My Friend, My Love, My Creation

Most times, new characters are born rather beautifully. They come with rich back-stories and have a deep family history. They speak to me for hours about who they are, where they live, what they do for a living, etc. Other times, they burst forth kicking and screaming.

They’re wearing straight-jackets and slamming themselves madly against my psyche. They’re roughly cut from raw emotion, they know very little about who they are, where they came from, or who their families are. The only thing they know is their desire to have the same chance at life as the aforementioned.

While I do so enjoy the company of my more ‘fleshed’ out characters, mainly because they are familiar to me, like family or good friends, I find myself oddly drawn to these new beings. They want the same things that we all have, that which has come so easily to their cousins; a life of their own.  They are like children, in a way.  They don’t know what’s behind them, nor do they have a clue what’s ahead of them.  They must learn, through my guidance, of course, what they like or do not like.

Sometimes I can control the process. Sometimes, I can even help form them into something appropriate enough to tell a story about. This isn’t always the case, however, and any writer can tell you that it isn’t always going to be a good thing.

You’re not always going to have a ‘good’ character.  Every so often, as I am helping this character come to life, we discover that he or she isn’t so savory a person.  Maybe said character is a villain?  Or maybe, something much, much, worse. I don’t always like telling the story of these characters, but again, as a writer I don’t always have a choice.  They desire a chance at life.  They demand that their story be heard.  And as a storyteller, I am compelled to share.

Perhaps what awaits in the end is poetic?  Or, perhaps not.  It isn’t for me to decide. You see, much like the character types I have described, so too do the stories exist as well. Some lay in wait, ready to pounce my thoughts without a moment’s notice.  Other times, they are a rough gem that needs worked into something you may or may not appreciate.

Just as is the case of the character, some stories may be beautiful designs that inspire you to continue turning the page.  Others might be an atrocious train-wreck that forces you to turn the pages until you reach the end. This isn’t to say that they aren’t very good.

It’s a tricky subject; horror.

What one person may consider good, might be another’s kryptonite.  I may have written the most descriptive decapitation in such a way that you have never seen before, but what may make one jump out of his/her seat in excitement, might have another turning their head in disgust.

Such is life.

By now, I hope that my readers have come to expect a certain style to my writing.  You’ve survived the first two tales of John Rizzerio and are eagerly waiting the finale, or you have been keeping up with my webseries and are looking for the next post to appear.  You know that I don’t always pull the punches.

Some of my characters may seem like somebody you could run into on the street. Others, a friendly neighbor or work acquaintance.  Then there are those, like the protagonists of ‘She Has A Pretty Face Though’, and ‘The Box’, who each have their own issues to resolve. In the end, was their story worth it?  Was it poetic, or did you enjoy following their journey?

Of course, you’ll have your own opinions that I would LOVE to hear!  But, in the end, I will still continue to tell the stories as they demand to be told, in their own entireties.  While I depend upon you, my faithful readers, to help guide me down the path of your interests, I hope that you continue to stick with me as I share with you my creations.  They are a labor of love, a part of myself in much the same way that my children are, and it gives me great pleasure to be able to introduce you to them.

They are family, after all.

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She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part L)

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!

———

His breath rattled wetly in his chest, and he ran with his left hand clutched against it. What had at first been thought to be one broken finger turned out to be two, his ring and pinkie finger of said hand, and the pain was tremendous.  As his feet pounded sometimes on the concrete, others on the grass or sun-baked dirt, his abdominal wound grew ever deeper.

He was a mess.

Blood coated him neck to knees from two different applications.  From a distance, his jeans looked as if he had spilled oil into his lap, but closer inspection gave way to the sickening truth.  His own life was oozing from the grievous wound which lurked, hidden, beneath a layer of duct tape and behind his chainmail shirt.

His eyes, much like the rest of his hardened features, had also begun their own metamorphosis.  Just as his skin had grown haggard and his hair stark white, his eyes, too, began to change color.  One eye had grown red, while the other, blue.  To peer into his eyes for too long was to invite the madness that lay behind them.

There still remained an aura of misperception about him.  Even when he ran completely in the open, people continued to turn the other way.  Nobody spoke twice of the bleeding madman that ran past, nor did they remember having seen him after he was gone.  The other was fully in control, bending the will of those around him just enough so that he was even less important.

It was nearly over and he was God damned for what he had become.  Tears fell openly from the corners of his eyes as mourned for the death of Scott Vali.

He stumbled from time to time when he missed the cadence of his feetsteps, careening drunkenly about as he fought to regain his balance.  Each was more difficult than the last and there was soon going to be a moment when he found himself floundering at the feet of those around him, helpless and quietly expiring.

When the pressure on his chest had grown too heavy for him to bear, only then did he finally stop.  He could feel the rough texture of brick against his back.  Or maybe it was stone?  He didn’t turn to look, it didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered.  He was too tired to continue.  It was over.

It was then that he realized that there was something in his right hand.  He had been holding his left hand against him using the wrist of his other, which, in turn, allowed him to keep hold of the small rectangular object therein.  It was a smartphone, the same one he had been trying to take from Tommy, and it was the last chance he would have for this to be over.

Using the thumb and forefinger of his left hand to hold it, he searched through the contacts until he found who he wanted.  One tap of the finger and the phone was dialing.   It only took one ring for him to connect to the very frantic person on the other end.

“Tommy?!”  Why the hell haven’t you been answering my calls,” Misty shrieked through the receiver.  Her voice was thick, as if she had been crying recently, and her words gushed in panic.

“Misty,” he croaked.  His breath was short and he wheezed at the end of the single word he had spoken.

“Tommy,” she asked, suddenly confused.

“Misty!”  He spat her name at the phone.  He wanted to say more, but for some reason his mouth couldn’t articulate the words that should follow.  His mind jumbled the letters together, shook them up and poured them over his tonsils, choking him with their nonsensical patterns.

“Glarglearglearg,”  he spewed as his vision began to darken.

“Who is this,” she asked fearfully.  “Where’s my Tommy?!”  Her voice rose in volume until she was whining the last syllable.  He knew that he should answer her question, but she had asked two of him and he was sure of neither.

It was a shame, because it seemed important to her that she have the answer to each of them.  Quietly, even as she continued to speak from the receiver, he pressed the ‘End’ button and set the phone down on the ground beside him.

He was so tired.  His hands fell to his sides and there was a dull pain in his left which reminded him of something important.  Pain?  He wasn’t sure if even that was the answer, for it was becoming nothing more than a nagging sensation in the back of his mind.

“You’re not giving up on me now, are you,” a small voice asked from somewhere nearby.

He smiled weakly as he recognized it, but for some reason he couldn’t place a name or face to it.

“I can’t go on,” he sighed.  “I’m sooo tired.”

“We have to finish this,” the other insisted.  “Misty has to die.”

“You mean the scared girl on the phone?  But she sounded so nice,” he argued.  He was becoming more childlike by the minute, reverting to something that the other couldn’t keep a hold on.

The other screamed in frustration, but it was as a frail and pitiful sound compared to what it once was.

“Who are you,” Scott asked curiously.  He tried to look around, but he couldn’t lift his head from his chest.  Like his hands, it had grown too heavy for him to control.  He could only watch as the ground between his legs seemed to rush away from him, growing farther and farther away with each word that he spoke.

“You already know the answer to that,”  the other finally conceded.

“I do,” he asked softly.  His lips barely moved as the words passed over them, and even as the last word exited his mouth were his eyes slowly closing.

“I am the evil inside of you, manifested by your dreams and brought to life by your secret desires.  And you aren’t the first.  I have come to many others before you, such as James Holmes.  I have shared lives with Adam Lanza and Wesley Neal Higden.  My words have influence the likes of Robert A. Hawkins and Seung-Hui Cho.  

And now I have had Scot Vali.  People will speak of your actions for months to come, some in secret, others more openly.  Most will forget over time, but there will be one person who won’t be able to let go.  What has been done today will haunt them in their dreams.  It will chase them through their nightmares and it will open a door through which I will be able to once again enter.  

I am, and forever will be, the Omega, and I will feast upon the souls of millions before my time has come.”

Scott didn’t hear the last of the other’s words.  At six forty-seven in the evening, he silently passed away while leaning against the exterior to Dewie’s Drugstore, where he had once met with one of the most beautiful girls in his class and fantasized of smashing her face in with his bare hands.

~fin~

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XLIX)

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!

———

Scott landed on his back with a thud and the breath whooshed from his lungs.  He had heard Tommy threaten to kill him, but his voice swam through a haze of pain and agony so thick that it made him want to curl up into a ball and accept what was coming. The ‘other’ screamed madly in the back of his thoughts, jabbering insanely as a last ditch effort to get him motivated.

It was just enough, and as Tommy’s hands closed around his neck, he snapped back to reality.  He sucked in a huge breath just as his opponent’s hands began to tighten. He pummeled the stronger boy with his fists, raining blow after blow about his chest, arms and the side of his head.  Finally, his right fist struck solidly with the pulpy mess in the middle of his face and the jock screamed, quickly letting go to cover his face.

Scott reached down with his right hand and wrapped his fingers around the handle of his tanto.  He was at a disadvantage, however, as Tommy noticed the movement and punched him in the elbow.  The blow was well placed.  It slammed into a pocket of nerves and caused his hand to not only open, but to become numb and tingly.

He growled, wildly swinging with his left fist.  The blow was misplaced.  Though it connected with Tommy’s jaw, it did so with the knuckles of his last two fingers.  His voice matched the jock’s as they both cried out in pain, one due to the blow to the face, the other because of a broken finger.

Tommy slumped weakly to the side, allowing Scott enough time to struggle out from beneath him.  Fresh blood oozed down the front of his pants.  His breath wheezed through his bruised windpipe and he clutched his hand to his chest with a hurt look on his face.

“You broke my finger,” he accused the other.

“You bwoke my nothe,” Tommy screamed as he rose to his feet.

Scott took a step back, fearfully, as he suddenly realized that he might not have it in him to take him down.  His energy was waning, and even worse, he was slowly bleeding out.  As Tommy lunged for another attack, he did the only thing he could think of to stop him.  He punted the jock’s right knee.

The crack of breaking bone was deafening.  Tommy’s knee chicken-legged behind him before before completely giving out, effectively ending the football career of the young man.  Bone jutted through skin, blood gushed through clutching hands and the jock screamed in a falsetto voice so high that it hurt his ears.

“Shut him up,” the other commanded, speaking for the first time in hours.

He looked around frantically for something that would help him do just that.  In his panicked state, he had completely forgotten about the blades strapped to his waist. It would have been quicker to thrust one them through the other’s mouth, silencing him forever.  But that did not occur to him.  He, instead, did the only thing his mind allowed him to think of at the time.  He kicked the release on the jack.  The truck dropped to the ground with a thud and began to roll forward.

Tommy had become a screaming ball of pain and fury, clutching his shattered knee as he rocked back and forth on the ground.  It was this that prevented him from seeing the approaching ton of steel.

The truck pinned his right foot to the ground and slowly began to roll over him as it continued down the driveway.  The sound of breaking bones reminded Scott of a tree falling over and for the second time in an hour, he was sprayed by the blood of his victim.

The screaming ended when the truck crushed the other’s ribcage, but by then, Scott was already on the move.