She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXVIII)

Disclaimer

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!

———

Had anyone come across the bloodied apparition of Scott Vali that night, they might have run screaming for their very souls.  He ambled slowly along, each foot carefully moving before the other.  One hand was pressed firmly against his stomach, which was now completely covered in blood, while the other firmly gripped the handle to an equally stained butcher knife.

There were only a few hours before sunrise.  Even now, lights flickered on inside of the houses he passed, the inhabitants beginning their morning routines.  Birds were singing their morning songs high above him, another reminder that he needed to hurry if he wanted to get home before even it was full of activity.

He didn’t know that at this very moment, his mom and sister were sitting at the kitchen counter, fearfully clutching the other as they spoke to a detective.  He had no way of knowing that, even though the pieces were a long ways from being put together, the detective had just received a call about a double homicide involving a classmate and his father.

His mind was focused on other things at the moment.  He thought about the sticky texture of the exposed intestine beneath his hand.  He wondered how long it would be before it would begin to die.

“…probably when the rest of me does,” he muttered softly.

His voice sounded as if it was coming from a different room, and in a way it was.  He was still in the place where the ‘other’ had lay dormant for so long, deep inside the prison of his own mind.  He no longer controlled his limbs as he had before, his will had long since grown tired.  The ‘other’ had taken his place, but it wasn’t acting of its own accord.  It was taking him exactly where he wanted to go.  Home.

After leaving B.J.’s house, he had mentally curled into the fetal position, holding onto his very being as if his life depended upon it.  He had felt fragile.  The very sight of the blood, the feel of it on his clothes, even the smell of it had threatened to sent him spiraling into a whirlpool of madness from which he would never return.

He remembered dancing in the blood of his victims, spinning insanely and watching the blood fling off the blade of his weapon to splash randomly around the room.  He had giggled when the feeling of his guts slipping out had tickled as they fell out.

“Look Ma,” he had said.  “I’m crapping through mah belly!”

It was as if he was a different person, just as the other was a different entity inside of him.  It still was.  He clutched so tightly to his essence that he felt as if he was becoming a concentrated version of the person he once was.

“Just add three cups of water,” he breathed.

But try as he might, it wasn’t good enough.  He couldn’t hold onto the part of himself that he had so long ago let go.  He tried to remember exactly when it happened, but even that was a memory which eluded him.  Maybe it had always been this way?  Maybe there never was no ‘other’?

The sky was beginning to lighten in the distance, fading from black to violet.  Soon it would become orange, spreading outward as the colors chased the darkness beyond the horizon, giving way to the fiery orb which would break dawn upon All Saints.

Home wasn’t far, perhaps another block or so, but ahead was another obstacle he would have to avoid before entering the final stretch.  Placing an empty milk bottle into a recycling bin was his old ‘pal’, Arnie Jameson, who always seemed to be around when he was most down.  Arnie had yet to see him and as he approached, he slid the knife blade between his belt and jeans behind him.

 

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