- Books, Literature, and Writing»
- Commercial & Creative Writing»
- Creative Writing
Blue Country #10
Gotta edit these things more and more for content...
I watch the life drain slowly out of her eyes and I’m trying to make her come back to life, but no matter how hard I push on her chest she won’t breath anymore, and the hole in her head is oozing with this dark, almost blue blood that sticks together and clumps with her hair. I’m shouting something, I think it’s “NO, no.” but it’s continuous, and it mixes with my sobs and I just can’t get her to breathe again. Her legs kick in convulsions and peter out and hang limp.
I think “How?” and I can’t imagine how she could have slipped so badly and how the little towel hook was able to pierce her skull so easily, marveling at how much blood her head actually had in it, and how much is still coming out. “She has so much blood.” I say, dumbfounded and for a minute a wry voice in my head says “Not anymore,” and I could almost laugh if this wasn’t so real. “It wasn’t my fault.” I say. I just heard a crash and I came in and she was laying there, red gushing out in bursts and I know she was only sixteen and I shouldn’t have brought her home and that there going to find my DNA inside of her. I’m going to be a sex offender and I’m about to ruin my life by calling the police and telling them the story. I know I’m not going to be able to explain what she was doing here and how my DNA got all over her, or how she died. I sit down and I watch my life running away from me, my future evaporating from a million possible paths to one single daunting road.
Except it wasn’t my fault. I can just get rid of the body and nobody will know, people will blame it on the monster that’s been terrorizing the town and nobody has to know, I can just chop up the body and throw it in a lake and nobody has to know.
But what about her family? They’ll never know what happened to her. Is it worse to know that your daughters been killed by a towel loop, or to never know what happened to her at all. Their daughter died naked in the bathroom of some guy she met at a party.
What about the family? What about me? This wasn’t my fault, and I’m crying and her blood is dripping off my hands leaving a trail of drips all the way down to the kitchen where I grab a butcher’s knife and a pack of garbage bags and some tape. The blood leaves a second trail back up and even though I’m choking and trying to think about anything but what I need to do so that I’m able to do it, I make a mental note to clean up the mess.
Standing outside the bathroom door, unable to speak or think, my mind is racing so fast. I prepare myself for what I have to do, and I brace myself for the bloody mangled mess that’s waiting on the other side. I turn the knob and I’m praying that it was all an illusion and that she’ll be ok once I get into the bathroom, but the door swings open and she’s still there bleeding out onto the floor.
My hand flings reflexively to my mouth to cover a yell that’s been welling up in my belly and my eyes shut tight, my head jerks away. Flash forward and I’m sitting over her, one leg on each side and I’m trying to think how I’m going to do this, finally deciding I’m just going to start by…(Have to edit this part out. Basically the girl ends up not being dead as he's trying to...chop up the evidence. He then throws the 'evidence' in a lake and contemplates what he's going to do next.)
It’s been a long lazy day and I reflect on it as I pull the third body into the correct formation around the fire pit at Penguins Rock. It’s just about dusk and the sun hangs over the last vestiges of a horizon in the very west of the sky. I’m wearing the skin of a mother bear that I ran into on the walk over here, half starved and trying to gnaw it’s own foot off because it was stuck in a bear trap. For a moment I think that its very strange to actually find a bear trap on a stroll through the woods, odder still to find one that’s actually caught a bear, but I don’t think about it that hard and I kill it with the 44 magnum my father bought me last Christmas, spraying blood across the trees in the vicinity, creating a scarlet splatter that almost looks like a piece of modern art. Skinning the bear is difficult but I’m aided in the process by my unyielding lust for blood, and a dire curiosity pertaining to what’s underneath the skin, which it turns out is not that interesting,
The blood of the bear washes down my head and into my eyes coating the world red, and I’m rearranging the bodies of the two girls and two boys that (Edit again. Graphic violence. again, I'm just an awful person with a sick mind)
I arrange the bodies in an exaggerated plus sign, one body for each of the cardinal directions, around the fire. Somewhere the melody and beat of Green River by Credence Clear Water Revival plays, and I dance wildly, skipping and jumping and pushing off the trees to a drumming that pulsates through my brain and pushes my thirst for entertainment, but feeds the absolute fear of boredom that permeates my every thought.
The war paint I made from the bears blood is streaking down my clothes and spurring me on to more and more wild forms of abandonment. High pitched Gaelic war cries shoot from my throat and echo off the forest floor into the sky.
My blood pumps at the speed of sound and it’s an acrid mixture of cyanide poison and rust. Steam rises off my head, lending to the atmospheric quality of the moment and reinforcing my fury. The rage that makes up the solid structure of my personality is given an avenue to be expressed, and I can feel a lightness of being that I have never felt before. My true self, the flesh hungry monster that I hide behind a pair of sunglasses and a toothy smile comes alive. The play acting that is life pauses and gives way to a dance of pure energy that so many have been sacrificed to, to achieve.
I can feel the tempo of my aura speeding up and pumping harder than a jet engine. The climax of my berserk momentum reaches a crescendo and the blood that shoots in streams from the girl I picked up at Wal-Mart covers my entire body as I rip (Edit, again. Sorry. Rules.)
Heading down Wall Avenue, ignoring the incessant ringing of my cell phone, which I promised Sean I would keep on all the time, I see a woman being mugged by a Latino looking guy with a flannel shirt. I watch as he pistol-whips her to the ground. I see him go off in the other direction and I spring like a cat tearing down the road after him. I catch up with him and he pulls his gun on me and I almost smile, because I know it isn’t loaded and when he charges into me to try and knock me out of the way, I can feel his sudden exhalation brush against my neck, and he crumples to the floor with my butterfly knife sticking in his heart, the blood coming in spurts, making a sound like a high powered shower in a fancy hotel. I take the purse he stole and I look through it, occasionally glancing over at the mugger, to see if he’s going to make it, and when he finally does die, I look at him for a moment. I get close to his face. (author again. I left that in because it doesn't seem to bad. Nothing you wouldn't see in a movie right?-db)
I leave with the purse.
I buy myself dinner with the money in her wallet and I throw the purse into a trashcan. Rolling a joint, my phone starts buzzing again and I decide to answer it. Sean says he wants me to pick up some kerosene and I tell him sure, ok. I hang up and decide I don’t even want to smoke pot right now, so I hand the joint off to this little kid that I’ve noticed hangs around the Carl’s Jr. parking lot almost all the time. I show him how to smoke it, even light it for him. I think he likes it.
In two days my brother and I have a big job to pull, and he’s off somewhere gathering alibis or something. A man selling beads, a homeless bum with no legs, tells me about a demon that’s running rampant in the town, and I smile and put a bottle cap in his spare change cup. He says thank you and I wink at him.
I’m lying next to Alison, staring at the ceiling fan, feeling her stomache with the palm of my hand slowly, over and over. She sleeps and I wonder. I wonder about what she must be dreaming about. Me? Is she dreaming about the way I look and the way I make her feel, that first moment where we met and she danced with me? Can she feel my arms around her, the warmth we make together, side by side, breathing in unison? Does she know that I think I love her? Can she possibly know that just by existing, simply her presence as it fills a hole in the universe, that just by being Alison she has saved my life?
The pain I felt, the anxiety and the sharp constant stabbing that comes along with the self doubt, the self pity, the self loathing and the lack of a true self image, all the dead and buried emotions that I thought I had kissed goodbye forever that bubble to the surface now, all of the good and the bad and the neutral she fills the holes that used to exist and the paint by numbers chart point accuracy that they both lacked and overfilled with. Does she know that she’s replaced it all? When she let her guard down and let me love her, let me melt into her, she became the patron saint of every good feeling I’ve ever had. Neurons that haven’t fired in years are blasting like machine gun fire; endorphins rush and flop around like dying fish, inflating my spirit. The memory of our first meeting is painted across the inside of my eyelids, replaying over and over in sepia tones, and if I close my eyes tight enough I can even hear the words she said to me when we first kissed. “Call me.” She said.
I start to think “Virtue is it’s own reward” and I don’t know where the words are springing from, but I want to be a better person, I don’t want to hunt night after night for the next thrill or chemical reaction, the next drug the next lay, the next great idea, the next high, the next low, the worst or the best or even the most neutral, the most far out anything that day into day, all day, has consumed my every lustful thought for so long. I only want to preserve this moment in a glass jar in my heart for ten thousand years and I only want to love her and hold her, to talk to her. I want to have one continuous conversation with her for the rest of my days, a conversation of words and thoughts and feelings and emotions come to life personified by the stares and subtle looks that we throw at eachother, a single overwhelming love that burns and travels from my midsection down the charka tubes in my arms and shoots out my fingertips in a Technicolor slide show forever and ever and ever.
I finger the bottle of Vicoden in my pocket, thinking, something is itching at my brain theres a decision that has to be made here and…I don’t know what it is yet. Some kind of grand change that a voice is calling out to me to enact from the bottom of the darkest recesses of my mind. I’m thinking what it is, wondering why a bottle of Vicoden would set off a chain of feelings like that. I pop the remainder of the bottle and over the course of an hour or two I drift into a disturbed but highly pleasurable slumber.
I’m chain smoking cigarettes, and pacing back and forth, back and forth, rubbing an indentation of my close-cropped travels into the floor of my bedroom. I cleaned every inch of the house with bleach. In my mind I can still see her there, bleeding to death on my bathroom floor and Jesus Christ I can’t remember her name, and I feel like I owe it to her to at least know her name but I burned her wallet with her clothes. Every time the phone rings my blood turns to liquid nitrogen and every nerve in my body has tensed up at a moments notice so many times in the days since she died that my whole body feels like one big exposed, infected, raw muscle.
I keep telling myself over and over that I didn’t mean to do it, that the whole thing was an accident, and I’ve been crying so much that my eyes are permanently blood shot, my throat feels like one long sore from the hacking and the throwing up. I can’t get her (Edited again) out of my mind; the image of her eyes rolling back into her punctured head is seared onto my every thought like a signature. The way her muscles gave way to the sharp steel as(edited out), I managed to stuff her completely into three garbage bags.
For three days I stay in my room. I piss out the window, and my guts are wrenched tighter than steel cobras, I’m writhing in agony. A guilt that I never wanted to feel taints everything I do, and I can feel the momentous wrong of my actions seeping into every orifice and pore. I drink a bottle of whiskey to dull the pain, but it’s still looming on the vestiges of my mind, spinning like a dervish reeking havoc on my soul.
I head down to the K-mart and I buy a twenty-two-caliber handgun. I’m drunk stepping inside the building but the act of purchasing protection sobers me up considerably as I contemplate actually using the gun, needing it to fire upon intruders or people looking to avenge the girl. The image of a brother of hers, or maybe a close cousin chasing after me with a bat, trying to crush my skull is quickly replaced by thoughts of brains being blown out through the backs of heads, of bullet wounds that split skulls like chasms and render hearts useless, blood spurting from jugulars.
“Looking for a little home defense?” The salesman, a short fat guy with glasses and a checkered shirt, asks me.
“Yes.” I say, curtly.
“The 22 is actually pretty light.” He answers. “Might think about getting something with a little more kick.”
“More…kick?” I answer automatically. “Just…wrap it up…I guess.” I finish, my voice an unrecognizable droning gasp.
“You’re the customer.” He says, and his mustache wiggles, which suggests that it’s a false mustache, but I waive the thought away quickly.
I buy two boxes of bullets and I leave the store. Walking to my car I think I see Kevin running up a wall, dressed in a bearskin dripping with fresh blood and wielding a severed leg like a battle club, but I turn again, doing a double take, and all I see is a thin gaunt looking man smoking a cigarette through his trachea hole. The image was so vivid that I consider questioning the man, to see if he saw anything but he seems so calm smoking his cigarette that I surmise that he couldn’t have seen anything as unusual as what I thought had occurred.
I step into my Cherokee and the inside of the car is actually spinning, the alcohol still flowing in my blood stream, impairing my motor skills significantly but also keeping utter madness at bay. I almost resign myself to staying the night in the car, passed out drunk, and driving home sober in the morning, but the thought of staying away from the safety of my home drives me to open another bottle and chug three swallows of Jack Daniels, to calm my nerves further.
I load the gun and place it on the passenger seat, and start the car, but it backfires and for one brief moment I think that the gun has gone off, and the jolt makes me feel so nauseous that I have to step out of the car and I throw up, spraying vomit all over the white Ford Pick up that’s parked adjacently from me. I stumble back into the Cherokee, sweating, white faced and trying to clear my nasal passages of the puke. The car, which I’ve kept running through all of this, smells like strawberries because of the air freshener and the sickly sweet aroma almost makes me completely lose it, but I’m able to gather my strength, somehow I cope, and I shift the car into drive.
It’s dark and I can’t seem to bring myself to turn on my headlights, and I can barely keep the car on the road, because every shadow I see looks like an eighteen-wheeler heading right for me. I swerve and I’m all over the road, zigging and zagging and it’s not like this really means anything, but I can’t stop telling god how sorry I really truly am. I’m thinking back to the sermons that father Jon used to give at Sunday mass, how god will forgive anything we do if were really truly sorry, but I don’t believe in god, and yet I’m going to hell anyway. I get so wrapped up in imagining myself being roasted over a searing hot fire, that I don’t notice the flashing light behind me until the sound of the cops voice booms loud enough to wake me up. “Pull over.” He says. “Pull your vehicle to the side of the road.
I tilt my rearview mirror and I see the white police cruiser advancing on my rear, and I know that I have to stop but my foot pushes harder on the gas. I still hear the booming voice ordering me to halt but I continue speeding down the road, swerving all over the street because it’s really hard to flee the cops when your drunk and crying. I see a sharp, sharp turn approaching and I realize that taking the turn is suicide and I slow down and pull to the side of the road.
I see the door open and a pair of heavily booted feet emerges quickly, followed closely by a slight looking man, forty five-ish, sporting a gay looking sandy-colored mustache.
It almost happens in slow motion, I see him going for his gun and I already know that he’s going to say, “Step out of the vehicle and put your hands on your head.”
I already know that he’s going to handcuff me and take my fingerprints and I’m thinking, “Aren’t cops trained to smell lies?” and I can see them finding the DNA left over from the girl when they search my house. I see years behind bars for something that was an accident, and it’s instinctive, totally sub-consciously controlled when I grab for the gun and I open the door and I roll out of the car and I fire the gun wildly, pulling the trigger three times and one of the bullets catches the cop in the throat and he falls to the ground like a sandbag, gushing blood and it looks like a wound from a samurai movie, spraying wildly.
Standing over the cops body, seeing him squirm, slowly succumbing to blood loss, I’m screaming “NO, NO” and I can’t believe the bullet actually hit him, so drunk I can barely stand, so pumped from the adrenaline that I can’t stop moving, and I fall to my knees and I’m holding him when he dies. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I say, and I see his nametag, which reads Sgt. Combes, and I say, “I’m so sorry officer sergeant Combes.”
I finally get up and brush myself off, thinking that cop cars all have cameras that capture everything they do and I know that now I’ve sealed my fate. My only chance is to hide and wait for it to blow over and sober up so I can think straight, and I run wildly, flapping my arms like a drowning duck, into the wild in search of a shelter for the night.
Jackson T. Jackson
My cigarette has burned down to the nub and it’s scorching my fingertips, but I don’t flick it away. I look over and see Jacob, sitting at the card table playing solitaire, looking solemn. I see the clock and it reads ten to five and I can’t help but think that theres only an hour left until The Brothers do what we’ve paid them to do. Part of me is screaming, “Call it off.” But I know that I can’t, and I brace myself for the phone call carrying the news that their mission has been accomplished. Jacob lights his own cigarette and flips a red four onto a black five.
I load and unload my gun, popping clips into place and releasing them, trying to keep my mind on anything but what it wants to think about. I can only imagine the terror that those two are going to bring to someone tonight, and I don’t know what creates monsters like them, and am I a monster for using something so horrible? Jacob, seemingly reading my thoughts, says, “You know we can still stop them.” And I nod, but do nothing. “I know.” I say.
“You know that it’s wrong this time.” He says, not looking up from the cards.
“That’s…not for us to decide.” I answer.
“But you know it’s true.” He says, taking a long drag off his cigarette.
“…I know.” I say. “Right…doesn’t really enter into it anymore.” I add.
Jacob nods, as if he approves, and puts his cigarette out. “As long as you know.” He says.
I don’t know if they sell them around here, but I really have always enjoyed a good cup of coffee. There’s this little spot just near my house called T. Wetbacks where I know I can always count on getting a decent cup of joe. It’s like if I wanted an Iced coffee instead, I know I’m in good hands, and that my order can be changed upon my request. Every day for the last two or three years I’ve gone their in the late afternoon and ordered an iced coffee and… like… maybe a quiche. Usually a quiche. Sometimes I’d get a crepe instead.
Sitting in the cheerful atmosphere of my favorite local coffee bar, I took it upon myself to peruse the bulletin board, where I see a flyer pinned right in the middle of the board, outshining all the other flyers. It put the crappy little ad for Steve’s old guitar to shame.
FUCKING SWEET BASKETBALl TOURNAMENT. March 31 2021.
So I ‘m like “Oh shit son, that’s three weeks from now.” And my boy Bob is like “Damn cuz, we gonna need to put together a crew.” Bob and I head to my house to draw out a plan.
“Allright, we need to put together a good team on short notice. Let’s list off all of the people we know and make a lexicon of their attributes, and decide on who among them we should ask to be on our basketball team.”
Bob starts calling people immediately to spread the word that everyone should meet us at the old warehouse.
“All right,” He says to me. “Lets do this thing.”