Get the FUCK out of my–”
His mother stood at the top of the stairs with her hands resting on her slender hips. Her expression was a mixture of shock and anger and he knew that there would be very little chance of him explaining his way out of this one.
“Now you did it,” the unwelcome guest taunted.
“What is going ON down here? Do you have someone down there with you? Who were you talking to?”
Her questions rattled off, one after the other, in rapid succession. He groaned and grabbed his head with both hands, however, when at the same time the questions were repeated in falsetto by the ‘other’.
“Scott,” she asked, suddenly worried.
He didn’t have a chance to answer her, nor would he get a chance to for several minutes, for at that exact moment, his consciousness fled him. The last thing he saw was the ground rushing up to wrap him in its cold embrace.