Well... For my first story, I wanted to test out my narration skills, and wanted to do something with a dark tint aswell. So my answer would be Metamorphosis of a Killer which will be a series of Chapters that I will post regularly. The story is of a murderer whose been convicted of murder, but is also mentally insane by society's standard. So he's narrating from confinement basically retelling his life up to the point of his murder. I wanted to do a story that not only focused on how people perceive things, what is considered insane and not, but also to test my skills as a novice writer. So please come along with me as I test my abilities. And be brutal in your criticism because criticism is the key to reform.
Thump thump thump... It was the sound of his heart beating, it had been steady for a while now, continuously pulsating as if to annoy him.
“Shut up!” he demanded, but of course no matter how much he told himself that it would never stop. As if to eternally torment him it continued. Thump thump thump ...
Of course it was never like this before; in fact he never even noticed it before. It’s quite ironic he thought, “The thing that is most important in sustaining his life would be the thing that would annoy him the most!”
Constantly beating in perfect harmony, one repetitive beat after another, sometimes he would force himself to stop breathing or breath excessively, just so that it would change tempo. But soon that became bothersome and equally repetitive.
He couldn’t even think straight, with this constant distraction, he felt intoxicated, this was the worst torture they could inflict on him.
To place him in this room, this box! More like it! Bound and restricted in this jacket, this prison, that snaked around his arms pressing them against his chest. In the beginning he had to tried to force it open to no avail, the more he pushed and pulled the more confined it became, it was a sick joke. Something he had learned the first few days he was in it, the days he actually fought back.
When they had first forced it on him, and he had screamed and kicked and tried his best with the force he had. But it was not possible, they had force him down. No matter how much he resisted, it was futile, yet, he continued to resist. He was like a mouse forced back into the corner by its predator, what did he have left to loose? But then it came something he knew he could not fight back against. It was a sharp shearing heat; he felt it creeping from his lower arm. They had stuck him! The feeling of it made his body jerk violently in surprise, maybe he could stop its’ effects. But it was over; he could still remember it now, his eyes lost focus as if he was looking at a million images at once and soon his body gave way.
Before he knew it he was in the box. Four walled with the ceiling and floors all “child proof” is one way he could describe it, with Mattresses on every square inch of surface.
When he had first awoken from his incapacitation, it had been dark and his arms locked tight within the straight jacket they had forced on him while he slept. So he had to feel around with his face and feet to get a gist of the room’s dimension. It was not until they had open the door to feed him and change him, that he noticed that they were watching him, a camera on the far upper left corner of the room with infrared lens, so quiet not even he could hear it. Like a sentinel it kept track of everything he did, yet, it could be his best ally.
He had been forced into the box because he had killed people, many people. Why? He asked himself that question many times when he was alone. No reason in particular, only that he felt satisfied.
His first time was when he was seventeen. He could remember it to this day, the impact in had on his life.
He was a social outcast in a manner of speaking, tied to nobody. Always the submissive one, never the, domineer. People thought he was weird, quiet, always wearing long length clothes. But what else could he do he was always in pain. His foster father had beaten him, there wasn’t a square inch of his body not covered in bruises, cuts, and of courses his favorite, burnt marks.
But nothing, felt better because only when you hurt that much do you feel alive, because was he alive? He had often lain in bed late at night pondering, of course that was only half true. He had to be sure to stay awake just incase the old man was really drunk! The old guy was always a failure, never could do anything with his life and it was only when he was really drunk that he would inflict his own self distraught on his foster son. Use to rate his level of drunkenness; pissed drunk, this was when he was just feeling sadistic, angry drunk, this one was a doosy, someone must of taken his parking spot, and of course the I’m angry with my life drunk, this ones a bitch!
However, that was never a real problem, “figured hey he’s giving me a place to stay so fuck it” and being a pariah “what the hell, who the Fuck wants to be a sheep anyway.”
But that was a lie; always alone, an outsider. But then she came, she was beautiful, always looked like she was oozing energy, a real extrovert. He had always admired her from afar, why not she was a goddess and just as ruthless as one too, she was his Athena.
And like a the merciful Athena she stretched out her arms to him, a mere mortal – nay, less then that a sniveling worm.
He couldn’t believe it, “she came to me! Elizabeth came to me!”
That image will forever be burned into his memory. It was a pure winter the streets covered in snow, an image straight out of a Christmas movie special.
A beautiful image, as he walked home from school, the white flurries gently maneuvering itself to the ground that cradled it, forming a beautiful white blanket.
Before he knew it he had slipped, of course that was the negative aspect of snow. But then there were positive sides as well, before he knew there was a gloved hand stretched out towards him.
“Here let me help you get up” she said in the soft voice he had heard a thousand times before from afar, it was surreal; he was so close he could see her breath in the cold air.
Dazed for a moment just looking at her, this beauty with beautiful blue eyes and shoulder length dirty blond hair, now tucked into her wool cap, with a few extruding strands. Even so coveted with winter garments, it could not disguise her beauty.
“Are you alright? You look weird.” Her voice awoke him from the daze, and he outstretched my arm to unite with hers. The feeling of her hands assisting him to get up was the first act kindness he had felt in awhile. There was an instant feeling of intimacy between us that he will never forget.
“Thanks.” He said as he patted the snow off of his butt.
“It was my pleasure” she said in that gentle voice of hers’ “you know I’ve been following you for awhile actually.”
Silent . . . what could he say, he was stunned, probably with a stupid dumbfounded look on his face, there were a million things he wanted to say but his confusion left him silent and he didn’t utter a word.
“Well you are sure taking this well, no asking why?” she asked in a perplexed way, then turned and began walking away with her hands behind her back, the way someone would pacing the ground trying to think. “Well, guess its better you didn’t know.”
But he couldn’t let her leave, this person who was his sole savior, who he’s thought about countless times, whose been more a part of his fantasy then himself. Why could she be following him? He ran after grabbing her arm to stop her and asked.
“Why?!” perhaps with more of a tone then expected.
And with a part embarassed, part mischievous smile she answered “Because I find you interesting and . . ." she paused for what felt like an eternity before she continued again, his eyes never leaving hers ". . . I like you”
He stepped back not sure what he should do, while still holding her hand. His answer only left him even more confused then before, as he stood there staring into her eyes without a word between the two of them. Frozen like the flurries of snow surrounding them.