Post by cenobitedave on Apr 7, 2009 5:14:28 GMT -5
Hey Fray, I saw this section and thought "Well Damn, I'm an aspiring writer, I should post a little something I've written"
So here we go:
Kill The Lights.
by David "Cenobite Dave" Anders
Do you remember when you were little; did you ever turn off the lights in a room and act out little plays that you had made up?
It's a rhetorical question, I know you did, you're too into drama to not have.
But as you get older, the performances in the dark change. And you thought you were all ready for that didn't you.
You thought you were all grown up, ready to play with the adults, to step into my world, but you were just acting. Christ, I wonder sometimes if our entire relationship wasn't just some act for you, some chance to really get into a character.
And that's the problem with you. There is no real "You". You’re a fucking chameleon for whoever happens to be around, and in the process, instead of forming a real identity; you just keep playing different parts.
I can look at you and yet, I don't see you, I just see whatever image or role you've devised for yourself.
Some days you're the princess, and some days you're the student, and sometimes you're not even from this country.
Why I ever saw anything in you is beyond me. I guess when you're lonely and stupid, anything looks good. I take that back, you molded yourself to what I wanted. I was never in love with you, because there is no you. There is just character.
I put up with your bullshit for so long, that even I started to really believe it. But then I figured you out. I started observing you around you’re so called "Friends". How you're body language would change, you're speech patterns, everything about you seemed to change depending on your setting.
Amazing that on the stage of life you were believable in playing all these different roles, but on the stage, under the lights, Jesus Christ you couldn't act for anything could you.
But now I've given you the ultimate role, the victim in a murder mystery.
Killing you was the easiest part because once I stopped thinking about you as a person and started thinking about you as what you really are, a shell, a phantom given flesh with no real emotions or thoughts, It made killing you that much easier.
Well, of course you struggled, you fought like hell and I'll give you credit for that. I didn't take into account how hard it would be to get the knife through your chest, what with your flailing and fighting, but I managed to do it.
I think it was when I slit your throat that you died. You bled a lot from the stab wounds, but when I swung the knife across your throat, and I caught that artery, well, you shut up real fast. You coughed and sputtered, and blood poured out of your neck until you finally fell over.
You twitched a couple of times, but then it was over. And to be honest, I stood and stared at your corpse for a long time after you stopped moving. I smoked at least half a pack a cigarettes, which I thought would piss you off if your spirit was still hanging around.
And it dawned on me, as I stood there over you, that in death, I finally saw you for who you were. A scared little girl playing with grown ups in the dark.
Trust me darlin, just because you're 18 and an "Adult" doesn't mean you really are an adult.
It's been about an hour now since you stopped moving. I keep thinking you might get back up to take a bow, that you'll revel in this last performance.
But you don't.
You're just lying there in a pool of blood on the floor of my garage.
I suppose I could clean things up, try and cover this up, but I watch the news, I've read plenty of true crime books.
The bad guy's usually get caught.
Usually.
I could run away, take what I've learned from you about acting and just move on. Just drive as far away from here as I can and start a new life, one where I'll be happy. Maybe I'll be a gas station attendant in Tulsa. Or a Farmer's assistant in Omaha. Or maybe I'll just disappear completely.
Of course the police will point to me as their main suspect. After all, you were murdered in my garage, with my knife, by my hand. I suppose I could try and get off on an Insanity plea. Tell them what you were really like. They might think I'm nuts and just put me in a mental hospital for the rest of my days, doped up so I can't hurt anyone else.
But I don't want to hurt anyone else.
I didn't hurt anyone in the first place.
You weren't real.
You were flesh and bone and blood. I know that for a fact because I'm covered in the later.
But you weren't real. You weren't human. You were just a facade. An actress who got swallowed by the show. I suppose I could carve you up, try and burn or bury the parts.
I could just set fire to the garage and hope for the best.
Or I could walk away; just leave your carcass here to rot.
I suppose in the end, it doesn't matter. Your family will cry and mourn the loss of their daughter, but you were just playing a role there too.
You manipulative bitch. I hate you.
I don't even care what happens to me now. You don't exist anymore.
But you never existed in the first place.
Maybe I am crazy.....but if I was crazy, I wouldn't realize I'm crazy.
Maybe I'm in shock.
Or maybe, I just don't give a shit. You see, I know right now if you were alive, you'd be going on about what a good person I am, and how could I have done something like this.
And to be honest I couldn't. Not to some random person on the street or anything like that. Those are people after all.
You were just a shell. A sick marionette given some kind of life by a twisted puppeteer who'd lost his mind.
I'm going now. It's pretty dark in here, if you care to know. The sun set a few hours ago, maybe an hour or so after you died.
Well, you didn't die. I just cut your strings.
I'm leaving.
============
And here's the sequel/continuation/whatever you want to call it to the last piece:
She’s Moved On
By David "Cenobite Dave" Anders Jr
In retrospect, killing her was the easy part. Well, that’s not entirely true. Coming up with the idea to kill her was the easy part. Killing her wasn’t too difficult either really. I should have just slit her throat right off the bat, but you know there’s just something more visceral and real about stabbing someone.
Chalk it up to curiosity. I wanted to know what it felt like to stab her. Well that’s not entirely true either. I wanted to end her. I wanted to make her into a real person. And in death, she was. I don’t remember a lot of how we got to that point. I don’t remember how I got her out to the garage, or what really triggered me stabbing her or what made me slash her throat. I remember I was covered in blood when it was over.
I remember the tears that rolled down her cheeks as she looked up at me. Those big green eyes, just staring up at me, in shock or confusion or both, searching my face for some kind of logical answer to what was happening, even though I don’t think she would have understood.
I remember leaving that garage. The usual smell of motor oil and dust was being over powered by the coppery smell of her blood and the stink of sweat and cigarettes. I guess it smelled like an old dive bar after a brawl, a million different scents all fighting for dominance and coalescing into one great stench of human suffering.
Of course, I couldn’t just leave her in there, I’m not an idiot. Though I don’t remember how I disposed of her. In fact, I’m rather hazy on the details of most of those days after I murdered her. I remember the days leading up to it, remember being deeply depressed, trying desperately to figure out how I was going to deal with the mountain of problems that had become my life.
And she seemed to be at the top of it all, smiling down at me with a wicked grin that made me want to just crawl into a bottle of Old Crow whiskey and die. And then maybe it was a week, maybe it was just a few days after, but somehow it all seemed to clear, the haze was gone, and I felt free. I’d committed murder and gotten away with it. I didn’t feel guilty about it, I didn’t feel any remorse about it. I didn’t feel anything about it then or even now.
Not until I ran into one of her friends. I felt a surreal sort of fear and wonder at the notion of having a conversation with someone who knew her. She asked if I knew where my ex was, had I heard from her, had I seen her recently.
I wanted to smile and say yes, not long ago in fact. She had been lying dead in my garage not even a month ago. I wanted to confess, not to alleviate my nonexistent guilt, but more out of a twisted sense of accomplishment. I had this notion that if I told her what had happened, she would be as happy as I was, that maybe she would understand what I had done and would keep my secret.
I lied of course, told her I hadn’t a clue, that maybe she’d just run off, made something up about hearing her talk about some new acting job she’d found in another city hundreds of miles away, a starring role. It seemed plausible enough at the time.
But then again, I suppose anything can sound plausible. I told her I let her know if I heard from her. I told her we’d been having some disagreements, nothing serious, just things about money and work and the usual shit that goes in relationship. I didn’t think she’d run off to get away from me, or that she might be off somewhere cheating on me. I lied and said I was sure she’d be back soon.
Her friend seemed to believe me. I was filled with a sense of relief. Her parents lived thousands of miles away and she didn’t stay in contact with them that often. I could dodge that bullet for a little while longer. I still sit up some nights, wondering what happened. What was it that led to this point?
Had I really been that unhappy? Had I been that miserable for so long that the only conclusion I could come to was death? But why not suicide? Why didn’t I just take a knife and slit my wrists? That would have solved the problem too I suppose.
But I guess that wasn’t what I really wanted. I wanted to be free, I wanted to be away from everything that was fucking up my life and it seemed that killing her, just erasing her from the my life was the way to do it.
It all seems so long ago now, as if a dream. Sometimes my phone will ring, and I’ll read the number wrong and suddenly I think it’s her. I go to the grocery store and I see a girl with a similar physical build and hair style. Same color eyes too. I walk down the street and I’ll see a red Chevy pickup truck and for a split second, I think I can see that god damn sorority sticker on the back window.
Makes me panic for just a second. Maybe I’ve lost it, maybe killing her was just a fantasy I had. Maybe the stress of everything had led me to have a Tyler Durden style break down. Maybe she wasn’t dead, after all I couldn’t remember removing her body from the garage, and I couldn’t remember what I’d done with the damn thing afterword for Christ sake. I mean really, if I had killed her, where the hell had I buried her?
I keep meaning to go back into the garage, to look and see if there really are blood stains on the ground. I never do. She’s moved on.
So here we go:
Kill The Lights.
by David "Cenobite Dave" Anders
Do you remember when you were little; did you ever turn off the lights in a room and act out little plays that you had made up?
It's a rhetorical question, I know you did, you're too into drama to not have.
But as you get older, the performances in the dark change. And you thought you were all ready for that didn't you.
You thought you were all grown up, ready to play with the adults, to step into my world, but you were just acting. Christ, I wonder sometimes if our entire relationship wasn't just some act for you, some chance to really get into a character.
And that's the problem with you. There is no real "You". You’re a fucking chameleon for whoever happens to be around, and in the process, instead of forming a real identity; you just keep playing different parts.
I can look at you and yet, I don't see you, I just see whatever image or role you've devised for yourself.
Some days you're the princess, and some days you're the student, and sometimes you're not even from this country.
Why I ever saw anything in you is beyond me. I guess when you're lonely and stupid, anything looks good. I take that back, you molded yourself to what I wanted. I was never in love with you, because there is no you. There is just character.
I put up with your bullshit for so long, that even I started to really believe it. But then I figured you out. I started observing you around you’re so called "Friends". How you're body language would change, you're speech patterns, everything about you seemed to change depending on your setting.
Amazing that on the stage of life you were believable in playing all these different roles, but on the stage, under the lights, Jesus Christ you couldn't act for anything could you.
But now I've given you the ultimate role, the victim in a murder mystery.
Killing you was the easiest part because once I stopped thinking about you as a person and started thinking about you as what you really are, a shell, a phantom given flesh with no real emotions or thoughts, It made killing you that much easier.
Well, of course you struggled, you fought like hell and I'll give you credit for that. I didn't take into account how hard it would be to get the knife through your chest, what with your flailing and fighting, but I managed to do it.
I think it was when I slit your throat that you died. You bled a lot from the stab wounds, but when I swung the knife across your throat, and I caught that artery, well, you shut up real fast. You coughed and sputtered, and blood poured out of your neck until you finally fell over.
You twitched a couple of times, but then it was over. And to be honest, I stood and stared at your corpse for a long time after you stopped moving. I smoked at least half a pack a cigarettes, which I thought would piss you off if your spirit was still hanging around.
And it dawned on me, as I stood there over you, that in death, I finally saw you for who you were. A scared little girl playing with grown ups in the dark.
Trust me darlin, just because you're 18 and an "Adult" doesn't mean you really are an adult.
It's been about an hour now since you stopped moving. I keep thinking you might get back up to take a bow, that you'll revel in this last performance.
But you don't.
You're just lying there in a pool of blood on the floor of my garage.
I suppose I could clean things up, try and cover this up, but I watch the news, I've read plenty of true crime books.
The bad guy's usually get caught.
Usually.
I could run away, take what I've learned from you about acting and just move on. Just drive as far away from here as I can and start a new life, one where I'll be happy. Maybe I'll be a gas station attendant in Tulsa. Or a Farmer's assistant in Omaha. Or maybe I'll just disappear completely.
Of course the police will point to me as their main suspect. After all, you were murdered in my garage, with my knife, by my hand. I suppose I could try and get off on an Insanity plea. Tell them what you were really like. They might think I'm nuts and just put me in a mental hospital for the rest of my days, doped up so I can't hurt anyone else.
But I don't want to hurt anyone else.
I didn't hurt anyone in the first place.
You weren't real.
You were flesh and bone and blood. I know that for a fact because I'm covered in the later.
But you weren't real. You weren't human. You were just a facade. An actress who got swallowed by the show. I suppose I could carve you up, try and burn or bury the parts.
I could just set fire to the garage and hope for the best.
Or I could walk away; just leave your carcass here to rot.
I suppose in the end, it doesn't matter. Your family will cry and mourn the loss of their daughter, but you were just playing a role there too.
You manipulative bitch. I hate you.
I don't even care what happens to me now. You don't exist anymore.
But you never existed in the first place.
Maybe I am crazy.....but if I was crazy, I wouldn't realize I'm crazy.
Maybe I'm in shock.
Or maybe, I just don't give a shit. You see, I know right now if you were alive, you'd be going on about what a good person I am, and how could I have done something like this.
And to be honest I couldn't. Not to some random person on the street or anything like that. Those are people after all.
You were just a shell. A sick marionette given some kind of life by a twisted puppeteer who'd lost his mind.
I'm going now. It's pretty dark in here, if you care to know. The sun set a few hours ago, maybe an hour or so after you died.
Well, you didn't die. I just cut your strings.
I'm leaving.
============
And here's the sequel/continuation/whatever you want to call it to the last piece:
She’s Moved On
By David "Cenobite Dave" Anders Jr
In retrospect, killing her was the easy part. Well, that’s not entirely true. Coming up with the idea to kill her was the easy part. Killing her wasn’t too difficult either really. I should have just slit her throat right off the bat, but you know there’s just something more visceral and real about stabbing someone.
Chalk it up to curiosity. I wanted to know what it felt like to stab her. Well that’s not entirely true either. I wanted to end her. I wanted to make her into a real person. And in death, she was. I don’t remember a lot of how we got to that point. I don’t remember how I got her out to the garage, or what really triggered me stabbing her or what made me slash her throat. I remember I was covered in blood when it was over.
I remember the tears that rolled down her cheeks as she looked up at me. Those big green eyes, just staring up at me, in shock or confusion or both, searching my face for some kind of logical answer to what was happening, even though I don’t think she would have understood.
I remember leaving that garage. The usual smell of motor oil and dust was being over powered by the coppery smell of her blood and the stink of sweat and cigarettes. I guess it smelled like an old dive bar after a brawl, a million different scents all fighting for dominance and coalescing into one great stench of human suffering.
Of course, I couldn’t just leave her in there, I’m not an idiot. Though I don’t remember how I disposed of her. In fact, I’m rather hazy on the details of most of those days after I murdered her. I remember the days leading up to it, remember being deeply depressed, trying desperately to figure out how I was going to deal with the mountain of problems that had become my life.
And she seemed to be at the top of it all, smiling down at me with a wicked grin that made me want to just crawl into a bottle of Old Crow whiskey and die. And then maybe it was a week, maybe it was just a few days after, but somehow it all seemed to clear, the haze was gone, and I felt free. I’d committed murder and gotten away with it. I didn’t feel guilty about it, I didn’t feel any remorse about it. I didn’t feel anything about it then or even now.
Not until I ran into one of her friends. I felt a surreal sort of fear and wonder at the notion of having a conversation with someone who knew her. She asked if I knew where my ex was, had I heard from her, had I seen her recently.
I wanted to smile and say yes, not long ago in fact. She had been lying dead in my garage not even a month ago. I wanted to confess, not to alleviate my nonexistent guilt, but more out of a twisted sense of accomplishment. I had this notion that if I told her what had happened, she would be as happy as I was, that maybe she would understand what I had done and would keep my secret.
I lied of course, told her I hadn’t a clue, that maybe she’d just run off, made something up about hearing her talk about some new acting job she’d found in another city hundreds of miles away, a starring role. It seemed plausible enough at the time.
But then again, I suppose anything can sound plausible. I told her I let her know if I heard from her. I told her we’d been having some disagreements, nothing serious, just things about money and work and the usual shit that goes in relationship. I didn’t think she’d run off to get away from me, or that she might be off somewhere cheating on me. I lied and said I was sure she’d be back soon.
Her friend seemed to believe me. I was filled with a sense of relief. Her parents lived thousands of miles away and she didn’t stay in contact with them that often. I could dodge that bullet for a little while longer. I still sit up some nights, wondering what happened. What was it that led to this point?
Had I really been that unhappy? Had I been that miserable for so long that the only conclusion I could come to was death? But why not suicide? Why didn’t I just take a knife and slit my wrists? That would have solved the problem too I suppose.
But I guess that wasn’t what I really wanted. I wanted to be free, I wanted to be away from everything that was fucking up my life and it seemed that killing her, just erasing her from the my life was the way to do it.
It all seems so long ago now, as if a dream. Sometimes my phone will ring, and I’ll read the number wrong and suddenly I think it’s her. I go to the grocery store and I see a girl with a similar physical build and hair style. Same color eyes too. I walk down the street and I’ll see a red Chevy pickup truck and for a split second, I think I can see that god damn sorority sticker on the back window.
Makes me panic for just a second. Maybe I’ve lost it, maybe killing her was just a fantasy I had. Maybe the stress of everything had led me to have a Tyler Durden style break down. Maybe she wasn’t dead, after all I couldn’t remember removing her body from the garage, and I couldn’t remember what I’d done with the damn thing afterword for Christ sake. I mean really, if I had killed her, where the hell had I buried her?
I keep meaning to go back into the garage, to look and see if there really are blood stains on the ground. I never do. She’s moved on.