Red and White
folder
Horror/Thriller › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,384
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Horror/Thriller › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,384
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Red and White
8:16 pm
Obsessively, I check the watch I bought at Wal-Mart three days ago. I dimly notice the minute ticking is in time with the dripping faucet of the cracked, white sink. Stripes of bright blood have begun to run over the sides. I shut off the cold tap, cringing as it let out a mut squealing noise. Next to it is the stained toilet. Inside, a dead baby.
Yeah, I killed it. If you'd like to know, the mother is rotting in the tub across the room. Her shrunken abdomen is bruised and her blank eyes stare at me through ten-dollar bleached hair. She really doesn't look that much different in death than in life. I laugh to myself at her look of victimization, even though at this time she's only a flesh doll.
She was perfect, just like one, with the Barbie jet-set, fabulous life. I never saw her work, she seemed to prefer the life of Mrs. Brady, with her wonderful business-worker husband and two-door garage. They were probably destined to have the 2.5 kids. Whatever the hell that .5 is. My it's the kid in the john. She would see him off to work every day and do whatever wifey-things she did. I would see her from time to time and she would even speak to me. That's when I found out she was the most intellectually bankrupt bitch I ever met. Cattle mentality, she giggled as she admitted she hadn't pick up a book since high school and left all the heavy thinking to her husband. The vacant stared said the rest of that sad tale.
Every day I would see her, her very being was like being impaled on glass rods and her voices was like barbed wire wrapped around my brain. This was her high school's best. This was suppose to be the future of the country. Dear fucking god I wanted to deep throat a shotgun and kiss this existence goodbye. Then she broke the news. She was carrying a podling. More vacant-looking bimbos who got it all to infect the world.
If god had an unhealthy obsession with me and sodomy. He was throwing out the lube.
Like the creature in her body, my hatred grew, nurtured on seeing this woman nearly every day. I faked a smile like she probably faked orgasms and pretended to tolerate her company. As the weeks went by, I hoped the kid would die before taking a breath in this world.
8:20 pm
Again, I check the cheap, blue watch. I would only have an hour left to finish. I looked at my hands, stained with her blood. Somehow, it manage to climb up into my light brown hair, turning the ends a dark red. I don't know why, but my hands have started to shake. A loud noise sounded from the kitchen. The metal baseball bat I used earlier had fallen to the floor from the counter. It had only taken three good hits then the rest blurred. The bath water had already been poured. With the gun, I made her sit on the toilet, whimpering in pain behind a hand, while the dead baby tore out of her. She lay in the tub after, bleeding into the water until she lay still.
Absently, I felt the bulge in my body with my left hand. Oh, I knew her husband. I knew he didn't know the word "no" well enough.
I kneeled in front of the dead woman, gun in hand. Her lifeless eye were the last thing I saw before I pulled the trigger.
Obsessively, I check the watch I bought at Wal-Mart three days ago. I dimly notice the minute ticking is in time with the dripping faucet of the cracked, white sink. Stripes of bright blood have begun to run over the sides. I shut off the cold tap, cringing as it let out a mut squealing noise. Next to it is the stained toilet. Inside, a dead baby.
Yeah, I killed it. If you'd like to know, the mother is rotting in the tub across the room. Her shrunken abdomen is bruised and her blank eyes stare at me through ten-dollar bleached hair. She really doesn't look that much different in death than in life. I laugh to myself at her look of victimization, even though at this time she's only a flesh doll.
She was perfect, just like one, with the Barbie jet-set, fabulous life. I never saw her work, she seemed to prefer the life of Mrs. Brady, with her wonderful business-worker husband and two-door garage. They were probably destined to have the 2.5 kids. Whatever the hell that .5 is. My it's the kid in the john. She would see him off to work every day and do whatever wifey-things she did. I would see her from time to time and she would even speak to me. That's when I found out she was the most intellectually bankrupt bitch I ever met. Cattle mentality, she giggled as she admitted she hadn't pick up a book since high school and left all the heavy thinking to her husband. The vacant stared said the rest of that sad tale.
Every day I would see her, her very being was like being impaled on glass rods and her voices was like barbed wire wrapped around my brain. This was her high school's best. This was suppose to be the future of the country. Dear fucking god I wanted to deep throat a shotgun and kiss this existence goodbye. Then she broke the news. She was carrying a podling. More vacant-looking bimbos who got it all to infect the world.
If god had an unhealthy obsession with me and sodomy. He was throwing out the lube.
Like the creature in her body, my hatred grew, nurtured on seeing this woman nearly every day. I faked a smile like she probably faked orgasms and pretended to tolerate her company. As the weeks went by, I hoped the kid would die before taking a breath in this world.
8:20 pm
Again, I check the cheap, blue watch. I would only have an hour left to finish. I looked at my hands, stained with her blood. Somehow, it manage to climb up into my light brown hair, turning the ends a dark red. I don't know why, but my hands have started to shake. A loud noise sounded from the kitchen. The metal baseball bat I used earlier had fallen to the floor from the counter. It had only taken three good hits then the rest blurred. The bath water had already been poured. With the gun, I made her sit on the toilet, whimpering in pain behind a hand, while the dead baby tore out of her. She lay in the tub after, bleeding into the water until she lay still.
Absently, I felt the bulge in my body with my left hand. Oh, I knew her husband. I knew he didn't know the word "no" well enough.
I kneeled in front of the dead woman, gun in hand. Her lifeless eye were the last thing I saw before I pulled the trigger.