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 and webseries!
In the city of All Saints, all was as it should be. Its citizens rested safely behind bolted doors and there was very little movement on the streets. The occasional A.S.P.D vehicle broke through the shadows, inside of which two sets of watchful eyes kept to their promise of peace. Even less frequently, the silence was broken as a startled dog warned against those who would trespass onto its territory. All was as it should be, except in one dark alley which ran parallel to Munson Avenue.
With night falling heavily upon the city’s shoulders, there were few places still filled with human activity. So it was that no-one saw the bloodied figure as he limped slowly between the worn tire tracks. But had there been a single soul nearby, it would have been chased into a week’s worth of nightmares by the ghostly face whose haunted eyes told a tale of something darker than the shadows covering the young man’s tracks.
And though there was only the lone figure passing through the murky depths, there were two very distinct voices arguing amongst themselves.
“Leave it in.”
The young man reached down and grasped the wooden handle protruding from his abdomen.
“I can’t take it anymore, I have to take it out.”
“You do, and you die.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.
He began to slowly pull handle away from his body, drawing forth the seven inches of stainless steel so recently sheathed inside of him. Pain flared through every nerve in his stomach as small lightning bolts fired along the highways of his nervous system and into his brain. He groaned and paused, reluctant to continue along his current course of action.
“Don’t,” the other warned.
“Why not,” he pleaded desperately.
“Because, you idiot, we’re not finished yet.”
The young man stumbled weakly to the side and into the wooden fence at his right. His knees began to buckle beneath him, but before he could tumble to the ground, his right hand grasped the weather worn oak and steadied him falling.
“I can’t… I’m so tired.”
But there was no answer. None that anyone would have heard. He continued to stand against the tall privacy fence, one hand wrapped around the wooden handle of the butcher knife while the other continued to hold him up. He stared down the path before him, his eyes seemingly studying the deep ruts worn by years of passage as the minutes slowly ticked by.
The minutes grew into the double digits before he began to move once more, and when he did, there was the beginnings of a smile forming on his expression. And, punctuated by his pale skin with the promise of murder in his eyes, the effect was very sinister indeed.