He - Perfect

He clasped her neck, forcefully throwing her to the ground; his aged, creased fingers showing the folds of water. Moonlight filtered softly onto the brook, creating a heavenly sparkle reminiscent of the stars. The muddy banks in which his feet embedded themselves were sodden, they oozed water with every fidget, every nudge. The bleak winter’s torturous cold gripped everything in its path. The once magnificent tall oak trees that lined the stream were now but the mere skeletons of their former glorious leaf robes. One decaying tree stood nearer than most; its algae green bark peeling slowly, producing such a fowl smell like the rotten egg sulphur. The roots curled, covering a sodden patch of ground. A firm footing.

His arms; obvious to any that they were of great condition, muscles bulging from the soaked t-shirt. Yet his face. Steeped in the look of horror and despair. He thrust again, from the hips, manipulating her face to the side of a rock. His stomach; eight packed; her futile attempts to squander his blows were useless; he was built for defence. Droplets of her tears failed to distinguish themselves from the harsh torrents falling around them. Little glimmers of hope shone from her eyes; yet her face did nothing, it stayed fixed in position.

The wind blew past his neck; sending shivers to his spine; and power to his hands. Once again he plunged her face into the swelling waters, the water that once glistened, stained red. The stench of death was rife. His nostrils flared; his eyes squinted into mere slits shrouded by eyelashes, he became more and more anxious, hectically he began dunking all of her frail scarred body under the enflamed beck.

His face was different the look of horror now escalated further. Perhaps it was because she was taking to long? Because she cried?

Screams echoed now from the skeletons around him.

He released his stubborn talons from her.

She was pale, her lips blue, her hair blonde, her eyes closed. The skeletons screams stopped. Her body froze, her heart stopped. He arose from the kill, looking at the victim. She was not even 16; her long fair hair stained blood red; her head disfigured; her back scarred; her life was taken. His face of horror had been vanquished. Not an emotion could be drained from his face now. His lips red; his locks the stain of mud brown; his eyes cloaked by hair.

His work undone.

He knelt beside her, a solemn kiss to the victim, the final touch. Then with no notice, he fled, leaving her. No clothes, No dignity, No life.

-

The sun rose over the crescent at the back of his garden, it was springtime now, 4 months had passed with no more killings, rapes or riots. Things seemed to be getting better for him. The urges had subsided; and the visions had seized almost altogether now. Well; until she turned up.

She had long flowing brown hair, and hazel eyes. She had moved into the flat above, she was his Achilles.
‘Hey,’ she joyfully sounded as she walked past carrying pile after pile of boxes to her new home. He mumbled as she clambered by.

She seemed picturesque, her face had the features of an angel, her skin has tanned yet not dark; she was the embodiment of everything he hated. Why? For 4 months he had managed to suppress any anger, and the hallucinations stopped. Why? What had he done to deserve such torture in life? Why? He is conscience of his actions but it as if an outer force is in within him, telling him to kill, to seek revenge on those who are ‘perfect’. Why?

He tripped her as she stumbled by again; her hopeless look and despair fill him with a forbidden joy at such a pitiful act. She grimaces at him, he smirks back; them swiftly turns, slamming his door within inches to her face.

His flat is a spectacle to behold. A place of order; there is no rubbish on the floor, just a clean carpet. Everything is folded neatly, stowed away, hidden. He leans against the door, one fist is clenched the other holding it down, restraining himself. He threw himself in anger across the room; almost impaling himself on the corner of a bedside table. He starts to mumble inconsistently; the mumbles become louder until a screech ensues. he throws himself again, this time towards the door, he clasps at the handle pulls furiously and sets his sights on the ‘perfect’ she still lays there. To ‘perfect’ to get up; lunge forward with the intent; luckily his lunge was ill-aimed she shot up quickly and scampered out of sight.

He awoke now; on the seven, his eyes glowing fervently, flickering like a candle in the wind. He will never fade when the sun sets. She will.

Barely a week; that’s how long had passed since she arrived, he now lived in agony; hallucinations are now daily for him; the voices return with every thought; he shows his will; keeping his calm around them; he wouldn’t last.

-

The sun set lowly behind the now naked trees; the red spectrum of night cast its self over the clouds, the light is dim and long shadows cast themselves to the horizon.

He strolled to his kitchen lair, seized a bread knife and made for the door. He made his way towards the old brook.

He clasped her neck; she yelled at the top of her voice, no use. His grip tightened; she coughed violently; the suns high being so low cast beautiful shadows through the trees, her looks distorted by shadows giving her the face of a demon.

Her screams escalated, becoming vigorous; she dug her nails into his bare back; he raised his fist, in one swift action bruised, and scarred her face. Nevertheless, she did not relent. She began kicking out; herself becoming frantic, he remained, a face of pure dread, guilt and horror. Shrubs and brush swayed and whistled in the brisk wind. The wind caught his face. Sending him a thunderbolt of guilt. She became berserk

I walked by.

-

They he laid; sodden mattress also. The small police holding cell provided few creature comforts. His mattress on a cheap metal frame the only things offered to him as comfort. Light filters softly between the rusted black bars of his cell window; the dust hanging in the area made visible by the softest rays.

As if to twist his fortunes the weather changed; within the 5 minutes the clouds developed and darkened; sunlight stopped, rain started. The bar in his windows offered no cover, the mattress soaked up this downpour. His mood swung. His fist clenched tight and shaking violently, his flung out violently cracking the plaster on the wall, cutting his knuckles wide open. Blood poured freely from his skin; we look to his sodden mattress, lifting it and throwing it to the door;

‘Mr Macmillan?’ The patrolling guard enquired,
‘Not in ‘ere’

As if from nowhere he became anxious, he began flailing himself around the cell, cutting himself on the rough walls. His tore his body from his clothes, he became savage, biting at his own limbs; he wailed on for hours never ceasing. He developed a cold shiver; huddling him up into a corning he began to weep without consideration.

The guards round him did not patrol by often; came as a shock to them as well; seeing him hanging there like that. Guess he thought it the best for the perfects sake. A single severed limb laid separated from the rest; its torn end still leaking blood; that fresh smell of iron seeped from it, the bone pointed from its end; the tibia, so it was from the knee cap down. The guards remained at their distance, not daring to edge near, the crystalline walled stained red.

He was pale, his lips blue, his hair blonde, his eyes closed. His body froze, his heart stopped.



She - Torch

She peered out from the glazed window; the sun shone dimly through the thick blanket of cloud. The wind harassed the trees, unturned umbrellas.

She stood there, matches in hand.

Her gleaming hazel eyes perched into their socket’s’, she had the sweetest of lips and the cutest of smiles. Her long flowing blonde hair was past her shoulders. It was soft, tied with a red bow.

She struck one match to the packet. It fizzy crackled and sparked; its warm glow filled her heart; her eyes erupted with joy, tears of happiness flowed freely. The match burnt up to her fingertips. She winced releasing it from her honoured grip. The match fell like an honoured soldier to his battlefield grave, holding its own until it can no more. While the soldier takes his trip down the Hades, the match catches. Bursting onto the carpet, it spread with haste.

Soon she was surrounded; surrounded by her love child turned traitor. The once look of joy had turned to dread, She wasn’t tall, only 5 feet and 2 inches. Her beautiful legs scorched. She glanced around the room, looking for the door. There it was, cloaked by her child. She leaped. Her legs burnt to heaven, she cried out ion agony; but she had made it, she kept running; fleeing that monster she had created. She reached the front door, she clambered, scratching at the keys trying to hook her nails and turn. Her baby chased her down the hall; a gentle weep can be heard flowing from her soft voice box. She whimpers as she tries still. She succeeds clambering through the door, but she does not stop, she keeps on running and running down her streets, her child she left behind now cries even more with rage, enveloping the corpse of a building she left behind.

-

She stood, not tall at all; she was wearing a long flowing dress, it was beautiful red silk; halter necked at the top, it reach beyond her knees. To my eye’s she was stunning, her great legs on show, and she was a pure creation of god, an angel.

She stood before the magistrate; her cute eyes gleamed up towards the robed man.

He spoke with broad commanding tone, ‘You have been found guilty of arson and breaking conditions of bail; therefore I feel it is in the courts interest to deny u bail and reprimand you in custody at the local police station until your trials first hearing.’

Her eyes dropped, she fell onto her knees. Her makeup, so beautifully applied began to run as the unstopping flow of tears that poured onto her soft, curved cheeks. The small 15-year-old she was, brought to tears by the words of the obsolete male.

Her body gave though to the power of her tears, she bundled herself onto the floor. Her tears became a solid weep.

The obsolete male did not change his stance, ‘Escort her to the holding cell.’

-

The stench of faeces was rife. She dared not move. Her glorious dress switched for the bare grey uniform of prison. She lay on an old mattress, her 4 by 4 cell on the end of her wing; her tears now had subsided, but her inner fear remained unharmed. Her bottom lip shook like a shanty house in an earthquake. When questioned by the patrolling guard she babbled and stuttered. Every breath she exhaled came with it the sigh of first loneliness.

‘Mr Macmillan?’ The patrolling guard enquired,
‘Not in ‘ere’

Soon after the guard went by screams came from her neighbouring cell, she was frightened to her wits end. Her tears erupted yet again, with the power of Vesuvius, the tears streamed onto her rosé cold cheeks and down to the corner of her soft sweet lips.

More and more commotion developed through the night. She would not have slept if it not for her dread of being in such a hellish nightmare.

She awoke the next morning on the floor; squashed under her militaresque bedding. A new stench filled her lungs in the inhale; this was not a welcome smell, one of iron blood and death. Her whole body shuddered at this newfound suffering.

-

‘Your free to go.’ the ominous voice permitted, ‘now get out of my sight.’

She ran for hours with no direction until she was stopped.

I grabbed her arm, it was soft, just skin and bones, she fretted trying to push me off her; I calmed her; thankfully.

She, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and basic jeans. I had to take her in; she was shaking like mad, my guess was the cold but god knows what else was in her mind. She sat as close to fire as she could manage, her eyes glowed ominously in it’s warmth. A secret strength filled up inside her, she glanced at me and then ran, again.

She ran to where I stopped her, she ran as fast as her small legs would take her. She grinded to a halt outside some large gates. The sun had risen on the morning, casting long shadows from all objects, she stood staring. It was time for school again.

She strolled quietly yet confidently into the first lesson, her casual clothes struck out from shirt and tie of uniformity, she attracted the attention of the many, not the few; but then again, when didn’t she?

Her beautiful ling hair tied back; no wonder she had the guys at the door and knocking constantly. Her cheeks rose red from the cold and her wet t-shirt only enhancing her beauty. The one boy approached; uttered words under his breath and received affection from her. He blushed, a broad smile grew from cheek to cheek. She embraced him in her arms softly.

She sat bored at the back of the lesson, quietly getting on with her work. The lesson past by quickly for her and she headed straight on to her next lesson.

-

A Burberry clad figure blocked her path, she took a step back, only for more to block her path.

‘Dyke!’

One deep voice echoed. She shuddered and her rose cheeks disappeared to nothing with a pale cold replacing it. She exhaled loudly with a sigh and tried to work her way through the tribe.
‘Lesbo!’ The indignant voice returned. Her eyes swooped lowly, her brow creased and her arms tensed. She reached into her pocket; pulling out a compass.

She lunged into the figure’s midriff, Blood began to see from him onto her hand, she pushed once more; more blood ebbing from the open wound, and a loud moan came from the figure’s mouth. He began to flail his arms, but still she kept on. She withdrew the compass from him, withdrawing her support. He collapsed helplessly onto the floor. His once magnificent tribe fled, fearing themselves’.

That same gloss returned to her hazel eyes once more, she scrambled for the matches in her pocket.

She struck one match to the packet. It fizzy crackled and sparked; its warm glow filled her heart; her eyes erupted with joy, tears of happiness flowed freely. The match burnt up to her fingertips. She winced releasing it from her honoured grip.

The figure still lay there, in the way of her vicious child; once again it caught hold sending pain to the already beaten figure. He burned well, and her eyes sparkled in the heat and radiance.

Attraction was drawn, teachers lined the hall, and she in her moment of completion fled, as she ran she lit the matches throwing them as she ran; the caught the walls, the doors, the carpet and ravaged. Sealing entire classrooms of students to a fiery grave. She reached a fire door, she clambered madly at it, it was bolted. Her child this time had her trapped; it enveloped closer and closer. The heat began to char her perfect legs; she squirmed, fearing the beast she had created. It came to her.

Her beautiful blonde hair is now ash, her soft hazel stare is now ash, and her heart and soul, are now. Ash.


I – Open Stalker

The jets hummed ominously around me, the clashing and bashing of trays and cutlery spooked me. I glanced out of the small frosted window; hovering at 33000 feet, not my idea of comfort. The stench of sweat and cramped bodies reminiscent of the sweatshops of the Far East. Except we were kept in less luxury; the legroom, albeit lack of, causing stabbing, sharp pains in me. The onboard meal, a joke, overcooked, chewy, processed, brown, lumpy and accompanied with an almighty reek.

I glanced again to the window, still floating on this invisible bed of air. My stomach turned, I swivelled in my seat, the rest of them were so calm; especially her. She, so beautiful; we, the dregs of our civilisation unworthy of her presence.

Looking again to the window, it sends a shiver down my spine.

It was happening again.

My fears had control of me; mind over body. I began to shake, only small movements, first my feet, then my legs. My arms never moved, unusually, but the twitching intensified. No longer a twitch but a spasm to its own right.

I threw myself onto the cabin floor, trying to subdue myself. I let my voice go. An almighty screech. Abruptly the calmest of faces turns to quivering upper lip. Guess they had never seen a freak like me.

-

The plane landed with an almighty thud, bodies bounced up and down, limited only by flimsy belts. Nevertheless, I was back. Back to the sodden rotting hellhole so many called home. I returned with haste to my state-given box. Nothing had changed, the stench of crap still hung around; broken sofa; broken cabinets; broken cooker.

I saw her again.

Sat on the curbside; she was. It was not worthy of her stunning presence. Then; she began to walk.

I followed.

I don’t know what came over me; I just wanted to stare at her for hours. Lured by the fact, she wasn’t mine, the fact she was oblivious. I followed and followed. Hours passed and day turned to night but I followed still. She eventually came to a halt, near the old brook. I stayed back. The thrill still flowing in me. I stood in admiration.

She was a stunner, long blonde hair; dazzling hazel eyes, the sweetest thin lips.

-

A shadow lunged towards her and dragged away. Light struck off a blade into my sight. I filled with dread; what was I a witness too? Again light glanced off the blade.

I stood, seemingly paralyzed. Light glanced, again and again, as the shadow raised the blade. Mind over body… Again. I ran, but; not away, towards. The shadow carried on relentless, possessed. I got to her, them; and I froze yet again. The shadows still covered what I could guess as a he’s face. My attention was pinned to him, and his attention turned on me. He raised the blade and lunged, full-bodied into an attack.

He missed. I snatched the blade from his hand; his face fell from the shadows. I glared into his eyes; seemingly, simultaneously I flung my right fist into his jawbone. Shadows collapsed onto the ground,

I turned to her…

She, she, she wasn’t the same. Those beautiful, gorgeous fine, exquisite, brilliant legs; slashed, hacked, cut, bruised, deformed. Her top lip once thin and pink; now bust open, bloody red. Her eyes were closed, and I sunk into the shadows. She peaked open one eye and then with more comforts the other. She groaned in pain slightly. I turned hoping to hear thanks from the one I followed.

I glanced into her eyes, she winced, I cried. The occasion again; mind over body.

Sirens wailed as the blue-topped saloon pulled up beside us. The blue clothes officer of this democracy came towards us; me. He just stood and looked, as if he knew, as if he could just read me like an open book.

This isn't finished, all help in finishing this trilogy-esque peice would be welcome. -Lu