Did you know I write?

I’m back bois with some writing 😀 Also I broke up for Christmas today and I’m planning on being a sedentary being the whole holiday so maybe I will post idk yet. Also, my report came so I’ll probably do another grades post :/

I went on a bit of a writing hiatus and haven’t really been writing that much, but I actually managed to pump out some stories so here ya go 😉

TRIGGER WARNING: Some/all of these stories contain topics regarding abuse, death and drugs so don’t read on if you will get triggered by these topics 🙂

Drugs

White dust fills my lungs as I lurch forward, a hairy hand seizing the back of my neck as I stared at the floor in fatigued nonchalance. After a couple of awkward seconds, I finally swat the hand away and turn around as my soulless head rests in my discoloured hands. Native smells of ecstasy and weed cloud the air as I throw another flamboyantly neon pill down my lumpy throat. My bloodshot eyes rest on a man standing above me. His scraggly dark hair and less-than-intimidating frame was enough for me to turn away in disgust, my mind floating into the helpless euphoric state. Disco balls and rave lights flashed behind my eyeballs as my crimson eyes lay fixed on the wall in utter carelessness. Only after a few minutes of being watched did I snappily turn around with arrogant confusion masking my lack of sobriety.

‘What happened now?’ My voice drawled on with listless highness as my eyes wandered around the scene, already half-shut even after almost an hour of being awake. The man was droning incomprehensibly as shades of black and grey rushed through my brain, my head hitting the pavement like a hollowed coconut.

With only a shaking elbow propping me up, I narrowed my eyes at the prim man standing above me, his tie waving around in my face as I tried to comprehend the coloured blurs swimming through the air. His hollow words flushed my ears like water, only a few distinct sounds were comprehensible. Suddenly, my train of thought stopped. Was this the day? Was this man finally going to save me? Was this my father? My head was throwing questions at me until I managed to shove some words out of my mouth, fatigue and highness still clouding my voice.

‘W-who are you?’ The man’s waving mouth slammed shut as my entire body was drenched in suspenseful cold sweat. He swiftly darted his eyes around the alleyway and grabbed my hand, shoving me into the back of a car. By this time, I was starting to sober up and propped myself up on the fancy, leather-clad seats. I caught a glimpse of the steering wheel, only to see the Ferrari logo gleam at me back. I pushed my head back in surprise and locked my eyes on the window as we were approaching a seemingly never-ending street full of upscale mansions. The mansions only Curly Joe and I saw in a catalogue once. Instead of feeling happy, I was paralysed to my seat as the car slowed to a stop at the biggest mansion on the street.

Not even this mansion was in the catalogue. White pillars and brown accent were thrust all over the structure and the sheer size of it was bigger than the amount of pills I’ve popped. My eyes and mouth dropped to the ground as I followed the man to the house, my feet plodding along the wealthy pavement. Much better than the alley, I thought to myself.

The door swung open to see a gorgeous woman, her red hair thrown up into a beehive, and her scarlet red dress draped over her body. Her makeup and face was impeccably done, not like I had seen before. I swear I’ve seen this woman before. As my mind was racing, the door slammed behind me as I was faced with a rifle to my head. I stared with some puppy-dog eyes at the surroundings. And that woman.

Could it be? No. That’s not her. And what’s up with this rifle?

Wh-


Euthanasia

As my limbs spastically hit the pad-clad walls, people gasp in admiration at the words that escape my dead, crumbling lips. My eyes look only at the floor as my life plays behind my eyelids, searing every image and every drop of blood into my shrivelling brain. Sympathetic responses float through my ears as I tense up every so often, tears rolling out of my eyes and sinking into the padded floor, the very memories now seeping into the grey, soulless rubber. I nod my head and smile so people would get off of my back, my brain still rushing my memories past me and each and every scream is imitated, etched as a new scar into my bleeding head. I shut my eyes and wait for the cycle to begin again. Blood. Tense. Cry. Blood. Tense. Cry. The only three words my brain computes nowadays, all others just transforming into delusional noises in the back of my head.
What is my job? One may ask. Why, for some scarring this bad it must be a coffin digger, or a minister. But people forget the worst job of all. The very job that turns my world red at just the very noise of it. I was a paediatrician. I worked with children in the hospital. Shouldn’t that be such a rewarding job? Shouldn’t it be such a great obligation, walking home knowing you saved so much of the youth. And I’m here to slam my hand on your mouth and say that it’s about as rewarding as being an assassin. Essentially, I was an assassin. Because I worked in the rarest, unspeakable department of paediatrics. I worked with chronic and terminal patients. And my job? I was the person behind the worst part of the hospital. I performed euthanasia. Yes. I killed children. Even though my brain repeated to me as much as I blinked, the psychotic thoughts accusing me of a murder eventually drove me to the edge. The edge? I threw a dead patient off of a cliff. As in, I threw a dead child over a cliff. And now I’m here. Just waiting for my own demise like all the others. What was the story that broke me? Not this one, surprisingly. The patient before this. The person that sparked so much emotion that they drove me to sadness-induced insanity. This person…
Thursday. May 14th. Just another day. I looked through my record books and my heart sunk as a new case appeared for today. Great. Now I have to control myself. I breezed through the file. The file of a young girl. Honey blonde hair parted to reveal her hopeful, lifeless eyes as her pasty skin was discoloured to the point where it pretty much looked like raw chicken. I nodded in an attempt to keep my tears away, and grabbed the ‘death dog’. The ‘death dog’ was a small, black dog that we give to child euthanasia patients. Since we can’t allow actual animals in the room, we take a stuffed animal for the kids to hole before they eventually get the gas. The amount of times that dog has been squeezed with terror-filled might of children is more than anybody would care to admit, but it was routine now. We always let the kids choose a name for the dog, and pretend that it goes to the afterlife with them, because at least they’ll have something. Anyway, I casually closed the file and strode off towards the neurology ward with the ‘death dog’ (the most recent name given to him was ‘Smoky’ so we’ll just call him that), to see the same blonde girl barely propped up with several pillows under her. Several boxes of empty tissues sat next to the parents who were pretty close to throwing up because they cried so much. I bent down to the girl and did the usual ‘talk’ with Smoky and acted like it was going to be OK. I turned to the parents and pretty much translated my ‘talk’ into ‘adult’, where I was met with the usual scream-sobbing as I slowly led the family into the EU room. As I was preparing the gas, I heard the dad of the girl try and talk to her in a desperately cheery voice as they contemplated names for the dog, with ‘Tilly’ and ‘Diamond’ coming up several times. A single tear rolled down my cheek as I held the mask in my hand. I bent down to do the standard procedure, when the girl grabbed my coat with urgency.
‘Please…don’t hurt me. They’ve been hurting me’. Confusion riddled my face as the girl sobbed into my chest, trembling and squeezing my back with a desperate attempt that I had never felt from a child before. ‘My parents. They’ve been beating me. They’re faking it.’ She squeezed my back again as I squeezed hers gently back. ‘I don’t want my last words to be about or to them. Please.’ I placed her back into the bed with a warm smile. I ushered the parents out so we could have a ‘brief chat’ before the procedure. I crouched down with what little humanity I had left and held the dog.
‘Tilly or Diamond?’ I tried my best to make this comfortable for the girl as she flashed a small giggle.
‘Tilly Diamond!’ Her hand covered her mouth as I moved the mask towards her face, her shaking hand squeezing mine. ‘Thanks.’ Her soft voice echoed the words around the soulless room as she squeezed my hand, the gas turning her face colder and harder. Her grip finally loosened as her lifeless corpse lay on the bed. I finally uncovered the blanket, to see hundreds of bright purple bruises scattered around her body, gathering in places like breasts and groin areas. I walked out to see the parents with an angry look on my face.
‘Do you know what you did to her?’ The parents looked at me with confusion.
‘That’s not our daughter. We found her outside under a car and took her to the hospital’. Their warm, lifelike smiles cracked my heart as I realised what I had become. A soulless monster. Only one more patient until I was fired.
The dog will always remain as ‘Cinnamon’, just like I will remain a soulless monster.


Dead (I actually hate this story but I didn’t have much else oops)

September 16th. My eyelids flutter as my blurred vision makes out the faint outline of a red cross. My heart drops to my stomach, fear creeping up to my brain as the only thing I can think of is ‘They have it too?’. I throw my curtains shut in petrified disgust and swallow the lump in my throat as I limp to the front room. I don’t even have the brainpower to muster even the slightest of words. I stare soullessly at the table as my mind flashes my life before my eyes. A single tear, drops on the table as I hear the rest of my family become just more white noise. Cold sweat drips from every corner of my body as I try not to imagine our family amongst the mass discarded, thrown into a pit with the rest of us commoners. My breath shakes out of terror as I bite my lip and dart back into the bedroom, the noises in my head being the only thing I can hear. I put my head in my hands as the voices grow louder and more aggressive, shredding away parts of my sanity as the seconds tick by.
‘You’re going to die’

‘In the pit with the others’
‘Forgotten again’

I hear the ear-blasting noise outside of ‘bring out your dead!’. Blood rushes to my brain as I whip open the curtains and scream with terror and anger to the man.

‘We have none! And we never will!’
Wet anger clouds my words as I burst into tears as I slam the curtains shut again. Curled up on the floor, I bawl and wail for what felt like hours. It’s inevitable anyway; this thing is going to kill me and everything will be gone. I’ll never to be able to have my own family, to grow up, to raise my own kin. I’m going to die as a girl just because some dirty cat squirms through the wall and gives me this. Red crosses flash in my mind, becoming the only thing my mind can bring me to think. Everything goes red. Red. Red like the blood I’m going to puke. Red like the crosses on the door to keep the healthy away. Red like REVENGE. I scream. I scream louder than I ever have. Why? Impulse anger and terror-filled sadness are the best options I can hand you right now.

B-but, I can’t hear myself.

By now, all I see is the colour red, clouding my vision again. I can’t hear anything. Locked. I can’t move; all I see is that ugly colour hovering over my eyeballs. My eyes are flung open, and eventually the red fades away. I see an arm. A back. Soil.

I can’t move. I can’t scream. I can’t even see now. It’s back to red. Now black. What’s happening to me?

Is this finally the devil coming for me? Because I sinned? I yelled, I screamed, I cried. I wasn’t noble. I didn’t sacrifice myself. My, I have been bad. But, where am I? Is this a grave? No-no. It can’t be.

I’d have to be dead.

Wait.


My parents are killers

“My parents are killers. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m even one of their victims. I was one of the kids snatched off the streets for an early demise, but apparently I was ‘unkillable’. I had some sort of charm and innocence that not even the least empathetic person could destroy. And thus, I was kept. I was never taken back to my origins; I still live and breathe in the very house I was going to stop doing so in.
As for the others? Not so lucky.
It all begins with my parents stepping out of the door. That’s the first omen that someone will die today. They survey the streets; picking apart each and every child that innocently scuttles past them, unaware that they could be the one. Flesh, hair, eyes, all part of the process. Once the perfect body is chosen, they are lured into the car with some excuse running along the lines of ‘I’m your family’s [insert occupation here]! They told me about you. Shame, we never met. You see, I always came when you guys were in school. Such a shame.’. The sound of the car is enough to make me retch. That sound, that’s the sound of death. That’s when you know someone will die tonight.
At home, that’s when it really begins. My parents don’t use a landline; their only phone is Dad’s mobile, which he keeps locked up in his room, safer than my own life. And my phone, the one I had on me when I arrived. My other parents knew I was going to die. They shoved a phone in my pocket and sent me on my way. Nobody knows about my phone, not even my other parents. They stopped texting me when I left. They never loved me. In comes the child, dragged by the ear as usual. Tied and thrown into a corner, abandoned. Little do they know, just like in the movies, the knives are being sharpened and the guns are being loaded. This is my time. I may be the child of killers, but I certainly am not one myself. I always do these four things for the next victim. I ask for their parents’ phone number. I call the parents, and tell them that their child is going to die. Why do I not send help? That would get my parents arrested, and I would probably die too. It always darkens my mood when I call the parents. It breaks my heart to hear someone wail and cry so much as these parents do. There’s nothing I can do except warn them. The next thing I do is let the poor kid listen to music. I ask them for their favourite songs, and hold the phone speaker up to their ear as they realise this is the last serenade they will ever hear. Next, I give them their favourite food. I always ask for small things, like their favourite candy bar or drink. If someone’s going to die, they should die with their favourite food in their stomach. The final thing I do, is hug. I don’t want someone to die knowing they didn’t get their last goodbye hug. I hold them close to my chest as their hearts beat in sync to my own. I stroke their hair and shush them as their panicked cries and shakes slow down. On their hands, I always write ‘I love you’ and ‘I care about you’ in sharpie. I stroke their cheek and tell them that they will be able to have eternal life in heaven. I tell them that I’ll always remember them, and their parents will too. I give them one last fist bump before I hear one of the doors open and dart to my room, my hands covering my ears as screams, shots and stabs fill the house with hostile sadness. The minute they stop, I write down the time and the name of the kid on a heart sticky note. All of the notes stay in my desk drawer, the names of each and every child etched in my memory forever.
My parents are killers and there is nothing I can do about it.”
– The last statement made in court made by Ella Jett before the murder of her captors, Percy and Astrid Jett.


Only one person is in this universe (more of an unjustified rant but oh well)

Sighing, I slumped further into the couch, my thumb subconsciously scrolling through meaningless story prompts. My eyes glazed over each and every one, unimpressed until I saw one that I couldn’t resist writing about.
‘Long abandoned, you wake up from being cryogenically frozen 500 years ago. All humans now are perfect, and you are the last one with flaws.’
My mind toyed with the idea of having the perfect universe at my hands to tweak and twiddle with, until I stopped. I furrowed my brow analytically and cracked my knuckles, ready for some good ol’ philosophy vs science fight. Aloud to the empty house, I declared a statement, hoping someone would notice the great point I made.
‘Wow, that must be nice to be the only person left on the planet!’ I smiled as sarcasm oozed from my cocky statement. Proudly, I perched myself at my desk and smiled slyly before laying my hands on the keyboard.
Perfection. I’m sure everyone can picture something at least mildly pleasurable at the mere sight of the word. Whether it be fluffy clouds in heaven, or the human race living in perfect harmony, it will no doubt cause euphoria or at the very least, slight wistfulness.
Unfortunately, there are almost eight billion of us. And even more unfortunately, we all have different brains and different ways of thinking. Not everyone is going to have a socially acceptable definition of perfection. One person might picture sipping a burning hot chocolate with a tower of whipped cream, while another might picture eating some uncooked genitals. That second image might make you retch at even the thought, but that’s true for some people. Thus, perfection is impossible. Perfection isn’t real or achievable. Sure, something might be perfect for one person, but ‘perfection’ suggests unity, and at least, a large group, if not all of the human race having or being ‘perfect’. Since there are so many of us, perfection is impossible. Anything that involves complete unity, like harmony, peace or even unified hatred is only one to exist in a fantasy.
However, this can work the opposite way. Flaws aren’t real either. For example, everyone has traits. Everyone has a personality, and that’s neither good or bad. ‘Flaws’ and even ‘good’ and ‘bad’ simply don’t exist. Nothing was placed on the universe that is always, 100% of the time, going to be a flaw. Everyone’s traits are either seen as good or bad, but on their own they are not strictly good or bad. Nothing, ever, is good or bad. It all depends on the way we see things. Even the seemingly unfathomable act of murder will be seen as good in someone’s eyes. There are eight billion people; it’s pretty much impossible to make everyone think the same way about a certain thing. We humans are the most dominant species and (possibly) the most dominant if not on this planet, then the universe as it’s known. Obviously we haven’t explored the entirety of the universe, but from what we know and have explored, we could be the most dominant species in it. This means the way we think is incredibly complex. We have opinions, habits, morals, which other species simply don’t. Thus, everything we ever thought of as an opinion isn’t real. We all live in different universes. Nobody is going to see the universe, whether physically or mentally, the same way. The universe we know is capable of having only one person at a time exist in it, because this is the universe we mould for ourselves. In person A’ universe, broccoli might be the worst creation known to man, but in person B’s universe, broccoli might be the best.
So, if we take the concept of ‘perfection’ as being non-existent, we remove all the ‘perfect’ humans and are only left with ourselves. This ties with my argument of only one person existing in the current universe. In the prompt, only one person is in their universe, which matches up perfectly with my theory.
I just found out that the prompt above is reality. No need to write about reality, right?


So that’s all the stories for today because I don’t have much and my laptop if freezing up. It’s also midnight in the UK and I have to be up by like 10 tomorrow (I’ll probably wake up early anyway) so I need to go to bed lol (also nbody in my house is awake except me and ugh it’s such an eerie feeling i hate it.)

Also happy Jesus day. I probably won’t post until next month so I’m saying it now.

Chaio!

~bloggerofthebloggish 🙂

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