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Writer
Join Date: Jun 2007
Location: Las Vegas
Gender: Male
Posts: 29
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Nightmares of a Scattered Torture
Chapter 1: Sick Little Puppy
Alex wakes up, sweating from another horrific nightmare. He takes in deep gulps of air, as if receiving air in the midst of drowning. He looks around the small bedroom: mold grows in corners, a tiny beam of light shines through a boarded window. Vomit lies in the corner, its stench soiling the whole room; a rusty dog bowl lies just within reach, next to an almost-empty bucket of unsanitary water. A metal door lies 8 feet ahead. Rustling outside, Alex curls into a ball; the door is shoved open after a little struggle, it had not been opened in days.
He hops up immediately. A woman of 50 stares accusingly at Alex, drilling fiery holes into him. The woman, dressed in soggy rags, tosses 2 slices of molding bread into the dog bowl. The scoops up some vomit with her fingers and plasters it onto the bread. They have a short stare down, ending with Alex turning away, in fear. The woman turns away and opens the door, making a slight squeak. As she is closing the door, Alex approaches, but trips soon after: he's bound by shackles.
After making sure that the woman would not return, Alex eagerly grabs the food, shoving it down quickly, to disband the taste. He gags in the midst of it, threatening to vomit. Shoving more bread down, he eliminates the threat, but heaves heavily afterward. After his unhealthy fit, Alex crawls back to his dark corner, helpless. The only illumination in the room is his bright blue eyes, and the small beam of light.
Chapter 2: Stinky Stick
Alex lies on the floor, pitifully, sleeping. A huge blast of water hit him in the face, immediately waking him up. He gargles and chokes, finally jumping up in shock. The woman laughs at him behind the hose, standing in the doorway. The stream is very hard an unforgiving.
"It's bath time, my little stinky." Alex tries escaping the blasts by backing into his corner, but that only traps him. The blast is making welts and bruises, along with being freezing. "Oh, yes, you stink," she laughs again, enjoying the spectacle. "You're like my little stinky stick!"
Alex finally gives in and takes the blasts, weeping from the pain. After two minutes of torture, the woman stops the hose. Alex stands, shivering, purple spots cover his skin. The woman sets the hose down, water leaks from its end, within reach. He grasps the end, in hopes of licking up a few drops. Immediately, the woman tears the hose from his hands.
"Get the fuck away from there," she bellows, angry. She kicks him in the chest, treating him like a pest. He quickly scurries into his corner, once again frightened. She exits through that memorable door, dragging the hose with her, slamming it on him, making him cringe in fear. Almost all light is drowned out.
After a moment of silence, Alex stares out the peephole in the window, seeing a spec of green outside. He slumps back into his corner, tired, alone, and helpless.
Chapter 3: Flustered Bluebird
A small beam of sunshine shows through the window, illuminating the otherwise dark room. A bird whistles a unique song, communicating. Alex walks over to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of what's outside. He spots the source of the noise: a beautiful bluebird. Startled, the bird flaps its wings, eagerly flying away.
Alex also falls, flustered.
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The kitchen looks like a meth lab, clustered and dirty, seemingly too crowded. A cheap bong lies on the end of a wooden counter, but nothing to go in. The only notable trademark is the light blue, worn down fridge. The woman sits at the dusty kitchen table, chatting with a drug buddy and prostitute, Frieda.
"Did you bring that kilo?" the woman asks, needing. Frieda replies, but her friend is not paying attention. Her mind is elsewhere, staring at the partially caved-in ceiling. They hear a faint thump. Hatred glazes over the woman's eyes. Frieda does not hear it.
"Like I said earlier, doll, Ned is still in Orlando, so I can't pick it up 'til tomorrow. But I can--"
She is interrupted, "hold on a sec." The woman stands up and exits the kitchen, climbs over the flood of useless things in the living room, and starts walking up the stairs.
Frieda stands up in the chair, angry. "Hey, why you always f*ckin' leavin' me? I'm tired of this sh*t, Stacy. I'm leaving!"
The woman, now identified as Stacy, does not hear her, she is concentrating on getting to Alex's room. The door closes with a slam, rocking the support beams a bit.
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After falling, Alex notices a colorful square-like pattern on the floor, made from the sunlight. He crawls to it, then studies it with great wonder. He places his hand on it, quickly withdrawing it after feeling the warmth of the ray. After slight hesitation, he places it back in, watching the shadow, purely engaged in the activity. He moves it around, amused, proud at the sight. He jolts it around and smiles at the immense shadow. He is having fun.
The door opens harshly, with that same evil squeak. His heart-breaking smile immediately turns into a terrified frown.
"Having fun?" she demands. Alex scoots backward, searching for the safety of his dark corner. "Are you having FUN?!"
Alex wraps his arms around his knees, intimidated. She grabs a heavy broomstick from the far wall and points it at him as if it were a sword being pointed at a sworn enemy. She whacks him in the cheek, making him roll forward, onto his stomach. whacks him on the back twice, making two long lacerations. He tries to move out of harm's way, but the shackles, digging into his skin, hold him in place.
"How much f*ckin' fun are you havin' now?! Huh?! How much? You know better than to make that f*ckin' racket! You little bitch!" Her face turns grave, Alex has got a firm grip on the broom stick, shaking from pain and anger. He glances over to the light; it dances within the particles of dust.
Stacy tries coaxing him into letting go. "You remember momma, don't ya. It's me, mommy. Put it down, give the stick to momma! Please, Alex."
Alex does not hear her, he is lost in thought. He recalls an old memory.
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The room looks as it is today except a bit cleaner: no mold, no vomit, no feces. The metal door shoves open, and an evil-looking Stacy, stands in the doorway, clutching a 5-year-old Alex by the hair. She grabs him, trying to drag him in, but he grasps the door frame, clearly horrified of this room. She grasps his shoulders and jerks him in, ripping him from his grasp, leaving scratch marks on the frame. He continues to struggle, being dragged across the wooden floor.
The shackles approach, frightening Alex more than ever. He fights hard, but is not strong enough. He is dropped to the floor and shackled by his right foot.
He begins crying, the salty tears flow down his cheeks. "Momma!" Stacy approaches the door, emotionless. He runs out, as if to embrace her, but is yanked back by the chain. He lies in a heap on the ground, unconscious, suffering from a broken nose. Stacy slams the door shut behind her.
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Another flashback. Alex is twelve years old, his hair is long and shaggy. He stares blankly into space. The horrible squeak of the metal door grabs his attention. Stacy approaches him, hiding something behind her. "Momma's got a surprise for you! You wanna know what it is?"
He looks up, with a familiar fear in his eyes. She pulls out a small leather whip. She beats him, making him cry out with every hit. She leaves soon after leaving with him only welts and tears. He holds his legs to his chest, rocking back and forth, crying.
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Alex returns from the flashbacks, still gripping the broomstick. Stacy is pleading with him, exposing fake love and fear. "Alex! Let go of the f*ckin' stick this second!"
He rips the stick from her hands, an unforgiving look of ferocity develops on his face. She stares at him, terrified; he whacks her over the head with full force. Surprisingly, it does not break; Stacy falls to the ground. He pounds her face with the stick, blood squirting onto him with every strike. He hits her repeatedly, ending by stabbing her in the eye. He slides down the wall, trying to catch his breath.
Stacy is dead; blood pumps out from her wounds; blood trickles toward the dog bowl, eventually encircling it, like a moat.
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Alex looks around the room and kicks his mother in the foot, she is limp. 'I can escape!' he thinks. He looks to his shackled feet, frowns; searches Stacy for a key or something to unlock the shackles, nothing. He pulls on the foundation, but they are jammed in tight. He sighs, pondering a solution. He tries pulling one foot out, fails; breaks the broomstick on his knee. He weeps, trying not to think of what he's going to do.
'One...' a long pause. 'Two...' he gulps down and bites his teeth. 'Three!' The splinter-side of the stick pierces his Adam's apple, finding its way to the other side. Alex has a blank look of surprise, and falls to the side. The two lay there, bleeding, mother and son, never to move again.
Chapter 4: Mysterious Walls
Squad cars are parked outside the yellow tapeline, surrounding the perimeter of the house; it's 1:00 AM. A slick black car pulls up, equipped with a portable siren, not blaring, only flashing. The car pulls to a stop; a man is his mid-40s exits and approaches the tape. An officer assigned to securing the perimeter lifts the tape, as if expecting him.
The man, dressed in a black button-up, black trousers, and a black coat, stares up at the house; it is obvious to him that it has been damaged. He climbs onto the cracked first step, it breaks. He sighs, disgusted.
An officer greets him at the front door, allowing him inside. The kitchen, where he enters, seems intact, other than the scattered mess. "Pretty gruesome sight, lieutenant."
He glances into the living room, the ceiling has caved in entirely, collapsed, leaving Alex hanging by his feet, his eyes a rotting yellow; the shackles have only dug deeper into his feet. "Alright, what's the situation?"
"Well we figure that the dead woman in the living room is that boy's mother. The boy, as we infer, has been abused and neglected for quite some time. Now, either she killed him and then killed herself, but it appears to be vice versa."
"Any names?" the superior questions, shedding his coat.
"Only one. The woman's name is Stacy Gardner. We ran her name through the database, searching for younger relatives, but the youngest is her younger brother, who is 32, goes by Stanley. Our best guess is that either he is not a relative at all or was never registered, and spent his entire life in that room."
"That's nonsense, she couldn't have passed under the radar for so long. That boy looks as if he's 18! How did you guys find this?"
"A hooker phoned in, frantic. She--" he is interrupted by a voice upstairs.
"Hey Jim! You might wanna check this out!"
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Two officers stand by Lt. Jim Harvey, one points a flashlight at a wall of the former room. "God help us all" is smeared along a wall. Below, it reads "Alexander Michael".
Harvey decides to ask an odd question. "Why are there door hinges, but no door?"
"I don't know, sir. But taking a closer look, I see... nail marks."
THE END
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Storyline credit goes to J. Kane Drummond. I just decided to execute the story. Oh, and the death and final chapter are my doing. Hope you enjoy.
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