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My first attempt at a novel.. about a dysfunctional young writer. |
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James studied the mouse with obscene intensity. The tiny creature thrashed and flailed under the grasp of James’ hand. He held the mouse by the scruff of the neck, little limbs dangling. James had seen it crawling across his unkempt floor, and had snatched it up. It was doing everything in its power to try and shake its attacker, but was miserably failing. James finally had authority over something and refused to let it go. He pondered the fate of his latest victim. Still unsure, he used his left hand to maneuver the mouse into a closed, tight fist. James stared, intrigued, into the animal’s eyes. He adored the look of dread he saw in the mouse. He couldn’t get enough of the feeling of such power he had over something so small. He held it in his grasp for a moment longer, staring. He squeezed the mouse just hard enough to feel the air being forced from it’s lungs to make a pitiful, painful gasp. James smiled, still intrigued, as he hurled the helpless being at his bedroom door. The mouse hit it with a satisfactory (and sickening) smack!. It crashed to the floor, alive but shattered. Damn thing deserved it anyway James bent over and picked it up by the tail. "Oh, you beautiful little thing. You're so soft! so pretty!" he murmured, stroking it. It was still squirming, but didn’t have the strength or mindset to escape when it had the chance. He stalked into the kitchen, scanned the room to declare his solitude. He opened his microwave and set the now less-lively body on the glass plate inside. He set the timer for 20 minutes and pressed ‘start’. He grinned and returned to his room. As I cradled the cold metal in my hot hands, I then understood what it must feel like to be God. I rocked my fingertip back and forth against the tiny trigger and listened to her pathetic little pleading sobs. It was her own fucking fault, she determined her own fate. I am not the bad guy, I am the victim, and she needed to be punished. She was shaking so violently, I almost pitied her for a moment. Almost. And I, for a second, considered letting her live. The thought came and went as I stood over her, coolly. This morning, I woke up to the pounding on my front door. I tried to ignore it, but the visitor was stubborn, and kept demanding my presence. I got up and made my way to the door, opened it to reveal none other than Lacy. She smiled up at me, and said seductively, “May I come in?” So I let her in, locking the door behind her, without saying a word. The instant she was in, she started babbling. “I’m really sorry, I am, you know, it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t mean it, it won’t happen again…” I stared at her, blankly. She took gesture as an “Apology accepted, its okay” and sat down at the couch. She smiled and patted the seat next to her. “Sit down!” she demanded. At this point, I felt the blood in my face boiling. I felt my hands sweating, and ideas racing through my brain. I turned and picked up a metal fold-up chair and set it down in front of me. I smiled warmly at her, and pointed, “Sit here.” She looked puzzled, but obeyed. I commanded her, as I would a dog, to stay and wait as I walked to my room, gathering needed supplies. I shoved things into my pockets, and walked out. She giggled as I approached her, still bearing a loving smile. I bent down and kissed her affectionately. Then I walked behind her chair, asking her to stay sitting and to look forward. “Why?” she asked, a bit nervously. “It’s a game. We’re going to play a game.” I grabbed her wrists from behind, and held them firmly in my grip as I pulled a pair of handcuffs from my pocket. She started to say something, but was cut off with my reassuring words. “Shhh… it’s a game.” She didn’t struggle as I tied her ankles to the feet of the chair, or as I shoved a rag in her mouth. She did, however, panic when I took the Buretta from its cozy home in my back pocket. I waved it around a bit, just to set the mood. She was now sobbing, her thick make-up smearing black across her blotchy face. With a cool hand, I cocked the gun in front of her face. I held it there, letting her study it, letting her soak in all this excitement I was having. I decided to be nice and I plucked the rag from her mouth. “No, James, no!!! PLEASE DON’T DO THIS TO ME! I’m sorry, just let me go, let me go!!” “Shut the fuck up, you fucking slut! Whores do not deserve to live. What you did was unforgivable.” I shoved the rag back in her mouth furiously. I stared into her eyes as I pointed the gun to her face. She had the prettiest eyes I had ever seen, and the look of such terror just embellished the beauty. When I got my focus back, I let her get a good, long look down the barrel of her doom. I stared into her eyes on last time before they would burst from her skull in a big puddle of bloody, filthy, whore-flesh. James was torn from his gruesome imagination by a shrill scream. A second later, his mother burst through his door in an accusing rage. “What the hell is your problem?!” she demanded. She continued screaming at her son, who was obviously ignoring her, until she broke down in tears.Her accusations were nothing but stuttered fragments. "James, wh...why... the microwave.... ". She composed herself at last, concluding... "My son is a fucking lunatic.” She stormed out of his room and slammed his door. |
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