She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XIV)


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!


It had only been a couple of hours since the confrontation in the kitchen.  The unwelcome guest had quickly grown quiet after the front door had slammed and he he had been left mercifully alone.  His head ached in its absence, a dull pounding that made it hard for him to keep his eyes open and for the moment he wasn’t trying to.

Even though she had left for work shortly after the pager summoned her, he’d chosen to remain in his room.  He wrestled with the feelings that had been coming over him, the thoughts he’d been having more and more often, and the voice that seemed to have taken a life of its own.

Up until recently, he had been comfortable with the way he was.  He accepted his rage as an outlet to the cards that life had dealt him.  Whenever confronted with something that he didn’t know how to handle, something that just seemed to push all the right buttons, he ‘slipped’ into himself and succumbed to the fantasies that his mind played out for him.

In the months that passed since his father had ran away, the fantasies had grown into something else.  They had taken a life of their own.  They had grown stronger, crossing the fine line between fantasy and reality and at times he had difficulty determining which side of the line he was on.

Most recently, the fantasy with his sister.

It was the most real, the most involved of the fantasies that he could ever recall.  Usually, they took place in a matter of seconds.  The other night, when he had been taking the trash to the dumpster, he had blacked out for at least an hour.  He still wasn’t sure of how much time had passed, only that it was light when he left the house and then it was dark when he came back to himself.

With that he slammed the fridge door closed.  Her positioning was just right and her legs jumped from the impact. 

He also jumped as the memory came to the front of his thoughts and then moaned miserably.  It was a low, guttural sound, and it bore the turmoil he was feeling from within.

“What’s going on with me,” he lamented from behind his hands.

For the second time since coming to his room, tears began to leak from the corner of his eyes.  They were hot to the touch and they ran thickly down his cheeks, but they didn’t stay for as long as they had the first time.  He was emotionally exhausted.

“Aw, does the little baby need a diaper,” the voice suddenly spoke.

He didn’t answer, but he did grow still just as suddenly as the voice had come forth.  Unlike the other times he had heard it, this time he really listened.  He listened to the sound of it.  It was a little like his, but with the raspy quality of someone who had spent hours cheering on their favorite team.  Furthermore, and he was afraid of this, he didn’t believe that it was coming from around him, but, inside.

“No shit?  Seems like Sherlock finally got a clue,” the voice mocked.

He lifted his face from his hands and rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrists, blinking a few times to help them readjust to the light in his room.  As before, he chose to ignore the taunt.

From downstairs, he could hear the dog yapping from somewhere near the back door.

“Megan,” he called out loud enough to be heard down the hall.  “Could you please take care of Tippy?”

“I’m in the bathroom Scott, sorry.  You’re going to have to get her this time.”

He sighed and looked over at the clock.  It was still early, and there was still plenty of time for him to shower for the movie, but he still felt it to be unfair that he was constantly stuck with caring for her all the time.

“…not that I wanted the fucking thing anyways,” he muttered.

His vision wavered just a bit from the pressure of his headache, and as he stood to go downstairs, the voice began to laugh.  It was the soft sound of someone who was genuinely amused by something, but it bothered him nonetheless, and before he could say anything, it spoke once again.

“You might as well get used to this.  I’m here for the long haul Scott.”

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