Saturday, July 31, 2004

i'm up waaaaay too late, feel slightly sick, and am therefore going to write this WARNING: VIOLENT/GRAPHIC CONTENT short story
I stand starring out the window. The rain plinks and thunks and slides down the pane. So much more liquid than blood.

I take a deep drag from the cigarette. I don't smoke. This is my first ever. I hold it between my fingers and mimic all my favorite black and white movie stars. I'm Humphrey Bogart from CASABLANCA.

The gun lays on the floor. Barrel still smoking. A beautiful weaving mist forming succulent bodies of the most voluptous women ever to grace imagination. The empty void of the mouth points towards me in accusation.

My best friend's brain, skull, hair, and blood drip from the back wall.

I never believed he would do it, you understand.

When he called me to tell me that he was, I was upset and nervous, but I didn't believe that he would do it. Not really.

Maybe if I had ran to the car quicker. If I had taken my bike instead of the truck. If I hadn't have been worried about driving in the rain.

Somehow, the clowing scent of blood still fills my nostrils even as I exhale the smoke. My friend was a heavy smoker. I kept telling him that it would kill him one day. Ha.

What is worse, I suppose, is that I'm somehow excited. On this crazy adrenaline high. I want to have at it with the smoke women. Wish they were real. My best friend is dead and all I can do is listen to the hormones running through my brain.

It's better than paying attention to the smell of feces, piss, and blood I suppose. Although I do not mind the blood smell so much.

I strike another match and watch the flames dance reflected in the window. Time for another cigarette. Why the hell won't the cops get here? Bastards. I called on the way over, and they still haven't come.

Maybe if I hadn't've taken the time to make the call, I would have gotten here before he blew his brains to kingdom come.

But it's like I said, I didn't believe he would really do it. He'd been threatening to for awhile. Said no one cared about him, yet he called me his friend.

Ass. Bastard. Son-of-a-b****.

The tears stain the coffee table. I wipe the betraying wetness from my cheeks. Jeeze, when was the last time I cried?

Goddamn jerk. He wasn't just my friend. He was my bloody brother.

Who's going to be there for Me now? Huh? Who's going to tease me about my taste in women? Who's going to be the best man at my wedding? Who's going to be my son's Godfather?

"Why'd you have to go and f***** betray me like that you Ass****! Bastard!" the scream rips from my throat, hoarse from the tar and smoke and emotion.

Angrily I smash the cigarette into the ashtray. I begin lightly beating my head against the window pane. In the distance I hear the sirens. Like they'll do any good now.
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Well, that's it. Yes, I was writing from a male perspective. This is the reason why I normally don't stay up late at night (it's one eighteen in the morning.) *Garh* I need to get some sleep.

If anyone so much as takes a sentence of this without my permission I will hunt you down and make you regret it. Or I'll send Sam and Fred after you to drive you insane. Or I'll ask Dream to give you nothing but nightmares (eternal waking *heh heh*) for the rest of your natural born life. No, not really, I'll just get really peeved, so please don't rip off my story. Thank-you.

Okay, enough of this, I'm going to bed.
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