She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XLVI)

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!

———

The shadows from the den chased him as he fled through the tunnel.  There was only silence where he came from.  No more crying, no begging, only the absolute of nothing.  He could feel the ground falling out from beneath him, crumbling away into the void of his mind where everything else he knew had gone.  He would not be returning here, not later, nor tomorrow.  This part of his life was forever gone.

The young man who birthed from the tunnel’s exit was the living definition of his last name and there was only one purpose for him in this existence.  He slowly crawled into the dim light of evening, cautious of anyone who might detect him, and carefully sealed the exit behind him.

With a sigh, he looked to west.  In the end of every story he enjoyed, the hero always rode off into the sunset.  There was never any conclusion.  It was implied that said person moved on to face a new evil.  But this was no story, and he was no hero.  He knew there would be no celebration for the acts he had committed.  Nobody would cheer for the death of those who had fallen before him and in a few years, nobody would even remember his name.

It didn’t matter.  His was a life of neglect.  His father had left for selfish reasons, leaving him to deal with the first feelings of being unloved.  Soon after, his mother had taken on extra hours in order to maintain the bills.  He had rarely seen her over the years and when he did, she only treated him as if he was still the same age as when ‘he’ had left.

Megan was usually in charge while she was gone and he didn’t mind at first because she had left him alone.  But as the days stretched into weeks, she began to deal with her feelings by aggressively taking them out on him.  It started with an occasional jab here and there.  Even this wasn’t so bad, just the usual sort of brother/sister stuff, but it soon grew into something more humiliating.  She began to tease him in front of her friends.

She taunted him with barbed words meant to draw him into argument and when he flushed with anger, when he couldn’t form an intelligible come-back, she struck.  She was cold, she treated him as if she hated his very existence and at times, she seemed to enjoy it.

He had thought things changed on that day that Tommy had run into him with his truck.  He remembered lying on the porch, each facing another direction with their heads side by side, and talking as if there was nothing bad between them.  It was a dream.  It had to have been.  One shining light in the darkness because there had been the possibility of him getting laid?

A deep, feral growl made its way from his core as he thought about how false it had been.  Just as he had promised her in the basement, after that day, she had gone back to the being the Supreme Queen of all Bitches.

“Noo,” he moaned.  He was wrong!

He shook his head, trying to clear the darkness from between his ears, but it wouldn’t let go.  It was firmly rooted and would not be budged from where it feasted on food so rich.  For a moment, he felt his stomach clench.  It was the second time in an hour, but this time it was a memory that threatened to evacuate the acid and bile that had built up inside of him.

Even at his breaking point, he had still felt regret.  For nearly a week, he had cowered in his room thinking that he had crushed her head in the refrigeration door, then later buried her in the soil where Tippy lay hidden.  He didn’t know if it was love that caused these feelings, but there was some part of him that held onto it as tightly as it could.

“Whoa!  Get a load of this loser!”

The words yanked him back into reality as sure as a smack to the face.  Since leaving the hidden exit to the tunnel, he had been running.  His mind had retreated into itself while the ‘other’ guided him to his final location and he hadn’t been aware of where he was until this very moment.  He had come to be downtown, in an alley which was behind some of the less reputable establishments.  He had walked through here a dozen times during the day.  He had even rode his bike down here in the early morning, but never had he come when the bars and dance clubs were actually open.

Before him were two older men, one dressed in leather, the other wearing only a t-shirt and jeans.  They easily could have been bikers, and perhaps they had such transportation in front of the building, but here they were only a couple of people in his way.

“Damn,” the man in the t-shirt said.  “When did the Renaissance Festival come to town?”

Scott rested his left hand on the pommel of the wakazashi, carefully judging the distance between them and himself.  They had been leaning against the wall of The Bouncing Bunny, a gentleman’s club where he heard a dollar went a long way, when he had realized where he was.  Now, they walked three feet apart, filled the alley and blocking his passage as they approached.

“Move,” he barked.  His voice was firm, threatening, and it promised an outcome that wasn’t peaceful.

“Or what,” the man in leather asked with a laugh.

“Are you going to poke us with your little knives,” the other added.  As he spoke, he lunged toward Scott, reaching for the latter’s shoulders in an attempt to secure his arms against his sides.  It was something he had done dozens of times against older, larger men, and certainly something that should have worked on someone younger, but he didn’t understand the deadliness of the situation.  He only saw the person that was there before him.

Scott stepped quickly to the side.  As if it were one movement, his hand also drew the blade from its saya and into the air.  The action was impossibly quick, and certainly much easier than he expected it to be.  The blade of his flea market bargain passed through the man’s wrists cleanly, dropping his hands to the ground and sending two geysers of blood flying through the air.

With a snap of his wrist, he redirected the blade and sent it into the man’s mouth, widening it well beyond the point of his largest yawn and ending his life before he could even begin to scream.  The blade briefly caught against the back of his throat, but as the body dropped to its knees, its head flipped backward one hundred and eighty degrees, freeing it from its fleshy prison.

Scott placed his right hand on the bottom half of the sword’s handle and turned the blade before his eyes so that he was looking across it at the remaining attacker.  Or was he a victim?  Did it matter?

He narrowed his eyes and adjusted his stance as the other continued his approach. The man in leather was screaming, but he couldn’t hear him.  He could only hear the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.  He couldn’t see him.  He could only see the face of Tommy leering back at him.

The man in leather had drawn a switchblade at some point and led his attack with it in his right hand.  He was fast, much faster than Scott, and the blade got past his guard.  Unfortunately for the biker, he came in at an angle, rather than with a thrust.  If he had only thrust, he might have stood a chance.  The blade glanced off of the chain links, the impact jolting it loose from his grasp, and he stumbled.

The wakazashi shot up into the air and before the other could turn around, it took the man’s left arm off at the shoulder.  It fell to the ground with a meaty thump.  Scott flinched as the blood sprayed from the man’s shoulder, covering him from his face to his belt-line in the seconds that followed.  The other screamed, but only once before he lost consciousness.  Scott didn’t know it, but he was dead with-in minutes of closing his eyes.

He was at the end of the alley when he heard the screams behind him.

“Damn,” he spat, but the other only wallowed in the adrenaline rush that coursed through his veins.  He may have been discovered, but it wasn’t over by a long shot.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XLV)

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 lunged across the room, closing the distance between himself and Megan, and clamped his left hand across her mouth.  She continued to scream until the air was exhausted from her lungs.  He listened with his head turned to the side as he tried to determine if she had alerted those who were upstairs.  Content that nobody was the wiser, he turned his attention back on his sister, who was beginning to struggle for lack of air.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled through his teeth.  “Do you understand me?  Shut.  Up.” He fought to remain in control.  With the other so close to his consciousness, he knew that the outcome of this confrontation could be deadly if he allowed himself to fantasize.

She nodded emphatically, her eyes silently begging him to let off.  Slowly he did and was immediately sorry for being so close to her when he did.  Her breath reeked of vomit and the acrid smell of her stomach acids burnt his nose, causing his own stomach to clench in protest.

“…y-your,” she sputtered weakly.  She was looking upward as she began to speak, but her words were seized upon by a series of sharp coughs.  The corners of her eyes filled with tears of pain, and when he only looked at her in puzzlement did she lift her right hand and point toward the top of his head.

He reached up and quickly ran his hand over his head, through his hair, around his ears and down the back of his neck, but felt nothing there.

“What the hell’s wrong with you,” he barked.  “There’s nothing there.”

She still hadn’t regained control of her breath and could only manage to shake her head back and forth as she continued to cough and gasp.  She only redirected her finger from where she was pointing, to a small mirror that was positioned over the mantle where his sword collection rested.

He turned and took steps which seemed to be heavier than they should have been, watching as the mirror slowly drew closer.  He watched with dread, his mind taunting him as it would in a dream by making the distance seem much further than it actually was.  Some part of him knew what was going to be on the other side of the reflective glass, but he had to see it for himself.

He didn’t recognize the person looking back at him.  He was much older, much more tired looking than he remembered himself looking.  There were lines under his eyes, and his skin had grown haggard.  Most shocking was his hair.  It had turned completely white!

“Sonofabitch,” he whispered in awe.  “Would you look at that?  I mean, just look at it.”

He giggled after the words were spoken.  The apparition before him was truly terrifying, but his words only reminded him of a YouTube meme he had watched in a past lifetime.

“What’s happening to you,” Megan sobbed from behind him.

“I’m dying,” he answered quietly.  It was weird saying it, but he knew it was true.  He should have died a long time ago, and had it not been for his dark passenger he would have.  He knew that he should feel something; loss, regret, anything, but there was only emptiness.

Ironically, the words seemed to strike his sister more sharply.  His sister, who had tormented him for years, who had called him names and belittled him in front of all her friends.  The words crushed her, sending her spiraling into a hole of loss so great that she crumbled to the ground, clutching her small frame as if to hold it together from the sobs which shook it.

It was several minutes before he spoke again.  In the silence that followed his last words, he had begun to arm himself.  There wasn’t much that he needed, his hands touched more than he strapped on, but in the end it was the two weapons he valued the most.

“What are you going to do?”

He slowly turned to regard her.  She sat with her back against the door, which he noticed had been left unlocked after she entered, watching him with an expression that was part fear, part wonder.  As she usually does at home, she was wearing yoga pants and a tank top.  Her hair was in a ponytail, but there were loose strands here and there, and her face was streaked by tears and mascara.

“I’m going out for a while, twerp,” he said with a sarcastic grin.

“B-but…”

“No butts but yours kiddo,” he said laughingly.  “This is the end of the road for me.  There’s no place for annoying sisters, where I’m going.”

He turned and began to walk towards the hidden door, but was stopped by her hand on his shoulder.  She had leapt to her feet to stop him, and now wrapped her arms around him from behind, holding onto him tightly.

“I’m scared,” she cried into his back.  “You’re scaring me, bro.”

He reached down and gently removed her arms from his waist, turning around to regard her with a thoughtful expression on his face.  He noted that her tank top stuck to her skin, saturated by his blood, and it occurred to him that there wouldn’t be very much time for him to finish what he was doing if she was discovered like this.

“Over by the TV,” he said as he gestured to where he kept his video games, “there’s a t-shirt of mine.  Do me a favor and put it on after I leave.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” she argued.

“It’s too late for me,” he answered firmly.  “And besides, what are you really losing?  A brother, or someone for you to put down when you’ve had a bad day?”

“You’re all, all, all I’ve g-g-got,” she sobbed.  “Y-y-you and M-m-mooom!”

He sighed, shaking his head at her sudden show of sentiment.  It was unusual to him, now, and it did very little to move him.  A long time ago, before any of this ever began, there was a chance that he might have enjoyed such attention.  But now?  It meant nothing.  Even if he allowed himself to fall for it, even IF he didn’t get caught for what he had done, she would never be this good to him for very long.  It wouldn’t take long before she went back to being the bitch he had come to know and hate.

“I’m already gone, Megan,” he said coldly.

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than when her hand had connected across it with a resounding “Smack!”

His head turned to the side from the force of the blow, and as she stood there watching for a reaction, he slowly turned his head back to face her.  She took a step back as his murderous eyes locked onto hers, and her hands covered her trembling lips.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped quickly, instantly regretting what she had done.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XLIV)

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!

———

The room was exactly as he expected it to be, dark and undisturbed.  The door to the basement remained locked from the inside and only a battering ram was going to bring it down.  He slowly pushed the false wall open, careful not to let the hinges squeal.  There were at least two people in the house.  He could hear their voices through the floor, but it didn’t matter who they belonged to anymore. His mother? Megan?  The police?  They were all just faceless shadows to him.  He only wanted to finish what he had started.

His movements were slow and deliberate.  He wasn’t trying to be quiet.  There was enough activity on the floor above him to cover any small sounds that he might make. He crept across the room because at that moment the ‘other’ faltered.  He felt its will slip away, leaving him completely vulnerable to the death creeping outward from his injury.  He felt every ripple of his shirt, every grain of dirt beneath his feet and for the first time since watching Lucy go over the balcony, he wondered just what the hell it was that he was doing.

“Uhn,” he groaned for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Scott?”

He froze.  The voice came from the other side of the door to the basement.  It was whispered so softly that if his senses hadn’t been so finely strung, he might have missed it.

“Scott, please!  Open the door!”

He recognized her the second time, and if he didn’t act quickly, her voice was going to alert those above them.

“Are you alone,” he asked.  His voice was gravelly, foreign to his ears and he couldn’t recognize it to what he knew he should sound like.

“Yes,” she answered.  The relief was apparent in her voice.  For the first time since they were children, he sensed that she was genuinely worried.  As his hand settled on the lock, he paused and repeated his last question.

“Yes, yes dammit!  Now please open the door,” she begged.

Seconds passed as he waited for any sign of the other to reappear and when he was convinced that there would be no interruptions, he flipped the latch.  The door all but knocked him back as she shoved her way through and into his arms, catching him as he began to collapse.

“Oh Scott, I’m so sorry,” she blubbered.  A spew of words flew from her mouth about how she saw what happened to Lucy on the news and about how she was sorry for being such a bitch to him over the years.  Any other person might have missed most of what she said, so fast were the words as she spoke them, but he heard every single one.  As she sobbed into his shoulder, he looked over hers with cold indifference.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, stepping back from him.  Her shirt peeled away from his bloody abdomen with a wet, sticky slurp.  With the other gone, his wound had begun bleeding again in earnest.

“Oh my GOD,” she shrieked.  Her voice was so high that it barely made a noise and her hands shot to her mouth as she turned, bent over and threw up next to the door.

Scott looked down and noticed that the blood had caused a patch of duct tape to peel away from his stomach.  A small length of his intestine was beginning to peek its way out of the wound, pulsing in and out of his body every beat of his heart.  As before, he shrugged and pushed it back in, pushing the tape back over to help keep it in.

As she continued to retch against the wall, he turned and walked over to the table where his project still lay and looked down at it with the tender affection that a mother would afford her newborn babe.  Slowly, his hand reached down and caressed the cold steel beneath his fingers as he trembled with exaltation from its touch.

“Scott?”  Megan hadn’t moved from where she still hunkered with her hands supporting her against her knees.  Her voice was scratchy and trembled as if the effort of speaking was yet too much.

“Scott,” she asked again when no answer was forthcoming.

“What.”  It wasn’t a question, but rather, more of a pained grunt.

“What happened at Lucy’s house?  What happened, Scott,” she asked fearfully.

“She stabbed me Megan.  She took this knife,” he said as he pulled the butcher knife from where he had it hidden, “and she plunged it into my stomach.”  As he spoke, he thrust the knife in her direction for emphasis.

“But…but, why?!”

“Because I threw her off a balcony,” he answered coldly.

Silence filled the room as he lifted the chainmail shirt off of the table and pulled it over his head.  The pain was excruciating, but as the weight began to settle on his shoulders, the ‘other’ also settled back into his nervous system.  As his head popped through the opening at the top, a dark, malevolent laughter erupted from core of his being and the suddenness of it caused Megan to scream.