She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XLI)

Posted on February 23, 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 first time in a long time, he slowly opened his own eyes. His vision was out of focus, making everything around him appear only as shapeless blobs, but he could see well enough to know that someone was sitting only a few feet away.

“You should have come talked to me when you still had the chance, Scott.”

Even though the other spoke in a soft whisper, he immediately recognized that the person to save him was also the last person he saw before losing consciousness.

“Arnie…? Where am I?”

The other expelled a long, exasperated breath before answering.

“You’re in a shed Scott. Mr. Patterson’s to be exact.”

“Uhn,” he groaned. “Why the hell am I in here?”

“Uh… Oh! I guess you don’t remember, do you,” the other asked in response. “Right! Well, after you passed out, I sorta dragged you in here.”

“I figured that much out. What I want to know is, why here?”

Even as he finished speaking, his vision fully came into focus. Arnie was only three feet away from him, sitting on an overturned bucket. His hands were laced together between his knees as he looked down at Scott, which immediately struck him as off kilter. Arnold was the nervous type and often wrung his hands when around others. His hands usually alternated between this and pushing his glasses back up his nose. To see him sitting there, watching him so calmly and speaking without so much as a quiver in his voice, didn’t sit right with him at all.

He was lying on a workbench inside of a small, but functional, wooden shed. On one wall hung a wide variety of tools, from those used in basic carpentry to the kind needed for advanced woodworking. Some he recognized, such as hammers and screwdrivers, while others were as foreign to him as another language. At the foot of the opposite wall was a tarp, beneath of which was the shape of what looked like a riding lawnmower. There were several cobwebs hanging in the corners and from the ceiling where generations of spiders had made their homes.

Though it was something that immediately struck his senses as odd, he didn’t think for very long about the calm demeanor of his savior. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything other than those who had hurt him the most; Misty for setting him up with that fat psycho, and Tommy for the daily beatings he had given him. Surely Arnie would understand!

As he slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, he noticed that his midsection felt stiff beneath his shirt. With a raised eyebrow, he reached down and using his left hand, lifted it enough to see what the cause of this strange sensation was. When it came into view, he chortled with amusement.

“Duct tape? You fixed me up with…duct tape?!”

It hurt, the pain was very real and now, very there, but he managed to laugh for several seconds before it became too much for him to bear.

“It was the only thing I could think of. I couldn’t exactly take you to the hospital, what with the cops looking for you and all,” Arnie answered.

“Yeah… I guess you’re right. Thanks.”

The other only watched him with an expression that was droll, at best. He seemed to be studying him, as if waiting for his next move.

“You know,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “it isn’t going to be long before they piece it together.”

“What are you talking about,” he asked. There was a small hint of fear in his voice, and rightfully so. If Arnie knew anything about what he had done, it wasn’t very likely that he would be able to carry out his final actions.

Arnie only huffed and looked away from Scott, towards the door leading back out into the world. It would be several long moments before he would answer, which by that time Scott was beginning to wonder if he had heard him.

“I found this,” he finally said, breaking the silence. As Scott watched, the other reached between his feet and lifted the blood-stained knife into view. He was busted! For all he knew, the cops were already on their way!

“What are you going to do,” he asked fearfully. His voice shook with each word, and he felt like he was going to throw up.

“It’s not what I’m going to do, Scott, but what you are going to do next. What I want to know is, why didn’t you just talk to me? I gave you an open invitation back there, at the library. We could have figured some of this out.”

The old familiar rage came back into existence inside of him. It was only a small pilot light for the fires to come, but he could feel it warming him to the core.

“What makes you think I wanted YOUR help,” he asked between gritted teeth. “What makes you think I ever needed it? Besides, what the hell would you have done anyways, Mr. Captain of the Chess team? Rook to Queen four them to death?”

He barked a cold laugh and slipped off of the makeshift bed. His movements were slow and methodical as he was careful not to reopen his wound any further than it already was.

“You must really hate them,” Arnie observed wryly. “There’s absolutely no reason for you to be alive right now.”

“Obviously you’re mistaken,” he answered, ignoring the other’s first remark. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. Yeah you are. Except…”

“What,” he growled, turning to face him.

“I had to drag you on your back Scott. I had to drag you on your back because if I didn’t, your insides would have led anyone looking for you right back to us,” he answered dryly.

Scott only grunted as he walked to the door. Arnold was right. They should have found him on the kitchen floor at Lucy’s house, dead from blood loss.

“How long have I been out?”

“About six hours.”

“Jesus,” Scott muttered as he peered through the crack of the door. It was a miracle that he hadn’t been found at all. As he squinted against the bright light of the sun, he could see the grooves his feet had made when he was brought here.

“It’s not too late you know.”

“For what,” Scott grunted.

“To talk.”

“Damn you’re persistent,” he said. “but I don’t think we’re going to be doing any talking. I need to get home.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. That’s the first place they’re expecting you to go.”

“Yeah? Well, I know something they don’t,” he said with renewed determination.

“Oh?”

But he didn’t answer. Already, his thoughts were focusing on the secret entrance to his father’s den, one that his patriarch had installed after the murders at General Mercy. His father had become paranoid, worried that if their home were to be invaded, there would be no way for them to get out. It would be the perfect way for him to get in without being noticed.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part XL)

Posted on February 23, 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!

———

He was alone in his thoughts, surrounded by a series of disjointed memories, with no clue as to how he got here. The other was gone, or at least he couldn’t feel it at the moment, and it was everything he could do to hold onto the small sliver of consciousness that came to him. He was in pain, more than he had ever known before and his skin felt as if there were millions of insects marching relentlessly over him.

“shh”

The voice came from far away. It sounded vaguely familiar to him, but for some reason he couldn’t associate a face with it. It was soothing, and even before it faded away he felt a warm cloth against his forehead. Until this moment, he felt his body tensing up, ready to rebel against whatever new threat he had to face, but all of this vanished beneath the caring attention he was receiving.

“I’m almost done…”

There was a slight pressure in his lower stomach, followed by the sound of something tearing above him. It was loud, hollow and he in the sea of memories that still wouldn’t come together, he saw the briefest glimpse of something grey. After several more small ripping noises, his unknown savior began applying something against the area of his stomach from which the most pain emanated.

“Uhnnn,” he groaned weakly.

“It’s okay buddy. I’m almost done,” the other whispered. “But you have to be quiet now. They’re looking for you.”

“But,” he drawled weakly. “Why?”

“Don’t you worry about that, my friend. Just rest. Just you rest now.”

He fought against it. He wasn’t ready to return to sleep, but he had absolutely no control over the lethargy which overtook him. Though his eyes had never truly opened, he ‘closed’ them once more and fell back into the void of his subconsciousness.

…….

“…ta…ay,…erp…”

He blinked in confusion, trying to sort out the massive influx of images assaulting his eyes.. A familiar voice had just spoken, but it was as out of place as the things around him. He was in the living room of his house, sitting on the floor before the family television. The sun was shining through the picture window to his right, something that only happened in the late afternoon when the sun was making its slow trek toward the horizon, and there were cartoons dancing on the screen before him.

“I said, get the fuck outta the way, twerp! I’m trying to change the channel,” Megan screeched from behind him.

He slowly turned, and sure enough, there she sat on couch. She still wore her cheerleader’s outfit, having most likely gotten home from school herself, with her legs tucked underneath of her and off to the side.

“Mom said I could watch cartoons after school today,” he whined.

He jumped at the sound of his voice, an action which only enhanced the incredibly pathetic image his whiny voice had just created. He hadn’t intended to speak, but as he was beginning to realize, he couldn’t have controlled himself if he tried. He was looking through the portals of his eyes from the prison of his mind, trapped and powerless to affect the younger Scott with his own will. He couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to, just as he couldn’t have controlled the movement of his younger body.

“Jesus Scott,” the thought venomously, “Why don’t you grow some fucking balls and tell her where she can shove that remote?”

The younger version of himself jumped again, startled by the sound of his voice when it suddenly filled his head. He looked from one end of the room to the other, frantically searching for the source of this unknown ‘other’.

“Wha-who,” he started to ask. His words were violently cut off, however, when something slammed into the side of his face, knocking him to the floor. Because his thoughts had been preoccupied with the possibility of an intruder, he hadn’t noticed when his sister sprung from the couch and stormed over to him. He hadn’t seen her hand as it flew through the air, and he didn’t know that even as he was falling from the initial attack, she was kicking him the rest of the way to the floor.

“I SAID, get out of the goddamn way! GOD! You can be so worthless sometimes!”

As he watched through the eyes of his younger self, who was now scrambling to his feet and fleeing the room in tears, he began to fantasize of the different ways he wanted her to suffer for what she did. Before they reached the top of the stairs, the tears and stopped and the young Scott was beginning to share the same smile the older version of himself was also making.

…….

“Wake up.”

The voice of his unknown savior pulled him out of his prison, forcing him to once more return to a reality where there was nothing left for him. But none of this mattered. As he slowly opened his eyes, Scott Vali began to smile.

To Slay A Troll

Posted on February 22, 2014 by R. Richardsson

“There’s no place out there for graft, or greed, or lies, or compromise with human liberties…” Jefferson Smith, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington

They come in many forms and yet, they are all one in the same. We call them critics in film, hecklers in comedy, negative reviews on our books but it comes to what we should call them, it boils down to one word; troll.

It’s hard not to be affected by their words. We’re pouring our hearts and souls into our work. Some of us are truly gifted and are able to do this with little effort, but the majority of us labor over our little niche in creativity. No matter the ease of which we get there, all it takes are the words of one troll to break us down.

Why do we let it get to us so easily? We’re willing to give up everything for our passions, to sacrifice every comfort, and in some cases the ones who mean the most to us, in order to fulfill the desire to create. Hours slip by, and in some cases, days, as we build our routines, write our breakthrough novels and create our next masterpieces. We’re THAT dedicated to our art that we don’t even notice.

And yet, when that first criticism arrives, it’s as if we’ve been stabbed in the heart. We’re standing on the middle of the bridge with our aspirations behind us, our dreams ahead of us and we’re putting our gem on display when ‘it’ happens. ;-( I know, right?

We’re mortally wounded, or so we think. The troll has leapt upon the bridge, taken our shining gem and then plunged it directly into our meaty ticker. We’ve fallen to our knees. We can feel our very essence pouring onto the unforgiving stone beneath us and for that brief moment we wonder if we’re going to survive the encounter.

I assure you, you can and you will. You’ve taken a piece of that infinite and immortal soul of yours to create this new thing, this piece of art. You’ve poured gallons of your hearts love sauce onto it, coating it until the material became saturated. It’s yours, Dr. Frankenstein. You created it. It LIVES!

Get back to your feet, actor! Arise, author! Stand and remove the stain left upon you by this beastie!

What you have created, what you have labored over with love and soul CANNOT be destroyed by the words of another. They try because they are jealous. They attack because they cannot create this beautiful thing that you have. They lash out, but because you possess something they can only ever dream of achieving!

Stand up and brandish your gem! Let not the words of the troll sting you, for they are but words. These creatures exist only to inflict pain upon others. They thrive upon hate, even when they don’t understand what it is they are attacking, for they are but children lost in an adult’s playground.

You may think it’s hard to find your footing once more, but you need only but remember what you have done to get here. You arrived on this bridge for a reason. You are here to show the world beneath you the treasure born of your hands. Let the troll come forth I say! Let them fling their measly weapons at you! And when they do, allow your creation room to breath. Give the troll it’s fair chance, and when it fails so miserably? Ask it if it would like to sit down now.

Chins up, artists!

Your determination brought you here. You’ve labored, you’ve sacrificed and you have suffered worse things than what the troll can inflict upon you.

——

This is for those of us who have received a negative review, who have been heckled while performing our routines and for those who find the occasional negative criticism when we’ve given it our all.