She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part V)

Posted on May 10, 2013 by R. Richardsson

Disclaimer

This is post is one of many in a several part webseries. While each part varies, this story, overall, will contain the following; Strong Language, Sexual Content, Graphic and Violent descriptions and it may not be suitable for a younger audience.

It does not reflect the views or opinions of the author and is purely a work of fiction. All names and locations are drawn directly from the author’s imagination. No animals were ever hurt in the writing of this webseries. ;p

If this isn’t your cup of tea but you enjoy my other writings, please visit back time to time and let me know! I’ll be making the occasional post between these mini-chapters as, I think of them.

He stood before the yawning door, one hand still on the knob and the other holding onto the frame for support. His knees wobbled beneath him as he looked upon what the light had revealed.

The alabaster skin of her right foot burned into his retinas, damning him for what he had done. It lay there, protruding from beneath the sheets, never to stood upon again.

His breath caught in his throat as he suddenly yanked the door closer to him. There was no way he could continue to let it open. He couldn’t go any further and see the grim results his rage had produced.

He struggled with his thoughts.

“What have I done,” he wondered softly. He had never meant to hurt her. If anything, he had only ever thought about scaring her. For all of his life, she had looked down upon him. Berated him for the things he did and humiliated him before her friends. He wanted nothing more than for her to feel what she had made him feel.

But no more.

Never again would he suffer her emotional games.

He had crossed a line that he didn’t even know had been drawn. When she had come into the room, antagonizing him with her favorite nickname for him since he was a child, it was as if a piano wire somewhere in his mind had snapped.

Everything around him had ceased to exist, except for her waggling posterior and the sound of her voice as she hummed softly to herself. Nothing mattered at that moment, and nothing would matter again until he could find a way to silence her.

And so he did. He could still feel each impact of the refrigerator door, as he thundered it closed on her head. Each blow reverberated up his arm, over and over again until she no longer cried out for him to stop. Again and again, he crashed it into her skull, until she lay still in a growing pool of her own blood.

But… Then what? How did he get her from there to here? Why could he recall every sight and sound up to that final moment, but nothing afterward? He had known in the kitchen that something was amiss, but it hadn’t occurred to him just what. The sour cream, the dent at the bottom of the fridge door; it was all before his face, mocking him with the simplicity of it.

He must have hurriedly cleaned the kitchen and moved her…

“Oh. My. God! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!”

He shrieked. His voice erupted in pure terror, rising quickly to a high falsetto as he leapt backward away from the door.

Megan was standing in the bathroom door across the hall, covered by a large beach towel. Similarly, her hair was also wrapped up in a smaller towel which sat on her head in that funny way that made it look like soft served ice-cream. She didn’t give him time to answer. She stormed out of the bathroom and, grabbing onto his shirt with both of her hands, threw him back against the wall.

“Answer me, creepo, what the hell do you think you are doing?”

“I… I was just…”

She jerked him forward, putting her face right in front of his.

“You was just, what, you little twerp?”

He was confused. His mind was screaming a hundred questions all at once, while his emotions tipped back and forth. Just seconds ago, he had been elated at the idea of not having to deal with her ever again. Part of him still cared for his sister, but it had been a very small part. Even as he opened the door (and saw her lying there?), he had felt a considerable weight roll off of his shoulders.

Now, as she slammed him into the wall, demanding answers from him that he could not give, let alone explain, that weight came crashing back upon him. His head ached from the impact, still sore from when Tommy had slammed him into the concrete and she must have read the pain from his expression.

She let him go, her own expression momentarily softening as she tightened her towel around her.

“Stay out of my room,” she warned ominously, pausing between each word for effect. “Or next time I’ll kick your ass worse then what you got at school yesterday.”

She brushed past him and stormed into her room.

Likewise, he quickly retreated to his room as well. He was suddenly tired. The last two days felt as if weeks had passed and he needed a nap. Maybe when he woke, he would have the answers he sought.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part IV)

Posted on May 7, 2013 by R. Richardsson

Disclaimer

This is post is one of many in a several part webseries. While each part varies, this story, overall, will contain the following; Strong Language, Sexual Content, Graphic and Violent descriptions and it may not be suitable for a younger audience.

It does not reflect the views or opinions of the author and is purely a work of fiction. All names and locations are drawn directly from the author’s imagination. No animals were ever hurt in the writing of this webseries. ;p

If this isn’t your cup of tea but you enjoy my other writings, please visit back time to time and let me know! I’ll be making the occasional post between these mini-chapters as, I think of them.

“Scott? Is there something the matter?”

“No, it’s just…” His words trailed off as he thought about the night before. His thoughts were nothing new; they were still an entangled mess of memories and sounds that he couldn’t decipher.

After taking the garbage out to the dumpster, he had come back inside to find…what? He shook his head back and forth, unable to recall just exactly what it was that had happened.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.” He sighed in frustration. His mother sighed in frustration as well.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you lately, but I’m worried about you. You’re coming home from school with all these bruises and you’re forgetting to do the little things that I ask of you. I feel like you don’t listen to a word I say.”

“I do listen, ‘mom’, it’s just that… I’ve got some things on my mind and I’d rather not talk about it.”

His face was resting on his left hand, while his right listlessly stirred the remaining soggy fruit loops floating in his pinkish colored milk. As he spoke, a frown passed over his expression, animating his previously blank face.

“Well, do you want to talk about these bruises? Is there something going on at school?”

He didn’t answer her, just continuing to swirl his spoon around in the milk. She watched him for what seemed like hours before turning back to the dishes, studying his face for something, anything, while she waited for an answer that didn’t come.

He wasn’t thinking of her question any longer. In fact, he was looking across the counter at the fridge. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it. It still looked as it did the last time he looked at it. But… Was that a dent near the bottom of the door? He used the age-old trick of narrowing his eyes as he tried to focus his vision on that one little spot, but it didn’t help.

“…ing today? Scott?”

She must have been trying to get his attention for a while because when he finally heard her, she was reaching over to take his dishes.

“Huh?”

“I said; are you doing anything today?”

“No, I thought I’d read a book or something.”

“Well, before you get too settled in for the day, could you please mow the lawn? It’s getting a bit shaggy. I’m going to be out for the afternoon. Going to meet Cheryl over at the Java house for a bit. Maybe do some shopping.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” He was distracted. She had been walking over to the fridge when she seemed to notice something on the ground. As he was answering her, she leaned over and huffed;

“Scott? When you drop something from the fridge, could you please make sure to put it back? This is a full tub of sour cream that I have to throw out now…”

She stepped on the lever to lift the lid to the trash can and dropped it inside.

“I guess I’ll have to add THAT to the…”

He wasn’t listening anymore, however, and she didn’t see him when he got up and left. He moved quickly at first, walking at a brisk pace, but as soon as he was out of the kitchen he was sprinting.

His heart thundered in his chest and the combination of his worst fears and his exertion stole his breath away. He bounded the stairs two at a time as he hurried to the second floor. Memories of the night before came rushing back, of what (had he done?) had happened in the kitchen.

“Scott?”

His mother called for him in the kitchen, presumably after she had just noticed that he was gone, but it wasn’t her voice that he heard.

“Please,” she begged.

“Sorry, sis. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to put you on a diet. The first step is knowing when to shut the door.”

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

He had reached her bedroom door. There was a sign hanging on the outside. It was professionally made, she had gotten it from a novelty shop, and it was of the word TWERP with a not symbol over it.

He grabbed the doorknob, then froze. He was unsure of how to proceed. What if it had happened? What if he HAD crushed her head in the refrigerator door last night and now her body was lying on her bed, or in her closet, under a blanket? What then?

He slowly began to turn the doorknob, afraid of what he was going to find.

“…megan,” he called out softly. His voice trembled, cracking in a show of his adolescence.

The handle turned one hundred and eighty degrees and it retracted the small latch back into the door, thus allowing him to push it open.

“Sis?”

He pushed slowly, his eyes searching as the light from the hall began to spill into the room.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part III)

Posted on April 27, 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!

Scott stood at the end of the driveway, holding the bag of trash over the top of the trashcan. Unbeknownst to him, he had been standing this way for several minutes. His eyes appeared glazed and distant, and rightfully so. He was lost within himself, reliving the last thing to happen to him, but with his own personal twist.

He was sitting at the end of the counter, eating a plain waffle and reading one of his favorite books when Megan walked through the door. She dropped her books on the counter next to him, laughing when his glass of milk toppled over, spilling into his lap.

“Goddamn it,” he cursed angrily as he jumped up from his seat. “Why do you have to be such a scag?!”

She cackled mercilessly as she continued to walk around him and toward the fridge.

“Because you’re too easy, you little twerp,” she laughed.

“That’s funny,” he muttered, “I heard the football team saying the same thing about you, in gym class.”

She half turned, just enough for him to see the smirk in her eyes, as she flipped him the bird. It was only for a split second and she had already turned around to open the fridge door, but it had been just enough to get his blood boiling.

He dropped his half eaten waffle on the counter, closed his book and set it out of range of the spreading mess before him, then turned toward the source of all his current rage. She was bent over before the fridge, her butt swinging back and forth as she hummed to herself. Her head was partially in the door as she dug toward the back of the shelf where their parents stored the beer.

“Hey twerp, did you drink all the beer already?”

He didn’t answer her, however, he was already stalking her from behind. His vision had narrowed and all rational thought had fled with each closing step that he took. He was only a few feet behind her when she turned and saw him coming.

“W-what are you doing Scott?”

He didn’t answer with his mouth. Before she could rise to her full height, he lifted his leg and planted a solid kick square between her cheeks. She screamed in pain as she fell forward into the fridge and her weight dropped the shelf she had just been searching beneath her. Condiments rolled out onto the floor, and with the exception of the pickle jar, they scattered harmlessly in all directions. The latter shattered on the floor just below her struggling form, spilling pickles and juice at his feet.

“Oh my god! Scott, I’m sorry,” she cried, but he would have none of it.

He lunged forward and grabbed the fridge door and for several seconds he simply held onto it as he held his own struggle to stay on his feet. He had not seen the pickles and with his feet now on the slippery little discs, he found himself dancing the balance tango.

Just below his knees, Megan turned to her side and grabbed onto his pant leg as she tried to pull herself out. He looked down then, his face stone cold, and stared into her pale, pleading face.

“Please,” she begged.

“Sorry, sis. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to put you on a diet. The first step is knowing when to shut the door.”

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

The right side of his mouth curled up in a vicious smile as he continued to slam the door closed. He lost count of how many times he swung the door and he didn’t stop until his arm was tired. By then it was over.

The angry blat of a car horn brought him back to reality and he found himself blinded by the two lights which were shining in his eyes. The horn honked again, but by the time he thought to seek out the face of the driver, the car was past. He hadn’t had time to recognize who had been signalling him.

“Huh,” he muttered.

It was now dark outside. His arm was trembling from the effort of holding the trash bag above the can, but he had to forcibly will himself to open his fingers to let it go. He frowned as he tried to rub some feeling back into his arm. The sun had still been fairly high when he had come out here, which meant that he had been standing here for almost two hours.

“Megan,” he breathed fearfully. Surely it just been a dream, right? He ran back to the house, where Tippy was pawing anxiously at the kitchen door. The moment he opened the door, she blew past him and ran out into the lawn to do her business. He didn’t pay a seconds notice, however, as he had to see for himself.

The kitchen was as dark as the sky outside, with no lights having been turned on to chase the shadows away, and he couldn’t see more then a few feet in front of him. With his arms stretched out in front of him, he carefully felt his way along the counter as he made his way to the fridge.

Just a few feet from the doors, and where he had imagined(?) planting the swift kick to her ass, his right foot bumped into something on the floor. He froze, heart thudding in his chest as he listed to the unseen object roll across the floor.

“Noo,” he said, stretching the word out in that way that one does when they are trying to convince their self that something isn’t true.

He bent down and felt around for several minutes as he tried to find whatever it was that he had kicked. It took some effort, and he grumbled unhappily the entire time he felt around, but he finally found it. It had rolled behind him and under one of the chairs against the counter.

It didn’t take him long to figure out what he was holding, there was no mistaking its shape. The bloated cylinder, which was fatter on the bottom and narrowed up to a hard plastic tip could be nothing other than the mustard bottle from the second shelf!