I wrote a story
As if my odd mood was not already evident, I wrote a story today. It's not really an odd mood, I just suddenly felt inspired and had to write. Typically that's the way it goes with me.
If only that would happen with the 3+ hours of homework I have to do tonight...
Anyway read it and beware the very graphic parts. They are gratuitous, and, in being so, are completely necessary.
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"Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones."
PSALM 137:9
The Fourth Vanity
Static raged across the screen, a calming blue light cast into the darkness of the room. Softly, it spoke in white noise, singing as the snow fell outside. It was cold and winter and no one was watching. The moon shone brightly on that night, its delicate light caressing the rolling hills of frozen water that had fallen from the sky.
Her eyes fluttered open, though recognition did not follow. On a small sign stapled to her skin, the word “penitence” was written in some color other than black. The blood was old, caked, and smelled stale. The word was damaged, old, though she was not.
The light flickered on the television; the electron snow faded and a song began to play. Now she could watch television. The black and white theme music crackled through broken speakers, and she could feel the drugs beginning to wear off. “Good evening, America,” the television said to her. “Welcome to the show.”
She tried to pull the sign off her skin, because upon waking she never remembered that such a thing was impossible. She traced the lines of the word, the realization dawning upon her that it was engraved on her skin. The caked blood was not from the sign, though she could not determine why not.
Apparently, she had begun menstruating since falling asleep, and fresh, red blood had pooled on her dirty white sheets. They were stained with semen, her father’s tears, and now her own blood.
She stood up, her hands shaking. The television spoke in a monotone voice: “This is the weather,” it said. “These are the murders,” it said. “Stay inside.”
“I am inside,” she whispered to the television. She blinked and the dark room came into focus. A yellow light shone from underneath her bedroom door, piercing the darkness in a small stream. It illuminated a drawing she had made, crudely painting her name in many bright colors. “Isabel,” she could hear her mother say, “You are my little rose, Isabel.” She had tried to draw a rose, but it did not turn out the way it was in her head.
She heard footsteps outside her door.
She listened.
She panicked.
When the door opened, she lay on the bed, half-clothed and bloody. Her father’s heavy breathing could be heard as his form rose above her prostrate body. She trembled as she discerned three other figures rising in the darkness.
“My darling,” spoke her father, “are you awake?”
“Yes father,” she whispered after a moment. “I am awake.”
“Look who is here to meet you,” he said softly.
In the darkness she could see three men; one who smiled grotesquely through his whiskers, one whose glistening yellow teeth could be seen, and one small, emaciated man with a little horn protruding from his forehead. All of them bowed to her, reeking of feces.
“My saintly little girl,” said her father. He rolled up his sleeve and showed her his arm, a scar shining dully in the dim light. “Do you remember, you little fuck?”
She did not answer.
He smiled, his teeth as gray as iron, his massive frame seeming to move the room with it. “These three nice men have each brought you something in return.”
The whiskered man stepped forward, still smiling, and smiled even broader still when he noticed Isabel’s tears. “I bring you Speech,” he said in a roaring voice that shook her. He violently grabbed her head and wrapped electrical tape around her mouth.
The second took her by the hair and growled: “I bring you God, little Isabel.” He pierced her right and left hands with a nail gun that left her stapled to the dirty mattress.
The third man, whose sickly arms snaked underneath her shirt, whispered: “I bring you Want.” He caressed her breasts gently before ripping the shirt and stained underwear from her body. He held them close to his heart, panting, aroused.
“Oh my little angel,” said her father finally, terrifying and frightening and very powerful. “I bring you Fear.”
He exposed his phallus, long and hard and engorged with blood. He crushed her as he laid his bloated form atop her. She gasped for air and he forced his enormous phallus into her, laughing and kissing her neck. “I love you, little Isabel, I love you,” he said, and the other men laughed. “All you must do is worship me in return,” he screamed. “Need me and you will never be alone.”
She ripped her hand from the mattress and stabbed him through the heart. The nail was still embedded in her palm.
He gasped for air.
He staggered away, screaming blasphemies.
He fell.
The other men did not kill her as she thought they would, as she had believed. Instead, they disappeared into the wintry night, leaving her alone again. She did not speak, she did not pray, and she did not want.
She sat atop her father’s prostrate body, weeping and weeping until her eyes ran dry.
She feared no more.
She was free.
If only that would happen with the 3+ hours of homework I have to do tonight...
Anyway read it and beware the very graphic parts. They are gratuitous, and, in being so, are completely necessary.
--------------------------------------
"Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones."
PSALM 137:9
The Fourth Vanity
Static raged across the screen, a calming blue light cast into the darkness of the room. Softly, it spoke in white noise, singing as the snow fell outside. It was cold and winter and no one was watching. The moon shone brightly on that night, its delicate light caressing the rolling hills of frozen water that had fallen from the sky.
Her eyes fluttered open, though recognition did not follow. On a small sign stapled to her skin, the word “penitence” was written in some color other than black. The blood was old, caked, and smelled stale. The word was damaged, old, though she was not.
The light flickered on the television; the electron snow faded and a song began to play. Now she could watch television. The black and white theme music crackled through broken speakers, and she could feel the drugs beginning to wear off. “Good evening, America,” the television said to her. “Welcome to the show.”
She tried to pull the sign off her skin, because upon waking she never remembered that such a thing was impossible. She traced the lines of the word, the realization dawning upon her that it was engraved on her skin. The caked blood was not from the sign, though she could not determine why not.
Apparently, she had begun menstruating since falling asleep, and fresh, red blood had pooled on her dirty white sheets. They were stained with semen, her father’s tears, and now her own blood.
She stood up, her hands shaking. The television spoke in a monotone voice: “This is the weather,” it said. “These are the murders,” it said. “Stay inside.”
“I am inside,” she whispered to the television. She blinked and the dark room came into focus. A yellow light shone from underneath her bedroom door, piercing the darkness in a small stream. It illuminated a drawing she had made, crudely painting her name in many bright colors. “Isabel,” she could hear her mother say, “You are my little rose, Isabel.” She had tried to draw a rose, but it did not turn out the way it was in her head.
She heard footsteps outside her door.
She listened.
She panicked.
When the door opened, she lay on the bed, half-clothed and bloody. Her father’s heavy breathing could be heard as his form rose above her prostrate body. She trembled as she discerned three other figures rising in the darkness.
“My darling,” spoke her father, “are you awake?”
“Yes father,” she whispered after a moment. “I am awake.”
“Look who is here to meet you,” he said softly.
In the darkness she could see three men; one who smiled grotesquely through his whiskers, one whose glistening yellow teeth could be seen, and one small, emaciated man with a little horn protruding from his forehead. All of them bowed to her, reeking of feces.
“My saintly little girl,” said her father. He rolled up his sleeve and showed her his arm, a scar shining dully in the dim light. “Do you remember, you little fuck?”
She did not answer.
He smiled, his teeth as gray as iron, his massive frame seeming to move the room with it. “These three nice men have each brought you something in return.”
The whiskered man stepped forward, still smiling, and smiled even broader still when he noticed Isabel’s tears. “I bring you Speech,” he said in a roaring voice that shook her. He violently grabbed her head and wrapped electrical tape around her mouth.
The second took her by the hair and growled: “I bring you God, little Isabel.” He pierced her right and left hands with a nail gun that left her stapled to the dirty mattress.
The third man, whose sickly arms snaked underneath her shirt, whispered: “I bring you Want.” He caressed her breasts gently before ripping the shirt and stained underwear from her body. He held them close to his heart, panting, aroused.
“Oh my little angel,” said her father finally, terrifying and frightening and very powerful. “I bring you Fear.”
He exposed his phallus, long and hard and engorged with blood. He crushed her as he laid his bloated form atop her. She gasped for air and he forced his enormous phallus into her, laughing and kissing her neck. “I love you, little Isabel, I love you,” he said, and the other men laughed. “All you must do is worship me in return,” he screamed. “Need me and you will never be alone.”
She ripped her hand from the mattress and stabbed him through the heart. The nail was still embedded in her palm.
He gasped for air.
He staggered away, screaming blasphemies.
He fell.
The other men did not kill her as she thought they would, as she had believed. Instead, they disappeared into the wintry night, leaving her alone again. She did not speak, she did not pray, and she did not want.
She sat atop her father’s prostrate body, weeping and weeping until her eyes ran dry.
She feared no more.
She was free.