Post by Flight on Oct 19, 2008 14:58:00 GMT -5
Haha, sorry about diluting the general great-ness of the writing here. I couldn't resist.
This is a story I wrote a while back for coursework (the ONLY piece of coursework I've ever enjoyed). Meant to be a short story with a twist somewhere along the way.
(after she read it, my teacher said she would have told me before writing not to touch this sort of plot with a barge-pole. good thing I gave it in before that).
I'll shut up now. It's um, a very little disturbing, so if you've very very young you maaay want to give it a miss. It's nothing anyone who reads Chris' books can't handle, though (;
The air was cold, the sharp metal colder, but by far the iciest thing in the room was the straightjacket I wore. Or rather, was in the process of taking off.
The chill of my room, as I liked to refer to it, was easily ignored. The people at the hospital had grown used to my habits, you know. Collecting items, random pieces of junk, anything I could lay my hands on. They had accepted it as just another crazy person’s tendency – taking away anything remotely dangerous of course. They were too good to me. You see, it had taken me a long time to get the small blade I was using now as my key to freedom, and the primal thrill of escape, of the possibility of capture, was the current high I was working on.
The metal felt as if it was cutting more into my fingers then the material, but I persevered. It was getting slippery now, and the pain was shooting up my arm as if I had held said limb into a furnace, a thousand needles piercing into soft flesh, ripping, tearing. I closed my eyes in a grimace, mouth twisted to stop any unwanted noise. Not that anyone could hear me, even if I had screamed ‘till my throat bled no one would have come. Tears sprang involuntarily into my eyes, and they burned like fire as they flowed bitterly and unchecked. Naturally, the first thing I did when I freed one hand was wipe the salt water away, but that only served to spread a different liquid onto my face. But that was okay. At least it wasn’t burning now.
Waking up is always a blessing and a curse, for waking means the comfort of lying in one’s own bed, next to one’s wife, warm and safe, mind still half asleep and content. Then again, waking means having to get out of one’s bed, into the harsh world. The morning starts out as normal; breakfast, a cup of coffee, the radio. And my wife, my love, my world, my very reason for existence. I was never one with words, but even the greatest author, playwright or songwriter couldn’t express what I feel for her. I would die for her a thousand times over; I would live a million tortured existences if it would save her from pain. I am not so arrogant to say for sure she loves me as much I do her, but I like to think she does. Certainly, it was she who first asked me out, proposed, and eventually asked my hand in marriage. Not very traditional, but I love that in her, as I love every part of her.
“Love you.” I say, as she leaves for work.
“I love you too.” She replies, hugging me and taking the lunch I packed for her.
Escape was easy – it was the preparation that had taken months, years even. Now it was just a matter of spare clothes, cleaning my face and bandaging my hands. It was about two o’clock when I stepped out onto the streets, certain and without haste. It would take only an hour to get there; I was in no hurry.
I had to waste a little time in writing a note for the people back at the hospital. It wasn’t much – a few sentences thanking them, and saying goodbye. Because I won’t see them again, and I want them to remember me in a positive way. To remember just bad memories would be unbearable.
No one bothered me in the dark of the streets, which I was glad of. After all, I would have hated to have used the gun I stole. It would make so much noise. Besides, I have always hated guns of any sort. Ugly, clumsy, not subtle or clever at all. And they always come in black, for some reason. I think if I had a gun, I would want a white one. White, like the colour of our house, like the sun and like cleanness. Not black at all.
It’s the first time she has come to see me, the first time she’s seen me in a week, but she’s just sitting there and sobbing, while I try my best to make her stop. She doesn’t until she has to leave, at least not completely.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she says, muffled. Her hands cover her face – I wish they didn’t. I wish I could see her properly. “I can’t hold everything together.” She looks up at me. “I can’t live without you.”
Her pain is my pain, and I suddenly realise I’m crying.
There were some men across the road from me; they were drunk, and I had to take a short detour to avoid them. The route was traced in my mind however; I know it better then I know myself. My feet walked automatically, and my thoughts were left to wander. Somehow the knowledge that this was my last few hours alive didn’t seem to faze me at all. It was a distant fact, a sentence that didn’t really mean anything.
She comes to see me as much as possible – at least that’s what she says. It’s easy to believe; she works long hours, and having to keep the house alone must take quite a while. Not to mention her personal life. She always did like going out.
I don’t like her coming, really. Because whenever I see her she never looks happy any more. Always sad, always apologetic. As if it’s her fault I’m here.
I just wish I could cheer her up. It’s been months, almost half a year since I came here, yet she’s managed to come at least every week.
But this time, she’s not alone. She’s nervous; I can tell the instant I see her pale face, and I can also see she’s trying to hide her unease. There’s another man next to her, someone I don’t know. A stranger. He’s too close to her for my liking, and I ignore him, as if I tried hard enough, he would disappear. She introduces him, and then he walks off.
Her unease is mine now, and soon it becomes a bubbling hatred.
I know now. She’s left me. My wife. She’s still my world, but I’m not hers any longer.
But I can’t think that, because if I accept it I don’t know how I could possibly go on. So I’ll carry on believing she loves me, and that she can’t live without me, just as she said.
The house is as I remembered it, small, pretty, white and neat and calm. The key was also where I knew it would be, and I entered as I had countless times before. It felt natural.
There was little that had changed. Even the same pictures on the wall, the same ornaments, the same potted plants. I ran my hand along the shelf in the hallway, until it reached a small photo frame. I didn’t remember it, but I did recognise the man inside it. I turned it upside-down, so his smiling face looked only into the white painted wood.
I didn’t turn on the light, even though my hand automatically reached for the switch when I entered the bathroom. I could see easily; the streetlight just outside the window shone right into the room. I worked quickly, because the thought of being sent back to the hospital was beginning to send cold spikes of fear into my heart, making me clumsy. I glanced at the door on my right, knowing my wife would be sleeping only across the hall. The image of her face flitted across my mind, and I smiled, calmly, peaceful all of a sudden. Perhaps we weren’t meant to be together in this life. I started to believe that, then. But my smile faded. Maybe we weren’t, but I knew for certain that no one else could be with her, could love her as I do. No one.
The syringe felt wrong as I pierced the needle into my arm systematically, again and again. Each with different liquids – some shampoo, some mouthwash, a couple with bleach and the last few with air. I took a step out of the bathroom, and I stopped with a gasp. Pain bled up my arm and into my body. Tears, and I dropped the knife I was holding, that I had taken from the kitchen. I had known it would hurt, but not like this... this was different, it hurt too much, so much.
Death wasn’t supposed to hurt...
I suppressed it as much as I could. I didn’t have much time left. Forcing myself to walk I opened the door roughly, not aware of anything other then the pain and the job I needed to do. Neither of the couple was awake. I was glad, but only for a short while. I stumbled onto one knee, dizzy and my limbs refusing to coordinate. Time blended into itself – had I just blacked out?
“Oh God...” I said, voice a thin whine, my throat going into a spasm. I panicked - I couldn’t breath. But... but I still needed to...
I held the knife up, its edge glinting. And I looked over to my love, my beloved, my whole life. I would free her, even if we were never meant to be. Free. She would... be... free.
In one short movement, just before my mind blanked completely, I slid the blade across her throat. It was warm. Someone was shouting. Who were... they...?
In her warmth I died, and next to me, my wife did the same.
Because we can’t live without each other. And since we cannot live apart and we cannot live together, then at least we would die: together.
This is a story I wrote a while back for coursework (the ONLY piece of coursework I've ever enjoyed). Meant to be a short story with a twist somewhere along the way.
(after she read it, my teacher said she would have told me before writing not to touch this sort of plot with a barge-pole. good thing I gave it in before that).
I'll shut up now. It's um, a very little disturbing, so if you've very very young you maaay want to give it a miss. It's nothing anyone who reads Chris' books can't handle, though (;
- - - - - - - - - -
Together
The air was cold, the sharp metal colder, but by far the iciest thing in the room was the straightjacket I wore. Or rather, was in the process of taking off.
The chill of my room, as I liked to refer to it, was easily ignored. The people at the hospital had grown used to my habits, you know. Collecting items, random pieces of junk, anything I could lay my hands on. They had accepted it as just another crazy person’s tendency – taking away anything remotely dangerous of course. They were too good to me. You see, it had taken me a long time to get the small blade I was using now as my key to freedom, and the primal thrill of escape, of the possibility of capture, was the current high I was working on.
The metal felt as if it was cutting more into my fingers then the material, but I persevered. It was getting slippery now, and the pain was shooting up my arm as if I had held said limb into a furnace, a thousand needles piercing into soft flesh, ripping, tearing. I closed my eyes in a grimace, mouth twisted to stop any unwanted noise. Not that anyone could hear me, even if I had screamed ‘till my throat bled no one would have come. Tears sprang involuntarily into my eyes, and they burned like fire as they flowed bitterly and unchecked. Naturally, the first thing I did when I freed one hand was wipe the salt water away, but that only served to spread a different liquid onto my face. But that was okay. At least it wasn’t burning now.
- - -
Waking up is always a blessing and a curse, for waking means the comfort of lying in one’s own bed, next to one’s wife, warm and safe, mind still half asleep and content. Then again, waking means having to get out of one’s bed, into the harsh world. The morning starts out as normal; breakfast, a cup of coffee, the radio. And my wife, my love, my world, my very reason for existence. I was never one with words, but even the greatest author, playwright or songwriter couldn’t express what I feel for her. I would die for her a thousand times over; I would live a million tortured existences if it would save her from pain. I am not so arrogant to say for sure she loves me as much I do her, but I like to think she does. Certainly, it was she who first asked me out, proposed, and eventually asked my hand in marriage. Not very traditional, but I love that in her, as I love every part of her.
“Love you.” I say, as she leaves for work.
“I love you too.” She replies, hugging me and taking the lunch I packed for her.
- - -
Escape was easy – it was the preparation that had taken months, years even. Now it was just a matter of spare clothes, cleaning my face and bandaging my hands. It was about two o’clock when I stepped out onto the streets, certain and without haste. It would take only an hour to get there; I was in no hurry.
I had to waste a little time in writing a note for the people back at the hospital. It wasn’t much – a few sentences thanking them, and saying goodbye. Because I won’t see them again, and I want them to remember me in a positive way. To remember just bad memories would be unbearable.
No one bothered me in the dark of the streets, which I was glad of. After all, I would have hated to have used the gun I stole. It would make so much noise. Besides, I have always hated guns of any sort. Ugly, clumsy, not subtle or clever at all. And they always come in black, for some reason. I think if I had a gun, I would want a white one. White, like the colour of our house, like the sun and like cleanness. Not black at all.
- - -
It’s the first time she has come to see me, the first time she’s seen me in a week, but she’s just sitting there and sobbing, while I try my best to make her stop. She doesn’t until she has to leave, at least not completely.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she says, muffled. Her hands cover her face – I wish they didn’t. I wish I could see her properly. “I can’t hold everything together.” She looks up at me. “I can’t live without you.”
Her pain is my pain, and I suddenly realise I’m crying.
- - -
There were some men across the road from me; they were drunk, and I had to take a short detour to avoid them. The route was traced in my mind however; I know it better then I know myself. My feet walked automatically, and my thoughts were left to wander. Somehow the knowledge that this was my last few hours alive didn’t seem to faze me at all. It was a distant fact, a sentence that didn’t really mean anything.
- - -
She comes to see me as much as possible – at least that’s what she says. It’s easy to believe; she works long hours, and having to keep the house alone must take quite a while. Not to mention her personal life. She always did like going out.
I don’t like her coming, really. Because whenever I see her she never looks happy any more. Always sad, always apologetic. As if it’s her fault I’m here.
I just wish I could cheer her up. It’s been months, almost half a year since I came here, yet she’s managed to come at least every week.
But this time, she’s not alone. She’s nervous; I can tell the instant I see her pale face, and I can also see she’s trying to hide her unease. There’s another man next to her, someone I don’t know. A stranger. He’s too close to her for my liking, and I ignore him, as if I tried hard enough, he would disappear. She introduces him, and then he walks off.
Her unease is mine now, and soon it becomes a bubbling hatred.
I know now. She’s left me. My wife. She’s still my world, but I’m not hers any longer.
But I can’t think that, because if I accept it I don’t know how I could possibly go on. So I’ll carry on believing she loves me, and that she can’t live without me, just as she said.
- - -
The house is as I remembered it, small, pretty, white and neat and calm. The key was also where I knew it would be, and I entered as I had countless times before. It felt natural.
There was little that had changed. Even the same pictures on the wall, the same ornaments, the same potted plants. I ran my hand along the shelf in the hallway, until it reached a small photo frame. I didn’t remember it, but I did recognise the man inside it. I turned it upside-down, so his smiling face looked only into the white painted wood.
I didn’t turn on the light, even though my hand automatically reached for the switch when I entered the bathroom. I could see easily; the streetlight just outside the window shone right into the room. I worked quickly, because the thought of being sent back to the hospital was beginning to send cold spikes of fear into my heart, making me clumsy. I glanced at the door on my right, knowing my wife would be sleeping only across the hall. The image of her face flitted across my mind, and I smiled, calmly, peaceful all of a sudden. Perhaps we weren’t meant to be together in this life. I started to believe that, then. But my smile faded. Maybe we weren’t, but I knew for certain that no one else could be with her, could love her as I do. No one.
The syringe felt wrong as I pierced the needle into my arm systematically, again and again. Each with different liquids – some shampoo, some mouthwash, a couple with bleach and the last few with air. I took a step out of the bathroom, and I stopped with a gasp. Pain bled up my arm and into my body. Tears, and I dropped the knife I was holding, that I had taken from the kitchen. I had known it would hurt, but not like this... this was different, it hurt too much, so much.
Death wasn’t supposed to hurt...
I suppressed it as much as I could. I didn’t have much time left. Forcing myself to walk I opened the door roughly, not aware of anything other then the pain and the job I needed to do. Neither of the couple was awake. I was glad, but only for a short while. I stumbled onto one knee, dizzy and my limbs refusing to coordinate. Time blended into itself – had I just blacked out?
“Oh God...” I said, voice a thin whine, my throat going into a spasm. I panicked - I couldn’t breath. But... but I still needed to...
I held the knife up, its edge glinting. And I looked over to my love, my beloved, my whole life. I would free her, even if we were never meant to be. Free. She would... be... free.
In one short movement, just before my mind blanked completely, I slid the blade across her throat. It was warm. Someone was shouting. Who were... they...?
In her warmth I died, and next to me, my wife did the same.
Because we can’t live without each other. And since we cannot live apart and we cannot live together, then at least we would die: together.