She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXVII)

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!

———

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.

“Uhn…”

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.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXXVI)

Posted on February 14, 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!

———

“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.

The Box (Part XVIII)

Posted on February 12, 2014 by R. Richardsson

His thoughts grew calm as the dragon reared itself up before him. It’s cunning eyes regarded him beneath the scaled ridges of its brow-line. Even as the dragon was deciding how it would best enjoy the morsel before it, he was mentally summoning all of his energy for a preemptive strike.

This creature was an ancient Red and he could feel the power emanating from its core. It was unlike anything he could have ever dreamed of, which terrified and excited him at the same time. If only he could convince it to spare him! If only it would listen!

His hands began a subtle dance at his sides as they warmed up the spell his mouth and veins would soon unleash.

The spell was something he had created especially for this moment. Much like the Ward vs. Red Dragon’s breath, it was something that would give him enough of an edge as to hopefully gain the upper hand.

Malifgorranaka spread its wings outward in such a way that if it were a man, he would think that it were preparing to hug him. His entire field of vision became a sea of red as the dragon god surrounded him with its body, and the as he began the first incantations to the spell, it lowered its head before him.

His eyes widened as he was suddenly face to face with teeth that were nearly as long as he was tall. The wyrm’s breath stank of decomposing flesh, but even when he noticed the fleshy remnants of an arm lodged between two of the ivory spears he did not falter.

“MALTH’ORN, AUK MALTH’UN!”

Even as he sliced the veins in his right arm, thus releasing the last component of the spell, was the dragon countering with magic of its own. He watched helplessly as his five reddish-green arrows were snuffed back out of existence.

From across the cavern, another set of eyes watched as the battle between sorcerer and dragon unfolded.