November 2013 Short Story of the Month

Disclaimer: As this story was painful to write, it will therefore be painful to read.

On a night like this, the only thing visible was whatever the headlights made so…  No.
Fuck.
Lame. That’s horrible. You really, really are pathetic coming up with shit like this. You know that? Truly pathetic.
Sorry, it’s just… a slow night, is all.
Slow night? The fuck does that even mean?
I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been having some writer’s block lately.
Or maybe you’re a horrible goddamn writer. Sorry, I don’t think I mean that. Maybe you just need inspiration. Get out, clear your head. Maybe you should meet a girl.
She’s a screamer.
Yeah, well, I know how to pick ‘em.
Humor. Nice. Lightens the mood. Is that for her benefit, or yours?
You said I needed inspiration.
For the horror story, yes.
I don’t know about this.
Maybe you just need to have some fun.
She’s a screamer. Even with all the tape, she’s a goddamn screamer. Tears have reshaped the mascara around her eyes, turning her face into a Rorschach blotch.
Tell me what you see.
I don’t know.
Come on.
I see…
Yes?
I see something beautiful.
Oh. Well, yes, look at her. Just quivering with vulnerability. What else?
I see fear.
There it is, my boy! There it is! There’s your art. Now use it.
What?
Write your story.
Oh, right. Okay. Nobody’s going to hear her, not out here. Got the cabin for the weekend. I’ll have to miss class on Monday to clean all this up.
Ooh, nice bit of foreshadowing there.
Thank you. I think I’m excited now.
Of course you are. Of course you are. I know you’re excited. You’ve got the world to yourself for a night. Who wouldn’t love that?
Love?
Don’t get sidetracked now. You’ve got a woman taped to a chair, now’s not the time to lose focus. Now is the time to play.
“Are you afraid?” I ask her.
Stupid question.
She nods. That’s all. Just a nod. For some reason, I was expecting a little bit more. Tears in her eyes when she did it, sweat on her brow… anything.
Don’t go into too much detail, it might distract the reader. We don’t want that.
“We don’t want anyone losing interest.”
She glances up to me, confused.
“Sorry,” I tell her, “talking to myself. I am holding your attention, aren’t I?”
Another just-a-nod.
“Good,” I think I want to laugh here, maybe just a little, but I don’t. “I’m glad I have your attention. You certainly have mine. Do you have a name?”
You taped her mouth, idiot.
Right, thanks.
I move to the tape on her lips, but my hand retracts on instinct.
It’s all right, let her scream. Let her scream. What does it matter? No one will hear her. She can scream all night, and no one will hear.
You will.
Well, yes, I should say so.
So hear her. Listen to her. Take in every detail. Experience, boy, that’s all a writer really needs. Live the words before you write them.
What do you want me to do?
What do you want to do?
I want to take her out. On a date. To the movies, or something, maybe dinner. I want to walk around with her, holding her hand, showing the world that she belongs to me. I want to hold her in my arms and lose myself in her embrace. Warm, soft.
Is that right?
I want to kill the bitch.
That’s more like it. That’s our monster, there’s our writer right there. Feels nice, doesn’t it? Just getting it out there like that.
But… I have no right to take a life.
Yes you do.
I’m not God.
Yes you are. That’s what a writer is. Characters live, characters die, and the only deciding factor is you. You create the world. You give life and take it away, what does that make you, if not a God?
I think I’m afraid.
I think everyone is their first time. Remember the fear, use it in your story. Everyone fears something they know they shouldn’t be doing, the moment before they do it. Drugs, sex. It’s all the same. It all feels the same. The only difference?
Words.
Exactly. Now use them, be a writer. Be a monster. Kill the bitch.
“Kill the bitch?”
She screams. Hear the scream. Don’t cover your goddamn ears! Listen! Listen to her!
I’d never called a woman a bitch before. Never dreamed of it. I respect people, I always have. I’ve loved before, I’ve felt before. How come I have to try to feel something other than excitement now? How come I can’t pity her?
Pretend. That’s what writers do when they reach what they cannot experience themselves. Pretend. Hear her screams and write them down and the world will react in ways that you cannot.
No. No, no… I respect her. I respect people!
Write your story and people will respect you. Which would you rather have? Because you can’t have both. No one can. You may be God in here, but out there? Out there, you’re shit. Now stop fucking around and pick up the knife.
Had I put it down? Funny, I could still feel the weight in my hand as if it had never found its way back to the table at all. I do pick it up again, only now it feels weightless. Like a part of me.
It is. Use it.
Sorry.
No! What are you doing? What the hell kind of writer are you? Don’t apologize! Never apologize! Not for anything. No. Just do it, now. No metaphors, no similes, don’t relate it to some childhood memory that’s not the least bit important to anyone but you. Just do it. Kill the bitch.
I stab, and I stab. And she screams, and she screams. And I stab.
And I laugh.
I’m so warm, the blood, it’s so warm and it’s all over me. Not even that red, darker, almost brown. So warm, looks so cold. She’s still moving a little. Why did this happen?
Don’t worry, she’ll settle in a minute. I don’t think you have to worry about her running away. Not unless the blood jumps back in.
You shut up.
Yeah, sure, anyway, now we’ve got experience to better your story, right? So no harm, no foul. Should be smooth sailing from here on out, you’ll surely be published and-
I said shut up!
What?
She’s dead! We killed her, don’t you understand?
No, I don’t. I didn’t do anything. You killed her. And you enjoyed it.
We. She’s dead because of us.
Calm down. You’re getting way too bent out of shape about this. Would you relax? I mean, after all, it’s just a story.
It’s blood. Real blood. Real girl. Real death. It’s all real, all of it. Every word. It’s not a story. It’s real.
That is the story. Every story.
I don’t want to hear it. I hate you.
Only because you love me. You love what you did. You must, or you wouldn’t be going so crazy about it. Now clean yourself up, blood makes you look very unflattering. Oh, don’t tell me this wasn’t fun. We should do this again sometime. Next time you run out of material.
No. I’m not a writer anymore. I can’t do it, I won’t.
Not up to you, pal. Not in your brain. It’s in your blood.
Okay.
So that’s that then, we got what we came for?
Yes, if that’s what you want. Then here it is. Here’s your fucking story.