Caller
New member
This was coursework for English. We were to write a short story as though we were something or something else (the last person in the universe, a chair, whatever)
I decided to write about a person who goes insane and kills their mother. Delightful. It got an A*, despite the fact that I find it complete and utter crap and probably my worst piece of work ever :0
Oh well. Read, comment if you wish, I'm not really bothered.
Have you ever felt alone? You don't like it; you detest it.
...I want it.
'It' is always there. 'It' is something I can't get rid of. 'It' is always there, in my head.
It sleeps.
It rampages.
It pleads.
...I just want to be alone.
Alone, silent in the room,
It stands with him, and watches him.
Letting the world run outside,
Sorrow takes it's course.
I feel it. I feel the anger. I know It is awake, lurking deep within my brain, staring past my eyes. I didn't do anything wrong, I don't deserve this. I don't want this headache, this...this infernal parasite. It has no right to be here, no right to see my thoughts, my memories and my dreams.
I can't deal with this monster anymo -
- I don't see why you cry.
I'm at a loss, why do you sigh?
Don't you know? This is true;
Shangri-La is not for you.
On my bed, I curl into a ball, clutching my head. The cold, soft duvet is barely a comfort anymore, the humidity overpowers it.
And my hands...they feel like claws, talons of some monstrous bird digging into my skull. Why I continue to fight, I do not know. This monster parasite has been feeding off me for as long as I can remember, so maybe I just don't want all the suffering I went through to go to waste. Childish pride...
Give up the fight,
Give me full reign,
Azazel is full off your fear,
For your sake, just end the pain.
Why did they give birth to me? This isn't life, this is suffering, even Hell would be a comfort. This proverbial poltergeist is none of my doing, it's all theirs. From the moment of my conception, the seeds of two minds were planted, and today they fight; me and it, alone in the room.
I've seen things worse than you can even imagine, things I can't escape. Things in my head. Faceless monsters laugh cruelly at the pain I hold, a perverse pleasure taken in the blood of the innocent. Clawing at my face, flesh falling in chunks, the bloody spurting out, strands clinging weakly to the ravaged lumps of what was once my body.
These monsters must have a purpose...
...people aren't born with their own torture in their head.
...these monsters must have a purpose.
Angels. Angels of Deliverence. Messengers. A way out. A purpose. At last.
That's right, my dear, my sweet
I'm not your enemy, a sore and blistered knee
I'm just the harbinger
Heralding your new history.
Those infidels, those non-believers that created me, it is their fault that I'm haunted by the proverbial poltergeist. It is none of my doing, oh no.
I'll wait, you'll see, they'll pay for what they've done to me.
My mind is clear once more, I feel as though I'm through wonder's door,
free at last... I can settle the score.
I stumble out of the room, releasing a forced cry of pain.
Mother. She'll come running, unaware of her certain doom.
I grab the craft knife from the shelf and I hide behind the door.
My breaths are getting deeper now, I know it is near.
The end of a life or two.
Still...I have nothing to fear.
Mother is here, her footsteps a thundering rush, a storm from her worry.
It's quite sad really, despite her care, she'll still face my fury.
She bursts through the hole in the wall, her breath as mad as mine.
She stops and curiosity takes hold, she asks herself where her dearest child is. I answer, cut her short, kick the door and clasp the knife to her throat, pushing through her fleshy coat, and releasing the blood from inside.
She gasps and tries to scream, but decides just to stare.
I beam, 'Look mother, I can paint.'
A smile creeps across my face, but quickly shoots back as mother drops and hits the floor with a thud, the blood creeping through cracks in the wood. I giggle like a child, I've just discovered that I'm an artist.
...Yet still the Angels coax me, I'm not done yet. I drop to my knees and shuffle to my mother, crawling over her. She's so close and yet so far, just an echo, a blur, a testiment to her sin.
I grasp the knife and thrust it in, through her stomach the blade links with my kin. I ram my fist in, and begin tear up the cut, I feel the flesh brush past my wrist, a temporary glimpse into Hell's burning innards.
Her intestines wriggle while I grope around my mother's stomach, so I grab, I pull and wrench, tearing them free. As each strand of insides snaps, blood spatters across my face. No matter though, the iron taste makes me feel more as one with my seperate steel fang.
Thunderclouds roll in. Rain begins to fall. Ironic, an awful timing for pathetic fallacy. Father was outside, he'll be running in now.
Blood stains my hands and covers the walls. It's hard to tell now what is bleeding, mother or the walls?
I laugh.
I cry.
I plead.
Father walks through the door.
I laugh.
Aaaand I'm gonan go get a bacon sandwich now, so GUBBAI.
I decided to write about a person who goes insane and kills their mother. Delightful. It got an A*, despite the fact that I find it complete and utter crap and probably my worst piece of work ever :0
Oh well. Read, comment if you wish, I'm not really bothered.
Have you ever felt alone? You don't like it; you detest it.
...I want it.
'It' is always there. 'It' is something I can't get rid of. 'It' is always there, in my head.
It sleeps.
It rampages.
It pleads.
...I just want to be alone.
Alone, silent in the room,
It stands with him, and watches him.
Letting the world run outside,
Sorrow takes it's course.
I feel it. I feel the anger. I know It is awake, lurking deep within my brain, staring past my eyes. I didn't do anything wrong, I don't deserve this. I don't want this headache, this...this infernal parasite. It has no right to be here, no right to see my thoughts, my memories and my dreams.
I can't deal with this monster anymo -
- I don't see why you cry.
I'm at a loss, why do you sigh?
Don't you know? This is true;
Shangri-La is not for you.
On my bed, I curl into a ball, clutching my head. The cold, soft duvet is barely a comfort anymore, the humidity overpowers it.
And my hands...they feel like claws, talons of some monstrous bird digging into my skull. Why I continue to fight, I do not know. This monster parasite has been feeding off me for as long as I can remember, so maybe I just don't want all the suffering I went through to go to waste. Childish pride...
Give up the fight,
Give me full reign,
Azazel is full off your fear,
For your sake, just end the pain.
Why did they give birth to me? This isn't life, this is suffering, even Hell would be a comfort. This proverbial poltergeist is none of my doing, it's all theirs. From the moment of my conception, the seeds of two minds were planted, and today they fight; me and it, alone in the room.
I've seen things worse than you can even imagine, things I can't escape. Things in my head. Faceless monsters laugh cruelly at the pain I hold, a perverse pleasure taken in the blood of the innocent. Clawing at my face, flesh falling in chunks, the bloody spurting out, strands clinging weakly to the ravaged lumps of what was once my body.
These monsters must have a purpose...
...people aren't born with their own torture in their head.
...these monsters must have a purpose.
Angels. Angels of Deliverence. Messengers. A way out. A purpose. At last.
That's right, my dear, my sweet
I'm not your enemy, a sore and blistered knee
I'm just the harbinger
Heralding your new history.
Those infidels, those non-believers that created me, it is their fault that I'm haunted by the proverbial poltergeist. It is none of my doing, oh no.
I'll wait, you'll see, they'll pay for what they've done to me.
My mind is clear once more, I feel as though I'm through wonder's door,
free at last... I can settle the score.
I stumble out of the room, releasing a forced cry of pain.
Mother. She'll come running, unaware of her certain doom.
I grab the craft knife from the shelf and I hide behind the door.
My breaths are getting deeper now, I know it is near.
The end of a life or two.
Still...I have nothing to fear.
Mother is here, her footsteps a thundering rush, a storm from her worry.
It's quite sad really, despite her care, she'll still face my fury.
She bursts through the hole in the wall, her breath as mad as mine.
She stops and curiosity takes hold, she asks herself where her dearest child is. I answer, cut her short, kick the door and clasp the knife to her throat, pushing through her fleshy coat, and releasing the blood from inside.
She gasps and tries to scream, but decides just to stare.
I beam, 'Look mother, I can paint.'
A smile creeps across my face, but quickly shoots back as mother drops and hits the floor with a thud, the blood creeping through cracks in the wood. I giggle like a child, I've just discovered that I'm an artist.
...Yet still the Angels coax me, I'm not done yet. I drop to my knees and shuffle to my mother, crawling over her. She's so close and yet so far, just an echo, a blur, a testiment to her sin.
I grasp the knife and thrust it in, through her stomach the blade links with my kin. I ram my fist in, and begin tear up the cut, I feel the flesh brush past my wrist, a temporary glimpse into Hell's burning innards.
Her intestines wriggle while I grope around my mother's stomach, so I grab, I pull and wrench, tearing them free. As each strand of insides snaps, blood spatters across my face. No matter though, the iron taste makes me feel more as one with my seperate steel fang.
Thunderclouds roll in. Rain begins to fall. Ironic, an awful timing for pathetic fallacy. Father was outside, he'll be running in now.
Blood stains my hands and covers the walls. It's hard to tell now what is bleeding, mother or the walls?
I laugh.
I cry.
I plead.
Father walks through the door.
I laugh.
Aaaand I'm gonan go get a bacon sandwich now, so GUBBAI.
