Showing posts with label Original. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Original. Show all posts
0

Helms and walter: II.

“Male. 5’10 in height. Approximately 11 stone 3 lbs. Been missing for over 3 weeks now, and his beloved wife is becoming increasingly worried.” Walter tapped his pen upon the paper, “Verdict?”
“Before I ask for more detail on said man, can the wife afford our services? I mean, it’s not going to be another solve and chase, is it?”
“How can you care about the finance when someone’s life is in danger?”
“I don’t care for people. Money, I care about. It’s like my baby.”
Walter sighed and continued on with the account of the missing person.
“We have other cases, Walter. This is far too easy.”
“Oh? And what do you propose the conclusion to this case is?”
“Her husband is in Italy with, no doubt, the nanny. Or he could be in Italy with his neighbour’s wife whom, if you bothered to look at the other cases, is also missing from the exact date this man is.” Helms leant back in her seat and crossed her arms behind her head, “Next?”
Walter pursed his lips and searched through the other cases. He whispered to himself as Helms took a drink of her tea and awaited his reply eagerly.
“Ah, here’s one. Young female, 16 years of age. Missing about a week ago, never to be seen nor heard from again. Mother and father both seeking help. So, tell me Helms, how can you possibly solve this in less than 5 seconds?”
“Young woman, 16, teenager. Problems with the parents, perhaps a boyfriend. Ran away from home.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Anna Hoppkins, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Saw her down in the ship yard just yesterday. Hair pulled up under a cap and wearing boy’s clothes.”
“Tell me, Helms, how do you know all of this? How do you know that a teenage girl simply ran away form home?”
“I was once a teenage girl, Walter, and trust me, all you wanted to do was run.”
The dog gave a grunt and Walter gave it a kick to the ribs. Obviously annoyed with Helms quick assessments, he left to look through other files.
“Helms, you answer none of these and you wonder why you have nothing to do!”
“I have a perfect amount to do. Study the art of science, chemistry and biology included. The works of a fire fly are most interesting.”
“You do talk a lot of bull.”
“Touché.”
*
The perfect case had been found, although it took some persuasion to swing Helms in it's general direction. Eventually she realized that, really, she had no immediate answer.
That evening was spent with Helms at her desk analysing the facts and quickly scribbling notes on the subject. Walter took his beloved wolf hound and went home.
Numerous cups of tea were went through while the mountain of pages grew. Papers were balled up and throw into the waste basket, the tip of the quill was broken several times and the spy glass was produced on numerous occasions.
When morning broke, little ground had been gained.
“Good morning, Helms.” Walter hung his hat upon the stand and threw his cane to the side, “Another night well spent?”
“Oh get off it. I have gotten about as far as you did with that Mary girl.” A cup was thrust in his direction, “Now, make me a tea. Or coffee. Whichever is stronger.”
Walter frowned; she always had a delightfully smart answer.
“Coffee then.” He droned.
While he worked in the kitchen, Helms flicked through her results of last night.
“I just don't understand it, Walter. Every approach I take all leads to dead ends. This one truly is a mystery. 5 dead persons. All male. All contracted a strange illness, which has no medical name nor any appearance in the bloodstream, which lasted approximately 7 days. All 5 of the males had been within St. Thomas' hospital at least 4 weeks before illness became full blown.
“I knew this case was for you.”
“Not so much for me as frustrating me.”
Walter handed the woman her coffee, by which time had been made Irish. She sniffed it, dipped a finger below the surface and lapped off the liquid, before settling further into her chair.
“Did you find anything interesting?”
“Yes, in fact I did. At precisely 3:40 am a shaggy tabby cat came scratching at my back door. I left my desk and let the poor thing in. After feeding her and warming her by the fire, I actually discovered that 'she' was a 'he.'”
“That's it? That's your interesting discovery?”
“It looked like a female. Thin face, no bollocks – you know?”
Walter rolled his eyes, “You are unbelievable, Helms.” he sipped his drink, “And were is this tom cat now?”
“Asleep beneath my writing desk. Wrapped in one of your old woollen sweaters”
“Old? The black one?”
She nodded.
“That's not old? I left that here yesterday. Helms!”
She shrugged, “Pity. Lazarus really likes it.”
Walter watched her, shaking his head and contemplating how to insult her. Even after several moments, he had nothing.
“Back to this case, Walter.” She got passed him three single sheets of paper, all scribbled upon, blotched and with man eating flowers in the corners, “Now, if you notice the the bullet points here,” she pointed, “and here,” and again, “I have looked at all the possibilities. I have read and re-read three or four books surrounding any medical illness and physiological and these three pages list my current theories.”
Walter flicked through them, “None of which you seem to like as an answer?” he raised an eyebrow and gestured to 'THESE ARE ALL OBSCENE' written across the middle of the last page.
“It's not that I didn't like them, per say. It's just they are all so obscene.”
“Helms, only a small handful of these fit the description of the illness. In all reality, we should really be going to the hospital and families and gathering more information.”
“Oh good. Well, carry on then. I'll be here. Waiting. And petting my cat.”
Walter tossed Helm's her jacket.
“Get up.”
“You know I don't like hospitals.”
“You don't like people.”
“Yes -that's true, but -”
“You're not human.”
“It's overrated.”  
0

Helms and Walter.

Jared H Walter & Shelly Helms.
19th century London, dangerous, crime polluted; corrupted. The turn of the century is upon it and the Londoners see no end to their opportunities. London, the engineering capital of the world.
Down in the depths of Fleet Street, Shelly Helm’s sat at her writing desk, except, it was no longer just a writing desk. Experiments, chemicals, gadgets and gismos littered the surface of the table, papers fluttered around her feet and, often, around her head. Upon her face, there was an oddly shaped spy glass.
“Walter! Walter!” She cried, “God-damn it man, pry yourself from the realms of that book and get in here!”
A tall, thin man sauntered into to the room. He tossed his bowler hat to the window sill, tucked his shirt into his trousers and straightened his waistcoat.
“I don’t give a damn how you look, Walter, just come here and look at this.” Helms’ swung round and pointed to the piece of paper in front of her.
Jared H. Walter sighed.
“Helms’, you really should take a step outside.” He glanced upon the sheet, and seeing nothing important, nudged his female friend on the shoulder, “You cannot keep yourself locked in here, coming up with your strange ideas.”
“Look.” She shook the page in front of him, “Look at these findings! If - now just listen - if I mix these two individual chemicals, I may just be able to stop the onset of cancer. I can test it on Bruno or Melo. Whichever animal you favour less.”
“You are not touching my grey hound again. Or my cat!”
“How about that goose your aunt has running around her yard?”
“No, Helms!”
The man retreated from the room and went back to his studies on the anatomy of the human form. Sulking, Helms rose from her seat, threw the spyglass to the table and shuffled into the kitchen. She proceeded to make herself some well-deserved tea.
“I don’t know why you are insisting on reading that thing again, Walter. You could draw me a map of the human form from memory.”
“And why you continue to wear gentlemen’s trousers, when society continually tells you it isn’t right, is beyond me.”
“They are not gentlemen’s, they are tailored to fit my form. And, since when could society stop me from being who I am, Walter?”
The man laughed from the other room, “Never, Shelly.”
*
3 weeks later
“Get up. Come on now, up!”
Helms pulled a nearby sheet over her head as curtains were pulled.
“The light.” She screeched.
“It’s called the outside, Helm. Get up now. It’s been weeks since you’ve been out.” Walter pulled the sheet from her head, “Move!”
“There is no reasoning for me to move.”
“You have a case.”
We have a case and you can handle it perfectly fine on your own.”
Walter pulled her up by her elbow, bringing her face close to hers, “Out.”
“I guess I need a brazier, then.”
*
Walking through the streets of London, Helms read through the file while Walter dictated to her. The passing of a finely dressed doctor and a slightly insane, cross-dressing woman was no strange sight to the people of London. Dr Jared H Walter was renowned paediatrician while Shelly Helms was a damned good investigator and always got her man; in the most unorthodox ways, of course.
“The Bean.”
Helms glanced up at her partner, “I beg your pardon.”
“The new coffee house just up ahead.”
“Ah yes I heard about it. They serve some new exotic sort of coffee. Somewhat stronger with a zest.”
“Exotic coffee?”
“Oh yes. I believe they have a selection. Expresso’s and Americanos.” Helms shock her head, “Strange business. So, are we stopping in?”
“Indeed, A strange coffee for an extraordinarily strange woman.”
“Funny, I was about to say the same to you.”
Taking the typical male role, Helms held the door for Walter and followed him into the café.
“Hmm, it’s dark.”
“They serve coffee; you don’t need to see what you are drinking.”
“No, but I would like to be able to read or, indeed, glance upon my male company.”
Walter cocked an eyebrow.
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I mean my other admiring fans. You already had your chance.”
“And I’m glad that chance is behind me.”
Helms ordered the beverages and, typically, put the tab on Walter. She proceeded with a grin.
“If a woman can wear suits, she can pay for the bill.”
“True. But society says that you should pay and, according to you, I’m already a black dot on England’s book. Wouldn’t want to darken that now would I?”
She smiled, Walter growled.
“You are infuriating.”
“Pleasure. But stop beating around the bush and do tell me the news.”
“H-W – How do you know I have news?”
“Oh please. You have me a case. You have read it before I and have been dictating to me from home to this coffee house. You paid the tab without a big scene and you have been awfully silent lately. Not to mention your cat has been taken home to your own home and you have left the more beloved of my subjects behind, and , you have not complained when experimented on by my hand –“
“I simply believe that your experiments are – safe.”
“Bull. Shall I go one with my slight observations or are you really interested in your eating habits and bowel movements?”
“H-“
“And my record of your sexual experiences.”
“Now really, Helms. We are in a public area.” Walter pinched the bridge of his nose, “I had planned to tell you nearer to the time.”
“So you got promoted? It was about time.”
“Yes, but, that’s not it. The promotion, I had no problem telling you about.” The man ground his teeth, “It’s what comes with said promotion.”
“A big office and millions of children to cure.”
“Yes, that, and a one way ticket to the new world.”
Helms expression remained unchanged, as if she had not heard her friend’s words.
“One way ticket?” When she clearly, had.
“Indeed.”
There was silence for a moment; she pursed her lips together in concentration.
“Well, Walter, remember to pack your finest suits, if you are walking amongst the best you can’t go looking shabby.”
“T-that’s all?”
“Well yes. What do you want me to do? Lay in front of the boat so you cannot leave? No, wait, that wouldn’t quite work, one cannot lay across water. But you get my point, Walter.”
The man simply looking at his partner, his mouth open and hands idly fiddling with the sheets of their newest case.
“No questions?”
“Well, just one.”
Walter leant in closer.
“Can I keep your foul mutt?”   
0

IV

The dark mist separated as yet another lost soul found its way in to the void. Enron watched, with mild satisfaction, from his iron throne. Beside him lay Plutus with his massive, ashen paws beneath his heavy head. He gazed up to Enron with sad, emerald orbs.

“Lugonu would have passed comment,” Enron began, “But I can merely smile.”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. From his reflection in the window, Enron could clearly see the toll this ‘life’ was taking on him. He hadn’t changed a bit; and that was the problem. His hair was still an ebony, dreadlocked mass, his skin was still a pasty white and his body was still as tall and slender has it had always been. No change; not even a fraction. In hell, like heaven, no one aged. Immortality was the trend and those residing in the underworld wished for death.

Even he, the new ruler of the level, felt as if he would die.

“Plutus, you know not of the stress we, as demon princes, bear upon our shoulders. You see not the work we do and the things we dream.”

“I know enough to know that you are much too young and naïve to be in such a position sir. I know you have much ambition and talent. You, as a soul, should not be dead at all, but used as the expert possessor that you are.” Plutus paused as his master gazed, nonchalantly, upon him, “I mean no offence to you sir.”

“None taken. In fact, although at first I took this on with ease and excitement, I no longer feel the drive. I just wish to back in the ranks, playing poker off duty and drinking sour whiskey. Alas I am not one of them now and leadership is my duty; and I must fulfil it.”

With that final speech, Enron turned from the glass and walked swiftly to the hallway. His metal boots clanked upon the flag stones while Plutus’ shard talons clicked softly. The sound was filled with authority, as if a king were entering a room, empathised more by the silence of the tower.

“Sir. May I be so bold as to imply where we are going?” Plutus barked.

Enron shushed him and continued to move forward. They descended stair way upon stair way, passed many a room and greeted many a demon in all shapes and forms. The hallways became darker and darker as the walked, the passageways more narrow and the stairs even steeper.

“Master, I insisted you tell me our destination.”

“The bowels of the tower dear pet. The catacombs have been locked to me for centuries but now, finally, I have acquired the skeleton key.” He reached below his waist coat and pulled out a long and silver key which dangled from ruby beads. The key had three ragged teeth upon the end; the body was dented with small, detailed images and the circled tip was engraved with Greek.

Plutus whimpered, “What is your purpose in the Catacombs? I-if I could be so bold?”

Enron shot him a dark look, the violet of his eyes deepening, “No, Plutus. You may not.”

Plutus asked no more and simply followed the sinister character deeper into the tombs.
0

III

Lugonu, the Unformed, had been the one to order Enron’s rain on earth as a possessing spirit. He had ‘fathered’ him and watched him grow and flourish into a prince of chaos and deception. However five hundred years after Enron’s return an argument with one of his fellow rulers on another level had led to his eternal extinction. Where demons go when they are exterminated within the lands of hell, not even Lucifer knows; they just disappear.

Whoever said that demons feel no emotions was sorely mistaken. Although the rather young demon showed little distress over the death of Lugonu, he often spoke of his greatness with great sorrow in his violet eyes.

“He moved with such grace, demanding respect and getting it with little ease. His greatness is unsurpassable.” His deeply accented voice did not waver; instead it was filled with great pride for his former master.

Enron shortly replaced Lugonu and obtained the title ‘The Delusive’ for he was, as it states, deceptive. The tower and all around it was his to control and all misdemeanours that took place were his to deal; however he so desired.

As negative and backward as he was, Enron took on the job with pride. Often he walked amongst the souls and his minions but, very rarely, he took to sitting on his throne and watching over the peculiar land. Gaining control over the fourth level had hardened him, created a tough outer shell which he had been greatly lacking in before. It had bettered his posture and had brought a more common twang to his voice, although the accent still had majority. However, the eager twinkle that once lingered in his eyes had vanished. He was now a leader, one of the many demon princes; nothing more.
0

II

For most it was the unexpected death or Enron’s superior that had inspired the change in the demon, but in harsh reality he had always been cruel and sick. Even in his brief time spent on earth, he had been vile.

Of course, all demons were corrupted and gave no second thought to heinous acts. They tortured deserving souls without so much as smidgen of remorse because, they simply, deserved it. However, Enron had always had a fascination for the innocence. He had always adored and had taken great pleasure in the torment of those who only deserve eternal bliss.

“Leave be the Angels in God’s hands and you creatures shall be left alone in hell.”

There were many more ‘rules’ similar. A demons home was in hell; their victims were those that fell from grace and those that had done wrong.

I am sure you can already see where Enron was going wrong.

Enrons place was on the fourth layer of hell; a baron waste land of a place, playing home to lost and exorcised souls. Ghostly mists hung in the air and the sky was various shades of orange and reds. Tall cliffs of black and gray shadowed the land creating a suffocating environment, no breeze swept through the air and shadows were cast in every direction.

Each soul that lingered there was neither evil enough for the lower levels nor peaceful enough for the upper. Almost like limbo, they remained forever in-between. No torture took place here for the beings were not ‘full’ enough. Instead they were ghost like and frightening, palled fragments of former selves.

By his side, Enron, along with the other demons, kept Plutus. It was a wolf like terror, originally from the third level which was the layer of the greedy and selfish. It was a demon of wealth, with a mane of snow white and two rows of silver teeth; top and bottom. Not a thing on it’s body was sculpted from the putrid soil of the forth layer, or any layer for that matter. The best furs, the most expensive jewels and the rarest metals were used in it’s creation; and not fraction less. It’s mighty talons, sculpted from the best cut of ruby, kept the periodically restless spirits in check and it’s emerald eyes missed nothing. Yet it bounded so swiftly across the darkened land, it’s hackles risen and, often, it’s jowls pulled up into a deep snarl. So silently it ran that not even God himself could have heard it.

From the highest window of the levels dark tower, Enron watched over the land, for he was what you might call its ‘ruler.’ Around him demons of every shape and size went about his business. Whether they are out in the grounds or below taking break.

Hell was not a job for demons, there was no toil only relaxation and enjoyment.Nothing was too strenuous nor was complaint ever made. Demons fought and made up and fighting to the death was common. The ruler was both respected and spoke to like an ally; Enron was not the type to demand higher status.

Yes, hell was certainly not what most expected.
0

I bet you say that to all the girls.

Tears like chemicals; it burned to see her cry.

The binds that held Katharine shuttered with each fragile movement she made. The young woman lay huddled in a ball on her side, her legs pulled up to her chest and her head stretched away from her body.

Her breath wheezed and hitched in her throat, her chest would twitch with each haggard attempt. A whimper echoed around the cell as the shackles snatched at Katharine’s chafed skin. Her flesh had lost its rosy pink sometime ago, now it was a palled gray and her hair no longer glistened, instead it lay flat and matted over her shoulders.

She no longer fit the object of Enron’s desires; her pain, however, did.

The screams and cries of torment sent shivers down the beings spine, the very image of her broken skin, her manic and frightened stare, made him more excited than a child on Christmas morning. The angst that echoed in each hoarse and wasted wail replayed within his dreams; and the beast enjoyed them.

It shone in every pore of her skin, from her very essence, how scared and vulnerable she had become. Once so beautiful and angelic in the eyes of humanity, now she was ugly and fetid; to them maybe, but not to him.

The squalor of the ‘catacomb’ was a huge step down from Katharine’s celestial cloud.

Enron could only smirk.

“Where is He now, little one?” He would whisper as he stood at the bars.

She would cough and wheeze a reply, but she never managed a word let alone a sentence. He wondered; could she feel the eternal agony of those women before her? Or did she simply not realise what it was she were lying in? Years of waste, bile and vomit caked into the flagstones. Blood painted the walls, fingernails trapped within the brick work and hair matted between the chain links. The smell of decay was vile. It hit the back of the demons throat and burned his nose each time he entered that chamber. It was the smell of the devil. How could she not know?

Katherine’s comrades lay lonely and forgotten around her. It was so dark, save for the flicker of moonlight, and he often wondered had she even noticed them? Had she bothered to even greet his former dolls? Shake their cold hands and stroke their matted skulls?

The look in her fragile eyes, off-white and blood shot, told him all. She knew; Oh god, she knew. And she wished she didn’t.

“Forgive me Katharine, you deserved more than a devil’s death.”


For most it was the unexpected death or Enron’s superior that had inspired the change in the demon, but in harsh reality he had always been cruel and sick. Even in his brief time spent on earth, he had been vile.

Of course, all demons were corrupted and gave no second thought to heinous acts. They tortured deserving souls without so much as smidgen of remorse because, they simply, deserved it. However, Enron had always had a fascination for the innocence. He had always adored and had taken great pleasure in the torment of those who only deserve eternal bliss.

“Leave be the Angels in God’s hands and you creatures shall be left alone in hell.”

There were many more ‘rules’ similar. A demons home was in hell; their victims were those that fell from grace and those that had done wrong.

I am sure you can already see where Enron was going wrong.

Enrons place was on the fourth layer of hell; a baron waste land of a place, playing home to lost and exorcised souls. Ghostly mists hung in the air and the sky was various shades of orange and reds. Tall cliffs of black and gray shadowed the land creating a suffocating environment, no breeze swept through the air and shadows were cast in every direction.

Each soul that lingered there was neither evil enough for the lower levels nor peaceful enough for the upper. Almost like limbo, they remained forever in-between. No torture took place here for the beings were not ‘full’ enough. Instead they were ghost like and frightening, palled fragments of former selves.

By his side, Enron, along with the other demons, kept Plutus. It was a wolf like terror, originally from the third level which was the layer of the greedy and selfish. It was a demon of wealth, with a mane of snow white and two rows of silver teeth; top and bottom. Not a thing on it’s body was sculpted from the putrid soil of the forth layer, or any layer for that matter. The best furs, the most expensive jewels and the rarest metals were used in it’s creation; and not fraction less. It’s mighty talons, sculpted from the best cut of ruby, kept the periodically restless spirits in check and it’s emerald eyes missed nothing. Yet it bounded so swiftly across the darkened land, it’s hackles risen and, often, it’s jowls pulled up into a deep snarl. So silently it ran that not even God himself could have heard it.

From the highest window of the levels dark tower, Enron watched over the land, for he was what you might call its ‘ruler.’ Around him demons of every shape and size went about his business. Whether they are out in the grounds or below taking break.

Hell was not a job for demons, there was no toil only relaxation and enjoyment. Nothing was too strenuous nor was complaint ever made. Demons fought and made up and fighting to the death was common. The ruler was both respected and spoke to like an ally; Enron was not the type to demand higher status.

Yes, hell was certainly not what most expected.


The dark mist separated as yet another lost soul found its way in to the void. Enron watched, with mild satisfaction, from his iron throne. Beside him lay Plutus with his massive, ashen paws beneath his heavy head. He gazed up to Enron with sad, emerald orbs.

“Lugonu would have passed comment,” Enron began, “But I can merely smile.”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. From his reflection in the window, Enron could clearly see the toll this ‘life’ was taking on him. He hadn’t changed a bit; and that was the problem. His hair was still an ebony, dreadlocked mass, his skin was still a pasty white and his body was still as tall and slender has it had always been. No change; not even a fraction. In hell, like heaven, no one aged. Immortality was the trend and those residing in the underworld wished for death.

Even he, the new ruler of the level, felt as if he would die.

“Plutus, you know not of the stress we, as demon princes, bear upon our shoulders. You see not the work we do and the things we dream.”

“I know enough to know that you are much too young and naïve to be in such a position sir. I know you have much ambition and talent. You, as a soul, should not be dead at all, but used as the expert possessor that you are.” Plutus paused as his master gazed, nonchalantly, upon him, “I mean no offence to you sir.”

“None taken. In fact, although at first I took this on with ease and excitement, I no longer feel the drive. I just wish to back in the ranks, playing poker off duty and drinking sour whiskey. Alas I am not one of them now and leadership is my duty; and I must fulfil it.”

With that final speech, Enron turned from the glass and walked swiftly to the hallway. His metal boots clanked upon the flag stones while Plutus’ shard talons clicked softly. The sound was filled with authority, as if a king were entering a room, empathised more by the silence of the tower.

“Sir. May I be so bold as to imply where we are going?” Plutus barked.

Enron shushed him and continued to move forward. They descended stair way upon stair way, passed many a room and greeted many a demon in all shapes and forms. The hallways became darker and darker as the walked, the passageways more narrow and the stairs even steeper.

“Master, I insisted you tell me our destination.”

“The bowels of the tower dear pet. The catacombs have been locked to me for centuries but now, finally, I have acquired the skeleton key.” He reached below his waist coat and pulled out a long and silver key which dangled from ruby beads. The key had three ragged teeth upon the end; the body was dented with small, detailed images and the circled tip was engraved with Greek.

Plutus whimpered, “What is your purpose in the Catacombs? I-if I could be so bold?”

Enron shot him a dark look, the violet of his eyes deepening, “No, Plutus. You may not.”

Plutus asked no more and simply followed the sinister character deeper into the tombs.
0

Monquie

The lights were dim, the gloom engulfed young Monquie in its endless squaller. Fragments of plaster and shattered glass were stern around the small room, the once cream white walls were stained by damp and graffiti.

Monquie sat cross legged upon the abandoned, iron bed. The mattress was torn and filthy wit age. She stared out the barred window. A bitter draft blew in through its glassless frame and 'the victims of the autumn' had built up below its sill.

No one came here. No one ever visited any more. Large gates had been put up with plastic, yellow warning signs and the front doors had been bolted.

Monquie was alone. She wandered the dusty halls, kicking stones with her bare feet as she went. Madness drover her to dance along the corridors and sing a melancholy tune.
This was her little home. Her palace of utter solitude. Stuck between humanity and hell, she was happy in limbo.

There was no war here, no pain or love, no worries and not work; just constant bliss. Entertainment was around every corner, a new brick to be inspected or an old room to be reviewed.

The tails of her cotton dress fluttered behind her as she twirled, the soiled and frayed hem trailed along the ground.

And as she stood upon the crooked roof and prepared to dive once again the church bell would toil midnight and she would disappear before she hit the ground.
0

Freedom tastes much too sweet.

For once I want to be the one who’s missed.
Too much of my precious time has been wasted fretting over you. So many days spent dreaming, worrying and wondering about you; my heart shattering with every moment I spend thinking. Every heart beat hurts, pushing harder against my ribs and reminding me that I am still alone, still in love and yet alone.
Once you were my oxygen, now I realize you were just my wine. Beautiful but addictive. What does one do with an addiction? They nip it in the bud. I was never like other people, why start now? Why deny myself the torment of unrequited love? I was a fool.
Instead I allowed you to bloom and then cut you at the stem.
Good bye flower; Good bye my friend.
0

Heart-Killer: The first and only.

Archie; the dead poet. Fiend and beast of deception.

He was Anne’s sweet lover, full of contentment and red, hot passion. How he came to be ‘bitten’ with the vile sickness of blind anger is still not known and will never be known. In fact, it has not even been contemplated in many years. Everyone had simply given up.

Case #1206 – Day 1.
Victim has limited use of vocal cords.
Ligaments ripped in both knees and left elbow.
Currently residing in intensive care unit 02.

Case #1206 –Day 3
Victim is recovering slowly.
Case#1206 – Day 10

Victim has been released.
Culprit still remains unfound.
Victim under strict police protection and is receiving help for closer personal friend.

Case#1206
Victim found dead in home.
Murder investigation shall begin in due course.


Anne’s raw screams were muffled by his large hands. Her vocals, already broken, barely would have created a squeak but Archie always had been of a paranoid nature.

His maniacal snarl reflected in her horror struck eyes.

Archie was neither a patient nor playful man. He had always just ‘cut to the case’, wasted no time in doing anything and dove right in head first.

Quickly, with on clean thrust, he buried his free, ragged hand through her chest. Blood exploded out either side of the gaping hole, his fist was smeared from tip to wrist. The Bone’s of her breast crunched and cracked and there was a sickly wet sound as he moved around in her flesh.

Her eyes widened upon the contact, he felt her whole body jolt up and the breath hitched from her lungs.
He squeezed his fingers around the pumping organ and dug his fingernails into the sturdy tissue. It struggled but rapidly began to slow until it ceased to beat entirely.

Anne’s eye’s rolled in her head, tears still dripped down her pale cheeks and her final breath was evaporated onto his palm.

Archie was Anne’s sweet lover; and her bitter death.
0

Tribulation of sight.

The sleet was steadily increasing. Mist closed in around the edge of the lake and the cold nipped at my naked fingers. I pulled my scarf up to my nose and huddled my hands up into my sleeves. At the edge of the lake my own pallid skin reflected off the frozen water, my hair a dark and ebony chaos reflected my swollen insides. My eyes, once so full of teal, saucy life now held nothing. It should matter; but not to me.
The crunching of the snow beneath my boots was the only sound that accompanied the yawp of the crows and the bustling of the aspens. The water had long stopped running when the frost had come just days ago.

I was well and truly alone ; It was better that way.

A year ago I died; not physically but mentally. All my mirrors had shattered and in their place was the image of brutal reality. Like the still water beneath the ice, I was trapped and unable to run. No amount of pushing or coaxing had brought me back to the surface and pills did nothing to warm me.

In my mind the image of their broken corpses lay spread before me. I see myself shattered and curled into the farthest corner. My skull throbs as it did then, my rips ache and my breath hitches in my throat. I was meant to be back there, back in that ungodly room upon the soiled concrete and cowering in the pitch darkness. But I ran.

"Tuhota"

That word was etched into my brain, it rang in my ears in the deafening silence; cutting through me like a knife. To be alive when my friends were all dead. To be there with their bodies, hearing their last breaths and their sobs in the shadow of twilight. I should be with them under three feet of soil with roses upon my head. My body should be reduced to maggot meat, my eyes disintegrated and the skin separated from the bone. But I stood by the lake fully alive; physically, not mentally.

There was as much reason for me to live as there was to die. .There was nothing tying me here anymore and I felt going back to where it all happened, finding out the mystery behind this, a mystery which had been closed for four months, was my own option. The pros did not out weigh the cons ,my own tie to the past, pulling me back, tipped the scale in cons favor; if anything the cons had become my heroes.
0

Sweet Emotion (15-18?)

My first love. My only love. You picked me up, some years and some months, and then left me. And I was alone.

Even now I ask myself why you don’t love me back. Why you are reluctant to let me closer, to help and to see behind your walls. I let you behind mine. If you are happy, I shall be happy; but you are not. Therefore I fret and I am not.
But enough of this clique nonsense. This mindless drawl and scribble.

Yes. Yes I can see you watching me. Your eyes are so wide, so brown; so scared. It occurs to me that I have never seen you cry until now. Yet, you have seen me. You have seen me at my worst, at my best and all those times in-between. It’s a little selfish; don’t you think? You’ve seen me at my biggest and my smallest, at my sadist and my highest. But you only have few faces; while I have many.

Does it hurt? I’ve always wondered that. Does it hurt to have your wrists bond back, your feet bond down? Your body cut and pierced? Your head pulled back by leather binds and throat wrapped in piano wire? One sudden movement, you know, that’s all it takes.

I dance the knife above your genitals; gently tracing the skin. You squirm and whine. Do you know that I squirmed and whined? I was shattered and alone, trapped inside and begging to get out. You trapped me!

I cut the skin on your thigh and you bite down hard on the rag in your mouth. No screaming; not for you. I slash again, watching as the crimson drops bubble from the wound and flow in a beautiful stream onto the sheets of the bed. And the colours inside the flesh fascinate me; the peaches and pinks, the blacks and reds. So enticing and beautiful. At this moment I know; You’re getting more than you deserve.

A glance at your face shows your utter fear. Your watery tears gently sliding down your cheeks; yet all I feel is power. But I begin to cry too and climb up upon your naked body. One leg placed on either side, straddling your waist. I lean over and trace the knife along your bruised torso, course the outline of your pecs, cut the skin around your tender nipples; all the while crying softly to myself.

As the steal breaks the skin, and the liquid flows out, you bite down again and try to scream. Don’t you understand? No screaming; not for you. I sigh and climb down from your body. Once again I begin to cut the area around your genitals, careful to go as slow as possible so that I can watch your expression as the blade slices. You squeeze your eyes shut, twist your head from side to side but quickly cease when you realise the piano wire is corroding at your skin. It’s laughable.

And you look at me again; a deer caught in headlights. Yes, I still love you, that won’t change, but you’ve hurt me long enough. This is not hate, it was never hate; its lust, love, want, need and pain. Miles of festering pain.

I know what I am doing. The knife gradually edges closer to the tender skin of your genitals until it cuts the base of your penis. You try to scream; god how you try to scream. I slice again, a little higher and a little deeper. Your eyes can talk; and you know my plan.

I’m sure, in that moment when the grin pulled at my lips, that I looked mad. But I can’t tell from your expression; fearis constantly painted on your face now, so it is unreliable to assume your expression is aimed just at my smile. I slide my palm up over your stomach and as you watch my hand, the other slices the knife slowly into the skin near the tip of your penis. And then a rapid movement separates the flesh. The blood is flowing; really flowing and you bite and scream, squirm and twist. The agony is obvious in your eyes and I can’t help but cry. The pain and anguish I had felt, you are feeling now; I hope it taste fucking bitter in your mouth. I hope you can taste the own bile in your throat, the own searing bolts of pain coursing through your body; I hope you feel remorse for what you have done.


I watch you from your beside for some time. The detached tip of your limb penis lies between your thighs, the blood soaking the sheets and staining the mattress beneath. I cut you a few more times, along the arteries at the crook of your elbows, at the back of your knees and vertically down your forearm; all for good measure. The beautiful droplets of blood have become streams and then rivers. Your skin is becoming paler, your demeanor is more relaxed and your eyes, although still frightened, have a glassy film and are fighting to keep your lids from closing. My body is slumped over the bed, my head resting on my right arm while the left hand traces circles on your stomach with a single finger. You stopped twitching at my touch twenty minutes ago and suddenly I find this morbid. I lean forward, pull the rag from your mouth and let it lie around your neck. Your lips are cut, spots of crimson mark your chin, your lower jaw immediately begins to shake. I kiss you gently, tasting the sticky, metallic liquid on my own lips. When I break away I meet your eyes, hazy and confused. I am still weeping, as are you, but I know I can’t let it defeat me; I won’t lift the phone. No matter how your eyes plead with me.


I stumble back to my chair, lay my arm on the bed and resume the same position I had held before.


Within the next hour, I am watching your eye lids flutter as your eye’s roll up into the sockets. Your body is pale, paler than before and the nerves cause your limb body to twitch and fidget. I whimper aloud, reach up to your face and us the flat of my hand to slide your eyelids closed. For a moment, I don’t know what to do. He is gone, dead no less and by my own hand. What do I do now? Do I grieve or celebrate? Live on or die? It seems unfair to leave him alone; but then he left me alone. So, I relax into my seat, fold my arms and decide, here and now; you are alone in death, as I am alone in life.
0

The Great End.

The violent snap of bones woke her from her slumber. As a force of habit, she pushed the strands of hair dead, ebony hair from her face before leaving her nest of concrete. Sluggishly she shuffled along the narrow alley way, out into the light of the parking lot. The beam of a spot light made her wrinkle her nose in disgust, the light having shone directly into her hazy eyes making them sting and water.

An all too familiar odour filled the air around her; Death with a hit of melancholy. It hit the back of her nose and tasted of festering meat. She retreated back an inch into the shadows of the alley, gently she rested her hand against the coarse wall beside her and focused on the rough texture nipping at the tips of her fingers.

Another crack echoed then a sickly, wet chomp. As she peered around the corner her eyes came to rest upon the culprit who had roused her from her sleep.

It towered over her, even when hunkered, it’s scrawny knees were pulled up against its chest and it’s spine jutted from it’s coagulated, gray back. Each little fragment of the long bone could be seen in the finest detail. She could just about see the top of it’s head, long dead strands of dark hair lay down it’s back and along it’s shoulder blades. ‘It’ became a ‘he’ as she noticed the large genitals swigging between his thighs. But he wasn’t human not was he animal. He bit and tore into his victim with large talons and with, what she could only imagine, were needle sharp teeth. From behind she could plainly see the blood collecting beneath his large feet. It was coated and mixed with droplets of sallow saliva and bile.

Quietly she stood, motionless and in awe. What a wonderful creature.

His head jolted up into the air, his skull flopped backwards so far that she could make out the fetid features of his face. His eyes were sunken into murky skin and were clouded with a layer of film. His cheeks jutted unhealthy and his mouth and hollow nose were caked in blood.

He turned slowly on his feet. His head made a wet snap as it fell forward and snapped back into it’s socket.
She took a step towards him, feeling not an ounce of fear.

He knew.

Still hunched, with liquid dripping from his jaw, he staggered forward. His long arms went below his knees, his calloused knuckles almost grazed the concrete and his fingers beat up to touch his wrists. His expression was dead; retarded and dangerous.

She skipped to him and stood, gazing at his eyes. He grunted and she laughed. She felt no fear and this confused him greatly. A killing monster only knew fear; what was this?

Ambitiously she wrapped a hand around two of his bloody fingers. She never once took her eyes from him. This was the girl he had been waiting for since before time, before ‘God’ and before existence of anything other than hell. She was his captor. A wonderful, homicidal woman to lead him to his meals, meals with meaning. Revenge was sweet and she knew it.

Like flesh for his statistic bones.

Once, she tugged him forward and he obeyed, shuffling after her through the dark streets.

Finally; The endless had arrived.
0

Things I never said: 6053

6053

Patient 6053 pulled herself up off the pearly sheets and curled back into a ball against the copper poll of her bed. The door of her cell opened and in stepped a tall, blonde haired and hazel eyed woman; her best friend Jane. She looked happier than the younger woman remembered her. The pain that she had once held in her eyes had shifted to a sparkle, her lips, although in a frown, still had a smile twitching at the sides and her over all posture seemed contented.

Jane moved closer to the bed and sat gently on its end. Raven curls fell around 6053's face as she leaned toward her chum. Gently she laid her own pale fingers around those of Jane's.

"Hi." Jane whispered, a forced smile creeping onto her face, "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."

6053 smoothed the top of Jane's hand with her thumb and shook her head tenderly.

"I came home as soon as I heard." She waited for a response, "Are you okay?"

"If I was, I wouldn't be in here." 6053 replied morbidly.

Her voice was hoarse and barely audible. Jane searched her sapphire eyes for any sign of the friend she had known; but nothing was there. It was a sea of confusion and sadness but mostly, it was emptiness. It hurt Jane to see her friend like this. Cooped up in a 'rest home' away from humanity and away from social contact. She had been doing so well, keeping her head up and her voice down; where had it gone wrong?

"What happened?" Jane asked.

6053 gazed up at her much taller friend.

"You are possibly one of the best friends I could ever have but when I needed you, where the hell were you?"

"You never asked for my help." Jane's voice was silent and calming despite the anger that she felt.

"I can't. You know I can't. You're supposed to realise by the way I talk, by the way I text. Hell, my face would be a dead giveaway sometimes." 6053 abruptly pulled her hand form her friends grasp and wrapped her arms around her knees, "It's what friends do is."

"You should just ask if you need me. You know I am here for you and always will be; but you have to ask!" Jane snapped.

"I'm scared to ask you in case you hate me. In case you think I am being stupid.
It's not stupid you know, just because I have my antidepressants doesn't mean that I can't have bad days!" She paused and watched for a reaction, "Just because you have no sentiment."

Jane scowled, "I don't wear my heart to my sleeve so that makes me a bad person?"

"No. It makes it hard for your friends to know whether they mean anything to you, or if their just wasting their time."

Jane simply stared into her lap. It was true that she was not an emotional person and she had let a lot of things glide over her head but she had certainly always tried to show '53 some how much she meant to her. Love wasn't a word she used but she had to admit; she loved her.

She gazed back into her friends eyes, now full of ache and coldness; just like her own heart.

"I'm sorry for what you went through and I'm sorry I wasn't there for you." It was the only thing she could say.

'53 began to weep. Whether it be anger of distress; Jane couldn't tell.

"All I wanted was for you to help me and tell me that you loved me. To at least show me that I mean something to you."

"I'm not like that."

"I know. But would it kill you to try?"

Jane sighed and slumped her shoulders forward.

"You're right. I swear I'll try harder from now on. I just need help." She whispered.

"So did I and even though you weren't there to give me mine, I'll be there for you."

Jane stood up, "That's means a lot to me." She gingerly backed towards the door way and rested her hand on the handle, "I should get back to work though."
'53 nodded and pulled the covers up over her body.

"I love you." Jane murmured.

'53 Smiled to herself.

"I know."
0

Suspicious Love (PG 13)

For you there'll be no crying,
For you the sun will be shining,
'Cause I feel that when I'm with you,
It's alright, I know it's alright.

And the songbirds keep singing,
Like they know the score,
And I love you, I love you, I love you,
Like never before

Eva Casidy.


She could think of nothing more than the sound of her lovers breathing. She watched as the other woman's chest rose and fell. It was so simple and yet the most beautiful thing. Her skin was smooth and pale as porcelain in the darkness of the small room. It was littered with a continuous crisscross of scars from her less than perfect years of adolescences. Despite there origin ; they only made her all the more wonderful.
Her locks of dark hair lay draped across the pillow and her hands, with their delicate fingers, rested on her naked stomach.

The younger woman watched her and thought of how wonderful she truly was. It then occurred to her that she, herself, was just ordinary in comparison. With her olive skin, freckled and covered in unsightly stretch marks, and her lank blond hair; She held not a candle.

But did she feel at all disheartened? Did she feel even a pinch of envy? No. She only loved the woman all the more for loving her; an ordinary lover.
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