"Forgotten"

                                                        Forgotten
                                                            By Chrisp


      In a voice of torment she screamed;” I hate you, go to hell”! These where the

only words she could speak, her body shook with such anger, screams were the

only voice she had. The mental anguish quickly became physical violence, Deidre

began the all too well known game of seek and destroy. She killed them one by

one with no sense of remorse; after all, their entire destiny was to die the same

death, always the same death. She felt no reason to spare their lives. After all they

where the embodiment of what was wrong in her world, delicate, dainty, innocent

creatures, no brains, and no voice. Deidre had both, but no one listened, what ever

she had to say was nothing more than the crazy ramblings of a teenager. When

there where things to know she knew them. When there where things to see she

saw them. The last figurine was smashed on the floor, forever released from its

frozen pose. Deidre gained no particular joy in smashing tiny glass objects; they

could not satiate her need for blood. Her eyes scanned the room for another object

of destruction; the lifeless book bag had weight and size. She could inflict some

major damage with an object this large. Spinning in a circle Deidre swing the book

bag with such force, as she released the bag her body was propelled forward

through the open closet door. She shoved her arms forward to break her fall against

the solid plaster walls, with uncoerced ease the wall open into small dark room. A

drop of two steps lay before her. The floor jump forward to welcome her arrival as

suffocating cloud dust and dirt rose to greet her.  Blood trickled into her mouth

through the broken skin of her upper lip. Fury swarmed though her body as if being

stung by One hundred angry bees. Deidre’s mind could not seem to contain the

violence flowing out of her body. The of pain as she rose to her bloody knees  The

Ivory handle of her Grandfathers pistol beckoned from its cracked leather holster;

hanging from a rusty nail it seemed to float in the air, as if it didn’t have a

care in the world. Deidre eyes glowed red hot as her stare fixated on the offering

before her. No guts, no Glory, and Glory was just an arms length away, no more

pain and suffering. Escape was firmly planted in her hand, the incredible force, the

overwhelming power of a gun. The voice boomed in her head, “Pull the trigger, the

time has come.” she never ignored the voice. A sweaty blood stained hand finger

slipped inside the trigger guard of the gun, as the voice recited poetry;

                                    Dignity
                                    Dignity in death 
                                    No Dignity in death
                                    There is no Dignity in death
                                    There is No Dignity in death, except a death with dignity.

Bam!  The sound was only in her head as the gun lay silent in her hand, helpless

as a lamb.  The voice began to laugh. “You can even do that right, silly girl; guns

don’t work until you put bullets in them.”