all that remains is an empty relic of what once was
jeff and volan started a fight club... i took part in it once and it will most definately be the last. those guys do not mess around. the rules were anything goes with the exception of hitting in the face. so what do i do? totally smoke jeff in the face, haha. so now i'm no longer part of the club.
i went out and bought a poison the well cd the other day. it's pretty swell. i wanted to get the walls of jericho cd, but it was no where to be found. so the demo song will have to do.
i am entering a writing contest soon. that would be insane if i actually won something. but i dont think i will, there are so many awesome writers doing this. speaking of writing, my newest short story is taking shape. soon it shall be posted for all you to read, cuz i know how like them...
Samantha let herself into the darken apartment, not bothering to turn on a light. The glow from the street lamp on the corner shone through the windows well enough for her to see. As always, she had harbored the secret hope that Tristin would be there waiting for her. It was a hope she never acknowledged until the disappointment struck her. But why would he waste his time with her these days. He had Blake now.
The thought slipped in and out of her heart like a knife. Now that there was no one to see them, no one to stop them, the tears fell. She sank down onto the scarred wooden floor of the living, bending over, and curling into a ball.
Amongst the sound of her sobs, she noticed a faint breathing other than her own. She wasn’t alone. The sound drove terror deep into her chest like a blade. Samantha opened her mouth to scream, but the sound was caught and snuffed out as a black bag descended over her face and was pulled tight by a drawstring around her throat, choking her. She lashed out wildly with her fists, with her feet, but the sudden and total darkness robbed her of her equilibrium, causing her to stagger and fall.
The slick wooden floor left her scrambling for traction as she tried to escape. She tried to stand, but her assailant beat her back down. The blows landed over and over on her back and legs. She tried frantically to crawl out of the path of the club, but the blows were too persisting. She felt the burn of carpet scrape against her chin and cheek through the rough fabric of the hood as she went skidding face first into the living room.
Questions began pulsing through her brain like a strobe light. Who? Why? What? Tears pressed like fists behind her eyes and leaked out to soak into the hood. She wanted to sob, to wail out the pain and the terror that was choking her, but the hood was suffocating her and it was all she could do to draw in enough air to breathe.
The drawstring tightened around her throat, pulling her head up, hanging her. Samantha clawed at the hood and managed to get her feet back under her and surged upward; tearing the string with one hand, lashing out with the other. The heel of her hand connected with bone and she heard a grunt of pain and surprise.
She was trying to run and pull off the hood all at once, and the room, the night, tilted crazily around her, everything a blur of black and white. Her legs pumped, her arms swung wildly, but she seemed to go nowhere. As in a nightmare, the door to escape looked farther and farther away. Her heart beat wildly, drowning out everything but the clunking of boots on the wood floor behind her.
She glanced back over her shoulder just as the bat swung forward. The pain was a brilliant orange and red explosion inside her head. Then everything went black, as if the plug had been pulled, and the world ceased to exist.