She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXVI)

Posted on February 14, 2014 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!

———

“Billy! Get the hell in here NOW!”

B.J.’s father was drunk. He was always drunk, and tonight would be no different. He had come home from work early with a case of Old Deerwalker, a cheap beer common to the area. This had been just after sundown and there was now a respectable pyramid of empty cans forming on the coffee table.

“Damn it Robert! I told you to call me B.J.,” the young man retorted.

This brought on a fit of derisive laughter from the elder Jameson, whom had never approved of nicknames, which lasted until it had stolen his breath. He was doubled over and gasping for air when B.J. entered the small living room. His father sat on the only piece of furniture they had, a shit brown recliner which had seen its better share of days. By the looks of it, its best days were long gone.

“Okay, Bee-Jay,” he slowly enunciated. “What’s that supposed to stand for; Blow Job? Are you a faggot, boy? You been giving that Tommy feller hummers in his truck, have you?”

Robert stood up slowly, grasping onto the arm of the recliner to steady himself as he did and he locked eyes with his son. His own stared down at the young man with a look of cruel contempt, as if he had already made up his mind to the answer.

“Damn it, do we have to do this tonight,” B.J. questioned in exasperation.

“I ain’t having no queers in my house,” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips with each slurred word.

“I’ve told you that I’m not like that! I’ve banged my share of girls,” he argued, somewhat lamely.

Robert Peppers wasn’t going to have it, his mind was indeed, already made up. He led with his right arm, and though he was very intoxicated, his reflexes were still fast enough to catch B.J. off his guard. His fist connected solidly beneath the left eye socket, turning his son’s head violently to the right and causing it to rebound off of the wall. It didn’t take more than one punch to get the effect he was looking for, the younger man was already slumping to the floor.

“Goddamn pussy-faggot,” he spat vehemently. “I’ll show you what hap-”

His words were suddenly halted by a sharp pain in his right side. At first, it felt like he had been stung by a wasp, and for the second time in several minutes he found himself at a loss for breath. His eyes widened, however, when the pain suddenly amplified. Whatever had stung him suddenly turned inside of him! Slowly, he looked down as a bloodied hand yanked a long blade from between his ribs.

“But, you said to leave it in…” a weakened voice protested from beyond his vision.

“We’ll be fine,” the same voice answered, but this time more willfully. And he wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected a foreign accent to it this time? He looked up, his intoxicated body turning towards his unknown attacker, but not fast enough. A line of fire drew itself across his neck, cutting deep enough to several both of his jugular veins. He felt the strength drain from his legs and he watched helplessly as the floor rushed up to greet him. It was the last thing he ever saw, but not the last thing he heard.

Robert Peppers sped into Hell only minutes before his son, whose death he experienced through his ears as his brain slowly died from oxygen deprivation.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXV)

Posted on February 9, 2014 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!

———

From a distance, one would be hard pressed to guess that there was anything wrong with the slow moving figure. Sure, it seemed to carefully weigh each step before it was taken, but it was a sight that was not all that uncommon to those who frequented the night. At this hour, it was the stragglers wandering home from the bar, or the party-goers left behind by their friends . It was the working women on wobbly legs, or it was the unfortunate ones who called the streets their home. The streets were filled with all types of nightlife, the kind that nobody gave a second glance, and so it would be for the pale young man whose steps faltered more often than not. Nobody stopped to offer him assistance when he fell, not once, but twice to the ground. Had anyone looked closely as their headlights passed over him, things might have turned out differently. They would have seen the object protruding from his abdomen, an object that was surrounded by an ever growing crimson stain.

But it was not to be. Even though it is a peaceful city by day, All Saints has one of the most dangerous scenes in the night life. When the veil of darkness falls, there are those who would wear it like a shroud, protecting them as they conducted their unlawful activities. There was a rich history of violence, from arson to unsolved murders and very few people dared to brave the outdoors after hours. Those who did knew better than to let their gaze linger upon those who crossed their path.

The shadows covered the young man, concealing him with their protective embrace. They welcomed him into their fold, for he was a being after their own. The bleeding had slowed and eventually stopped. His clothing was stuck to his skin where the blood had saturated it, with each labored step making a tearing sound as it slowly peeled away from him. He would speak softly, only to be answered by another shortly after.

“Why did they do this to me?”

“They were never your friends Scott. Have you forgotten what they did to you that day?”

“N-no…” His voice trailed off slowly as he thought back to what the other was referencing. He remembered how they had walked behind him, poking fun at his clothes and shoving him with increasing aggression.

“But she… She stopped it, didn’t she?”

“What, you think that she’s your friend? What do you think is going to happen, that you’re going to get all up in that when she breaks it off with him? Did you forget that it was her who set you up with the fucking cunt who did this?!”

His expression remained unchanged as he talked. He could have been listening to a program from an app on his phone, for all that anyone could tell, but when his right hand suddenly reached up and swatted the handle of the butcher knife, he yelped in pain.

“What did you do that for?”

“To get your head out of your ass. We’ve gone over this a dozen times since you left that fat farm, and frankly, I’m getting tired of dealing with your shit.”

“What if I…”

“…don’t make it? I won’t let that happen. Trust me. You should have been dead a long time ago.”

Hot tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he finally accepted what the other was telling him. They burned against his skin, the last reminder of the humanity he was leaving behind.

“Look. We’re here.”

He lifted his gaze, until now unaware of where he had been walking. He stood at the end of cracked sidewalk, worn from years of abuse from the sun above and from roots below. At the other end stands a poor excuse for a home, also worn by the years. It has had many repairs, but each only out of necessity. It was obvious to anyone looking at it that its appearance wasn’t important. The repairs had been done with whatever material was readily accessible; doors, barn-wood, tin most likely found at the landfill… Here was a house that met the meager needs of its occupants, but only to protect them from the elements.

“Wha,” he started to ask, confused.

“His dad rides the radio waves.”

“So?”

“Oh goddamit, do I have to explain everything for you?”

He didn’t ask, nor did the other need to continue. He did indeed know why he was here.

Here was the beginning of the end.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXIV.2)

Posted on January 24, 2014 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 took her several minutes before she realized what had startled her from her slumber. In its cradle on the nightstand, her phone continued to drone on without any regard to her comfort. She rolled onto her side and blinked her eyes several times until she was able to read the display on her digital clock.

“Uhg… One twenty-six,” she groaned miserably. She had lost track of how many times the phone had rang since waking her up; was it ten? Twenty? She wasn’t entirely sure, but what she was sure of was that whoever was on the other end of the line had better have a damn good reason for waking her up!

She reached out with her right hand and snatched the handset from the receiver, but when she saw the name on the Caller ID, she paused before pressing the TALK button.

“Misty?”

“Megan! Turn on your TV.”

“What,” she asked with a hint of irritation in her voice. “Do you have any fucking idea what time it is?”

“Just turn it on you skeeve,” the voice pleaded from deep with-in the speaker. As she reached for the remote, she wondered what could have shaken her friend so badly as to wake her with such a strange request. She pointed the remote toward her small twenty-seven inch screen and pressed power.

It was an older model television. While she did have a part-time job, she preferred to increase the size of her wardrobe rather than spend her money on anything other than her cellphone and gas for her car.

“Okay, it’s on,” she dead-panned into the microphone. “Now what.”

“Turn it to the News,” Misty begged. Her voice was thick with emotion and she sounded as if she had been crying.

“Dammit. Can’t you just tell me what’s going on?!”

“It’s Lucy,” she sobbed.

“Scott’s Lucy,” she asked in confusion. Even as she spoke, she was flipping the channel over the All Saints Action News on Channel 6. The screen depicted a reporter standing sideways, looking towards the front of Lucy Winters’ house, where EMT’s could be seen wheeling a gurney out the front door. Several police cars could be seen parked in the street and A.S.P.D.’s finest were combing the scene for evidence.

“Oh my god,” she said breathlessly. The reporter was positioned at least thirty feet away, behind the yellow tape, but she could see that they had pulled the sheet over the face of the victim. It wasn’t hard to discern that the form beneath the sheet was Lucy. She could see a strange shape jutting upwards, beneath the sheet and from the body’s midsection, which was also the source of a growing red stain.

“Oh my god,” she repeated, also in tears at this time.

“I know, right?”

The reporter didn’t have very much in the way of useful information to offer, other than at this time it looked as if she was the victim of a home invasion. Details were being kept tight under wraps while they sought out possible suspects for questioning.

They cried into each other’s ears for several minutes, and it was after several more minutes of silence before either was able to speak.

“She looked HUGE on that stretcher, didn’t she,” Misty finally asked.

“Shut UP,” Megan drawled, followed by a light chuckle.

“Oh, too soon, huh.”

“You’re such a bitch Misty. Seriously.”

It suddenly dawned on her that her brother had gone out earlier that evening.

“Oh shit, Misty. Did they say anything about anyone else being in the house?!”

“No. Why?”

“I think Scott might be over there! Hold on, let me call you back.”

“Uh, okay?”

She had only heard the first half of her friend’s response before tossing the phone onto the other side of her bed. She was up in a flash, flying down the hall to the other side of the house where her brother’s room was. She was conscious of her feet slapping against the wooden floor. She could hear her breath as it whistled in through her nose and blasted out through her mouth. Her heart drummed in her ears, playing a beat of terror more primal than anything she listened to on the radio.

She could see his door, still an impossible twenty feet away, with its ‘Stay Out’ and ‘No Entry’ signs warning her against entry. The hallway stretched about before her as if in a dream, growing longer with every stride. From somewhere in the distance, it may have been downstairs or from a hundred miles away, she heard the sound of a door slamming.

“Scott,” a female voice called from downstairs. It sounded like her mom, but it couldn’t have been her. She was pulling a double shift tonight.

“Scott?!”

“Mom,” she called out in return.

“Megan! Have you seen Scott?” Her voice was getting closer. She was running up the stairs, even as Megan was running down the hall and as she passed by them, she turned and saw her on the landing below. She was out of breath, doubled over with her hands on her knees and gasping for some much needed oxygen.

“Mom,” she said thickly.

“I know honey,” she answered weakly. “He’s not answering his phone.”

Megan turned and closed the distance between the stairs and her brother’s room, sliding to a stop before his door. Her hands were pounding on the wood frame even before she had finished moving, alternating between knocking and trying to turn the knob. The latter effort was useless, however, for he never left the door unlocked.

“Scott, open the fucking door,” she screeched in panic.

Her mother was right behind her and soon joined in her efforts. Both women were in tears. It wasn’t long before each sought out the comfort of the other and they were in each other’s arms, faces buried in the other’s shoulder and crying uncontrollably.