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!
For the second time since he had become aware of the other, he was forced back into the recesses of his consciousness. Unlike the last time, he was in full control of his body. It was very much like he was wearing himself as a suit, where he could feel the inside of his arms and his legs using his will.
That was the only way he could even fathom the idea. He stretched into himself through sheer willpower alone and committed the actions he saw through he windows that were his eyes. He was Scott Vali, but at the same time he was not. He was also the Other, a demonic extension of pure rage and hatred for those who had wronged him.
He watched the blood paint the wall in front of him. Spurt after crimson spurt coated the wood paneling from floor to ceiling. It painted the shirt of his dazed target, who was still reeling from the blow the dying man had recently delivered to him. It pooled beneath the dead man, who despite his hateful words had died with his ass lewdly sticking in the air.
He felt nothing. As he looked down, he noticed a piece of intestine oozing from his own wound and idly poked it back in before refocusing his attention to his target.
“That feels funny,” he giggled insanely. The other was there, but it didn’t respond. He could feel it focusing intently on something more important. He knew that ‘it’ was the only reason he was still alive, but his mind was literally inside itself.
“Mind fucked,” he giggled again when he realized what he had just thought.
B.J. was slowly coming to. His hands, also covered in his father’s blood, moved up to his face and tenderly rubbed the injury there. It took only seconds to realize that there was something on them.
“Wh-,” he said as his eyes focused on the figure standing before him. He had yet to see the body of his father, despite the fact that it was only inches away from his feet, but he knew that something wasn’t quite right.
“Scott,” he asked stupidly.
“Hiya, Blow Job,’ the other gleefully replied. “Guess what?”
“Wh-what,” he asked in a timid voice.
“I killed your daaaaddy,” he sang madly. Even as the words passed over his lips, he was dancing a little jig. His feel smacked wetly in the blood on the floor and this sent him into another fit of giggles until he noticed something more interesting in his midsection. B.J. followed his gaze and watched in horror as the other pushed a six-inch length of intestine into the gaping hole on his stomach.
There was no control over what happened next. Even as his bladder let go, he began screaming in a pitch higher than his voice had ever reached before. He lunged forward, trying to regain his feet so as to get as far away from this ghoul as he could, but he slipped in what remained of his father’s life and fell just inches before his unseeing eyes. Several more screams fled from his lungs and he struggled to get back to his feet, slipping several more times in the process.
“Ahh, what’s the matter Blow Job? Don’t you want to stay? Don’t you want to get….FUCKED?!”
B.J. had finally grabbed onto the arm of the recliner and was pulling himself to his feet when Scott got ahold of him. The laughter was gone and he could feel the breath of the other on his neck.
“I never forgot the way you held me,” Scott whispered into his ear.
“Go to hell! You’re crazy,” he screamed in response.
“You first, you pussy-faggot,” Scott replied calmly, using the same insult his father had before socking him. He tried to struggle, but several bolts of lightning struck him beneath his right armpit. They stole his breath, replacing it with blood. Unlike his father, he died knowing what it was that killed him.
As the light faded from his eyes, he watched Scott step over him, lean over and wipe the blade of a butcher knife on his shirt.