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I walk further and further away from my tormentor. Every meeting with my shoe and the floor gives a whole new meaning to the word ‘relief’. Gazing away into the distance no longer feels like staring out of airport windows, staring out of an over-sized restraining bubble, staring from somewhere you’ll always remain. All of a sudden I’m infinitely free, just like I always wanted to be.
The trailing winds bite in piercing waves, continuously reminding me of what I’m leaving behind. Pots and pans clang together, not in celebration, but in a chorus of provoking pains on my mind. Was it God who dropped me in this seemingly eternal sequence of pain and suffering? Was it my fault?
I look back. I remember.
I remember how doors would move from zero to sixty in a matter of nanoseconds. I remember how salty stained pillows would be flung in agony, in angst, in desperation. I remember how my mother’s tears, my tears, nor any tears could stop it. Nothing could stop the red-tinged piercing plunges through the combined heart of us - our lasting, our existence, our love rolled into one organ.
The clangs, shouts and yells from what I have left still ring around the otherwise soundless street. In reality nothing makes a peep, but my mind is scarred with recollecting snapshots of violence and recurring brutal whimpers for life. Such thoughts and feelings can never be erased. Is this terrible blood lust hereditary? Is it carried in genes; genes that bury themselves deep inside ones existence only to stimulate a perfectly normal human’s “dark side”?
I turn around. I walk towards my biggest fear face on.
I used to shy away; I used to shut my eyes blindly. Forgiveness my salvation, and blood relation my sole excuse. That’s the past and that’s no longer who I am. Blood-drenched memories now provoke my every action.
I storm back barging open the door that met me and contained me so many times. The sty of torture is still the same dump it always has been. Torn wallpaper, cracked walls and damaged appliances that mirror the very make-up of my life. My mother emerges from the kitchen, two bruises older than I the last time I saw her. She says nothing; any words uttered from her cracked lips would be no secret to me. Her appearance alone supports my reason for coming here.
And there it is.
There is the voice of torment, the voice of torture, the voice of a thousand excruciating nights. The boozed tone of harassment rings again. I follow its echoes.
There he is.
Befuddled, he dashes for me, standing in front of the dishwasher. His lunge shakes the already broken cleaner of dishes as I hurriedly dodge an assault I’ve seen too many times. He staggers away, suitably angry at his inability to make contact with me. This doesn’t stop him trying for a second time; with myself now cornered between counters without flee. Again, arms raised, he dives with flying fists. Grabbing the nearest object, I fling my upper body at him in similar fashion.
Pierced is his heart of evil, as the knife of which I grabbed tears his flesh. His face descends into pale white, blue lips, and a suitable look of utter terror. Blood dribbles from his mouth onto the already crimson-tainted floor. Decrepit knees collapse, just before he can draw his last breath. My old man, now sure of his fate, utters an alcohol infected whimper. Now more than ever he is conscious of what he has done, what he has driven me to.
He falls, knifed to his death. I wipe a spatter of blood from my chin. I never did like my father, and he made it apparent he had no love for my mother or myself.
Now the yelps, the screams, and the gasps of panic - they halt. The jigsaw of suffering that has been the first 16 years of my life is now finished, completed, and boxed away for ever and ever; never to be touched upon again.
All of a sudden I’m infinitely free, just like I always wanted to be.
The trailing winds bite in piercing waves, continuously reminding me of what I’m leaving behind. Pots and pans clang together, not in celebration, but in a chorus of provoking pains on my mind. Was it God who dropped me in this seemingly eternal sequence of pain and suffering? Was it my fault?
I look back. I remember.
I remember how doors would move from zero to sixty in a matter of nanoseconds. I remember how salty stained pillows would be flung in agony, in angst, in desperation. I remember how my mother’s tears, my tears, nor any tears could stop it. Nothing could stop the red-tinged piercing plunges through the combined heart of us - our lasting, our existence, our love rolled into one organ.
The clangs, shouts and yells from what I have left still ring around the otherwise soundless street. In reality nothing makes a peep, but my mind is scarred with recollecting snapshots of violence and recurring brutal whimpers for life. Such thoughts and feelings can never be erased. Is this terrible blood lust hereditary? Is it carried in genes; genes that bury themselves deep inside ones existence only to stimulate a perfectly normal human’s “dark side”?
I turn around. I walk towards my biggest fear face on.
I used to shy away; I used to shut my eyes blindly. Forgiveness my salvation, and blood relation my sole excuse. That’s the past and that’s no longer who I am. Blood-drenched memories now provoke my every action.
I storm back barging open the door that met me and contained me so many times. The sty of torture is still the same dump it always has been. Torn wallpaper, cracked walls and damaged appliances that mirror the very make-up of my life. My mother emerges from the kitchen, two bruises older than I the last time I saw her. She says nothing; any words uttered from her cracked lips would be no secret to me. Her appearance alone supports my reason for coming here.
And there it is.
There is the voice of torment, the voice of torture, the voice of a thousand excruciating nights. The boozed tone of harassment rings again. I follow its echoes.
There he is.
Befuddled, he dashes for me, standing in front of the dishwasher. His lunge shakes the already broken cleaner of dishes as I hurriedly dodge an assault I’ve seen too many times. He staggers away, suitably angry at his inability to make contact with me. This doesn’t stop him trying for a second time; with myself now cornered between counters without flee. Again, arms raised, he dives with flying fists. Grabbing the nearest object, I fling my upper body at him in similar fashion.
Pierced is his heart of evil, as the knife of which I grabbed tears his flesh. His face descends into pale white, blue lips, and a suitable look of utter terror. Blood dribbles from his mouth onto the already crimson-tainted floor. Decrepit knees collapse, just before he can draw his last breath. My old man, now sure of his fate, utters an alcohol infected whimper. Now more than ever he is conscious of what he has done, what he has driven me to.
He falls, knifed to his death. I wipe a spatter of blood from my chin. I never did like my father, and he made it apparent he had no love for my mother or myself.
Now the yelps, the screams, and the gasps of panic - they halt. The jigsaw of suffering that has been the first 16 years of my life is now finished, completed, and boxed away for ever and ever; never to be touched upon again.
All of a sudden I’m infinitely free, just like I always wanted to be.
Nice story, I enjoyed it. youre a good writer.
Succinct and to the point. Very enjoyable.
I don't know how you capture the emotion and the present action all in one. Some awesome stuff there Ashman.
Couldn't agree with the other folk who posted feedback more. Very descriptive and very nice - enjoyed that very much.
Pretty bleak and uncompromising as expected given the subject with a happy end that shouldn't feel like a happy end, excellent use of language as always, a lot easier to read and understand on first reading now than it was, excellent as always young Ashbert.
Thanks for the feedback, you two. And thanks Para, I couldn't work that scene particularly well and knew it was originally all too sudden. It has been added to.
:^)
:^)
Bleak and violent.
Nice. :-)
Nice. :-)
Very enjoyable and deliciously descriptive as per usual - the death/murder scene seemed a bit absent for adjectives which was slightly to my distaste, though all in all it was a nice read.
Extend the death scene - make it repulsive
"The knife juttered firmly into the cavity in the armpit, his mouth a small O of terror, his eyes wide and surprised. A series of short, sharp coughs sent blood spilling down the old man's chin and onto his dirty sweat-stained vest as he collapsed heavily to his knees. He tumbled, face down onto the hard kitchen floor with a dull thud - a thud of renaissance - a thud that ended the suffering."
Something like that.
Extend the death scene - make it repulsive
"The knife juttered firmly into the cavity in the armpit, his mouth a small O of terror, his eyes wide and surprised. A series of short, sharp coughs sent blood spilling down the old man's chin and onto his dirty sweat-stained vest as he collapsed heavily to his knees. He tumbled, face down onto the hard kitchen floor with a dull thud - a thud of renaissance - a thud that ended the suffering."
Something like that.
I walk further and further away from my tormentor. Every meeting with my shoe and the floor gives a whole new meaning to the word ‘relief’. Gazing away into the distance no longer feels like staring out of airport windows, staring out of an over-sized restraining bubble, staring from somewhere you’ll always remain. All of a sudden I’m infinitely free, just like I always wanted to be.
The trailing winds bite in piercing waves, continuously reminding me of what I’m leaving behind. Pots and pans clang together, not in celebration, but in a chorus of provoking pains on my mind. Was it God who dropped me in this seemingly eternal sequence of pain and suffering? Was it my fault?
I look back. I remember.
I remember how doors would move from zero to sixty in a matter of nanoseconds. I remember how salty stained pillows would be flung in agony, in angst, in desperation. I remember how my mother’s tears, my tears, nor any tears could stop it. Nothing could stop the red-tinged piercing plunges through the combined heart of us - our lasting, our existence, our love rolled into one organ.
The clangs, shouts and yells from what I have left still ring around the otherwise soundless street. In reality nothing makes a peep, but my mind is scarred with recollecting snapshots of violence and recurring brutal whimpers for life. Such thoughts and feelings can never be erased. Is this terrible blood lust hereditary? Is it carried in genes; genes that bury themselves deep inside ones existence only to stimulate a perfectly normal human’s “dark side”?
I turn around. I walk towards my biggest fear face on.
I used to shy away; I used to shut my eyes blindly. Forgiveness my salvation, and blood relation my sole excuse. That’s the past and that’s no longer who I am. Blood-drenched memories now provoke my every action.
I storm back barging open the door that met me and contained me so many times. The sty of torture is still the same dump it always has been. Torn wallpaper, cracked walls and damaged appliances that mirror the very make-up of my life. My mother emerges from the kitchen, two bruises older than I the last time I saw her. She says nothing; any words uttered from her cracked lips would be no secret to me. Her appearance alone supports my reason for coming here.
And there it is.
There is the voice of torment, the voice of torture, the voice of a thousand excruciating nights. The boozed tone of harassment rings again. I follow its echoes.
There he is.
Befuddled, he dashes for me, standing in front of the dishwasher. His lunge shakes the already broken cleaner of dishes as I hurriedly dodge an assault I’ve seen too many times. He staggers away, suitably angry at his inability to make contact with me. This doesn’t stop him trying for a second time; with myself now cornered between counters without flee. Again, arms raised, he dives with flying fists. Grabbing the nearest object, I fling my upper body at him in similar fashion.
Pierced is his heart of evil, as the knife of which I grabbed tears his flesh. His face descends into pale white, blue lips, and a suitable look of utter terror. Blood dribbles from his mouth onto the already crimson-tainted floor. Decrepit knees collapse, just before he can draw his last breath. My old man, now sure of his fate, utters an alcohol infected whimper. Now more than ever he is conscious of what he has done, what he has driven me to.
He falls, knifed to his death. I wipe a spatter of blood from my chin. I never did like my father, and he made it apparent he had no love for my mother or myself.
Now the yelps, the screams, and the gasps of panic - they halt. The jigsaw of suffering that has been the first 16 years of my life is now finished, completed, and boxed away for ever and ever; never to be touched upon again.
All of a sudden I’m infinitely free, just like I always wanted to be.
The trailing winds bite in piercing waves, continuously reminding me of what I’m leaving behind. Pots and pans clang together, not in celebration, but in a chorus of provoking pains on my mind. Was it God who dropped me in this seemingly eternal sequence of pain and suffering? Was it my fault?
I look back. I remember.
I remember how doors would move from zero to sixty in a matter of nanoseconds. I remember how salty stained pillows would be flung in agony, in angst, in desperation. I remember how my mother’s tears, my tears, nor any tears could stop it. Nothing could stop the red-tinged piercing plunges through the combined heart of us - our lasting, our existence, our love rolled into one organ.
The clangs, shouts and yells from what I have left still ring around the otherwise soundless street. In reality nothing makes a peep, but my mind is scarred with recollecting snapshots of violence and recurring brutal whimpers for life. Such thoughts and feelings can never be erased. Is this terrible blood lust hereditary? Is it carried in genes; genes that bury themselves deep inside ones existence only to stimulate a perfectly normal human’s “dark side”?
I turn around. I walk towards my biggest fear face on.
I used to shy away; I used to shut my eyes blindly. Forgiveness my salvation, and blood relation my sole excuse. That’s the past and that’s no longer who I am. Blood-drenched memories now provoke my every action.
I storm back barging open the door that met me and contained me so many times. The sty of torture is still the same dump it always has been. Torn wallpaper, cracked walls and damaged appliances that mirror the very make-up of my life. My mother emerges from the kitchen, two bruises older than I the last time I saw her. She says nothing; any words uttered from her cracked lips would be no secret to me. Her appearance alone supports my reason for coming here.
And there it is.
There is the voice of torment, the voice of torture, the voice of a thousand excruciating nights. The boozed tone of harassment rings again. I follow its echoes.
There he is.
Befuddled, he dashes for me, standing in front of the dishwasher. His lunge shakes the already broken cleaner of dishes as I hurriedly dodge an assault I’ve seen too many times. He staggers away, suitably angry at his inability to make contact with me. This doesn’t stop him trying for a second time; with myself now cornered between counters without flee. Again, arms raised, he dives with flying fists. Grabbing the nearest object, I fling my upper body at him in similar fashion.
Pierced is his heart of evil, as the knife of which I grabbed tears his flesh. His face descends into pale white, blue lips, and a suitable look of utter terror. Blood dribbles from his mouth onto the already crimson-tainted floor. Decrepit knees collapse, just before he can draw his last breath. My old man, now sure of his fate, utters an alcohol infected whimper. Now more than ever he is conscious of what he has done, what he has driven me to.
He falls, knifed to his death. I wipe a spatter of blood from my chin. I never did like my father, and he made it apparent he had no love for my mother or myself.
Now the yelps, the screams, and the gasps of panic - they halt. The jigsaw of suffering that has been the first 16 years of my life is now finished, completed, and boxed away for ever and ever; never to be touched upon again.
All of a sudden I’m infinitely free, just like I always wanted to be.