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.

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.