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Another short story too it's real good its a murder type thi

Posted: Sat Mar 20, 2010 7:25 pm
by FengharTheNord
There is no Escape, Sir.

There are two holes in my chest, sucking blood from my chest, out of my chest, and onto the floor. Smoking. Bad for my lungs. Chest chest chest. Blood. Chest. Huh. Its one of those words that the more you say it out loud, the less and less familiar it sounds. It starts to speak more like a noise. Like some kind of gibberish. Which I suppose that's all words are, anyways. Noises, that is. Noises that we attribute meaning to. Chest chest chest. Blood.

I remember his chest. Big and broad and scarred and blackened with the soot from all the fires he started that day.
“Knick knack paddywack give a dog a bone” he told me.
I was looking for my mother. She disappeared under his hands one night. I knew where my sister was. I was looking for my mother. So I asked him
“Where's my mother?”
He didn't know. He knew as well as I. But he didn't know. He never knows. Or at least, he doesn't tell me. I think he's lying. But no, he couldn't be. He's got such a familiar face.
“Where's my mother?” he asked.
I didn't know. I knew as well as he. But I didn't know. I never know. Or at least, I don't tell him. I might be lying. But I wouldn't. He's got such a familiar face.
“Where's my mother?”
How embarrassing. We both asked at the same time. That's like one of those things where you say something at the same time as a friend and then you yell “JINX” and they owe you some kind of beverage. I never understood that game. I was never really quick with those types of things. Like my hands. I was never very quick with them.

He was quick though. Quick and wild. Wild and strong. Strong and sturdy. Dextrous nimble long fingers that pulled and pried and got into things they shouldn't. I was proud of him. He was mine. I, his. We were beautiful together. But I was still concerned with my mother. Not my sister, I knew where she was. But my mother, I did not know where she was. I was looking for her. That's why I came down here. I thought I heard her voice. Her scream. But it wasn't her. He was down here. So I thought I'd ask him where my mother was. He didn't know. Neither did I. That's how things seem to go between us these days. We like our games. We are good at them. We find new skills every day. New games to play. New things we are good at. We are good at a lot of things. We are good with our hands. Well, he is. I'm more the talker. I've got wit. That's what my mother tells me. I'm witty. Sometimes she says I'm a smartass. Sometimes she'll even come after me with the belt. Or throw something at me. I'm pretty witty. Where is my mother? I've been looking for her. At least I think she's lost. She's certainly not around. Maybe she's out.
“Out where?” he asks.
I'm not really sure though. I think about asking him where she is again. But he shakes his head at me. We are like that, him and I. We know what the other is thinking. We are good at that. It's one of those things we are good at. Sometimes I try to know what other people are thinking. Sometimes it makes me angry. I try really hard and they don't even respond to me. But I guess that's just how it is. I know what he's thinking. It's never enough. Sometimes I wish I could just make people tell me what they are thinking. Sometimes I wish I could just find out. Open them up and look inside. He tells me what he's thinking. He lets me know. I know. I know what he knows. But I don't know what other people know. Sometimes it makes me angry.

I'm a pretty angry person. Like when I asked him where my mother is and he said he didn't know. Well. I got pretty angry. I am angry. I yell at him sometimes. He yells at me more, though, so it's ok. It's ok to yell at people if they yell at you first. It's ok to hit them if they hit you first. It's ok. I do it. He does it. Sometimes I hit people first, because I know they will hit me back. Sometimes I hit them really hard to make sure they don't hit back. I don't like people hitting me. I don't like not knowing what they are thinking.
“WHERE IS MY MOTHER?” I yell.
“I'll hit you”.

I never really liked my father. I never really knew him, but I never really liked him. Never. He was a bad man. That's what my mother told me. Told me that he was a bad man. That he's gone now. But sometimes I see him. At least I think I see him. My mother says I look just like him. Sometimes she cries. Sometimes I make her. So she won't make me cry.

“I'll hit you”.
“That's all you ever say.”
“NO!?”
“Yes. That's all you ever say. Is what I say.”
“Ok. No. I do not. You are a liar.”
“I'll hit you. I swear.”

He can be so difficult sometimes. So I hit him. Or at least I think I do. I'm not sure. I must have slipped. My eyes are all blurry. Where is my mother? Where can she be? My sister is right here.... But where is my mother? I forgot there was a hammer in my hand. I think I hurt him.
“Hammers are heavy” I tell him.
“I'm not listening. I'm asleep”. He's not listening. He's asleep
I pull a chair near me. This basement. The floors are so dirty. I sit on the chair. I stand up from the chair. I sit in it again. These chairs. They are so dirty. So uncomfortable. My sister. She's right here. But my mother. I need to remember. Where did I put her. Where did she get to. Where is she. I look over at him. I think he's still asleep, though. He's not there anyways. Where he usually is. He's not there. I look over at my sister. I look away. I can't look at her right now. The way she looks. Inappropriate. Un-ladylike. She's a very un-ladylike girl. She asks things from me. Asks bad things. For help. Questions questions. She needs to shut her mouth.

My hand hurts after I use this hammer a lot. It hurts a lot today. I don't use this hammer often. But my hands hurt pretty much everyday. I probably should cut back on using this hammer. Maybe the blue hammer.... Nah... I like this one. This one is my favorite. My hand hurts after using it a lot, but it's my favorite. It's got a nice weight to it. This basement. So dirty. I look at my sister again. I wonder where my mother is. He's not back yet. I can't ask him. I guess I'll look around. I look around. She's still not here. I'm so tired. It's been a while since I slept. It's 3:40 right now. A.m. Boy am I tired. There's my mother. She was just sleeping. On the bed. I go to wake her up. Her alarm is going off. It's such a loud alarm. Bright too. Bright and colorful. It shakes the house. I go to wake my mother up. She looks at me. She says something. She says something mean. She tries to make me cry. So I make her cry. But then she's so loud. So I make her stop crying. Then I look at my sister. Make her stop crying. She was crying. She's done now. I'm sweating. So hot. It's so hot down here in this dirty basement. There are men getting in here. They are opening up doors and they are flashing lights at me. Screaming. Yelling. I can't really see.

I see him. He's beautiful. Big broad chest. Scarred and covered in soot from all the fires he started today. He's a big boy. A good boy. He looks just like his father. But they shatter him up. They crash him down. They start to break him all up and all over and I can't see him anymore but little bits and pieces of him. Why did they do that. I hit a few of them. I can't really remember anything. It's really bright in here. It's really loud. I feel something in my chest. Two somethings. More elsewhere. A lot in my stomach. Chest chest chest. The men are scurrying around. They look at my mother and my sister. Where did they go? I knew where my sister was. She was right here. But my mother. Where did she go? She is there now. But where was she before. Why wasn't she there when the bad men got me? Why isn't she here now? Where did my sister go? Why didn't she ever talk to me? Why didn't she ever stop asking questions? Why couldn't she just be happy? Why does my mommy have to make me cry? Why did they smash him up...?

There are two holes in my chest, sucking blood from my chest, out of my chest, and onto the floor. Smoking. Bad for my lungs. Chest chest chest. Blood. Chest. Huh. Its one of those words that the more you say it out loud, the less and less familiar it sounds. It starts to speak more like a noise. Like some kind of gibberish. Which I suppose that's all words are, anyways. Noises, that is. Noises that we attribute meaning to. Chest chest chest. Blood.

Re: Another short story too it's real good its a murder type thi

Posted: Sun Mar 21, 2010 12:30 am
by Apocalyptus
That was intense! And really good.

Re: Another short story too it's real good its a murder type thi

Posted: Sun Mar 21, 2010 3:26 pm
by FengharTheNord
My friends tell me it was disturbing and they don't look at me the same! Haha!

Re: Another short story too it's real good its a murder type thi

Posted: Sun Mar 21, 2010 6:46 pm
by LordRetard
That's good, Fenghar, you WANT them to have the fear.

Re: Another short story too it's real good its a murder type thi

Posted: Sun Mar 21, 2010 6:54 pm
by FengharTheNord
I also beat them up after they read it

Re: Another short story too it's real good its a murder type thi

Posted: Sun Mar 21, 2010 6:57 pm
by LordRetard
Back in high school I made ALL of my friends by scaring the shit out of them.

How the fuck did that work!

Re: Another short story too it's real good its a murder type thi

Posted: Mon Mar 22, 2010 5:16 am
by Sahan
I'd make an analogy here regarding international politics but I'm pretty sure you guys can come up with these examples for yourself.

Re: Another short story too it's real good its a murder type thi

Posted: Mon Mar 22, 2010 7:21 am
by Cirtur
Those damn belgians!