Gripping the pistol, I lean against the side of the skip. My nostrils flare when I breath out an contract when I breath out. My eyelid bats one then twice. They are the only moving parts of my body. I stare up into a view of crusty buildings, algae-covered skyscrapers, verdant tentacles thriving on concrete. They breath through their pored bodies, twist without intent and holds me in thrall.

Have you heard of a spell which casts a song so potent that even the most protected lenses can do nothing to repel it? And I was out in the open without shield or a protective helmet. I had lost that earlier and now I was trapped. Some part of my mind questioned how long I had stood there, my hand on the steel handle of the gun, long warmed by body heat, my legs dug into the gravel, my back aching. But my eyes would remain on those rare, spongy green plants which curled up, in and out of glass and walls.

Trodden On

(Another old piece circa 2005. Horror/gore. I was one twisted kid.)

Trodden On
You don't know me, a silent, strange little boy. You may have seen me, on the streets, saw what I did for a living. The year is 1988. My life, leaking crimson on the floor.

School starts at seven thirty. You can take the bus, the taxi, the car, But my pockets are empty and so I walk. Every single day, thirty minutes in the damp, littered streets, treading on the filth and dirt that you never would. Please, don't pity me. I can't stand those fake, sympathetic looks of yours. You lie. And you know it. Your minds, too shallow to peer into the blackness of the alleys where darkness spawns and life struggles, too haughty to look down below your feet. So tread on me, you despicable lot.

At school, the teacher talks. I don't bother listening. The windows are built high up, to stop us from looking out. But, unlike you, I'm not nosy. I don't drool on my textbook or slobber over my friends new game. The seat to my left is empty. But why do you care, for a little boy in his grubby school uniform while your cherub, your apple of your eye is chanting the alphabet and doing sums. Yes. Nobody cares, not the least you.

Recess. The fat kid in front of me dashes to the toilet, stuffing his lunch down his stomach. Fat wobbles as he rushes off. I watch from the afar, an amused smile on my face. I do not smile from joy. Only at the absurdities of human life. At the playground, a band of twelve year olds laugh as they corner the looser of their class for money. Girls, with their ribbons and skirts, their pathetic imitations of mature women, scream for their turn on the swings. Boys congregate at the other end of the playground, all trying to look a porn magazine some classmate stole from their father's drawers. Seem familiar? Or were these the things you chose to ignore. But I stand away from everybody else, the loner, the odd one out and smile, hands in pockets at the simple minded beings.

School is over as classmates charge head over heels from the classroom. Home, to the comfy sofa, television and waiting chocolates and cookies. Your life. But not mine.

The street is spotted with soft dirt and blackened tissues, floating in puddles of sewage water. On both sides, men and women, sell their wares. Fakes, "outlets" and mainland pop music mingle with the smoke of the nearby congee shop.
I pass the legless man, waving his empty moon cake box and groveling on the pavement for anybody kind enough to bestow charity. But why would you care? It was his fault anyway.

I am late for my job. The old man who oversees me can swear and hit as he wants but to me, he's just another waste of a life within this broken society. He hands me those heavy piles of flattened card to take to the refuse area. On the way, I always pass those women. You may have seen them, their miniskirts, cheap makeup and cheap perfume and catlike smiles. You are their prey. They saunter around the street, flutter their eyelashes and offer a price. I hate them. My father comes here regularly after three hours of booze with his workmates.
I hate it even more when he's sober. Father hits me and nobody's ever there to stop him. Mother left ages ago, when she found that he was seeing somebody else. It's been two years since. Now only Father and I live in that run-down and sagging flat, amongst the thick black fumes and rising stench. Father gets angry often, for no reason. Would you care to see the scar? Yeah, he cut me on the back once. Blood was all over the floor before he realized what he had done. That crazy man. But what do you know, to live like this? And why would you care anyway, when your life is better?

But that was when the glass fell. Everybody moved. Except me. Nobody said a word. Who would, when their lives counted for more? Who would, then it wasn't them? But you don't care. I know you don't. Not for the thin, weedy kid with the oversized head. He's retarded. Dumb. Mental. But now he's gone. And you walked home with his blood all over your shows, after everyone had squashed him as they ran from the falling glass, treading on red slush.

The crimson liquid thickened, hardened. Dawn broke over the skyscrapers as the man walked over with a duster and swept the fast drying blood into a litter bag. But you never saw, only the faint redness on your shoes as reached home.

Home.

Torture

Old piece, 2006

Torture
Printed on the stained carpet, the shadows stood immobile, reflections only in shape, of the archaic thick bar windows. Shelves upon shelves of books were perfectly aligned, coated in years and dust, smothered with mystique. A twisted yet elegant chandelier tapered into a needle point, hung, poised to strike from above.

I hate them. Their perfect porcelain faces, faintly blushing cheeks, sweet, know-it-all smiles of deception. Their perfect, lush blond brown ringlets, twinkling eyes. The pristine beauty, ugly with hidden guilt. It was their entire fault. I want to kill them, make them pay for what they did. They deserve it, they deserve to die.

The girl was small for her age, with a vacant, dumb expression and piercing, strangely discoloured eyes. The face was a smooth expanse of cream, marred by a fresh wound, a pale pink scar that cut through the cheeks down to the edge of her neck. She stared out of the open doors, at the man and woman.

"We won't be gone long, darling" he said warmly, waving goodbye.

"It'll just be one night" the woman smiled, lovingly tender. She reached down for one big hug. "Take care."

Curls of hair fall to the ground in a shower of plastic. I drop a bald, severed head and turn to another defect-less face. Her expression is so serene. Irritably so. With a scream of rage, I deal a blow to the stomach. It fractures. The porcelain cracks on contact, the shards flying into my face, burying themselves in my flesh. Blood runs freely from numerous wounds but pain is not a problem. Hate blinds me. Repeatedly, I watch myself puncture the fragile porcelain with the sharp end of the hammer into her bared torso. Silken dresses are ripped to shapeless cloth in fury. I fling her aside, cast my eyes on the ground. So many more revenges to wreak. So many wounds to widen, deepen and heal. A cadaverous skull, eyes gored out, side of the face burnt, legs hanging askew. Another, with the lower body scorched to a black, charred stump, hair melted into a mess of indiscernible wax. But still, faces of perfection, of mockery. I scream, scratch and claw at my face. Lines made by nails, red streaks under the ice, a volcano prior to eruption. Another face and another, expressions of smug victory, awash in a sea of mutilated exteriors, limbs, burnt hair, silken rags and perfect, perfect memories; another and another and another…

A face leers at her from the looking glass. A face of distant eyes, in shades of red. A face of cuts and bruises. A face of sleepless nights, framed with tangled, uncared for hair. A face of evil. She yelsl out in pain, vents her fury, her endless hatred and suffering.

The scream holds, wavers, then dies.

She clutches the limp doll in her hand. Her mischievous blue eyes flash in symphony with the dying light of the day. Again, resentment and enmity bubbles up. She feels her cheeks burn as another off key shriek bursts out.
Littered on the floor, a myriad of porcelain pieces, shattered, and broken beyond repair. Colours of red, gold, blue and brown blend with the rich greens and purples. A gradient of the rainbow, dead, on the floor, beside a small, cross legged girl. The disgustingly thin and wasted creature, vulnerable from mind and reality.

I see myself.

Bloodlust fills my eyes. I grab a poker from the cold fire grate. The metal clashes with the hard surface of porcelain, the notes almost musical. Again, the poker hits down on the torso, the limbs and finally, the face, cracking her. For good.

liar

when a person goes cold on you, it can be shattering. it's when the world becomes muted, the colours fade and chatter makes no sense because it's no longer important. what is important is the loss of your other half. this is why i despite ambivalence and why i often despise you as well.

i'm all about making the clean break, giving a straight answer.