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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Teens
- Theme: Horror
- Subject: Character Based
- Published: 07/15/2019
There was blood on the sheets.
Red stains on the floor. And the door. On the expensive Kashmiri rug I bought for Christmas.
I glanced at my wrists. Blood gushed out like a waterfall but the pain didn’t seem to affect me. No, it felt good. Somehow. Mmm…
I wanted to lick them. My wrists, that is. I brought them close to my lips and stuck out my tongue, nearly touching. It was a bit. I heard something fall with a slight thud. Oh, it was just the knife. I picked it up and ran my fingers along the blade. It accidentally pricked my thumb and a tiny bead of red appeared. This I licked. Warm though it was, it tasted good. It wasn’t sickening either.
I ran it across my thigh. It was sharp. Why wouldn’t it be? Spending three-quarters of an hour spent sharpening it wasn’t easy. I applied a slight more pressure than required and felt a heavy liquid drip down my legs and onto the floor. My wrists started stinging again. But I didn’t care anymore.
I removed my shoes and spread myself on my bed. My throat felt drained. But walking to the kitchen? Ugh, no way.
The room appeared hazy but I tried to scan the room for a drink. I almost thought of sucking my arms dry when I spotted coke on my dressing table. As I stretched myself and stumbled towards the can, pain shot up my foot and I ran back to the bed. Clutching my foot, I swore. It was almost like an echo in the empty house.
***
After a while, when my head stopped spinning, my eyes examined the floor, following my bloody footprints towards the edge of the bloody carpet. Tiny fragments of glass lay there, almost glittering in the retreating sunlight. If I didn’t know what they were, I would have mistaken them for rubies. This time, I wore my slippers, extra thick because my mother feared broken glass. With six children and an intoxicated drunk husband that loved disappearing for three nights in a row (and appearing again, almost a magician, with beautiful women who liked their men rich and hot), I could almost sympathize with her.
I stepped around the glass and picked a fragment up, soaked in crimson. I dropped it and grabbed the coke. It felt hot, which was when I realized I was cold. Trying to open the coke and running back to my bed was no easy feat. I jumped on the bed, spilling black juice here and there. I dived under the blanket, withdrawing when the smell emitting from it gave one the image of rotting meat.
That was my fault, but who cares? I was glad to realize that the room had blurred, and the coke slipped from my fingers. Comparing the smarting in my foot with the pain in my head was impossible. Every nerve in my body, every cell screamed with agony unlike what I felt before. The screams of my children were ringing in my ears.
The shattered glass on the floor must have come from the picture I kept on my dressing table. In my hurry to get it over with quickly, it must have fallen down while I was slaughtering my victims, screaming. A hot sticky liquid was trickling down my cheek, where I had slashed myself. I wiped it away, tears springing to my eyes again.
It was not just the fact that my father came home with another woman just three weeks after my Mom died, or that my boyfriend came through the same door to announce that he was getting married, to his long-lost love, apparently with whom he had been chatting for the past few months.
No, that did not compare with the anguish I felt. It was the sting of their words. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.” Like it was completely okay. That they could simply do what they like, and I wouldn’t care. They didn’t care.
It tortured me, what they did, ate me from the inside. They said I was struggling with depression. Indeed, I took drugs, and not the good kind. My house stank of drink and rarely did anyone care to visit. The gloom surrounded my house like wolves around a wounded goat, refusing to leave. I did not like it and at the same time, did not want it to go. I gloried in it, its magnificence. Sometimes I imagined building a throne of darkness, but then the drugs and drink lost their high and I would wallow in despair again.
After months of somehow making it through the day without committing suicide, I came up with a plan. It was terrible, but it was the only way.
I vaguely remembered what happened. They had all come home, laughing and squealing. I had called them into my room. The happy atmosphere disappeared at once and when I asked them to lock the door, I could hear the chill running down their spines. Even my husband was there for once. The next set of images passed by in a blur. I mostly remembered screaming and my husband shouting names at me. In what I thought was excitement fired me and soon, it was quiet.
The knife. The cutting of my wrists. The gashing of my entire body and massacre of the entire household and its residents. The last thought made me smile, my lips cracking. Their smell filled the room.
***
I lay down, knowing in a few minutes what would happen. I caught a glimpse of the picture on the floor. My Mom, sitting on the beach, on a red beach blanket.
I saw the leg of Andrew, my youngest, sprawled across the floor. The blonde hair of Hugo, the muscle. And who could forget Yvonne, the beauty of the family? The hairy hand of my dead husband lingered on the entrance. When the reality of it all crashed in, I cried. Tears dripping from my eyes, the knife easily slipped into my stomach, completing its final act.
At least we would finally be together. The whole family.
I would tell you more, but right then I felt my wandering mind coming to a rest, the last image being of my bloodied Kashmiri carpet, with my Mom sitting on it, her hand outstretched.
Blood(Daniel ponraj)
There was blood on the sheets.
Red stains on the floor. And the door. On the expensive Kashmiri rug I bought for Christmas.
I glanced at my wrists. Blood gushed out like a waterfall but the pain didn’t seem to affect me. No, it felt good. Somehow. Mmm…
I wanted to lick them. My wrists, that is. I brought them close to my lips and stuck out my tongue, nearly touching. It was a bit. I heard something fall with a slight thud. Oh, it was just the knife. I picked it up and ran my fingers along the blade. It accidentally pricked my thumb and a tiny bead of red appeared. This I licked. Warm though it was, it tasted good. It wasn’t sickening either.
I ran it across my thigh. It was sharp. Why wouldn’t it be? Spending three-quarters of an hour spent sharpening it wasn’t easy. I applied a slight more pressure than required and felt a heavy liquid drip down my legs and onto the floor. My wrists started stinging again. But I didn’t care anymore.
I removed my shoes and spread myself on my bed. My throat felt drained. But walking to the kitchen? Ugh, no way.
The room appeared hazy but I tried to scan the room for a drink. I almost thought of sucking my arms dry when I spotted coke on my dressing table. As I stretched myself and stumbled towards the can, pain shot up my foot and I ran back to the bed. Clutching my foot, I swore. It was almost like an echo in the empty house.
***
After a while, when my head stopped spinning, my eyes examined the floor, following my bloody footprints towards the edge of the bloody carpet. Tiny fragments of glass lay there, almost glittering in the retreating sunlight. If I didn’t know what they were, I would have mistaken them for rubies. This time, I wore my slippers, extra thick because my mother feared broken glass. With six children and an intoxicated drunk husband that loved disappearing for three nights in a row (and appearing again, almost a magician, with beautiful women who liked their men rich and hot), I could almost sympathize with her.
I stepped around the glass and picked a fragment up, soaked in crimson. I dropped it and grabbed the coke. It felt hot, which was when I realized I was cold. Trying to open the coke and running back to my bed was no easy feat. I jumped on the bed, spilling black juice here and there. I dived under the blanket, withdrawing when the smell emitting from it gave one the image of rotting meat.
That was my fault, but who cares? I was glad to realize that the room had blurred, and the coke slipped from my fingers. Comparing the smarting in my foot with the pain in my head was impossible. Every nerve in my body, every cell screamed with agony unlike what I felt before. The screams of my children were ringing in my ears.
The shattered glass on the floor must have come from the picture I kept on my dressing table. In my hurry to get it over with quickly, it must have fallen down while I was slaughtering my victims, screaming. A hot sticky liquid was trickling down my cheek, where I had slashed myself. I wiped it away, tears springing to my eyes again.
It was not just the fact that my father came home with another woman just three weeks after my Mom died, or that my boyfriend came through the same door to announce that he was getting married, to his long-lost love, apparently with whom he had been chatting for the past few months.
No, that did not compare with the anguish I felt. It was the sting of their words. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.” Like it was completely okay. That they could simply do what they like, and I wouldn’t care. They didn’t care.
It tortured me, what they did, ate me from the inside. They said I was struggling with depression. Indeed, I took drugs, and not the good kind. My house stank of drink and rarely did anyone care to visit. The gloom surrounded my house like wolves around a wounded goat, refusing to leave. I did not like it and at the same time, did not want it to go. I gloried in it, its magnificence. Sometimes I imagined building a throne of darkness, but then the drugs and drink lost their high and I would wallow in despair again.
After months of somehow making it through the day without committing suicide, I came up with a plan. It was terrible, but it was the only way.
I vaguely remembered what happened. They had all come home, laughing and squealing. I had called them into my room. The happy atmosphere disappeared at once and when I asked them to lock the door, I could hear the chill running down their spines. Even my husband was there for once. The next set of images passed by in a blur. I mostly remembered screaming and my husband shouting names at me. In what I thought was excitement fired me and soon, it was quiet.
The knife. The cutting of my wrists. The gashing of my entire body and massacre of the entire household and its residents. The last thought made me smile, my lips cracking. Their smell filled the room.
***
I lay down, knowing in a few minutes what would happen. I caught a glimpse of the picture on the floor. My Mom, sitting on the beach, on a red beach blanket.
I saw the leg of Andrew, my youngest, sprawled across the floor. The blonde hair of Hugo, the muscle. And who could forget Yvonne, the beauty of the family? The hairy hand of my dead husband lingered on the entrance. When the reality of it all crashed in, I cried. Tears dripping from my eyes, the knife easily slipped into my stomach, completing its final act.
At least we would finally be together. The whole family.
I would tell you more, but right then I felt my wandering mind coming to a rest, the last image being of my bloodied Kashmiri carpet, with my Mom sitting on it, her hand outstretched.
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JD
07/15/2019I think you have the makings of a good writer, Daniel, and your abilities will surely develop over time as you read and write more. Your story was a little too bloody for my taste, but I'm sure horror story fans will enjoy it. I did find some of the details a bit confusing. At first I thought your character was a teenager, since a lot of time was spent talking about her mother and father. Then it seems she was depressed because her boyfriend dumped her. And next thing you know she is a mother with a husband and several children who she has just murdered. I couldn't actually figure out why she did it, since you never explained what was wrong with her husband or her kids that drove her insane and caused her to commit mass murder and suicide, thinking it was 'the only way' to resolve her problems. So all the violence and bloodshed seemed senseless and left me with an empty confused feeling in the end. But otherwise, I do think you have writing and storytelling talents that I hope you will continue to develop. Thanks for sharing your short story on Storystar.
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