Sunday, November 13, 2011

Black circles hang from under my eyes
They wrap their sticky fingers around my face
Blurring my vision.

My eyes and the edges of my lips,
Watch the space my feet take
And speak more to the world than I could ever imagine.

I do things I do not wish to do
Only because in my dreams I can handle it,
But I can never stop dreaming.

People only see me in one mirror image,
The other is mat and unreflective,
And unperceivable.

I sometimes forget it’s there,
And let myself get carried away with my dreams again,
Only to be disappointed,

When the mind hurricanes
Come again and disrupt my peace,
And demolish the foundations I have built.

Anxiety it is called,
In a world I used to believe in,
But in my real fairytale it reigns.

People lie,
I understand that now
Much more clearly.

They tell me nice things,
Wishful things,
But I have lost all sense of faith in humans.

My mind wonders
Days and nights on end

To the very word and twitch of a muscle,
To prove that theory,
But I wish it to be untrue.

To progress with people,
You must first understand said people,
But how can I, when they do not wish to understand me?

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Monster Birth

That sickening feeling deep in her stomach suddenly increased to an unbearable pain. She only just stopped herself from screaming as she crumbled to the ground. All that was audible was a weak moan that just escaped her bleeding lips. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, taking some of the pressure of the burn off her back. Whatever it was inside of her, she knew it wouldn’t be long before it was out. Her blackened fingernails had fallen off only ten minutes ago, but she didn’t connect it with the monster inside of her. A few days ago her fingers were jammed between a door by her vicious kidnapper and had turned a deathly black. But that wouldn’t be enough of an answer for why all her finger nails, including her thumb nails, had fallen off all at the same time. Three days of sleep deprivation had been finding its way through her brain, and she couldn’t

consider the simplest of things.
But the sudden jolt of pain had woken her up. Of course her nails were a result of the monster. It was killing her, decaying her body before she was even dead! Her skin was pale and blue tinged and the gash on her lip had stopped bleeding, but was still wide open and not even beginning to heal.

“Why are you doing this to me?!” She screamed to the glass wall that made up the fourth wall of her sterile prison. Behind it were three people, dressed perfectly in white lab coats and slicked back hair. They didn’t move, they didn’t talk, they didn’t even flinch as their experiment died in the most brutal way possible.

In 10 days only, she had been kidnapped off the streets of her city, drugged, tested and tortured. Deep inside her stomach was something; she didn’t have the slightest clue. All she knew was that it was some horrible mutation and that she probably wasn’t going to live through its birth.

Up her throat a thick substance came, without warning, and shot from her mouth to the bleach white floor beneath her feet, dragging its claws all up her throat. The projected substance, a brown-black, mixed with the red of the woman’s blood, melted into the floor to a watery liquid, revealing a large egg-shaped object.

The woman sat on her knees, wobbling only slightly. The tear in her lip had reached her chin, to make room for the black egg. She looked at it was glazed over eyes, before tipping to the side and landing with a thud on the ground.
For a moment all was still. Life seemed to have ceased in the experimental room. The only movement was on the other side of the glass where the three emotionless people stood watching, their heart beating steadily, writing notes on the horror that was happening before them.

The egg shook vulgarly , breaking the moment of motionlessness, and suddenly split open. The hatchling that crawled out from under the bloody sludge was the first factor to ever cause a reaction within the experimentalists on the other side of the glass. The abomination caused a sick feeling in the guts, nothing like the feeling the woman had first experienced, but somewhere along the same lines. The monster’s disgusting face, squashed and disfigured, was still partially covered in the black goo, but some skin white was able to shine through.

“Is this like the one before? I thought we had overcome the disfigurement.” Spoke one of the experimenters.
The others nodded in disappointment at their failed experiment. Another held down a button on the computer board in front of them and spoke into a microphone.
“Experiment number 3587, test subject 783. Failed. Begin extermination of result subject.” He spoke.

The little monster blinked its new eyes at the bright, white world around it, and took in it’s first breaths, which unfortunate to it was a toxic gas pouring in from vents in the walls.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Does anyone actually read this blog anymore?
I know I haven't been posting a lot. But now I've just started year 12, so you know what that means. I'll be procrastinating so I will probably be posting more. Sorry if all that I do post are freaky stories and poems about the HSC. I'll try to be less cliche'.
Thanks to all my loyal followers who still use blogger <3

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Words are my Disease

I have to write words,
Many words.
Words I don't understand,
Words I don't want to understand.

"It'll be worth the drain,"
Words of the higher man.
"It'll al be worth the degration of your brain."
With his broad smile
And skinny words.

Numbers that mean words;
That mean life
Dictate my years before
Suffocating my future,
Just a two diget number -
If I'm lucky.

Stars are bright
And shinny ahead
Of me and waiting to be touched.
But my human body does not wish
To let me live that dream.

Knowledge only last as long
As the breath that passes through your lips,
But somehow, we've let it take control
And now the heart attacks are coming,
The sicknesses are digging into our skin.

"Let it come!"
They cry.
"Let it diminish our bodies and carry away,
All that we have worked for."
Because mental abuse
Has finally taken it's toll.

I am waiting for the day,
when it too, hits me,
crushes my body like I have crushed my mind
And takes me into the sweet ignorance
Of stupidity.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Noisy Silence

She sits in the quiet classroom, desks either side of her empty and quite. She is not alone, but in the noisy silence of scratching pens and turning pages and shuffling seats and the consistent inhaling and exhaling, she feels all too lonely.

Words, splayed out the page in front of her, forming words she has no energy to read, make out like nonsense words to her.

She wants to leave, but has no authority to do so.

Tapping fingers, ticking clocks, a sniffle of a winter cold here and there. She could hear every sound, every note, and they were far more interesting that what she should have been doing.

Sighs of the hard worker, chewing of the hungry nail biter, cracking and popping of joints of the fidgeters. She didn't want to be there. She didn't want the laughing eyes of her school mates on her back any longer.

What had she done to deserve this?

A giggle of a girl, somewhere behind her. She didn't know who was the cause of the noise, but she didn't want to turn around. They were laughing at her! She did nothing wrong.

Whispers, secretive words passed person to person, words not audible to her, who believed it was something she shouldn't hear.

"Stop it!" she yelled, whipping her head back. She had cracked the noisy silence, and now every eye was on her. The culprits of the giggles, sitting few seats behind, large, rosy smiles on their faces.

She ran out of the room, finally, a startled teacher screaming after. She had no authority. But that didn't stop her this time.

Honey hair and eyes like emeralds

Hair like honey,
Eyes like little green gems hidden deep like treasures.
Fingers long and slender,
fit perfectly to the worn curve in the ivory keys of her piano.
The same song plays over and over,
sometimes a fast pace and full of smiles,
others slow and lullaby like.
Skin, never blistered by the harsh sun,
is only smooth to the touch when a truthful smile commands the lips.
But the longer the fake smiles dictate,
the longer the skin is rough.

She likes the feathers of a song bird,
Hung from her neck,
from her ears,
from her wrists,
hoping she might spontaneously take flight,
only hoping, ever hoping.
because what do we really know,
about flight itself?
Man might have conquered the sky, the land and the sea,
But does not understand the feelings so animal like,
so passionate, that we cannot contain it in ourselves.
The feeling of flying, truly flying,
but enclosed in a box we are,
in the skies as much as we are in life.

Honey hair and eyes like emeralds,
sees the skies for what they truly are.
Wisps of pure heaven,
little pockets of peacefulness,
a great land just out of reach of discovering.
It is lost on her,
why we travel the land,
the deep,
and the vast blackness of space,
but we have not yet discovered our own sky,
and the truths it has captured.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Not Delilah

"You've got your music up so loud, you're going to go deaf!" Delilah's mother yelled.
"Maybe I want to go deaf." She said under her breath.
"What was that? Why would you want to go deaf?" She turned to her mother now, not watching the distant cars whiz past the window and avoiding her mother.
"So I wouldn't have to hear your voice again." She said, never letting her eyes leave her mothers. Her mother was dumbstruck. She almost didn't stop at the set of red lights ahead and almost rammed into the back of the car in front.
"Why would you say something like that to me?" Her mother finally asked, voice quiet and low. But Delilah wasn't about to answer. She pointedly turned away again from her mother and stared out the window at all the happy, passing people, wishing she could be one of them. She didn't regret her words; in fact she was happy that she finally got them out. But she was definitely afraid of the consequences.
Things hadn't always been so bad between Delilah and her mother, but you could say the same thing about every other relationship she'd been able to maintain lately. She was angry at everything. For what? Even she didn't have a clue. All that she knew is that she didn't want to talk about it.
She'd been on her own for all this time, so why let anyone intervene now? Her mother had picked up on this behavioural change some weeks ago. Little things hinted a change, like how she didn't talk or smile much anymore, or how she didn't go out, or sit with the family at the dinner table. She just stayed locked up in her room all this time. But this was the tipping point.
"What is going on with you, Delilah? You've changed." Her mother wanted so much to talk to her daughter, to connect with her. But Delilah had other ideas. She finally decided that she was going to be one of the seemingly happy people, shopping in her city.
She suddenly opened the car door, thankful that the inner city traffic had slowed to a stop. She got out and slammed the door behind her before her mother even realised what she was doing. She hopped across the street, dogging the cars, ignoring the screams from the blue van behind her, stuck at the red light. The middle aged, blonde woman was frantically undoing the manual window on the other side of the car and was screaming for the dark haired girl to get back in the car. People were watching, interested and curious, but no one was going to do anything.
Today, her name wasn't Delilah, and that ugly car wasn't hers and that screaming woman was not her mother.
Today, maybe she'd be happy.

Saturday, September 17, 2011


Her cold blue eyes were looking at me, but she was looking straight through me. She wasn't here with us in this room. She was within her mind, like the first time I saw her.
It was a small room that we sat in, four walls, like most others. It had a door on each side, coloured green with rotting paint. The walls were also decaying, coloured paint flecks falling to the ground with the slightest brush or breeze. There were no other items in the room besides the two chairs we sat on. We sat facing each other under the dim centre light.
"Speak to me." I said, but she didn't listen to me. She continued watching but not watching me. "Please, Melissa, please just speak." I begged.
"Don't call me that." She snapped, her eyes suddenly focusing on me.
"But that's your name."
"My name is not Melissa." Even though her tone implied aggravation, I was taking her speaking as good and kept pushing for more.
"Then what is your name if it isn't Melissa?"
"I have no name. I don't deserve a name." Her eyes suddenly became unfocused again, as she sank into her dream world.
"Everyone deserves a name. Everything in fact." She didn't want to answer me again. "Why don't you think you deserve a name."
"I don't think, I just know." I wanted to continue, to search deeper. I thought I had made progress. But suddenly she stood up. "I have to leave."
"But why?" I asked, jumping up as well. I didn't want her to leave. I was afraid of what she might do if I left her.
"I need to go now." She turned to leave, but suddenly looked lost, undecided to which door she should take. "i need to leave. Let me leave." She directed her frustration to me, blaming me.
"Please don't leave. I want you to stay." She spun around to face me, her full attention focused on me.
"You can't save me. You're just another one of the boys who think they're in love with me. You think you can fix me and then we can be together and live happily ever after. But it just doesn't work that way. I'm broken and unfixable. So let me leave." I was stunned. All this time I've been trying to figure her out; trying to determine what was wrong with her. And yet in one go, she seems to have me figured out, just like that. Was I that easy to decipher?
"Wai, I-" I tried to give her some sort of answer, but my words were caught in my throat.
"No, don't. You don't need to explain yourself. I know you. I know your type. Just let me go. I don't want to be saved."
"'re drowning." With a sad look, she turned away from me.
"Maybe I want to drown." With those last words she took the first door she reached. I never saw that girl again.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

My fault

"Is it bad that I haven't slept or eaten for three days?" I asked him. He turned to me with his beautiful eyes wide.
"What? Why not?" I didn't hear him though, when you're tired, many sense just seem to turn off when they want to.
"You have amazing eyes, has anyone told you that?" he was a bit surprised about my sudden change in topic, but he stood up, lifting me up by the arms as if I was simply a doll. He was a steady tree to my weak legs, and I lent against him when my body felt it didn't want to move again for a little while.
He realised I wasn't going to walk, so instead he lifted me up so easily and carried me in his arms like a child. I guess not eating might have payed off finally. I was lighter than a child possibly. His gorgeous face was all that I could see and the evening sun framed his face so perfectly. He looked like a golden angel, my saviour from my Hell. His sun kissed, light brown hair was lit up and his brown eyes were set straight ahead, filled with his concern.
Suddenly his halo was gone! It was dark, but in the afterglow I could still see the definitions of his face.
"Where are you going to take me?" I laughed, my words sounding funny on my lips. We were back at the car park, right at the door of his old, beat up car. He opened it so fluently while balancing me and put me in the passenger seat. How could we be back here already? It was over half an hour walk.
"I'm going to take you home. You're not well."
"I'm perfectly fine!" I said, suddenly angry at him. How dare he say I'm not well. He was trying to put my seat belt on me, but I shoved him away and put it on my self. He walked around and got into the driver's seat, only worry on his face.
"How can you say that! I've worked so hard to get here." My words didn't come out as clearly as I had intended them, and he looked at me differently this time. Was he sorry for me?! Of course there was sadness and worry in him, but there was something more. He pitted me didn't he! He didn't reply. He wasn't ignoring me, he just couldn't answer me.
"Let me out!" I yelled. "Stop the car." This got him talking.
"What, no! I can't stop. Please just stay in the car. We're almost home."
"No I want to get out!" I screamed, banging on the door. I couldn't find the handle to the door in the darkness and I leaned forward trying to see. It was a bad idea though, because instantly I felt sick. I sat up quickly and the world was spinning. The bright lights in the streets didn't to much to help either.
"No don't!" he yelled, grabbing my shoulder and throwing me back against the seat.
"Stop it!" I screamed. "What's happening to me?" I pressed my hands against my head and lent against my knees, but nothing could stop the pain.
"Please, just calm down." he tried his best. He truly did love me, because no one would care as much as he did. I was sobbing now, but I could hear his soothing voice perfectly. "We're almost ther-" I could also hear the other car ram into the side of ours. I can still hear it perfectly, ringing in my ears.
I woke up the next day in hospital, blurry faces watching above me, moving too quickly for my mind. I tried to rub the black stars away from my eyes, but I couldn't move my arms.
"What's going on?" I asked. I got my answer a few hours later from the doctor caring for me. He wasn't watching the road, he was to busy watching me. The other car had run a red light. They got away with just a broken arm. He cared for me so much, and I was barely awake to notice. I'll never get to show him how much I love him now.
I had been so determined to be perfect for him, but without him here anymore what do I have to live for? I know it's melodramatic, but how could you possibly know what I'm going through. I broke a couple of fingers and my nose, but otherwise I'm alive and well.
This just goes to prove my whole theory. Everything I ever put my all into is always taken away from me. But there's more. Every single time it's been my fault. Always only my fault.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

The Queen of Hearts

She devours the hearts that she receives, like they were chocolate buttons, hoping that the more she takes the more likely that she'll have one of her own someday. Her body grows with the rolls of puppy love fat and the hunger intensifies. When she grew taller and bigger than anyone before her, the people filled with fear below her fought against her, piercing her thick skin with their arrows but none could break her. So they named her the Queen of Hearts, the beheader of all men, and wait in the shadows until her king can put her out of all misery.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Cathy's Challenge

Cathy carefully stepped one slow step at a time forward, following the line of people. She had been there for what felt like hours, no, days. She was tiring quickly, but her life depended on getting to the end. Others waited with her in the line, some tiring quicker than her and falling to the peril of starvation and weakness. All were taller than her. They all seemed to be stronger and wiser than her. Surely they would make it to the end over Cathy. Surly she would fall weak. But with each passing hour another would fall away. Angry with themselves most likely, they would fall back into the jungle and lose on the blissful prize that lay at the end.

Her legs were getting tired and her eyes were getting heavy. She had travelled so far, like so many of the others, through monstrous lands full of strange creatures that yelled and barked, nipping at her toes and fingers and swooping low.

She looked back over her shoulder. Behind the chains were her family, held back from freedom. Her mother, her father, her brother and sister. Their lives depended on her getting to the end of line.

"You can do it Cathy!" Yelled her older brother. They were cheering for her, they believed in her! With determination, Cathy turned back to her challenge, but they weren't making it easy for her. Strange bird like creatures of all colours descended down from the grey skies with their large claws and shiny beaks, believing her to be the weakest. But they were wrong. She put on her scariest face and roared as loud as a lion, and the creatures scurried away back into the jungle.

She was almost at the front, so close to the prize. Then, out of the darkness of the trees came huge yellow eyes. They stared down at her, hypnotising her. They were so mysterious and mystical that they distracted her from her task. The line moved forward, it was almost her turn, but she couldn't stop staring! She shook her head and grabbed her camera, using the flash to stun the climbing beast.

As soon as it was out of the way she ran up to the front. It was her turn at last! Finally she would receive her prize. All her hard work would finally pay off. She looked up at the tall smiling woman, the keeper of her treasure.

"Hi sweetie, welcome to the zoo cafe. What can I get you?" she asked.
"One hot chips, please" asked Cathy.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Shifter for Hire

I didn’t know what to say. Those gorgeous eyes were staring so deeply at me, so filled with concern, that it almost made me sick to think that I was hurting him. I opened my mouth, hoping to force the words out, but the truth wouldn't come, it refused to be told.
“I can’t…” is all I ended up saying. “I can’t stop.”
“But why? It’s killing you. You’re killing yourself.” He pleaded. But I didn’t want to hear it.
“It’s my job! I was given this gift to help people!”
“You’re helping the rich get richer, and screwing their competitors. What your doing isn’t heroic. Don’t delude yourself into thinking so. You’re doing a job, like everyone else in this world, but if you keep pushing your powers you’re going to get yourself killed. Why can’t you understand that?!” He was beginning to shout his reasonable words, but he was just making me more aggravated.
“You don’t understand anything! Who the hell are you to tell me how to do my job? I have worked so hard to get here, and I’m not going to let you of all people distract me from finishing what I came here to do. Any day more spent here than I have to is a waste of time! So leave. Me. Alone!” As I shouted those last words, I could feel the sickness coming. I didn’t expect it, but I should have. It’s more likely to happen when I get angry. It’s not a good combination with my fiery personality.
The sickness starts first as a splitting headache. It’s horrible. It tears at your brain with the hooks of its hate and swims through every nerve in the body. Not a pleasant experience. That is the warning. It’s a heavy hammer of a knock to tell you to get the hell out of there. You want to be alone for phase two, or things might get tricky. He was about to start talking again but I couldn’t let him see me. I turned and stormed out of the living room, like it was all part of my bitchy tantrum. He didn’t know that I was hiding. I slammed the door behind me and locked it just in case he decided to drop his usual manners. I couldn’t take any chances now.
My run away was just in time because I could feel the change happening. I ran across the room to the hanging mirror and watched my body and face change drastically. He was knocking at the door now, testing out the handle to see if I’d locked it.
“Please let me in. I want to talk to you. You have to stop running away from me.” And the pleading continued, but I wasn’t listening. My only concern for him was that his worry would lead him to knocking down the door. I had no doubts he could.
I couldn’t take my eyes away from my image on the wall. I’d gotten used to the idea of my image changing, since I first discovered I was a shifter, only five years ago now. But I have only seen the change like this once before, but at the school, when a shifter lost control. They took him away and I haven’t seen him since. I was out of control too. That was part of the sickness. The face that stared back at me was constantly changing; another feature shifting each second, until my face was just a blur of different people. I didn’t know what to do, but I started panicking.
I started scratching at my face, but I couldn’t even feel it. All I could feel was the burn of my transition. It was horrible and terrifying, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I was almost tempted to open the door. But I didn’t let that idea take over. I sat of my bed and did everything I could think of to calm myself. It was hard to stay still in the pain, but sitting down helped a little bit with the headache. I thought calming thoughts, about my family and my future, I even prayed, but nothing would stop it. At one point, the pain got so intense that I finally lost it. I passed out on the floor, the refreshing relief of unconsciousness taking over.
I don’t know what happened between then and when I woke up again, but I had moved. I was in my bed and it was morning. Had any of that happened? Was it all just a nightmare?
I sat up in bed, a headache rolling over, crushing my body like a heavy stone, and looked around the room. Nope, definitely not a dream. The door was leaning against the wall, splinters sticking out at the hinges.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

The Art of Failing Gloriously

I looked out over the crowd that was mercifully shrouded by the darkness, while I felt stark naked and vulnerable in the harsh brightness of the stage lights. My voice had left me and I stood still with my mouth open, my audience waiting for the words that I was desperate to express. But they had disappeared from sight, and I was left helpless to the scrutiny of the eyes of my peers. I could feel the words forming behind my eyes, but my lips made no attempt to process them. I was stuck in a trance and sinking into a sick place that I had no desire to visit. That same sickness was building up within my throat, threatening to beat my words to my mouth.

"I bet I could change your life." I could see the ghost of my mind travelling before me, clear cut and perfect, saying and doing exactly what I should be doing. And all I could do is watch.
"I bet one word could change you life. You might not even notice it when it happens, but trust me, it'll happen one day."
I had to push myself, force the words out of me, but I couldn't. And as I watched myself move with such grace and speak with such determination, all my audience could see was my failure.
"When I think about Annabelle, I don't think of all the things she did, like her stellar grades or her good sense of fashion or even all the friends she had on facebook. All I can think about is how she changed my life, and now because of the people in this audience she'll never know."
I was a failure. This whole time all I wanted to do was to glorify Annabelle for who she really was in life, not for what people thought about her or what they saw on the surface, because all that was a lie, and only I knew the truth. If only she was here now, maybe I could do it.

"Get off the stage retard!" yelled someone from the crowds. I realised that they were speaking to me, and they broke me out of my fixation with this ghost of myself.
"I-I-" I looked around the stage, at the people, at the darkness in front of me. I couldn't do it and before I knew it I was back stage, away from the uncomfortable stares of the audience, on the floor sobbing. My heart had finally caught up with me and was thrashing against my chest. I was gasping for air and desperately trying to find my inhaler. I ripped off my jacket, searching though all the pockets, but I couldn't find it. My breaths were short and rapid, and I gave up my frantic search to focus on my breath. Maybe I could settle myself it I just could concentrate. But all I could think about were the people down there, confused and judgemental. Annabelle would be disappointed.

Black spots were forming in front of my eyes and I didn't even have the energy to cry out for help this time.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

The gifted one

Every night I see bone, my bone, flesh coloured. They say I'm gifted, I'm special, that I'm their saviour. But I don't want that. I'd rather starve like the rest of them that live the life I'm forced to live.

These days food is scarce, and the nights when we can't find a scrap of food my people turn to me. Their pleading eyes, how am I supposed to refuse them. They're kind to me, to say the least. They don't force me to give in, unlike the stories I've heard about the people like me.

Every night I die a more gruesome death than the night before, and every morning I wake up with the bruises, deep and black, haunting marks of my so called "gift".

I am a feast, a meal to some. The flesh is stripped from my body by a man with hungry eyes and drooling lips, eager to satisfy the roar in his belly. I usually black out about the time my limbs are completely bare of anything but bone. I've gained strength...stamina since the beginning, when they discovered my "gift". I used to black out at the first sight of blood - my own blood - spilling to the ground by the litre.

Every night I cry and scream in pain, but not for the doers to stop, but for them to go too far, for them to be that little bit too greedy. I want them to do it, hoping that I don't wake up in the morning. Praying that my eyes stay forever shut, and that my body is finally laid to rest, deep down in the earth where I can finally decay for good.

They're skilled though. They know exactly when to stop, exactly how far I can go. They've had generations to practice, on my mother, on my grandmother, all of them were exactly like me. It's a family thing, something in my genes. They say it comes from the before time, when food was still plentiful. The people of the before time could see that their food was thinning, plants were dying, animals were disappearing. So they made me - well they made a distant relative, decades ago, to feed the people that could no longer feed themselves. I am their saviour, or so they say so. I don't know if I believe them. Every day, in the hours that I live, I pray for a real saviour, the real gifted one that is supposed to save my people. And every night, as my torture comes to suffocate me in a cycle, to repeat itself over and over, I pray for my death - my final death.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Death's Rule Book (2)

"So are you Death or are you Michael?" she asked me.
"...I'm both." I answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, which it was.
"But that doesn't make sense."
"Well you don't ask 'Are you Doctor or are you Steve?' You just know that he is Dr Steve." She still looked at me with blank eyes. "A doctor named Steve."
"Yeah I get that. But what name is Michael for Death?"
"Well I don't know! My mother didn't look at me when I was born and say 'Oh he looks like a Death. We should name him Death.' What kind of sick mother would name their son Death?!" I was bitter and frustrated and I knew she didn't deserve that, but I was in a bad mood. What am I talking about? I'm always in a bad mood, but she wasn't making it any easier for me.
"Sorry, I was just asking. I'm Shelly." She extended her hand out to me, which I plainly ignored, continuing on my travels.
"Shelly the Shadow. Well that sounds about right." I sighed. As I had noted earlier, she was a supernatural being, unfortunately paired with the personality of a very annoying human. She was a shadow creature. I didn't come by them very often in my travels as they are pretty hard to spot. But then again once you did get attached to one they were very hard to shake off. They were creatures that were made of primarily gases and light, and they attached themselves to the shadow of a living, moving being, feeding off their life. They detached themselves of that being when that being was dead. They usually go on through life completely undetected by the humans. But since I was not human, she had more of a problem than just being able to be seen.
"Whatever, I think it's a pretty name. I reminds me of the beach. I was attached to this really cute diver before you. That's where I came up with the name, because he used to collect shells." Her very long, personal but pointless story was beginning to ebb away at my patience.
"So how long does it usually take for your kind to die off when they don't have a life source?" Blunt, rude, well that was how I liked it. To the point. I didn't particularly care for her. She was getting on my nerves. Both of us knew quite well she wasn't going to live being attached to me; me being a lifeless creature, and we both knew that she was stuck with me until one of us died. I could see on her face that this had shocked her as much as I had hoped.
"Uh...about a month." she said in a small voice. I kind of felt bad at how simply she had answered me, just giving me another fact about her life that I didn't really care about. A pang of guilt rang inside my chest. But I held it back, ignoring her sudden quietness. 31 days. That was too long away. 31 long days having to work with this thing attached to my back. Like a leech. A dying leech. But still, I didn't like my work being interrupted.

There was a cottage ahead of us, down at the end of the meadow. As I got closer I realised that it wasn't much of a cottage, but really a farm shed, filled with hay and cow stalls for milking. There was work equipment and a tractor and the door was battered and large enough to fit anything through it. Above the stalls was another room, which you could get to by a ladder near the entrance. It looked like the living quarters of the man hanging in the corner of the work room. I took in all that was in the room - the rotting hay bundle that a calf was chewing away at, the picture in its frame of a woman and child sitting on the writing desk, the dirty working clothes thrown away on the floor.
Shelly on the other hand couldn't take her eyes off the man hanging from the noose.
"For someone who feeds off people's life, you don't seem to be taking death to easily."
"I've never seen anyone kill themselves before." she said to me, a little nervous.
The dead man looked at us with cold eyes wide open, skin pale and sickly. His mouth was ajar and facing downwards in a bored expression.
"A little help here?" the dead man asked us. I smiled to myself at seeing Shelly jump so obviously. She was so shocked, I could see that she was ready to jump out of her skin...if she had any skin to jump out of.
"He...he just spoke to us! Isn't he dead?" She clung to my sleeve, digging into my arm. I shrugged her off, my amusement suddenly gone.
"The dead aren't dead until I take their soul away. Everyone except me can't see that their soul is still in their body. But now it seems that you can also see that by default." Shelly still looked confused and scared, but I couldn't delay the process any longer.
"Hello Mr Evans." I said, addressing the man. Shelly giggled suddenly, but I didn't see any humour in the matter.
"How's it hanging." She said between bouts of laughter. The man stayed expressionless but gave her the finger. She stopped laughing and frowned at the man, obviously taken aback by his gesture. "What's got you so grumpy."
"Are you Death?" asked the man, ignoring Shelly.
"Yes." I didn't like when they asked questions, but it was better than when they were begging me for mercy or something like that. I couldn't take their souls easily unless they accepted the situation.
"You don't look like Death." he said, looking me up and down.
"That's what I said!" said Shelly, excitedly.
"Shut up." I whispered to her.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Death's Rule Book

Rule number one. Death is unavoidable. Everyone knows this. Even the youngest and the most naive of people will know that they won't live forever, and yet it seems that the human race is most content on changing that. That just makes my life harder; they beg me and they try to bribe me, but honestly what can they give the only person that truly has an eternal life.

Rule number two. Things will always stay dead. Well that goes for humans and animals - the rest is a longer story. There is no such thing as resurrection in humans, you're just not capable of such things. All this talk of CPR is rubbish. I come across the poor souls that are still partially attached to their body when they have some useless person beating away at their chest. "Get off me!" They yell, because they don't know that they're dead yet. But they kneel over the dead, tears spilling over their cheeks, desperately clinging to the deceased.

Rule number three. Death, unlike life, is forgettable. No one celebrates their own death each year it comes round again - for obvious reasons. But the people you leave behind are only going to grieve you for so long before you are forgotten . Eventually you will no longer be important enough to be spoken of again; to have your memory emerge and be spoken as words. After that you will no longer be important enough to have you memory accumulate in someones mind, and you will have truly died your final death. Depressing - I know.

These are the rules I live by. These are the rules that dictate life of the humans. I don't make the rules. Trust me I didn't. I only follow thme - it is my job. I am Death, the Grim Reaper, the Fourth Horseman, and it goes on. But you can call me Michael.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Shutting Down

Shutting down, closing down.

Everything is stopping, slowing. I can feel it happen before they can see it. My vision is clouded with images, outer worldly and my hearing stalls. Stomach acids are moving and filling the places they shouldn’t, sending waves across my body. Every muscle contracts uncontrollably. Oxygen is passed through every vein, every capillary, but I’m filling with the poison of the outside. My skin burns, itches and irritates until it bleeds.

Shutting down, turning off.

My body seems to be delaying the sweetness of unconsciousness, the utter bitterness of the cold blackness. It wants to hold me here in a painful embrace, holding me to grasp onto the life I no longer care about.

Shutting down, power cut.

Souls, trapped in the bodies of idiots stand, lifelessly trying to help the lifeless. They could do so much more, but they don’t, and I applaud them. Paper rain, and roses in the shapes of hearts showers me from the heartless loved ones. Maybe the heart shaped roses could replace mine? Maybe I would wake and see the world differently. Maybe, maybe. But maybe not.

Shutting down, zoning out.

Tick, tick, tick. But no tock. No clock makes a sound so sinister. The sound beats away in the darkness, beats away in the brighter days, beats away when all else has fallen to the floor. My whole body shudders with this sound. I lay, seemingly motionless, and watch as the sinister clock, counting down the seconds of life, trembles within my chest, like a monster, beating at the ribs to get out. Playing its musical number.

Shutting down, blacking out.

My throat tightens, cutting off golden breath and taste. Ice cold. Touches of something horrifying and sharp. Needles and pins prick the skin red. Drops of rubies, so precious, gone; mixed with the dust of the floor of the attic. Dust fogs up my lungs. I have been stored. Put away. Forgotten forever, like windows of the past we only ever take out once in a decade. I’m stuffed in a cardboard box, rotting away, decaying.

Shutting down, shutting down.


Thursday, March 17, 2011

If Only

The fierce, antagonising anger burned under my skin, so close to the surface, it was a wonder I didn't rip the hair from her head right then and there. It was another lecture-public bitch fest to my face I was forced to endure with a smile on my lips. Each word etched itself into my brain, digging its venomous self deeper and deeper. I wanted to scream so badly. I wanted to swear and to yell back, to show the world that I wasn't just going to sit here and let myself be degraded by someone who knew nothing of what she was talking about. it was infuriating! How could anyone be so selfish?

But I didn't say a word. I never do. I kept on a clam face, making it look like the dark, venomous words would drip off my skin like water on a ducks feathers, not peeling at my flesh and boiling my blood like it really was. Maybe that's why she never gave up on taunting me. Maybe she really believes that my front is as deep as it goes; that she hasn't broken me. She persists and digs deeper, hoping that one day all her hard work will finally pay off.

but I won't let that happen. The invisible tears run down my cheeks, drenching my collar, but I won't let them see it. i won't let them judge me with their piercing eyes and tongues as sharp as devils' horns.

"Your stupid if you think you can get away with this forever." The words were barely whispered from my tongue, but I let them sink in, a torment of the mind. I left her there, speechless, her stupid blue eyes, reeling back on what had happened. What had happened? I wasn't sure myself, but the blood of my enemy left under my nails told a different story. Bones crack like dry twigs and crumble to dust. How was I to know?

it was never held against me what I had done. the one who had never done anything to correct the wrongs in her life before has finally cracked; one big explosion in the brain that set of thousands of sparks and reactions until it was all one big nuclear war within the mind.

but I wish i could take it all back. I wish I could reverse the time. I wish I could control it all, but it's all out of our power isn't in? If only....

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Two Weeks in Hell - pt 6

She ran at him with all the energy she had left, desperately hoping to throw him down. It was far too late to save him now, she realised. He was long gone from understanding what she did and why. She had to kill him too, like the others. She would regret doing it for only a little while, but then she would stop grieving and get on with her life, like she knew she had to. As for Molly, well, if she didn’t get to a hospital soon, she’d be dead. And no one would be home for another few hours. Problem solved. Travis was the only thing standing between her and escape.
Travis misjudged how strong she was and fell back to the floor from the impact, hitting his head on the glass table, shattering the top and knocking it over. He could barely see straight and his view of Demi above him was hazy. Demi didn’t know what she was doing, just going off what she could imagine Anastasia doing. An ongoing battle pulled within her, compelling her to strangle him and screaming at her to get off of him. She went for his neck, cutting off his airway. Travis battled to get away from her, but his head was dragging him down, disabling him from making any coordinated movement or use his strength. He couldn’t do much other than struggle and paw at her strong arms around his throat. He weakened and at one point he realised that he was going to die. When he had no energy to hold his arms up in an attempt of protest, they fell to his sides, landing on the shards of glass from the table, not that he noticed the shards piercing his skin. However, he did notice the tip of the knife. Against his hopelessness, he tried to grasp it. Maybe is would show her how close to death she came, he thought. She watched him struggle, watched him grasp for one last breath and watched him give in.
And it was so easy.
Of course it wasn’t easy leading up to that one moment, but just killing him – Travis, her love – was easy. Easier than expected. Too easy perhaps? remorse and guilt flooded her whole being. What had she done? What was she doing? She felt sick and instantly let go of Travis. Was it too late to save him? He wasn’t breathing and he didn’t move.
The voices had left her head. The horrible voice of Anastasia who had prompted her to murder Travis’ family; to murder an innocent child; to kill the man she loved. What had she become? Everything she had done and everything she had thought had happened all came rushing back to her, and she was drowning in her despair. The hollow look on his face made her weep.
“Travis?” she cried, pleading that he would breathe. And then she saw it. His chest rose ever so slightly, and his eyes moved in their sockets as he assessed the situation. A sudden joy welled up in her; but it was only momentary, because the next moment Travis had plunged the knife into her chest. She rolled off him, panicking and gasping in pain. She had never felt anything so painful in her life. Even the injuries she experienced in the past few days combined were dulled with the adrenaline and murderous thoughts and didn’t even compare. Her vision was fading fast, and she knew she had no hope. She would be gone in a matter of seconds. As the life fled from her body, her last sight was of Travis, kneeling above her, looking down with his eternal grief.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Two Weeks in Hell - pt 4

"You know, sometimes I think that you just brought me here to humiliate me." She said under her breath, ferociously chopping the carrot.
"What? Demi, do you hear yourself. Why would I do that!" Travis sighed, frustrated. "Whatever. I'll leave you to this then." He left the room in a hurry, leaving Demi alone in the large, dim kitchen. All that she could hear was the loud thump of the knife hitting the board each time and the sounds of her frantic breath coming from clenched teeth.

"Cooking while angry never ends well, trust me." said a voice behind her. She spun around, knife still in hand to see Brian at the door. Her anger left for a moment as she watched the poor man who was in the same situation as she was, but not even he could keep her from returning to those dark thoughts. She turned back around and began the chopping again.

"You're going to have to make a choice sometime. It's Travis or your own sanity. Can you really stand all this?" he asked her.
"How do you do it? How can you just stand there and deal with all the crap they throw at you?"
"I don't know really. I love Valerie. I don't know what I'd do without her. But I guess I just know that I only have to see them for a short time each year. Besides, now that you've come in, they've taken a little of the heat off me."
"Great." sighed Demi. Brian wasn't helping her much, so she turned back to her work, knowing that in a few seconds, Travis' mum was going to come through those doors and start yelling at her asking why the vegetables weren't cut up yet.
" need to calm down, I guess. I can see the anger, every time they talk to you. And they can see it too. They're loving that anger, Demi. Just ignore them. They're not worth ruining what you have with Travis." Demi smiled, know that he was right.
"You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you'd only say that to keep me here so that you can get out of the worst of it."
Brian was about to answer when the doors behind him swung open, hitting him in the back.
"Brian, get out of the way!" Yelled Travis' mum. "Didn't your mother ever teach you some decent manners.
"Sorry Mrs Parr. i don't know what I was thinking." answered Brian, rubbing his back and scurrying out of the room. She looked over Demi's work with her nose up in disgust.
"No, girl!. What are you doing! You don't cut the carrots lengths ways! Stupid girl! Let me do it!" She yelled, pushing Demi out of the way with her humongous body and taking over. Demi snapped. She was sick of getting thrown around like a rag doll.
"No, Mrs Parr. I've got it." She argued, pushing back hard, and taking the knife.
"Don't you push!"
"If you'd just let me-" They fought for the knife and control over the bench, when in one hasty movement, the large blade came down hard, slicing the tip of Mrs Parr's finger. There was no doubt about it, it was Demi's fault. No only had she caused the fight, but she had also forced the knife down, unintentionally bringing the woman to screams.
"What have you done you little brat!" She screamed. Demi, frantically looked around for a cloth and the woman wailed. Soon the whole family was crammed into the kitchen, trying to help. There was no time for blame and insults, other than from the woman who was howling them at Demi by the second. The woman was carried out of the house and into an ambulance, and members of the family jumped in cars to the hospital.
When all the hype was gone, there was only Demi, left in the kitchen. There was blood everywhere, covering the benches and the floor and all of the food lain out. It was as if the woman had purposely flailed her arms out everywhere, so that her blood covered every square inch of the kitchen, just so she could smite Demi even more for cutting her finger. Demi guessed that she was expected to clean up.
She stood for a moment, quiet and still. She barely breathed. All her senses had shut down except for her sight. And all she could see was the blood. The glorious blood. Blood of a horrible woman, but blood none the less. It was the substance which she most prominently discussed in her novel, and all of her writing since her first horror movie when she was twelve years old.
There was something different about her now, something different, yet oddly familiar.

A new, dark world

The grass is long and waxy beneath my feet and the strong wind whips it around my toes. My hair, like the grass is defenseless against the wild wind and threatens to escape from the hair tie. A baby howls in the distance and bells chime in the strong wind caused by the approaching hurricane. I studied the village homes from my place on the hill. The huts were basic, made from anything they could find; sheets of reinforced iron, stones, bricks, tree branches. They won’t be still standing in 48 hours. It was the image of a desperate shanty town, grasping for life in a world that didn’t care; but I knew better. These people had it good. They were safe and alive, and in the new world, that’s all you needed and that’s all that separated you from the victims of the disease. The village was surrounded by a barb-wire fence. It was tall and it was sturdy; it did a lot to hold back those who would risk the safety of the others. Not often would you come by a victim these days, but the villagers still didn’t feel safe.
But now nature was going to force them out of safety, to force them to find safer ground in the worlds of the unknown. This is their home and they were relying on me to help them. I had been alone for so long that seeing fresh faces that were living and safe was almost a shock. They were faces that were scared and intimidated by my arrival, but were still fighting strong for some sense of civilization.
I turned southbound, following the direction of the wind and gazed out over the fields of crops that the villagers continued to slave over. None of the people I had seen looked to have eaten anything for weeks. They looked like only skin and bone, imitating the thin wire that protected and supported them; feeble to the eye, but strong and hard working.
Out in the fields I watched children and a father clawing through the dirt, searching for potatoes. The children- as innocent as they were – had made a game from the search, laughing with their hollow voices and rolling in the dirt.
“Simon, stop that at once!” yelled the father at one particular boy who was throwing the fresh potatoes at a small girl. “Don’t you dare bruise them, or you won’t get dinner for a week! You’re old enough now to know that that potato is all we have!” The father had a young infant strapped to his back and as he searched desperately for his weekly meals, the child wailed and screamed for her mother. She flung her limbs all over the place, trying to resist the hold of the carrier, but the struggle was pointless effort and soon after being continually ignored, she calmed down and hung loosely, enjoying the ride and falling asleep.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Valentine's Poem

There once was a love,
a love so beautiful
that it shone brighter than the sun
and the stars combined.

There once was a love,
a love so strong
that it stood tall against every war and every hardship
until the ends of time.

There once was a love,
a love so perfect
that it was studied for centuries after love grew extinct
considered as complex as the Pyramids.

There once was a love,
a love so fantastic
that it brought the entire human civilization down on its knees
and a tear to the eye of the coldest soul.

There once was a love,
a love so craved by others
that they poked and prodded, wanting it desperately to fall,
so that they might not feel so destroyed under its light.

There once was a love,
a love so united
that they were bound by blood, soul and mind
that couldn't ever be destroyed.

There once was a love,
a love so hard to find
that people spend their lives searching for it
an endless and hopeless journey for this one desire.

There once was a love,
a love I wish for everyone.
You will find it one day, trust me.
Love is a fate that doesn't want to be searched for,
that doesn't want to be categorised,
that doesn't want to be forgotten.
Trust in fate, it knows what it's doing.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone :) <3

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

2 Weeks in Hell - pt 5

“I know they’re a pain, Demi, but what can I do?” asked Travis looking down on a tired Demi. She was crouched down behind the boat shed. The sand beneath her was dark and cool compared to the burning brightness it is during the day. She played with the sand between her fingers, tracing images on the surface. She much preferred the beach at night, much better than while the sun poured over the land with its harsh rays and heat. She didn’t much like burning each day. And she very much liked how the night was when everyone was finally quiet, the only time when she wasn’t criticised for being there or for doing something wrong.
Travis though was the total opposite. He stood there shivering, hoping that she’ll just get over it and come inside like a sane person.
“Did you just bring me here to hurt me?” she asked, not looking at him.
“What? No, Demi, I would never do that.” He answered, crouching down to her level. “Trust me, it’ll all get better in time. You just have to be strong.”
“No, Travis! It won’t ever get better! Brian told me that. He said he’d been criticized and hurt by them every time he sees them. That’s why you barely ever see Valerie, because he never lets her come home.” She cried. She could see the shock register in his face, and instantly regretted her words. “Travis, I know that sounds awful, but I could never do that. I don’t want to ever separate you from your family, but I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Well what do you want me to do?” He asked standing up again. Any sympathy was gone from his voice, and Demi knew she had said the wrong thing.
“I…I don’t know. Anything… I just feel so angry, but I can’t do anything about it. And it’s killing me inside!” her frustration was getting the better of her and she was beginning to shout.
Demi, I’m just getting so sick of you complaining all the time. You’ve got to get used to all types of people! I know you haven’t had the best of family lives, but you can’t expect to meet all loving people all the time. You can’t kill off people like you can in your books!” he yelled back. She didn’t look up at him, she didn’t want to see him angry. His words were enough to cut deep.
When she didn’t speak again he turned and started to head back to the house, deciding he was sick of the cold.
“Anastasia could…” she whispered. She intended to keep that to herself, but her words were carried on the cool sea breeze.
"What did you say?" asked Travis.
"Nothing." she quickly countered.
"No, you said Anastasia... Demi, don't do this."
"Travis, what am I doing!" she shouted, her rage boiling up inside. Her eyes burned and her throat tightened. Quicker than Demi had expected, he got down on his knees and grabbed her shoulders so that she would look at him.
"Do not say that Demi! Anastasia is a character! A cruel, cold-blooded character!" He began shaking her shoulders lightly, hoping that she realised how serious he was.
"But she could." Demi replied darkly.
"Yeah, and do you know what happened to her? Of course you do, because you wrote it! She was caught and was killed!" He stared desperately into her dark green eyes, but he didn't see any changes. She still wore her brutal determination on her face.
"Kill them all, Demi. Do it." he told her flatly, seriousness in his voice.
"W-what?" she asked in utter disbelief.
"I said, please come inside with me." he repeated. Travis didn't see the confusion Demi was experiencing, and with those words in her mind, she got up subconsciously and followed him in.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Curse of the Loveless

The candles did little to brighten the room, but she didn’t need any light to know what was about to happen. He threw his robe casually over his shoulders and whispered in her ear, “I’m just going to get us some drinks.” The fire on the left side of the room roared on evenly, and heated the room thoroughly, adding to the sweat collecting on her forehead from the nerves she felt. She stopped him just before he left her side.
“Wait,” she whispered. She stroked his warm cheek and looked at his innocent face. “Please, wait. I need to tell you something.”
“I’m not going to be here much longer.” He looked at her confused, not understanding the curse that had held her down for centuries. “But I want you to know… that I love you.” The last few words came to her lips as easy as she could breathe, but she had to force them out, force them to be heard. And they were heard by the boy leaning on her bed. He understood them and ate them up like they were as common as a greeting.
“I love you too.” he told her, but she didn’t know if she could really believe him. But it didn’t matter what he believed. It was only the fact that she had finally felt love, and she knew she had, and that she had said the words before she was taken away. She could feel it coming.
By falling in love she had broken the one rule of the contract, and now she would have to pay for it in the depths of Hell.
A pain began to swell in the centre of her back. She reached back as far as she could to feel what was happening to her. Her back was bare and the skin was warm and smooth, but there was something wrong. Where the pain was accumulating she could feel a bone protruding out and pressing against the skin. She heard a snap and felt the new pain radiate through her body as another bone shattered out of place. And another and another. She didn’t cry or scream; she knew this was her fate now and she didn’t want to bring her love rushing in just to see her taken away in her worst.
She let a breath and a squeak escape from her mouth as she felt the skin break. She realized then that he bones were not the cause of the tear; they were simply making room for the something coming through.
She could feel something moving up her back and over her shoulder, a creeping sensation and yet oddly familiar. She didn’t want to see it; she wanted her execution to move as fast as possible. Though she knew she didn’t have that luxury. Her breath became more rapid as she forgot the pain and waited for what was about to happen next. She took a cautious glance at the hanging mirror in front of her, instantly regretting her decision, because crawling over her shoulder was a bloody arm, its fingers stretched out as if to grab her. It stood out strong against the bright flame behind her as it reached down and cover her mouth tight to stop her from screaming the breath she just inhaled. It clamped down hard on her face, too strong for her to release. She pried at it with all her strength, but fighting back was useless. Another arm reached over her shoulder and began pulling her shoulder down, back where it came from. Same was done to her other shoulder, and arms and legs. Bones were broken as easily as twigs and blood was left dripping on the floor.
The tears ran down her face in an endless stream of desperation and she was yet to let out a single noise. The boy down stairs in the kitchen would be left alone, wondering where she had gotten to. He would miss her, search for her. But then he would get over her and move on. She was forgettable to him, like most things in his short life. But he would stay burned into her mind for the rest of eternity as the one who sent her to Hell, all because she loved him.
Her limbs had been completely sucked into the black hole that had formed in her back as a gateway to Hell. All was left was her head really, and like with the rest of her, an arm reached out and pulled her back. At some point, after having her head dragged back to the point of her neck snapping completely, she lost her vision and all she could see was the blackness, but she wasn’t dead yet, and she didn’t expect to die.
Her love entered the room only a few moments before she was gone altogether to find only a puddle of blood where he expected to see a beautiful girl…

Monday, January 31, 2011

2 weeks in Hell - 3

Demi ran up the stairs sobbing, hoping that no one could hear her. She had always felt so weak and vulnerable when people saw her cry. She thought it was wretched how people could cry in public. But she just couldn’t hold it in. When she closed the door behind her she didn’t hold back and all the tears flooded out. Though it was an impulse to cry after such a horrific embarrassment it didn’t help to ease the pain. Actually it worsened it. Her eyes burned like fire and her throat ached, eager to scream and to swear. She watched her makeup flow down her face with the tears like thick black ooze. She rubbed her face hard, trying to wipe away the gunk from her face, but her skin just reddened far more from the irritation.
In the bathroom she soaked her face with a wet cloth, trying to calm herself down. Her face was an uneven red and her eyes were puffy and blood shot. She looked up into the mirror. She felt utterly pathetic. Her face was clean of makeup, and the redness had softened, but she felt so ugly. She would breathe a deep breath and reapply the makeup. She would brush back her hair from her face into a neat ponytail. And she would go back down stairs and pretend that nothing had ever happened, that she wasn’t just called worthless. She would pretend that they were all friends, and that no body hated her. She would go on and ignore all the stares she got from Travis’ family and all the rude remarks saying how he could do better. No, she was going to play good.
But she didn’t want to.
She looked at herself in the mirror, deep into her eyes and she began believing what they said. She was worthless and pathetic. She was just another fling for Travis. It ate at her, deep deep down until in burrowed itself into her brain.
“I am nothing.” She said to her reflection. But no, she realised then that she was more than that.
“I am Anastasia.” She said after a moment’s pause.

(The 2 weeks in hell shorts are not in order for anyone who is confused. They are just random exerts from the story.)

Saturday, January 29, 2011

2 weeks in Hell - pt2

He had the knife to her throat in seconds. Desperation and determination flowed through his eyes and she knew him well enough to know that he couldn’t kill her, especially since he still loved her. But there was the force he used when pressing the sharp blade against her skin and the fierceness in his voice that scared her a bit; an intimidating note that screamed he would do it. And he would – he was dead serious. But there was a voice in Demi’s head that kept telling her that somewhere in Travis, she was the only person that he thought about, that over all he would protect her and her only. A selfish thought, yes, but she couldn’t help it. She loved him more than anything and she would push him to the limit and further until he bent into her fairytale character. But it didn’t look to be going that way just yet.
She stopped fighting back and let him handcuff her to the broken glass covered window pane. It was fairly weak, but he was sure that it was all he needed to get away, and for the police to find her. She didn’t look scared and she didn’t look defeated, though she felt that way. She didn’t want him to realize that he had won just yet.
“Is this seriously all you’ve got? You think this is going to hold me back from finishing them off?” She was starting to tire, but she wasn’t about to let her tough fa├žade wear off just yet. Travis didn’t answer her questions, just stared her dead in the eye with a deathly look that made Demi’s heart break the slightest bit.
Her smile faded to a scold as he left the room. She was running out of ideas.
Travis sprinted down the stairs and out the door. Molly was still unconscious in the front seat and he exhaled knowing that she was at least safe from Demi. He could feel Demi’s eyes on his back, a feeling he knew quite well now. He turned and looked up at the window. It was swinging back and forth in the strong, stormy wind, but Demi was no where to be seen. The window panel seemed to be unbroken, but the handcuffs were also gone.
“How the hell?” But he could still feel her watching him. She was somewhere – somewhere close, but he didn’t have time to find her. He didn’t want to find her. There was nothing separating him from the car, but he still ran; sprinting as if his life depended on it.
No sooner after starting the car engine smoothly, did the screen crack right in front of him, sending waves of scraggly, thin arms reaching out to the end. The glass then shattered into thousands of pieces and sprayed onto them. A large smooth rock lay on the floor at his feet. Through the shattered glass he tried to see where it had come from.

Demi stood in a doorway, second floor of the house shaking and cradling her left arm in the other. She did what most people would consider crazy, but she couldn't let her love escape her just yet. To get out of the handcuffs she did the only thing she knew would work. As Travis was running down the stairs to the car Demi pushed down on her left thumb as hard as she could. Tears began to flood to her eyes as she realize the pain and severity of what she was trying to do. But she didn’t stop. In one swift movement she fell back against the couch below the window, crushing her hands under her body weight. Her right hand was still pushing hard on her left thumb and she heard a solid crack which sent shivers through her body before waves of excruciating pain. She carefully slipped the handcuff off her broken hand and released herself from the hold of the window. She brought her hand to her face and looked upon the mutilated thumb. The small joint at the bottom of her thumb which usually jutted outwards now faced in and she could no longer move the thumb at all! Her breathing became rapid and she felt dizzy as shock set in. She could barely see straight, but she could hear the engine outside start. Without looking, she grabbed the closest solid object she could reach and flung it out the window with her right hand, much against the distress her body was under. She heard the screen smash and knew she had done something right.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Two weeks in Hell - Intro

The train flew fast through the land, leaving no time for the passengers to gaze outside at the coast. Demi didn’t mind though. She was consumed in the novel in her hands. The small, compact book was battered and old, but she couldn’t take her eyes away from the griping story of murder and scandal. She was completely gone from the world around her and trapped within the walls of the book, holding her breath as the character ran for her life, seeking refuge from a blood thirsty man with an axe.
“Your eyes look like they’re about to pop out of your head.” Laughed Travis, they only voice that could break Demi away from the story. He handed her a cup of coffee in a paper cup. She looked up at her boyfriend and noticed how good he looked with the bright orange glow of the sunset behind him. His jet black hair glowed a fiery red and his smile looked brighter than ever.
“I just got a text from my publisher.” She told him after she stole a quick kiss from him.
“Yeah? What did she say?” Demi had been writing for as long as she could remember, and finally she been able to finish a story that she could call a novel, but the next process was excruciatingly slow for her, and she realised that her life’s work might be for nothing. Much because of her love of gripping murder stories, her finished novel went something along the lines of a murder, but she was feeling doubts from many that had read it so far; all except for Travis who sang praise for it to everyone he talk to. He was her cheer squad, and at the moment her only support for how her chosen career was going. As a freshly graduated high school student, she decided to take a year of before university to take a break to work on the novel, despite what her friends and family suggested. She had high hopes, and she wanted nothing more than to just get this novel published.
“She asked me why the character killed the family.” Demi said, slightly disappointed that she didn’t get the text she was wishing for that would have went on about how fantastic the story was.
“That’s easy!” exclaimed Travis, stretching an arm over Demi’s seat. “Because she hated them. Because they were such arseholes to her. I mean, that’d be enough to make me snap.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that when you get caught for murdering a whole family!” laughed Demi.
“Well, it’d be the truth, whether or not I admit it…”
Travis gulped down his scalding hot coffee as easily as he would water, while Demi went over the text a few more times, waiting for hers to cool. Each time she read that words, it ate away at her, making her feel as though publishing this book was some impossible task that could never be cracked by someone as simple and plain as her. She wouldn’t know where to start to modify the story to make it better; to make her publisher absolutely love it as much as Travis did. Or at least half as much.
“Give me that!” said Travis, taking the phone away from her and erasing the message after about the fifth time she had read it. She sighed, realising that the message wasn’t the only thing that was bugging her at the time.
“Do you think they’ll like me?” Demi asked, leaning against Travis to look out the window at the images of the ocean rushing past. She was talking about his family. Demi and Travis had been dating for almost a year now, and Travis thought that Easter break was the perfect time for her to meet them, as they’d all be there for a little while to celebrate. Demi came from a completely anti-religious family, one that had members spread all out across the country, so she either spent holidays like these with friends in similar situations or alone. And that’s what made her especially nervous to meet Travis’s family, as she’s never been to anything resembling a big family gathering in her life.
“Trust me, they’ll love you.” He said, wrapping his arm around her. But there was something in his voice that she just didn’t believe. She looked at him suspiciously. “Ok, they might attack you a bit with the whole interrogation deal, but honestly, what family doesn’t do that when their son brings home his girlfriend.” Demi’s cheeks flushed and she smiled when he called her his girlfriend. She’d never get used to that title. “Besides, when they see you like I do, they will take you in as though you’ve been part of the family for years. I’ve seen it with Valerie and Brian when she brought him home for the first time. If you can get through their first line of attack, it’ll be all yours.” Demi sighed a breath of relief, trusting in Travis’s words.
The water view rushed past in a blur, and Demi wished she could stop and just slow down. She imagined lounging on the beach, just her and Travis. They were heading up the coast, away from the city, to where Travis’s grandparents owned a huge house close to the ocean where the whole family stayed for holidays and events like this. Demi could see some romantic getaway; a little hide out where they could sneak away from the harsh realities of real life. But knowing her luck, it wouldn’t be as grand as she would want it, and with as many family members as Travis had described, she wondered how any of the family members ever got a moments peace.
“Don’t think about it too much. Just be yourself, OK?” she nodded in agreement at his flawless logic, and hoped that being herself was all she needed to impress these people.
Demi sipped her coffee, which was now cool, letting the bitter taste sit on her tongue. Often in times like these, when she was granted a moment to think, a brutal and gruesome scene that occupied the novels that she was so fascinated in would accumulate within her mind; but now all she could think of was how this week could end up as her own personal murder, one not done with a knife or a gun, or even an axe as it is often depicted in more conventional murder stories, but more one executed with her complete and utter embarrassment and rejection by her boyfriend’s family. She wasn’t looking forward to this week if even her mind was going to torture her with the horrors of reality.