The "Creative Writing" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
My hell is very different to yours. Torn in two, split right down the centre; one of all the misery and pain sitting past my reflection, the other a cage to keep my fears at bay until I'm ready.
Life is simple; I have no job, instead I stay at home tending to my young, feeding my husband when he arrives home, face awash with happiness to see the love of his life welcome him with open arms, and of course a large plate of food helps. There are no disturbances; things work clockwise, every tick to perfection. It means we're bound in this shell, but there's a certain solace in familiarity, all I never wish to know behind the door will never bother me if I wrap myself in a façade of happiness. Not that I'm not happy, but such a lifestyle creates happiness. I only ever leave the house to collect groceries I've had held back for me across the road, and nothing bad ever comes of it.
A happy home, trapped but in love. Stockholm Syndrome locked its jaws long ago and I feel no need to break out. These chains, tight, tearing and piercing the skin, the blood that hits the floor just paints the carpet a deeper red of passion. Straight from my heart it stains the very creature that holds me back. From then on we are tied in eternity.
You see, behind the brittle reality that every day my life is slowly leaking from me, it just comforts me to know that no tragedy could befall me. I miss the feeling of being alive, and every day is but a daze, but my mind is my playground, I need not exercise demons beyond the barriers of my imagination, I need not force beliefs on others, I just do what I am meant to; I look after my children, I love my husband and I keep on going.
Which means I worry when my husband arrives home with a forced smile painted over a worrying man. I ask him but he just kisses me on the cheek and continues to his food. He takes his time and crawls away a broken man. It shouldn't annoy me, but all I ask for is what I give to him. It angers me that he can't bring himself to tell me what is wrong.
That night I notice scars covering his back. Deep and raw. He is asleep and I see no point in waking him. All night my dreams are infected by foreign thoughts. A slow whispering.
"do it again"
It repeats itself over and over but trapped within a trance in a dream, I can't snap out of it. The only time I feel truly helpless is when I'm lost inside myself. A mind is too powerful a thing to battle.
As weeks pass, I notice bruises on his body, he becomes quieter and quieter. I try to think of an explanation, but it never ends where I wish it to. All of the years of passion spat in my face, everything I've given to him, the blood red love now turned to black and blue, decaying around his unmoving hands that used to grasp onto me tightly.
I beat love into him. He knows I love him, it's the only way I can. Washing off the stains of another woman, he knows, beyond the terror in his shaking eyes he knows why, he just can't admit it.
The sweetest crimson fills the room. Bound to this house like me now. I glance across the room to my reflection. A grin filling the face of the infection. The other woman.
Life is simple; I have no job, instead I stay at home tending to my young, feeding my husband when he arrives home, face awash with happiness to see the love of his life welcome him with open arms, and of course a large plate of food helps. There are no disturbances; things work clockwise, every tick to perfection. It means we're bound in this shell, but there's a certain solace in familiarity, all I never wish to know behind the door will never bother me if I wrap myself in a façade of happiness. Not that I'm not happy, but such a lifestyle creates happiness. I only ever leave the house to collect groceries I've had held back for me across the road, and nothing bad ever comes of it.
A happy home, trapped but in love. Stockholm Syndrome locked its jaws long ago and I feel no need to break out. These chains, tight, tearing and piercing the skin, the blood that hits the floor just paints the carpet a deeper red of passion. Straight from my heart it stains the very creature that holds me back. From then on we are tied in eternity.
You see, behind the brittle reality that every day my life is slowly leaking from me, it just comforts me to know that no tragedy could befall me. I miss the feeling of being alive, and every day is but a daze, but my mind is my playground, I need not exercise demons beyond the barriers of my imagination, I need not force beliefs on others, I just do what I am meant to; I look after my children, I love my husband and I keep on going.
Which means I worry when my husband arrives home with a forced smile painted over a worrying man. I ask him but he just kisses me on the cheek and continues to his food. He takes his time and crawls away a broken man. It shouldn't annoy me, but all I ask for is what I give to him. It angers me that he can't bring himself to tell me what is wrong.
That night I notice scars covering his back. Deep and raw. He is asleep and I see no point in waking him. All night my dreams are infected by foreign thoughts. A slow whispering.
"do it again"
It repeats itself over and over but trapped within a trance in a dream, I can't snap out of it. The only time I feel truly helpless is when I'm lost inside myself. A mind is too powerful a thing to battle.
As weeks pass, I notice bruises on his body, he becomes quieter and quieter. I try to think of an explanation, but it never ends where I wish it to. All of the years of passion spat in my face, everything I've given to him, the blood red love now turned to black and blue, decaying around his unmoving hands that used to grasp onto me tightly.
I beat love into him. He knows I love him, it's the only way I can. Washing off the stains of another woman, he knows, beyond the terror in his shaking eyes he knows why, he just can't admit it.
The sweetest crimson fills the room. Bound to this house like me now. I glance across the room to my reflection. A grin filling the face of the infection. The other woman.
Clazon wrote:
> Rickoss wrote:
> Clazon wrote:
> This alone makes me love it.
>
> Whythankyou.
>
> I stole it from FFF.
>
>
> I know.
>
> He and I shared the word for a while.
>
> :'}
I think I've used it in every single story I've ever written now.
'tis an addiction, I'm sure.
Fantastic story, Rick, well deserved win. You know I love your writing so - this no different.
> Rickoss wrote:
> Clazon wrote:
> This alone makes me love it.
>
> Whythankyou.
>
> I stole it from FFF.
>
>
> I know.
>
> He and I shared the word for a while.
>
> :'}
I think I've used it in every single story I've ever written now.
'tis an addiction, I'm sure.
Fantastic story, Rick, well deserved win. You know I love your writing so - this no different.
Another twist on 'the other woman' theme. Very nicely handled. I had to read the second half twice, read it too fast initially, before thinking to myself "oh god...that's where he was going with it". Thoroughly enjoyable :)
.
Very good, a more than worthy winner. Well done.
Wow.
Rickoss wrote:
> Clazon wrote:
> This alone makes me love it.
>
> Whythankyou.
>
> I stole it from FFF.
I know.
He and I shared the word for a while.
:'}
> Clazon wrote:
> This alone makes me love it.
>
> Whythankyou.
>
> I stole it from FFF.
I know.
He and I shared the word for a while.
:'}
Nice. Creepy though.
I like the kinda psychitsophrenic edge.
I like the kinda psychitsophrenic edge.
Clazon wrote:
> This alone makes me love it.
Whythankyou.
I stole it from FFF.
> This alone makes me love it.
Whythankyou.
I stole it from FFF.
Rickoss wrote:
> façade
This alone makes me love it.
But yeah, I liked it. Very nice.
> façade
This alone makes me love it.
But yeah, I liked it. Very nice.
My hell is very different to yours. Torn in two, split right down the centre; one of all the misery and pain sitting past my reflection, the other a cage to keep my fears at bay until I'm ready.
Life is simple; I have no job, instead I stay at home tending to my young, feeding my husband when he arrives home, face awash with happiness to see the love of his life welcome him with open arms, and of course a large plate of food helps. There are no disturbances; things work clockwise, every tick to perfection. It means we're bound in this shell, but there's a certain solace in familiarity, all I never wish to know behind the door will never bother me if I wrap myself in a façade of happiness. Not that I'm not happy, but such a lifestyle creates happiness. I only ever leave the house to collect groceries I've had held back for me across the road, and nothing bad ever comes of it.
A happy home, trapped but in love. Stockholm Syndrome locked its jaws long ago and I feel no need to break out. These chains, tight, tearing and piercing the skin, the blood that hits the floor just paints the carpet a deeper red of passion. Straight from my heart it stains the very creature that holds me back. From then on we are tied in eternity.
You see, behind the brittle reality that every day my life is slowly leaking from me, it just comforts me to know that no tragedy could befall me. I miss the feeling of being alive, and every day is but a daze, but my mind is my playground, I need not exercise demons beyond the barriers of my imagination, I need not force beliefs on others, I just do what I am meant to; I look after my children, I love my husband and I keep on going.
Which means I worry when my husband arrives home with a forced smile painted over a worrying man. I ask him but he just kisses me on the cheek and continues to his food. He takes his time and crawls away a broken man. It shouldn't annoy me, but all I ask for is what I give to him. It angers me that he can't bring himself to tell me what is wrong.
That night I notice scars covering his back. Deep and raw. He is asleep and I see no point in waking him. All night my dreams are infected by foreign thoughts. A slow whispering.
"do it again"
It repeats itself over and over but trapped within a trance in a dream, I can't snap out of it. The only time I feel truly helpless is when I'm lost inside myself. A mind is too powerful a thing to battle.
As weeks pass, I notice bruises on his body, he becomes quieter and quieter. I try to think of an explanation, but it never ends where I wish it to. All of the years of passion spat in my face, everything I've given to him, the blood red love now turned to black and blue, decaying around his unmoving hands that used to grasp onto me tightly.
I beat love into him. He knows I love him, it's the only way I can. Washing off the stains of another woman, he knows, beyond the terror in his shaking eyes he knows why, he just can't admit it.
The sweetest crimson fills the room. Bound to this house like me now. I glance across the room to my reflection. A grin filling the face of the infection. The other woman.
Life is simple; I have no job, instead I stay at home tending to my young, feeding my husband when he arrives home, face awash with happiness to see the love of his life welcome him with open arms, and of course a large plate of food helps. There are no disturbances; things work clockwise, every tick to perfection. It means we're bound in this shell, but there's a certain solace in familiarity, all I never wish to know behind the door will never bother me if I wrap myself in a façade of happiness. Not that I'm not happy, but such a lifestyle creates happiness. I only ever leave the house to collect groceries I've had held back for me across the road, and nothing bad ever comes of it.
A happy home, trapped but in love. Stockholm Syndrome locked its jaws long ago and I feel no need to break out. These chains, tight, tearing and piercing the skin, the blood that hits the floor just paints the carpet a deeper red of passion. Straight from my heart it stains the very creature that holds me back. From then on we are tied in eternity.
You see, behind the brittle reality that every day my life is slowly leaking from me, it just comforts me to know that no tragedy could befall me. I miss the feeling of being alive, and every day is but a daze, but my mind is my playground, I need not exercise demons beyond the barriers of my imagination, I need not force beliefs on others, I just do what I am meant to; I look after my children, I love my husband and I keep on going.
Which means I worry when my husband arrives home with a forced smile painted over a worrying man. I ask him but he just kisses me on the cheek and continues to his food. He takes his time and crawls away a broken man. It shouldn't annoy me, but all I ask for is what I give to him. It angers me that he can't bring himself to tell me what is wrong.
That night I notice scars covering his back. Deep and raw. He is asleep and I see no point in waking him. All night my dreams are infected by foreign thoughts. A slow whispering.
"do it again"
It repeats itself over and over but trapped within a trance in a dream, I can't snap out of it. The only time I feel truly helpless is when I'm lost inside myself. A mind is too powerful a thing to battle.
As weeks pass, I notice bruises on his body, he becomes quieter and quieter. I try to think of an explanation, but it never ends where I wish it to. All of the years of passion spat in my face, everything I've given to him, the blood red love now turned to black and blue, decaying around his unmoving hands that used to grasp onto me tightly.
I beat love into him. He knows I love him, it's the only way I can. Washing off the stains of another woman, he knows, beyond the terror in his shaking eyes he knows why, he just can't admit it.
The sweetest crimson fills the room. Bound to this house like me now. I glance across the room to my reflection. A grin filling the face of the infection. The other woman.