Choices - A Short Story

I didn’t mean to be this way. I just am. Well that’s not true; I don’t have to do this. I could choose not to. I could go get help, but I don’t want to. I want to kill her. I want to. I choose to.
I sit in my car, watching her. She has shopping, and she is struggling to get in her door. Ah, she’s dropped her keys; I could have guessed that would happen, she does that a lot. She dropped something on six different occasions last Monday; I consult my notes, yes, six different items.

She’s put her shopping on the ground now, bending over to get her keys, her underwear peeps out over her jeans, a thong. Slut. She deserves what she’s gonna get. I look into the rear view mirror, it’s getting dark but I can still see. I see my own brown eyes.

You will go into that flat and you will do what you know you are going to do. You know you want her, you know she deserves it. You know what’s right. You know about her. You have made notes. You have watched her. You know what she is. You know she is a sinner. You open the door of your car, you step out, and you walk towards her. You are gonna cut her, watch her bleed, you’ll see. You will see it when she’s dead, you’ll see. It will be there, you’ll see.

I get out of the car and walk across the road. She has located her keys, they were under the bush. I could have told her that, she kicked them there when she tried to catch them. I saw her.

“Hold the door, please.”

She looks up, smiles. Whore.

“I do live here, fourth floor,” I say.

“That’s ok, I believe you!” She laughs, and pushes the door with her shoulder.

“Well you can never tell, the world is full of crazies these days.” I smile, charming. Yes. Good. “Do you want some help? The lift’s broken isn’t it?”

“Ummm, yeah it is.” Of course it is, you told your friend on the phone yesterday. “If you don’t mind, that would be great.”

I take a bag, the heaviest one. There is wine in it. Drunken Bitch.

I smile. “No problem!” And follow her up the stairs.



A boy is crouched in his garden; he is at the back by the shed. His mother walks towards him from the house; she can’t yet see what he is doing.

“Sweetie, you have to come inside now. Your dinner’s ready.” She is wearing an apron and her hair is honey blonde.

“In a minute,” he mutters.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he calls not looking; he is still crouched over something, using his hands.

“Well if you heard me why aren’t you coming then? It’s getting cold. Bring Monster with you, I’ll feed him too while I am at it.”

The mother turns and goes back into the house leaving the kitchen door open. She is humming to herself and opening a tin of dog food as the boy enters.

She turns, “It’s on the table, I...”

The boy is covered in blood; he is holding a small furry dog in his arms. The dog is dead.

He stares at his mother, “but I don’t like broccoli.”



“This is me.”

She flicks her hair as she approaches the door, and jingles her keys. She shoulder opens the door and steps inside, putting her bag down and reaching for the one I carried. I hand it to her.

“Thanks again,” she smiled. Slag.

She looks away for a second and then looks back at me, surprised. My foot was in the door so she was unable to shut it. I put one hand over her mouth and push her back into the flat, then with my other hand I grasp her throat and cut off her air supply. She struggles; she squeaks and squeals into my hand and beats at my arms with her tiny fists, but it was no use. I feel her getting weaker as her brain shuts down, then I let her breath again as she slumps into my arms.

There, there.

I pick her up and kick the door shut behind me, going into her bedroom, I lay her gently down on the bed and I start to get ready. I close all the curtains in the flat and turn off the lights. I find some candles in a cupboard and light them, to make it nicer. Then I push all the furniture back against the walls and create a big space in the living room. In the middle I put a chair.

You will see soon. It is nearly time. You put a chair there, yes, and you put her in it, yes; not too gently, she does not deserve such treatment. You bind her hands, good, and now her feet, yes! You go to the kitchen, looking, looking, ah, you have found it. Knives...



It is a school corridor; a tall handsome boy waits outside an office. His face is bored and subtly derisive; he clearly does not want to be there. He scuffs his feet and smiles ruefully at two boys that walk past, one of them mouths park -later at him and he nods.

“Mr Dawson, you can come in now.”

The boy goes in; he is maybe sixteen years old. There is a plaque on the front of the desk; it says Guidance Counsellor on it, a man in glasses sits behind it, steepling his fingers,

“Sit down, Dawson.” He does as he is told. “Do you know why you are here?”

The boy shrugged, his expression is polite but neutral

“Well, Miss Parker has left the school, you were aware? Yes? Well, there has been talk. She is being sent away, her family are insisting...Well, she is gone, anyway.” The man stared over his glasses at the boy. “They are going away for a while, it seems.”

“What this has to do with me, sir?” The boy looked into the man’s eyes without flinching.

“Miss Parker is suffering from an event. She is suffering from a ra... an incident that occurred earlier this week.”

The boy cocked his head to one side. “Oh my, that’s terrible. Is something being done?”

“She is refusing to name her assailant. I have been talking to some people from the night; they say that she was last seen leaving with you. Did you... Did you see anything?”

The man regarded the boy, searching for a reaction.

The boy shook his head. “No sir, nothing.”



She is waking up, she moans a little. I shiver. The knives clink in my hands. Her face starts to register the situation, confusion, understanding then fear.

She struggles in her bonds; her strap falls down over one shoulder. Slut.

You will not fall for that. You will not fall for this Jezebels charms.

“Hello,” I say quietly.

She whimpers.

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispers, “it’s not too late. I... I won’t, I won’t tell anyone. We can keep this just between us.”

I lick my lips and kneel by her, I look into her face.

“You don’t have to do this, it’s not too late. It’s not too late to stop.”

I laugh. “So I have a choice?”

“Yes.” She cried out on relief, she was shaking, the chair shivers with her. Her breath coming in short rapid gasps and her eyes rolling in her head, like a skittish horse.

“No. I don’t.”



A young man is standing by an open grave in a black suit, a casket lies in the ground but is yet uncovered; he is holding a white lily. The other mourners have long since gone but one other man stands behind him.

“I know you are there.” The young man said, he pushed his hair out of his eyes, he has been crying. “I know who you are, too.”

The older gentleman shifts from foot to foot, he looks uncomfortable.

“Your Mother was an incredible woman. I... I loved her very much. You should know that, I mean no disrespect. We loved each other.”

The younger man turned from the grave to look at the older gentleman. He was slightly scruffy, not a man of means, his mourning suit was tired.

“My mother was married,” the younger man whispered.

“Your father... We didn’t mean to.” He twisted his hands. “It just happened.” He looked helpless. Pathetic. Broken.

The young man stared into the eyes of his mother’s lover. He stared into the eyes of an adulterer and saw his mothers sins reflected in them

“Whore.”



I stand and walk over to the girl. She starts crying, sobbing, a dry racking noise. It was unproductive, no tears just raw emotions coming from her. I trace my fingers through her hair, it was soft, my mother’s hair was blonde, this girl’s hair was dark, but no matter.

I admire the colours in it, coppers and gold and chocolate.

I cut some off, a chunk from the left side. She cries out in shock.

I smell it, it is good.

“Please...”

No good begging, begging never got anyone anywhere. Begging is just another way of asking, and people who ask don’t get. I want never gets.

You have to take what you need.

“Please, don’t. Why are you doing this? Why me?”

I sigh. “Questions, questions, questions. Don’t you know we don’t decide these things? We are who we are. There is no choice in the matter.”

You will do it now, enough talk. You cut her now.

I hold the knife in my hand and draw one lean stroke from one side of her throat to another.

You see?

Ex

I remember the first time I realised that my Ex had issues with food. What I didn’t know at the time was what that meant for me and him. I remember the musky sweetness of his flat and the way his face darkened as he told me; but I didn’t really realise.


I was younger then.

I didn’t understand that in order to love someone else you need to love yourself. I heard someone say once that if you don’t like yourself then anyone who does is ultimately deemed a fool in their eyes; and who wants to go out with a fool?

I remember watching him look at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and all I could think of at the time was that he was mine, but then I was seeing the world with sex-tinted glasses. I missed the calculating and appraising way he viewed himself, twisting this way and that so to gain a better vantage point.

He would run his hands alone the contours of his perfectly flat stomach and say “I’m gonna go to the gym later.”

“Ok.” I would reply, thinking how healthy he was.

Then he would look at me.

“Why are you eating again?”

“I’m hungry.”

He would just shake his head, and then distract me and remove it later.

I often wonder what he is doing now; if he is ok; if he is happy. I hope he is happy, but then I also hope he is better. Anyone can convince themselves they are happy, so I guess I hope he is well.

He told me that he was able to make himself sick just by wanting to. If he felt like he had eaten too much he would just get rid of it. You know that bloated feeling you get when you are full? He didn’t like that.

I can’t even make myself sick by shoving my fist down my throat so the notion that one can think themselves sick is completely alien to me. Not to mention a waste, there are children starving in Africa you know? Or at least that’s what I was told when I didn’t want to finish my dinner.

It was no big deal though, he didn’t do it very often, and then only if he felt uncomfortable.

And I believed him.

As I said, I was younger then.

I should have known better though, when he asked me to keep it from everyone, even his friends. No one knew and I was the only one he had ever told.

I wonder if this is still the case?

Not my problem anymore I guess, he has people that care for him; I’m just not one of them anymore. Sounds harsh doesn’t it? Life and people move on, cliché but true.

All I think about now is whether or not I should have told someone about his occasional habit. Did they know? Would they ever know? Has he stopped? In keeping my promise, even after a messy break-up, was I hurting or helping?

Or was I making a big deal out of nothing? I am no expert, and when people feel nauseous they are sick. Why does there have to be a line on the ground? ‘Stand this side if you are normal, but if you vomit more the government quota allows we are pushing you over onto the disorder side.’

Hell, even I have had food poisoning, you look like shit and feel worse but there is no denying that being sick makes you feel better. I have also known people to make themselves sick when they have drunk too much, two fingers down the back of the throat and the world stops spinning long enough to get home.

One man’s solution is another man’s disorder.

So where is the line?

And who is fooling who?

Giving People What They Want

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There. You are in my Blog now stop pestering me and let me get on with some real writing, please.

Bryan - Part 1 (A Short Story)

I think of running water when I pee. It helps with blocking out all the distractions, and if someone else is in the room with me, forget it. I just hold it and wait for another opportunity. I don’t like public bathrooms at the best of times and having an audience was just another reason to wait. It’s a real thing, you know, it’s called Paruresis. It’s a mental disorder that means that some people feel unable to relieve themselves in public bathrooms; they feel that their own bathroom is the only one that’s safe. I read about it on the internet. I read a lot on the internet. I can, however, go in public bathrooms, conditions permitting. I can’t go in front of people though, or if there is any form of insect buzzing in the room. Or if there is an odd number of urinals. And I can’t go in the corner. The devil comes out of the corners, you know. My mother told me that, before she died. Her hospital bed was in the corner, you know, on the end of a row of beds. A row of five.

Good things always came in pairs, you know. Man and wife, salt and pepper, fish and chips, that sort of thing. “It’s all about balance” My mother used to say. She would often bring this up when I sat in my room too long, reading my books. “Life should have different parts, Bryan” she would say “Reading is good but you should go outside as well.” I remember she would smile encouragingly and I would nod. I would read outside to make her happy. One time my neighbour hit me with his football, he had been playing in the park where I was reading. He asked me if I wanted to play but I hadn’t finished my story yet, and everyone knows that once you start something you have to finish it. Finish the circle, otherwise you leave gaps, and you can’t leave gaps. That’s how they get in.


I was much younger then, my mother died when I was fifteen. An odd number. It’s just me and my father now, but I don’t see him much, he works late and is gone before I get up. I’m at college; I decided not to stay at my school for sixth form. College is better, the teacher’s don’t try to make me participate in things the way they did at school. Chess club, Art club, Drama club, Squash club, Athletics, Choir, Music Practice, Church group, the Tennis Team, the Football Team, the Rugby Team, the Quiz Team, the Debate Team... Lessons.

No, college is better, they just leave me be. I just want everyone to leave me be. If no one noticed me then He wouldn’t notice me either and I would be safe.

I hear footsteps, the scuffing of a rubber sole and then a greasy hood pushed its way into the bathroom with me. I will have to go later. Shoving my hands deep into my pockets I make sure not to make eye contact with anyone as I left the bathroom. Travelling down the beige grimy hallways I dart my eyes left and right, all the time listening intently for other people. One of the problems with keeping your head down is that if you’re not careful you can run into people. It’s better than looking ahead though; if you do that then you run the risk of catching people eyes.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. I count out my footsteps in my head as I walk. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. It helps to keep me calm when I do this, as long as my walk home is an even number I will be alright, I have to keep doing these things to keep me and my Dad safe.

Realising where I am I turn around abruptly; I have to take the stairs at the south end of this building as the north stairs has 23 steps. As I walk down the corridor I started thinking about how my Dad used to be when my Mother was alive. He smiled more and he worked less.

Once he surprised us all with a special trip to London. We all bundled on a train and ate sherbet lemons and éclairs during the journey. I must have been eight or ten years old, it was a good year. Once we got to London we spent hours wandering around the cobbled streets, I was so impressed with all the people and colours, it was cold, but not yet Christmas so maybe it was November? My Mother was wearing this blue coat that was the same colour as her eyes and she would ruffle my hair and smile when she looked at me. My Mother was beautiful, and my Dad would always have his arm around her, as if he wanted to shield her from the world, she was his to protect. She would hold my hand, squeezing it occasionally.

That was a good day.

A car horn blasts at me, another problem with not looking up is the dangers of traffic. I jump back onto the pavement and flick my eyes up quickly at the traffic lights, shifting nervously; I can’t stay here too long. I am too close to the town recreational ground, ‘The Rec’, and that’s where most of the college students go when they finish with their classes.

The little man finally goes green so I hurry across the road, fidgeting with the bracelet on my wrist. It was just a pendant on a leather string but I never take it off. It was a Taijitu, the classic symbol of ying and yang, a universally recognised symbol of two parts becoming one and being whole.

I remember when I found it, I was little, maybe four, and it had fallen off someone else’s wrist and lay there broken on the side of the road. I picked it up for some reason when I walked home from school. Later on that day my mother found it in my pocket.

“Where did you get this ?” she asked, I told her I found it, and she smiled. “But it’s broken.” She tucked my sandy blonde hair, the same colour as her own, behind my ears and kissed the top of my head. She smelled like cinnamon and flowers.

Later on that week my Mother was called into my Nursery to collect me. One of the other boys had pushed me into the swing-set and I had banged my head and nose on the metal pole. Nothing was broken but I had got a nosebleed and I still have a scar to this day from the cut I got on the head. I had been crying and she gently brushed away my tears with the handkerchiefs she always carried.

“There, there,” she told me “Don’t cry, I have a present for you.” That’s when she gave me the bracelet. She had fixed the clasp. Clipping it onto my wrist using the tightest setting, she held my hand and whispered. “Do you know what that is, Bryan? It’s ying and yang, dual forces which exist in everything to make it whole, two things which make the whole world ok. Now you have this you will be ok too.”

It is tight now, but I daren’t take it off. It keeps things ok. Rounding the corner I leave the Rec behind, only one alleyway and two roads to go before I can get home and out from under His gaze. I can feel his eyes beating down on my shoulders and the back of my neck, I speed up.

I am half way down the alley way when I hear the scuffing and crunching of gravel under many feet.

“Hey Loser!”

I speed up even more, I know who it is, I know who all of them are. They go to the local comprehensive school, they are a couple years younger than me but they all do things like sports and camping, resulting in a distinct size difference between us. The crunching increases as they start to run, panicking I run too but I am laden down with books and they catch up with me before I can reach the end of the alleyway.

One of them catch the back of my shirt and throw me into the wall, my bags and folders go crashing to the ground. I feel the air whoosh out of my lungs.

Now all I feet is pain. Warmth. Now pain again.

A fist flies towards my nose. Gasping, I spit the blood that has trickled into my mouth. I am coughing as I try to keep breathing.

They snicker, I can see three of four pairs of shiny white trainers but everything is blurry, the pain makes tears spring into my eyes. I throw my arms up to protect my face and feel two hands grip my wrists, the cold of their gold rings bites into my skin.

A knee goes hard into my stomach.

I fall to my knees and although my vision is still blurry I am able to make out the black and white interlocking symbols of my bracelet over by one white trainer, it had fallen off somehow, the fixed clasp proving fickle in the face of adversity.

No.

I reach for it and am rewarded with a heel coming sharply down on the back of my hand, I hear bones crunch, and I cry out in response.

“Aw...poor thing.” A sarcastic voice sneered from above, and I am thrown back into one of my last memories of my mother.



The hospital walls were pale green and the entire building smelt like death and antiseptic. I went to get coffee even though I didn’t want any, but that’s what people did at hospitals, they got coffee. The nurse didn’t see me behind her. I had learnt to walk silently by then, and she was talking to another nurse looking at my mother.

“Poor thing, she hasn’t got long now.”

“Family?” The other asked.

“A husband and a son, so sad.” They shake their heads pityingly.

I hurried past, back to my mother. She took the coffee I gave her and smiled gratefully, though I knew it was an effort for her. She was so pale; all the light had left her face and her once bright blue eyes were like stagnant water. She held my hand.

“Why you? Why is this happening?” I clasped her frail bony hand with both of mine. “Why is this happening to us?”

She shushed me gently and ran her other hand over the back of my head. “God has decided he wants me with him, is all. We have to trust in him, have faith and he will watch over you, always.”

“That doesn’t explain why! There are so many bad people, why is he taking you!”

“Honey...” she soothed.

“No!” I shouted angrily, causing the nurses to look over in alarm. “It doesn’t make sense.” I am crying silently, tears running down my face. I clung to her hand and felt her cling to mine “It doesn’t make sense....” I whispered “it’s not... ok.”

Another fast kick to my lower stomach and I feel the uncomfortable warmness spread in my trousers.

“Oh my God, he’s pissed himself!”

They shriek with laughter, and a flurry of further kicking and punching follows. It wasn’t until one last kick was delivered to my face causing me to cough and spit out a whole mouthful of blood that they stop. They run off into the darkness, back to their families no doubt.

I lay there for a moment; I lay there and picture my father’s furious face on that day. His chiseled featured contorted with fury and disgust.

“How could you do that to your Mother!” he snarled at me “Do you have any idea how upset she is now? Do you have any idea of what you have done to her? Can’t I even trust you to hold it together for one afternoon? For her sake?”

Limping down the road in the darkness I resume my counting, one, two, three, four. I can feel Him up there, watching me. Yes, I know you are there, I thought. I know He did this, like the way he took my Mother from me. Fingering the bracelet in my pocket I limp on. I must have let Him in somehow, must have missed a step, or maybe I forgot to knock twice on a door before I entered a room.

Dual forces which exist in everything to make it whole, two things which make the whole world ok.

I would make the world ok again; I had to, for my Dad’s sake. I couldn’t let him down again. Dual Forces. Everything comes in pairs, you know. God and the Devil. One and the same. Ying and Yang.

Shaking slightly I finally manage to get the key in the door, no one is home, no one ever was. I hurry up the stairs as fast as my injuries would let me, my hand ached and it hurt to breathe. My Dad may want me to go to the hospital but I’m not going back there, I know what happens when you go there. The place is full of corners, they invite Him in, they want Him there, but I know better.

Dumping my stuff on the floor of my bedroom I begin rifling through the box I kept under my bed, I know it is in here somewhere. Ah, got it. I stagger into the ebathroom and look into the mirror, my nose is definitely broken and my eyes, bloodshot and watering, have started to go purple underneath. I have a cut on my lip and it has started to swell. My whole face looks like a fruit salad that someone has dropped. I pull the sleeve of my shirt up on my left arm, holding my Taijitsu in my left fist, palm down; I hold my bare forearm out in front of me. Then, taking the knife that I have found in the box under my bed, I hold my breath and cut two straight lines across, just below my elbow. The red spills out and creates crimson rivers in the sink.

There, I thought, you can’t make that fall off.

I hear a key in the door as my Dad arrives home; I quickly pulled my sleeve back down. I will have to go tell him what happened, he will be disappointed, but it will be alright, it won’t happen again. Not now, I will be ok, now.

As long as I keep away from corners.

The Big "Bad" Wolf

First of all I would like to point out that it is discrimination to assume someone is bad based on appearances. I am a big wolf. There! I said it! I have struggled with my weight all my life and no matter how many times a week I work out, no matter how many of those damn low calories fibre bars I eat, I will never be a size zero! Frankly, I am disgusted that in this day and age a person cannot be accepted for who there are. Does being a big wolf make me a bad person?
Secondly, I ask you how you would feel if three little pigs just upped and started building their houses on your land? The three rude little porkers stole building materials and literally threw up these monstrosities without a thought for planning permission or their neighbours. I feel I was quite within my rights to go round and discuss the matter with them. After all their smoky chimneys were blocking all the light into my garden and killing my Begonias.
Finally, I would like to point out that I am Jewish.
Now, I do not see how I should be blamed for my hay fever either, I mean, who builds their house out of straw anyway? So when I informed the little swine that I was going to ‘huff and puff and blow his house down’ I was warning him of a genuine danger. He chose to retort in a very rude manner "By the hair of my chinny chin chin, I will not let you come in" and not to vacate his premises. In my panic I ran to his brother house to get help but by then I had straw up my noise and another regrettable incident occurred.
By the time I got to the third house I was in such a state I was completely unprepared for his vigilante actions. Would you believe he tried to boil me alive?
So here I am facing jail time for the deaths of two piglet hoodies who were trespassing on my land in the first place! Whilst He sits pretty in his little brick house, now the proud owner of everything he inherited from his brothers and my cottage to boot! Lupine Discrimination!

Tease...

Right, let’s just get one thing straight…. I am not a Tease!

I don’t know which dull witted Neanderthal of a man decided that if a girl will kiss you and not sleep with you it makes her a Tease, but if I ever get a hold of him I will beat him with a blunt object.

Repeatedly.

Let me just bring to your attention a very old, and very common, injustice. Women who fool around are sluts, men who fool around are players. It isn’t fair and it isn’t strictly correct but the one thing that most women are aware of when it comes to men is how they are perceived. The last thing we want to be thought of is ‘that tart from down the road’.

‘Hey Bill! I heard you had it away with that Cindy from Windmill Street?’
‘Sure did, Bob. The only thing that spreads quicker than Cindy’s legs is my utterly butterly!’

So excuse me if I don’t sleep with you just because you have bought me a warm glass of chardonnay! If I like you, I'm gonna kiss you if you make your move, but don’t expect me to run back to yours and jump between the sheets just because you took me for a drink. (Especially when you are thirty and still live with you mother.)

Since when did a kiss mean intercourse anyway? I remember when everything was done in stages. You let the boy get to one stage, then the next, then the next. If he wanted the goods he would have to be patient and persistent. The PP for the Peepee. Now I am all grown up and men seem to want to skip stage three and four and go straight for the end game. Whatever happened to courting? Romance?! The third date rule?! Actually scratch the third date rule, if the three dates are during a six month period it doesn’t count, he hasn’t proved himself trustworthy or dependable. He hasn’t proved that he isn’t gonna bugger off and not call once he has inked his nib basically.

Well if kissing a guy but not sleeping with him because I don’t trust him yet makes me a Tease, then Miss Tease I am. I would rather be the village Tease than the village bike.

Emotional...?

Just a quick note about something that happened while I was away.

I was at a BBQ happliy sipping a beer and marvelling at the fact that although I had drunk four or five bottles of beer I was sober, if I had done that with glasses of wine I would be halfway to table dancing by then. I think the key was I don't really like the stuff so I tend to nurse them a little, averaging about a bottle per hour. Needless to say later on that evening, when I switched to wine, I became drunker than a fish in a whisky pond.

So, I was there quitely musing at this realisation when my Brother asked if I was bored, I told him that I wasn't and was quite enjoying the comapny of my little brother (I was, I don't see him very often). He rolled his eyes at me.

I then proceeded to tell him about my surprising soberness, to which he replied 'Your not sober.' I insisted I was but he just shook his head at me like he was correcting a child, or (as he thought he was) talking to a inebriated person.

Realising there was no convicing him I inquired as to the source of this observation, to which he replied 'Your getting all emotional.'

Because I said I was enjoying speding time with him.

Emotional?

Wait till he sees me later drunk and crying because I've dropped my crisps...