She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXIV)

Posted on August 4, 2013 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!

———

“Hey Scott,” Arnie said in greeting. “Is it alright if I sit here?”

Scott was sitting at a small table on the second level of the library. He had picked this spot because it was near the periodicals and was normally secluded, but somehow luck just wasn’t going to be with him this afternoon. Though he had his books spread out over the table, Arnie seemed content to fill in the piece of the pie he had left bare.

“I guess,” he answered with a sigh.

Arnold plopped down in the chair across from him and steepled his fingers, studying him. Scott looked up from his book, slowly, when he felt the other’s eyes upon him.

“What?”

“Nothing! You look different, is all.”

Arnie smiled and pushed his glasses higher up his nose.

“Why don’t you take a picture then? Write a book or something, shit, but quit staring at me. What’s your problem anyway?”

“I thought maybe you could use someone to talk to.”

“And what makes you think that I want to talk to you, Arnold? Does this look like the kind of place that someone goes to when they want to have a friendly little chat? For that matter, when did we suddenly become friends?”

Arnold continued to remain unfazed by the obvious hints he left for him and he was losing his patience. He had chosen this spot as a place where he could recharge his mental batteries. This is where he came to study, to enjoy a new book and to prepare himself for the labors of having to deal with people during the second half of the day. What he didn’t want to do was spend it with someone who was beneath him, in the long line of bullied victims.

“Why do you care so much about how I’m feeling all the sudden?”

“People are talking, Scott, and I AM concerned. I know what it’s like to not have any friends. I’ve been doing this for years, but you… You’ve gotten yourself into something that’s on an entirely different level.”

“I don’t really give a rat’s ass WHAT people are saying, Arnie, I never have. So, you’re like the king turd when it comes to not having friends or something? You may not have noticed, but I don’t exactly have any friends myself.”

Arnold looked at him with something that was a bit more like pity than he was comfortable with and he began to feel something clawing at him from the inside. The ‘other’ was suckling on his his rage, growing stronger from the pure emotion that was pumping in his veins and he viciously ground his teeth together as he fought to keep ‘him’ at bay.

Arnie sighed, rather sadly, and lowered his hands to the table.

“We’re not too different, you and I…”

“…more so then you’ll ever know…”

“…just trying to offer you friendship, when everybody else only offers disdain.”

He had missed some of what Arnie said, when the ‘other’ spoke, but it didn’t make that much of a difference. He was able to fill in what was missing. A part of him wanted to accept the offer on the table, but at the same time, another part of him was reminded of what had happened in his kitchen.

Images of Tippy flashed through his thoughts; of him standing outside with a shovel, burying her beneath the Maple tree. He was reminded of the night when he had fantasized about killing his sister, and, of how he had thought it was real. His heart ached as he battled with memories of his most recent visit to Lucy’s house.

She had been so sweet at first. She had payed for their first date, and afterwards, gone down on him in the car. It was the first time he had ever been with a girl, in any capacity, and it had felt so good that he was instantly trapped in her web. She continued to do things to, and for, him over the next several days. Until…

”You’re going to learn something about me, Scott…”

With Lucy, he had found himself with a whole new set of problems. Friendship? He barely had enough to offer himself anymore, let alone to give to someone new.

“I don’t think so,” he finally admitted.

Arnie shrugged, a gesture which was innocent enough but strummed dangerously on his last nerve, and stood up to leave.

“If you won’t accept MY friendship, Scott, when all I am offering is someone you can talk to…” He let the thought trail off and looked at him for a few minutes longer, as if waiting for him to suddenly change his mind.

“Just so you know,” he said as he was leaving, “the offer’s always on the table.”

“About fucking time,” the ‘other’ said as he leapt to the front of his consciousness, “I thought we were going to have to push him over the railing in order to shut him up!”

Scott succumbed to the will of the ‘other’, who had become considerably stronger over the last few weeks, and it would be hours before he would escape from his dark prison.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XXIII)

Posted on August 3, 2013 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!

———

“Oh my God,” he screamed. “What have I done?”

The kitchen had suddenly become filled with a cacophony of high pitched screams, so loud that his ears rang. The sound emanated from just inches before him, at his feet, from the terrified dog now trapped between the bottom of the door and the floor. Her hind legs had been broken in no less than two places. When the door had sucked them out from under her, there had been several miniature explosions as the bones shattered.

The madman in his mind had retreated, for now, and he was left alone to share the terror that she was experiencing.

“Ohgodohgodohgodpleasebequiet,” he machine gunned out. The words flew over his lips, a futile prayer for the horrible action he had just committed. There was going to be no answer from above, nor was there going to be one from within either. He was alone and he was going to pay for what he had done.

“Shut up, goddamn you, I need to think,” he shouted.

The sound of his voice only spurred the poor creature on, however, as she began jerking her upper body into pantomime sit-ups. He looked on in horror as blood began to pool out from the injury in her right leg, mixing with the original reason for her pawing at the door in the first place. His nose burned from the smell, and his stomach lurched.

From somewhere outside, he could hear someone calling in the distance;

“Hello?” and “It sounds like someone’s killing her!” wafted into his range of hearing. His heart jumped into his throat, a portal which had only moments ago threatened to become the emergency exit from his stomach, and he dropped to his knees before her. Tippy snarled, nipping madly as he moved his hands closer, and was silenced when he closed them around her muzzle.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed as he clamped down tighter, restricting her airway, “there’s no other way!”

Her eyes began to bulge as she realized what he was doing, and her struggles increased as she fought against him. Another stream of urine shot out from…

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden blow to the back of his head.

“I SAID,” Lucy said with emphasis, “PLEASE get me a drink from the KITCHEN!” She paused, taking a deep breath and glaring at him beneath her furrowed brow. “You’re going to learn something about me, Scott. I don’t like to repeat myself. And, if you want to keep getting ‘it’, then you are going to have to get the hang of things around here.”

Resigned, he jumped up and walked quickly to her kitchen.

It was going to be a long night.

The Box (Part VI)

Posted on July 31, 2013 by R. Richardsson

Oramiir walked calmly through the darkness as if he had been in these tunnels a hundred times over. He preferred it to the magical light of the elf’s armor as well as over the other’s company; the shadows held all the comfort as an old cloak to him.

Much like his companions, he too had the ability to see through the veil of darkness. While each of his companion’s races were blessed at birth with varying strengths of night vision, his was granted upon him by a magical ring.

Safe from their prying eyes, he pushed his hood back onto his shoulders. Had they been able to see him, they would have seen that his head was completely shaven and covered with tattoos. Only a few were for decoration, most having been magically etched into his flesh to offer him various forms of protection. In the center of his forehead is the tattoo of a closed eye, that, when unwanted attention is drawn upon him, opens to reveal a dark blue orb. Once its gaze falls upon the subject whose attention he does not want, its power would activate; causing the subject to be unable to remember any details about him except for in their dreams.

A dark patch covered the empty socket where his right eye should have been, protecting it from infection or worse. He had recently removed his eye to use as a spell component, for a ritual which would allow him to ‘see’ the location of an oft forgotten artifact; The Eye of Necrodemus.

While it was true that the eye had once belonged to the most unholy Lich God, he found himself more interested in the powers that it might still hold, vs. the petty little details of its history. His only desire was to find more powerful magic than the land had seen in centuries.

“Oramiir? Please, do enter.”

For only the second time in the twenty years that he had served under his master, he entered the one room which was off limits to him; the study of Archmage Terranyr. The first time he had crossed the door’s threshold had been the day he had entered into his apprenticeship. Little had changed in the room, except, if it were possible, there was more books now than opposed to his previous visit.

The study encompassed the entire top floor of the tower, taking on its circular shape. The walls had been made into a continuous bookshelf that began on one side of the door and ended at the other. There were no windows, but light poured in from several small vent openings near the ceiling. In the center of the room is his mentor’s desk, an oak monstrosity which he could lay, beside himself twice, upon and still have room to spare. Every inch of the desk was covered with various beakers, bowls full of spell ingredients, piles of books in which the Archmage recorded his studies and various other mysteries.

He stood just inside the door frame his mouth slightly agape as he marveled at the mountain of power before him. He had no doubts that most of the books contained the results of his mentor’s magical studies, spells and experiments, but it was the other items in the room that made his mouth water. Various pedestals, clothing and weapon racks were placed decoratively around the floor, though one would have to be a fool to believe there was anything decorative upon them.

They were adorned with cloaks, robes, swords, staves, and armors that his master had enchanted or collected over the years. There were wands, various crystal balls for scrying and dozens of potions that he could see.

The room buzzed from the power of magic around him.

“Come in, Oramiir. Shut the door behind you.”

The request seemed silly to him, for he was the only other person in this tower, but years of discipline made him follow the command.

“Please, sit.” His mentor waved a gnarled hand in front of him, to where a cushioned chair suddenly appeared, without looking up from his writings. “We have much to discuss.”

His stomach lurched as his feet carried him to the seat and for a brief moment he contemplated turning and running from this place. The thought was only there for a second, however, because he knew that Terranyr could stop him with any number of spells that were always at his disposal.

He passed a small table, upon which were carelessly strewn scrolls. One item in particular caught his eye, of which a deft movement of his hand palmed and brought to his side.

“Tell me, Oramiir, have I not given you everything you have ever asked for, under my tutelage?”

“Y-yes sir.” His answer was so quiet that, had they been in any other room, it might have gone unheard. But this was no usual setting and the Wizard before him had many magical enhancements which allowed very little to get by him.

He studied the old man before him. Unlike himself, the Archmage was a pure blood human, and contrary to the members of his race, he had only been able to see the passing of a full century through the aid of magic. There was very little hair upon his head and what tufts still managed to push through his skin were as white as a summer cloud. What had once been eyes the color of bark had become clouded, milky orbs.

“Mm, hmm,” he hummed in response. “How long has it been now? Nineteen years?”

“Twenty, sir.”

“Yes, yes. So it has.”

The old man paused in his work, carefully drying the end of his quill before setting it aside. After placing a stopper in the inkwell, he carefully sets his tome aside and laces his fingers before him.

“I’ve called you up here because I have recently become aware of some very serious rumors. Please, come with me. I want to show you something.”

The Archmage quickly rose to his feet with the dexterity and stamina of a man half his age, and cast him a commanding stare before turning toward his seeing crystal. Though he had the finest collection of crystals in these parts of the lands, the one he used was the largest and with the least flaws.

A soft scraping sound emanated from somewhere behind him, startling him from his thoughts. It was was barely audible, and if he hadn’t had his former mentor’s Charm of Better Hearing, he might have missed it altogether. Now fully alert, his nose detected the putrid stench of decay in the air. The smell was acrid and he was surprised that the others had not detected it first.

As one hand pulled his cowl once more over his head, the other slowly reached for the small wand which hung at his belt.