She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXIII)

Posted on December 22, 2013 by R. Richardsson

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!

———

It took an eternity for the door to open. The hinges groaned in protest as they attempted to deny the intruder and warn everyone else in the same breath.

His stance was wide, each foot straddling the trail of blood leading into the room beyond. Though he wasn’t conscious of his efforts, some hidden part of him insisted that he didn’t step in the viscous fluids below. In the same regard, he pushed the door open with the back of his knuckles.

Never mind the countless hours he had spent in this house over the last few weeks. Forget the fact that his bodily fluids could be found in multiple rooms, as well as in the person on the other side of the door.

She cowered at the foot of the kitchen counter, a blubbering mass of naked flesh, tears and unheard apologies. As he looked down to her; as his gaze traveled over this quivering mess he had recently shared a bed with, the contents of his stomach curdled. Protruding from her massive belly was the missing piece of the end-table.

Blood continued to bubble from the end of the hollow tube. It ran out the end, onto her stomach and split into two crimson rivers, each which contributed to the growing pool beneath her. Her skin was growing pasty, even by her standards.

“Scott,” she begged weakly of him. “Please?”

Her voice quivered as he continued to look down at her. For a fleeting moment, a puzzled expression came over his face as she spoke, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. He had seen her lips move, but the words that were spoken had originated in his head.

“You’re crazy.”

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as he slowly inhaled through his nose. He could feel his body temperature rising as his old familiar feelings returned. He was in complete control.

He opened his eyes and snapped his gaze upon Lucy Winters for the final time.

“I’m. Not. Crazy, you fat fucking BITCH,” he screamed. His voice was so loud that the cabinet doors buzzed from its volume.

“I’m SORRY Scott,” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean it!” She coughed and a spray of blood flew into the air, some of which dotted the surface of his right shoe.

“Crazy, crazy, CRA-ZY,” the other taunted in sing-song. “You’re crazy and you know it, Mm-ah, uh HEE-haw!”

“Oh my fucking GAWD! Will you shut the fuck UP,” he roared, lunging with his hands for her throat.

From the corner of his vision, barely perceptible outside of the tunnel of his rage and certainly too subtle for him to immediately react, her right hand raised to intercept him. There was a sudden flare of white-hot pain in his abdomen and as his hands wrapped around her trunk-like neck, he stopped and looked down between them.

Her hand clutched the end of a butcher knife she had been holding. He couldn’t see much more than three inches of the blade, however, for the rest was buried in his own abdomen.

“You, stabbed me,” he croaked in disbelief.

“I’m so sorry,” she answered. Her voice wavered with true apologetic emotion.

“You, STABBED me,” he asked again. This time his words were spoken less with confusion and more with outrage.

He pulled himself away from her, towering over her as he looked down at the handle protruding from his body.

“Leave it in. It’s the only thing that’s going to keep you from bleeding to death with her, on the kitchen floor.”

The other spoke, unbeknownst to him, through his own mouth.

“Wha…” she began to say.

Scott raised his foot and slammed it down onto the end-table’s leg, driving it further through her. She reached weakly toward her killer, no longer able to see his face as she struggled onto the last threads of life in her.

Seconds later, her hand fell limply at her side.

“Shut your fucking mouth when we’re talking,” Scott and the Other said simultaneously. “We’re dealing with a life or death situation here.”

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXII)

Posted on December 8, 2013 by R. Richardsson

Disclaimer

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!

———

It had happened as if in slow motion. His hand desperately reaching for her. He saw every ripple of flesh that spread from the point of impact. He screamed for an eternity as she fell from sight.

Scott fell to his knees, landing on the hardwood floor at the exact moment that she impacted with the first floor. He slowly crawled over to the banister, even as his mind replayed Tippy’s final moments, terrified of what he would see.

He could hear the dog’s high-pitched cries. It had shrieked as much in terror as it had in pain and had nipped at his hands when he tried to help. It knew that it was going to die and fought with its last dying breaths.

He couldn’t believe that it would be this easy with another person. He hadn’t even meant to do it! He was only imagining…

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“It was YOU,” he screamed. “YOU did it!”

The voice erupted in genuine laughter, It was an evil sound, true, but it was so full of amusement that had it been him, he would have been doubled over and holding his sides. It picked at his sanity, bouncing around the confines of his consciousness, and threatened to push him over the edge. Just when he could take no more, the entity began to taper off into silence.

“Not this time kiddo. That was all you right there.”

“…no,” he wailed softly.

“Oh yes indeed! YOU planted your foot in her ass and YOU pushed her over the banister. You killed her Scott and YOU are one murderous son of a…”

“…no-no-no…” he mourned soulfully as he clutched the sides of his head. “…you made me do it…”

“I did no such thing. I only showed you what you wanted to see. This was all you, bucko.”

From the first floor, a weak groan interrupted their internal debate.

“She’s…”

“…still alive?”

Scott grabbed onto the banister, pulling himself up so that he could look over and confirm their suspicion. As he peered over the rail, his mouth fell open as he watched her rise to her knees and begin crawling toward the door beneath him. As her feet disappeared beneath him, the other began to shout;

“The phone you idiot! She’s going to the phone!”

“…so?”

“The police! You have to stop her!”

He wasn’t totally committed to the idea, but he rose to his feet and ran to the stairs. As he was going down, he turned and looked in the direction she had crawled in time to see the kitchen door swing shut.

“Maybe she just wants something to eat,” he asked inappropriately, but the joke was lost on the other who had begun to gibber wildly in its frightened state. At first it annoyed him, but it didn’t take very long for the emotions to transfer to his own. Suddenly it mattered what was going to happen to him if that phone call were allowed to happen.

His heart thundered in his chest as he all but fled from the second floor, He jumped the last four stairs and landed on the carpet with a thump. For the second time, his mouth fell open when he saw that she had landed on one of the end tables.

The end table was a cheap piece that she had once explained having ordered from an LTD magazine. Four brass legs decoratively wrapped around a thin piece of glass, each connected by a shelf beneath the surface, giving it the illusion of being sturdy. When she landed upon it, all but one leg had buckled beneath her weight. The fourth and remaining must have impaled her before snapping off. A trail of blood, nearly a foot wide, led from the wreckage to the room where she now hid.

“Niiice. I bet that hurts like a motherfucker,”

From behind the door he could hear the sound of her voice as she sobbed.

“You’re crazy Scott! You’ve lost your mind,” she yelled.

“…I’m not crazy,” he muttered, hurt.

“YOU PUSHED ME OVER THE LEDGE!”

“YOU punched me in the face,” he said with more conviction. “You don’t hurt the ones you love. I…I HAD to do it. Don’t you see? I was afraid. I didn’t want you to hit me anymore!”

She continue to sob from behind the door.

“What else was I supposed to do,” he finished.

“That’s very convincing Mr. Vali, but would you please tell the court MORE about these voices you’ve been hearing?”

“…but,” she said with confusion, “I wasn’t trying to KILL you!”

“No,” he answered slowly, “but I would have never done that to you. You brought this on yourself, bitch.”

As he pushed the door open to enter the kitchen, she called out one final warning. It was only a single word, but if he had heeded to it, there might have been a different outcome on the other side.

“Stop!”

The Box (Part XIV)

Posted on December 8, 2013 by R. Richardsson

There was a deep burning sensation in the empty cavity where his eye had once been. It felt as if a thousand ants were feasting upon the newly exposed flesh, breaking it down piece by piece to return to their nest for later consumption. Added with the dull ocular throbbing of the broken nerve, he found himself struggling to remain conscious.

It had been several minutes since the sorcerer had passed through the cavern below but he didn’t yet feel strong enough to continue. He needed some time to think.

Oramiir had betrayed them! His magics had lured the Destrachan from the depths of the underdark for the sole purpose of getting them out of the way!

It had been pure chance that he was alive, but the poor elf hadn’t stood a chance. Even now, the creatures were gnawing at the bones of the once proud warrior. The sound of the teeth scraping against them sent shivers down his spine. One would occasionally lift its head as if scenting the air, but they seemed content to laze near their dinner.

Another blast of hot air passed through the junction, reminding him that even as he perched above the elf’s remains, the sorcerer was drawing ever closer to the lair of the dragon.

“Perhaps it’s time I use some magic of my own,” he spat venomously. Below him, each of the four creatures turned their heads in his direction, suddenly interested in the small bag of fresh meat dangling from the ceiling. One of them whistled softly, testing for a reaction from the small hobbit, but he seemed to be paying them very little notice.

As they continued to ‘watch’ him from below, he reached into one of his many hidden pouches and removed a small crossbow. Unlike the hand-crossbows of the Drow, this small folding instrument had very little use as weapon. He’d had it specially crafted some years ago as a tool to aid him in his more discrete activities.

A flick of his thumb and the tension bar snapped into place. With his other hand, he reached into another pocket and carefully removed a small cloth bundle. Careful as to not drop it or the contents inside, he opened it and loaded a small bolt into the small crossbow before replacing the bundle into the pocket from whence it came.

His stomach gurgled once again, a painful reminder that he was missing yet another meal, drawing the attention of the creatures back to his position. He needed to find a way out of this junction, soon, before his presence became enough of an annoyance to them that they decided to do something about it.

Moving slow and deliberately, he shimmied out from his perch and along the wall. It was over a half a dozen yards to the floor, but he was never one to be bothered by heights. Even as the creatures began to stir beneath him, his toes and fingers were expertly digging into even the smallest of cracks that only he could manipulate.

It was painfully slow going. There were a couple of moments where the hold he had gained crumbled, nearly sending him tumbling to the ground, but several minutes later he found himself resting outside of the junction. The Destrachan had either decided that he wasn’t big enough to be a threat, or were content to remain with their meal, and he was able to breath a sigh of relief.

He fished through his pouches before finding a suitable enough snack to placate the angry grumbles in his midsection, but his heart wasn’t in it. He slowly chewed on a bit of rabbit jerky as tears fell from the corners of his eyes, and he mourned the loss of his friend.

Every so often, he would look in the direction the sorcerer had traveled and absently touch the handle of the crossbow now hanging from his belt.