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She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXX)

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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, what the hell are you doing,” Lucy shouted, awakened from the noise.

He continued to stand by the wall past the foot of the bed, where he pondered over his bleeding knuckles as if he hadn’t heard her. The injuries weren’t serious at first glance, the blood only trickled thickly down the the back of his hand, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he should be feeling some kind of pain.

“…huh,” he muttered.  “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” she screamed angrily.  Her voice began near a normal pitch and rose until it was loud enough to wake any dogs that might be sleeping nearby.  Scott winced slightly, but continued to stare at the back of his hand as if it were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen.

“You punched a hole through my WALL, and you call that…nothing?!”

“I wasn’t talking to you, you fat cow,” he replied indifferently.  His eyes looked in her direction for the first time since she spoke.  “And for God’s sake, cover those things up.  You look like you’re trying out for the next GILFS GONE WILD video.”

She sputtered, pulling her sheet up over her chest, as a hurt expression crossed over her features.

“GILFS,” she repeated slowly.  Realization finally dawned over her as to what he was meaning and the hurt was instantly replaced by rage.  “How, dare, you talk to me that way?!  After everything I’ve done for YOU?”

He chuckled softly as he lowered his hand and slowly approached her from the side of the bed he had recently vacated.

“Wha-  What are you doing,” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer, only reached down and collected something from the floor and, in one swift movement, launched it at her face. She screamed as she thought that he was attacking her, only to discover that he had only thrown her considerably sized brassiere.  By the time she removed the left cup from her face, he was opening the door from her room.

He was halfway out of the house when she caught up to him. He noted, with some satisfaction, that she had at least taken the hint he had left her with.

“You son of a bitch,” she shouted as she spun him around.  “I’ve done things for you that you wouldn’t have gotten from anyone else!”  Her right arm pumped once, quicker than he had been prepared to react to, and her fist connected solidly with the left side of his face.

He hadn’t been ready for the attack, but he didn’t lose his footing from it either.  His head followed the course of her swing as tears formed in the corners of his eyes.  This was the only reaction she got from him, and he slowly returned his terrible gaze upon her. His face was already beginning to swell where she had hit him and in a few days it would match the bruise on the other cheek. As his eyes fell upon her, she took a careful step away.

“…I said; Shut. Up…”

The other no longer spoke words he could understand.  It now chanted in another language, repeating the same few phrases over and over in his mind.  At first it was comforting.  It could have been the words of a shaman about to heal his patient, or of a priest about to deliver his prayer in Latin, but it had slowly grown in volume and fervor until it became a maddening cacophony of voices.

He shook his head back and forth so violently that from her perspective, there were blur lines in the space between each side that his face stopped.

“Scott,” she said more than asked.  Her voice had become child-like in her state of terror and the sweat over her thick frame had suddenly grown cold, sending chills down her spine and causing her to shiver ever so slightly.  “You’re scaring me.”

“Get. OUT,” he screamed.

His grabbed his head just above each ear, as if to hold it still, and leaned forward, groaning.

“…let…me…out…” he whispered softly.  This time when he spoke, it was his voice, but then it also was not.

She took another step backward as he began to struggle with himself.  He continued to clutch at the sides of his head as his body whipped violently back and forth.  It was as if he were wrestling for control over some unknown entity inside of him.

“NO,” he screamed as he slammed his head into the wall next to him.  She began to scream as his thick skull broke through the wall, and together, their voices filled a house which no other person currently inhabited.

The Box (Part XI)

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Oramiir walked through the eye of the storm, his robes rippling gently with each carefully placed step.  He walked in large strides, with his right hand horizontally clenched before him.  From afar, it might appear as if he were looking down the back of his forearm, lining up his path over his knuckles, but what one wouldn’t notice from any distance greater than five feet were the small crimson lines that ran out of either side of his fist.

Small drops of blood fell from his hand, but never reached the stone ground below. The sorcerer’s eyes glared over the back of his knuckles, deep in concentration as he focused on the magical dweomer from a ring on his middle finger.  As each crimson drop fell from his hand, he called forth the powerful magic to send the sticky substance far ahead of him, where its scent would drive the creatures into a maddened fervor, snarling with an insatiable lust for the blood that now seemed to be all around them.

The flow began to thicken and he sighed as the ring’s power finally exhausted.  For a few moments longer, he watched with a bemused expression as he hand shook wildly, before slowly lowering it to his side.  The dark arts of the blood magic were taking its toll on his body much sooner than he expected.  Even as he pondered this, the hourglass dipped before him, falling ever so slightly from where it had been hovering.

With a predatory grin, he watched a the last few sands fell from into the bottom of the container.  Quickly, he lifted his hand once more, opening it to catch the enchanted item as its magic also exhausted, causing it to fall to the ground.  Thankfully, his reflexes didn’t betray him and he caught it with ease.

In the same instant that the item’s power was no more, there came a low rumble of thunder as every item’s sound rushed back to their source.  The sounds moved so quickly that for a split second he felt as if it were that fateful moment before the heavens opened and the flood-rains came.

Though he knew he was alone, he was still momentarily startled when he found himself surrounded by the sounds of frenzied battle.  Elladuer’s battle cries dominated the sounds of the Destrachan, which were horrifying enough on their own, but he thought he could also hear the weak cries of the hobbit as well.

His lips curled even higher, lifting his cheeks and turning his features into a visage so terrible that to look upon it would send any lesser creatures fleeing at its sight.  As the battle began to wane, decidedly in the favor of the Destrachan, he threw his head back and cackled insanely.

From its hidden perch nearby, a large bat opened its eyes and watched distrustfully as the man passed beneath it.  It’s first instinct was to attack the creature that dared disturb its slumber, but the evil which radiated from him sent it fluttering down the tunnels in the opposite direction to seek a safer place to rest.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXIX)

Posted on by
Reply

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!

———

“Fucking bitch,” he muttered angrily.  His words were muffled and barely recognizable, as if he were speaking through a mouthful of cotton.  His hands shook with rage and from somewhere far away, he could hear the cold laughter of the ‘other’ mocking him.

It had only taken him a few minutes to get dressed.  He had done so carefully, without once removing is eyes from the enormous mound of flesh on the bed.  His heart hammered in his chest, pounded relentlessly in his ears and it was everything he could do to keep from betraying his actions with a careless gasp for air, but he was able to dress without so much as disturbing her.

He was hurt, on the inside as well out.

It seemed like it was so far away; that day when he sat across from her at Dewie’s Drugstore.  It had been like a dream come true.  Of course, he had known that she was there for a reason other than what he was thinking, but he had been unable to control his imagination.  She had been wearing a white, short-sleeved blouse that was obviously a couple of sizes too small.  It had clung against her skin, barely containing her bosom and he it was all he could do to keep his eyes from wandering too far down.

She had given him a friendly hug when he arrived, but he had been powerless to return it.  His arms remained limply at his side, while other parts of him did not, and he would still feel her skin against his for many nights to come.

And it was that look in her eyes.  After she had stopped Tommy from putting him in the hospital that day, she had thrown him a single, flirting glance before they were gone. Her smile had been like the sun, and combined with the effect of the one playful finger at her lips, he had thought there had been a promise of something more.

“Fat fucking Lucy Winters,” he had screamed afterwards.  How his chest had ached! As he sped away on his bike, it had barely contained the remnants of his broken heart and he would have been none the better had Tommy just flattened him instead of pulling abruptly before him.

“More like Crazy Fucking Lucy Winters,” he growled.

He couldn’t believe he had been so gullible.  Not only was she a complete and utter tease, but she was no better than the shitbag that she was dating.  She came at him, trying to be his friend, but in reality…

“Oh get over it already,” the other whispered from his thoughts.

…she was setting him up.  It wasn’t enough that they talked about him behind his back. They couldn’t simply be happy continuing to stare and laugh at him every time he walked by.  Apparently, even the occasional ass-kicking was no longer any fun!  Even worse, it was probably her idea.  Only a woman would think of a way to completely destroy her enemy; heart, mind and soul.

“…don’t ignore me Scottie.  I’m the only friend you’ve got.”

He stood silently across the room, lost his in his thoughts and staring at the sleeping form before him.  His skin crawled as he remembered the feel of her against him.  His skin was still damp from the light sweat that coated her, and smelled faintly of sweat and stale Fritos.

He felt like he was going to be sick.

“Some friend,” he countered silently.  “Do you really think that there’s any way in hell I would have stayed after what she did to me?”

“Do you think you would have gotten what she did to you from anywhere else,” it answered sarcastically.

“SHUT UP,” he screamed.  He raised his right hand, balled it into a fist and punched it through the wall next to him.  The effect would have been no less devastating had he swung a hammer at the wall instead.  The plaster gave beneath the force of his blow, folding inward and belching a light cloud of dust around his wrist.