Little Acid Alice (26/3/12)

Alice had wandered into a dodgy area, she could tell by the scruffy people walking by in cheap clothes, wearing cheap make up, and the stores and restaurants selling counterfeit goods and adult toys. The buildings falling apart, and the sad eyes watching through the dirty windows told their stories. She’d been through these unholy conversing streets all her life, growing up there, but this one she hadn’t walked down before. It was a new treasure in this labyrinth. She had all the time she needed and plenty of money for the night in her back pocket. Masses of people walked in hurried crowds, up and down the street, pushing through the night, scraping through another day. No one looked at her, no one even noticed her. She was just a poor, lone teenager, nothing really to give, not worth the fight.

Something stopped her. A light, a sound – she didn’t really know, but amongst the traffic of people, she stopped and looked to her right. It was just a door. A plain white door marked and scuffed with decay of the years, hidden between two restaurants selling paper noodles and ‘lucky’ fish. Spray painted on the door with a stencil was the words Sad Nights. The paint had dripped and blended together roughly, but she could just make out the words in the neon lights illuminating the door. She didn’t know what it was, but it intrigued her. This door perplexed her, something so small and insignificant. Innocent it was not, however. In an area like this, the slimy fingers of greed and perverseness touched everything, staining all that came through with dirty marks of wasted and worthless life.

Nobody went in, and nobody came out. No one was guarding the door. She turned the handle and it clicked open. She took this chance quickly, not knowing what would be inside, but wanting so desperately to find out. She closed the door behind her and found herself trapped in a long narrow hall. There was only one light, dangling from the ceiling from a single cord. It was barely bright enough to sustain the room, and the far ends were plunged into the shadows. The floors, the walls and the ceiling were all cement and layers of graffiti were built upon it. Within this room of cement and behind a heavy door, she realised that it suddenly became quiet. There were no sounds of the dozens of people passing by, unaware of this interesting door. She was in complete silence; all that she could hear was her rapid breathing and the tremor of her heart.

She couldn’t really see what was on the other end of the hall, but she thought she could make out stairs heading up. Her mind was captivated somehow to this darkness across the room, but she subconsciously went for the door behind her, her hand grappling in the shadows for the door handle. But there was nothing. She realised then that the handle on the inside had been removed, which would explain why the door was unlocked. Panic shot through her as she realised she was locked in, with no way to turn back. Somehow, beyond the panic and terror, this excited her. Now her reasoning couldn’t force her to turn back.

The stairs were in complete darkness, and beyond the reach of the light. She couldn’t see what was at the end of them, if there was even an end. From the bottom of the stairs it seemed as though they continued right up into the deathly black of the night, swallowing anyone whole. Upon stepping on the first step, the red eye of a sensor, which she hadn’t noticed before, winked, and on switched violet lights, like the ones outside. They revealed to her the second door, at the top, not far away. The second door was much like the first one; white and filthy. But painted on it were words, like a poem or a song. The graffiti that covered every inch of wall stopped just at this door, and there wasn’t a spot of paint on it. The door held supremacy over the graffiti, and the other artists gave respect by staying away.

Little Alice this place is not for you

You have to stay away

Less you wish for death

These rules you must obey

Danger rules our kingdom strong

It’s here for our display

Little Alice these halls are paved with acid

And with bones, and painted grey

This place is not for an innocent mind

Or for child’s play

Watch it, you might be swallowed whole

By messing with decay

Little Acid Alice stay away

She read the poem twice, not sure if she should be scared that it was talking to her. Little Acid Alice. That was what her mother called her, because her hair was an acid yellow colour.

But she didn’t want to think about her mother, she didn’t want to think about anyone tonight. She didn’t want to be herself. She pushed through the second door, a surge of courage burning through the bad memories. She had nowhere else to go. Inside, a cloud of smoke reached her face, obscuring her vision. She knew the smell well, and reveled in the second-hand intoxication. It was a mixture of fine leaves, burnt in ecstasy. She walked through the cloud, finding the room open out, widening to a large dance floor, illuminated by dim blue and pink lights. Surrounding the floor were platforms that reached into more darkness, where patrons would slink back for business of all kinds.

It was a club; an unguarded club, which she had somehow found her way into. She almost laughed out loud when she realised this is exactly what she needed. She let the vibrant, repetitive music take over her mind and body, letting the rhythm flow through her veins, burn through the capillaries and bring life into every muscle. Excited, she found her way to the floor, mixed in with the bodies of other dancers. She blended with this new kind of people, smiles and money filled their eyes and coloured their faces. Hands found her, found her arms, her waist, her thighs, but she kept her eyes closed, diving in with only the other senses to support her. Her throat burned with acid coloured drinks that kept her body moving and her brain cloudy.

“Can I sit here?” asked a voice, out of the fog of intoxication. The girl with dark hair leaned in close to shout over the music. She smelled of cheap perfume, something coconut scented. She sat down, taking a gulp from the drink in her hand. It glowed in the darkness.

“I’m waiting for my boyfriend.” Said the dark haired girl to the other. Alice had forgotten she was there.

“What?”

“I said, I’m just waiting for my boyfriend.” It was like Alice had just noticed the girl for the first time, noticed her badly coloured hair, even in this light, and the heavily applied make up, and the tattoo on her collar bone, covered up by the strap of her dress. Alice recognised a familiar distress in her voice.

“Why?”

“Huh? Why what?” Asked the girl.

“Why are you waiting for him? He should be waiting for you.” The dark haired girl didn’t know how to answer. “Boys are dickheads. Got mine who ditched me tonight instead of taking my out like he promised me.” Little Alice smiled and downed what was left of her drink. Giggling she left the dark haired girl in wait for her boyfriend.

Music and movement occupied her thoughts. Her head felt light and the room spun out of control. It was just the way she liked it. She felt like she was in a dream, walking on air without feet and feeling the heart beat of each individual against her skin. How long was she there for? Hours? Her mind was no longer hers, and time took a very different meaning in her hallucination. The only way she could describe it was that time was going too fast and too slow, and she was drowning in it, guilt and fatigue her rocks chained to her feet.

Her phone was ringing again; she could barely hear it over the music. In the quiet shadows she took out her phone, the bright light confronting to her sensitive eyes that had become so accustomed to the darkness. Her boyfriend, Blake, had called her three times. Had he changed his mind? She headed for the bathroom – a quiet place, but before she left the main room, she turned back to the table she sat at before, where the dark haired girl still sat, alone, eyes darting around the room for a familiar face. Poor girl. As if she knew that Alice was watching her, the dark haired girl caught her eye. They held that gaze surprised. Alice smiled sympathetically, before entering the bathroom.

The bathroom was gruesome, much like the short hallway entrance. The walls were white tile. Maybe originally white tile, but now they were yellow and caked with colourful writing. Water covered the floors and the mirrors reflected back a milky image. She was alone and the room was quiet. Her phone shattered that silence, the cheesy ring tone of some pop song muffled to her numb ears.

“Blake, hi.” She answered, a girlish smile creeping over her face and her voice filling with teenage enthusiasm.

“Alice. Where are you?” he murmured into her ear.

“Nowhere, just a club.”

“Look, I need to talk to you. I can’t do this anymore. You have to leave. You’re just too young. You just can’t stay anymore. My business…it fell through, okay? I’m broke. I need to rent the place to someone who can actually pay me, okay…” he kept rambling on apologetically, but never really apologizing. She didn’t want to hear it, not now, when everything seemed to be going perfectly.

“No, Blake, you can’t do this! Where am I supposed to go? You can’t just fucking kick me out! I have no one else!” Her words were intended as a defense, but they came out as whimpers. The disconnection tone rang loudly and echoed against the tiles.

“Hello? Blake?” she called into the emptiness of static, pleading for a return of his voice, but she was met with only silence. That one moment between putting down the phone and realising what had just happened had seemed to go on forever, as her mind slowly put together the pieces, that her only hope for any life worth living, had just dumped her over the phone.

Anger and hopelessness built in her, bubbling to the surface and exploding through her. She suppressed a desperate scream, but let herself sink down against the wall. Where was she to go now? How would she support herself? To the rest of the world she was just a no-good teenager with a hopeless future and a restless need for addiction. No one cared for her type.

She sprang up with fury, walking into the light of the bathroom, kicking over a rubbish bin as she went. Rage fueled her muscles and she kicked and she slammed against every door, throwing them against the tiled wall, making a noise of anger that wouldn’t be heard from the nameless people out on the dance floor. They would enjoy their night, getting lost in the bliss of music and forgetful substances. How could she ever leave this bathroom, and face those people, living in the temporary excitement of life, just as hers was crashing down, like a tower, collapsing from the inside out.

She sunk to the floor at the end of the cubicle doors, reaching towards the end of her energy outburst. She sobbed, the tears ruining her make up. For weeks she had pent up all emotion, determined to face the hardships of this poverty, to defy what people had assumed about her. They called her a lowlife, criticized her and made her worthless as a person. But she had plans to fix that, to make a name for herself – all if she had a little bit of time, and a little bit of money. But all that had slowly come to nothing, as her time had run out. Her body trembled terribly, her muscles sore and sick.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked herself, no answers springing to mind. She looked to her phone, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she might have one last person she could call upon, just one person that she hadn’t turned to yet. Unfortunately, when she turned on her phone, there came up a picture of Blake and herself, some photo she had despised since taking it. And all over again rose that darkness; the utterly depressing black mass that boiled up inside of her that she could not control. 

Alice stood up and threw her phone across the bathroom, aiming at her own reflection and shattering the long mirror that stretched out along the length of the wall. Glistening fragments settled on the floor and on the sinks, decorating the room like dangerous ornaments. She went over to the sink, despite the broken glass, the shards crunching under her shoes. She turned on the hot water and cleaned her face, warming up her pale skin, which had gone cold in the unkind bathroom. She laid her head against the tap, closing her eyes and exhaling into the steam that rose up around her face.

“What are you going to do now?” She asked herself again, a question that came up often in her life. She had always lived in an unplanned way; always living as if she could do anything, as if she could be anything and everything would be all right. But reality came around like a storm that took all of that freedom away, picking out each one of her dreams and crushing them under it’s weight. Her mind was a devastation site that would never be renewed, that would never be able to put back all the pieces and be good again. She was forever in this cycle of destruction, and she knew nothing could save her now.

Her mind was already dead; her only plan was to finish what had already been done. With no second thought she grabbed the largest shard of mirror she could find, despite it’s edges digging into her skin. She could barely feel the pricks in her hand, drawing blood. To her they were only evidence that she was still alive. In a quick, fluid sweep, she dragged the shard across her left wrist, digging deep into the veins. The blood slowly collected in the wound and seeped over her skin and through her fingers. But it wasn’t deep enough. She dug into the wound again, the pain more excruciating than before, cutting deep into the vital arteries, spilling blood by the litre. She did the same to her right wrist, digging in deep enough on the first go to be satisfied with the amount of blood that poured from her body like a flood of life. She threw down the shard of mirror, and watched her work unfold.

Alice laughed. It was the only thing she could do as she watched her life slowly leave through her wrists. She could feel the blood leave her head and when she looked at the remaining mirror pieces on the wall, her reflection was white and ghostly, the only colour coming from a smear of blood on her cheek. She smiled at her reflection, finding it genuinely smile back to her. This was what she was supposed to do then, she realised. Though she couldn’t help but feel the regret that saturated her heart, like the blood saturated her clothes. But it was too late to do anything about it, and pushed that feeling into her subconscious. The dizziness hit her hard, without any gradual warning. She was plunged into this wave of movement, her mind swimming in air. She stepped back loosing her central balance and fell to her knees. The glass was pressed into her knees, but she barely noticed the pain anymore. Her acceptance of her near death granted her the numbness she experienced, and all she felt was the dizziness and the excruciating effort it took to breathe. Maybe she wasn’t meant for this world. Her mother had always told her that everyone serves a purpose in this world, a purpose destined from the world before, and praised in the world after. But for Alice, that purpose was just not visible. Maybe all she was meant to do in this life was exist, and all she could hope for as she closed her eyes is that she had made a difference in someone else’s life. Someone else who would be good to this world. Someone who would serve a purpose.

Somewhere in the distance she heard screaming. She heard panic and distress of the unlucky person who next walked into the bathroom. She had hoped that she wouldn’t be around when that happened, but it’s not like many of her hopes had ever come true. She opened her eyes again. She was on the floor, amongst the shattered glass, soaked in her own blood. She could only see the underside of the sink, just barely. She could still hear the unfortunate person on the other side of her and, with her remaining energy she tried to turn her head, and tell the person to leave her.

“Please, someone help!” screamed the girl out the door. She kneeled beside Alice despite the broken mirror. Alice turned her head, to face the dark haired girl, her face cast with the bright light above her. She was like a vision above her, like a dream. She didn’t seem quite real. It was like looking through a veil. She tried to speak, to say to leave her, but the words would not form on her tongue. Instead only exasperated groans escaped her mouth. She took this, however, as a good sign, as she was that far gone, and it wouldn’t be too long before she would be gone from this world for good.

“Don’t close your eyes!” pleaded the dark haired girl, “don’t go! We can still save you!” Alice pleaded with God, or whatever was out there that that wasn’t true. She rolled back on her side, and closed her eyes again, ignoring any attempts by the dark haired girl to keep her conscious.

Soon the screaming and pleading stopped. All sound stopped in fact, and it was peaceful. She felt no more pain and she could breath again. She felt perfectly healed; she felt better than she was back in the club, better than she had ever felt before in her life. It was more than physical – it was mental as well. There was no black mass bubbling in her mind, no pressure on her heart, crushing her chest. She was content. She opened her eyes, to welcome this newfound state of death. It must be beautiful if she felt this good. She opened her eyes to darkness. Not darkness of the world she knew before, or childish fears of what lay waiting in that darkness, but of clean darkness, of something new and untouched.

“Alice.” Said a voice. She was sure it was the voice of her mother, but she could be wrong. There was something different about that voice, something she couldn’t recognise.

“Mum?” She called back, desperate for a response. She couldn’t see her, but she could feel her, somewhere amongst this perpetual darkness.

“Alice, why?” It was a question she couldn’t answer, but old regrets and guilt formed all over again in her new stomach, sparked by the great disappointment in her mother’s voice.

“I didn’t know what else to do?” Alice called back, tears springing to her eyes.

“Don’t be like me.” Called the voice again. She realised what that change in her mother’s voice was. It was that contentment Alice felt that must also resonate in her mother. In life her mother had always sounded desperate, always thinking about the future, what their next plan was. It was what sent her to the edge. It was what was growing in Alice.

“But you’re happy here? Aren’t you? I am.”

“But you won’t be.”

Suddenly that cozy darkness, which she had already begun to love, changed to a bright, intense light, burning her retinas. She was forced to close her eyes, and suddenly the pain was gone. All she was left with was a ringing headache. She opened her eyes again a few moments later, hoping to be returned to that blissful darkness, but was met with a situation she had prayed she wouldn’t have to face.

“Doctor! She’s waking up.” Called a familiar voice. “Alice? Alice? Can you hear me?” Alice couldn’t see with perfect vision, but she could just make out the face of the dark haired girl from the club, a concerned look as she tried to wake her.

Fuck, was the only word that came to Alice’s mind. 

Two Person Inner Monologue

Garage: Why are we here? This is my favorite room. Do you feel safe? No, the monsters haunt me here too. Where do you feel safe then? Nowhere. Why are we here? It’s my favorite room. Why is it your favorite room? Because of my piano. I’m isolated here in the cold, but at least I have my music. Can you play for me? No. Why not? My music is only to lull the monsters. They like my music. Do they talk to you when you play music? They sit next to me and listen. I feel their cold skin against mine. So you feel them? Yes. They don’t usually touch me, when they want to harm me, but when I’m playing music, I paralyze them, and they don’t care. But I don’t mind. So they don’t speak to you when your playing, do they ever speak to you? Yes, when I’m finished playing. They ask me to play again. They ask me to keep going with the beautiful music. They say that if I don’t keep playing, they’ll hurt me and my family, they’ll kill everyone if I don’t keep playing. But you stopped? No, I kept playing. I was too scared. He let me see him, only his eyes. His red eyes sat beside me and bore into me, and I know if I just stopped he’d kill me then and there. But if you hadn’t stopped, you wouldn’t be here with me. But I’m not here. I played for days straight. My fingers started to blister and bleed and I was so so tired, but he didn’t want me to stop. I cried and begged him to let me stop for a few moments at least, but he didn’t let me. He told me he loved my music too much. So why are you here then? Because I’m dead. I passed out eventually, hungry, thirsty, tired. He must have killed me for abandoning his music. No you didn’t die. We found you, unconscious on you piano. We took you to hospital and you are here now, alive and breathing. Your family is alright, no ghosts have hu- They’re not ghosts! Don’t call them that. They don’t like being called ghosts. They’re monsters. Okay, monsters. They haven’t hurt your family, and you’re alive. The monsters didn’t kill you. But they will. They’re just waiting until I’m alone. If anyone sees me die by their doing, people won’t think I’m crazy, people won’t think I’m making this up all in my head. But that’s what they want. They want me to seem insane to everyone else. They feed off that isolation. Do you think I’m crazy? No, I don’t think you’re crazy, but I don’t think there aren’t any ghosts here with us. Monsters! Yes, monsters. I don’t think there are any monsters here in this room. That’s because there’s not. They’re hiding. They’re scared of you. That’s why I wanted you to help me. But you didn’t choose me to help you, I was assigned by the hospital. But I willed you to be assigned to me. Don’t you understand? I need your help! You are the only one who can save me. How can I save you? I don’t know, but I know that you can help. The monsters have run away and I am safe now. If you are safe, will you play me some music? No. Why not? Because the monsters will come, whether or not you are here, just to listen to the music. Can I not fight them away? I don’t know, I just know that they don’t like you. Play for me, and I will keep you safe from the monsters. No, I don’t want to play. Please play for me. No! I don’t want to! Stop asking me. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you. The monsters understand me though. How so? They know what terrifies me. They don’t haunt me by just making noises in the night. They show me worlds that feel like dreams, but hurt me more than reality. How do they scare you? They drag me down into a world that at first is beautiful and happy, but then things change, I don’t know how, but it’s like a dark cloud covers the sun and this beautiful world becomes a sick, perverted world where I am just their plaything. But theses are only dreams. You can overcome them, I can help you. But these aren’t just dreams! They’re worse than dreams. They’re visions, and they attack me at anytime, anytime I’m alone, or in front of dozens of people, so the monsters can watch and laugh as I scream in terror for no apparent reason. Will you bring the monsters here so I can speak to them? They won’t speak to you. They don’t like you. Please. Play your music, so I can help you. They will hurt you. They will kill you. You have to listen to me, there are no monsters. Theses monsters are in you mind. They can’t hurt me. Please don’t make me play. I don’t want them to come back. But this is the only way I can help you. No! Please play! No! How do you expect me to help you if you are going to be so stubborn? You can’t help me, no one can help me. I can help you. You just said I could help you. They speak to me, they told me about you. They told me that they are scared of you, but if I bring them here, they will do anything they can do get rid of you. They’ve told me that they will rip you to pieces. They will tear each inch of flesh from your bone while you’re still screaming. They will do everything in their power to destroy you and I will be blamed. No one is going to kill me, you will not get blamed. You need to calm down and let me prove to you that there are no ghosts. MONSTERS! There are no monsters! Get out if you don’t believe me. Leave me alone if you’re not going to trust me. You think I’m crazy, just like everyone else. No one can save me. No one can save you if you are not willing to let them. We will have to work on this back in my office. I will arrange another meeting next week. I won’t be here next week. Where will you be then? I’ll be dead, and so will you. You will eventually believe me but by then it will be too late. No one is going to die. Yes we will. Our bones in lie in the earth side-by-side, stripped of flesh and life and the monsters will live on our fear long after they’ve stolen our lives. Who tells you these things? The monsters tell me the truth. They tell me things that I don’t want to hear; whisper to me in my sleep about their plans to kill me.

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.

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.

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.

Unfixable

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."

"But...you'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
"Just...you 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.

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.)

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 façade 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.

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.