Random stuff

Sam
Sam shovelled the last of the dirt of to the grave. Falling to his knees, he cried. Not just for this one, but for all those he had to murder. Each killing left a new scar on his soul. He had been chosen for this task. Had accepted it.

His humour was dark. He made each killing a pleasure, a joke, entertaining... just to get through it. Sometimes creating Damien Hurst style artwork with body parts of his victims. It was the only way he could deal with the task itself. Yet once the job was complete, the mourning period began.

Short writing exercise

"Get out the fridge, fatty. You're so much like your dad."

"But I'm hungry," I tell Marcus.

He stands there all skinny. Just like his dad. I realise my t-shirt has ridden up a bit as I leant over. I'm too late to pull it down. Marcus starts poking my belly.

"Fat. Fat and lazy. Fat, lazy, stupid and now you're stealing our food."

He tells me to eff off to my room. Only he doesn't say eff. He's told me loads of times he wished Mum never effing had me. That she's never met effing John. My Dad's horrid, but not as bad as his. I really wish Mum wasn't so ill.

I go off to my room, well, Marcus and Chelle's spare room. There's this big wardrobe in there. Like that one in the Narnia books. Only there are no fur coats. No wondrous escape from this world. There are sometimes mice, and spiders in there. But no fawns or lions. And it still smells of pee.

He locked me in there once. Marcus. I could just hear his stupid laugh. Telling his mates I believed in fairies and witches. They put a chair in front of the door so I couldn't get out.

By morning I was still there, my jeans soaked in my own pee. I try to shut up now, shut the eff up now,
whenever I'm around Marcus. But just in case, I push the chair under the door handle.