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My first attempt at a novel.. about a dysfunctional young writer. |
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James studied the mouse with obscene intensity. The tiny creature thrashed and flailed under the grasp of James’ hand. He held the mouse by the scruff of the neck, little limbs dangling. James had seen it crawling across his unkempt floor, and had snatched it up. It was doing everything in its power to try and shake its attacker, but was miserably failing. James finally had authority over something and refused to let it go. He pondered the fate of his latest victim. Still unsure, he used his left hand to maneuver the mouse into a closed, tight fist. James stared, intrigued, into the animal’s eyes. He adored the look of dread he saw in the mouse. He couldn’t get enough of the feeling of such power he had over something so small. He held it in his grasp for a moment longer, staring. He squeezed the mouse just hard enough to feel the air being forced from it’s lungs to make a pitiful, painful gasp. James smiled, still intrigued, as he hurled the helpless being at his bedroom door. The mouse hit it with a satisfactory (and sickening) smack!. It crashed to the floor, alive but shattered. Damn thing deserved it anyway James bent over and picked it up by the tail. "Oh, you beautiful little thing. You're so soft! so pretty!" he murmured, stroking it. It was still squirming, but didn’t have the strength or mindset to escape when it had the chance. He stalked into the kitchen, scanned the room to declare his solitude. He opened his microwave and set the now less-lively body on the glass plate inside. He set the timer for 20 minutes and pressed ‘start’. He grinned and returned to his room. As I cradled the cold metal in my hot hands, I then understood what it must feel like to be God. I rocked my fingertip back and forth against the tiny trigger and listened to her pathetic little pleading sobs. It was her own fucking fault, she determined her own fate. I am not the bad guy, I am the victim, and she needed to be punished. She was shaking so violently, I almost pitied her for a moment. Almost. And I, for a second, considered letting her live. The thought came and went as I stood over her, coolly. This morning, I woke up to the pounding on my front door. I tried to ignore it, but the visitor was stubborn, and kept demanding my presence. I got up and made my way to the door, opened it to reveal none other than Lacy. She smiled up at me, and said seductively, “May I come in?” So I let her in, locking the door behind her, without saying a word. The instant she was in, she started babbling. “I’m really sorry, I am, you know, it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t mean it, it won’t happen again…” I stared at her, blankly. She took gesture as an “Apology accepted, its okay” and sat down at the couch. She smiled and patted the seat next to her. “Sit down!” she demanded. At this point, I felt the blood in my face boiling. I felt my hands sweating, and ideas racing through my brain. I turned and picked up a metal fold-up chair and set it down in front of me. I smiled warmly at her, and pointed, “Sit here.” She looked puzzled, but obeyed. I commanded her, as I would a dog, to stay and wait as I walked to my room, gathering needed supplies. I shoved things into my pockets, and walked out. She giggled as I approached her, still bearing a loving smile. I bent down and kissed her affectionately. Then I walked behind her chair, asking her to stay sitting and to look forward. “Why?” she asked, a bit nervously. “It’s a game. We’re going to play a game.” I grabbed her wrists from behind, and held them firmly in my grip as I pulled a pair of handcuffs from my pocket. She started to say something, but was cut off with my reassuring words. “Shhh… it’s a game.” She didn’t struggle as I tied her ankles to the feet of the chair, or as I shoved a rag in her mouth. She did, however, panic when I took the Buretta from its cozy home in my back pocket. I waved it around a bit, just to set the mood. She was now sobbing, her thick make-up smearing black across her blotchy face. With a cool hand, I cocked the gun in front of her face. I held it there, letting her study it, letting her soak in all this excitement I was having. I decided to be nice and I plucked the rag from her mouth. “No, James, no!!! PLEASE DON’T DO THIS TO ME! I’m sorry, just let me go, let me go!!” “Shut the fuck up, you fucking slut! Whores do not deserve to live. What you did was unforgivable.” I shoved the rag back in her mouth furiously. I stared into her eyes as I pointed the gun to her face. She had the prettiest eyes I had ever seen, and the look of such terror just embellished the beauty. When I got my focus back, I let her get a good, long look down the barrel of her doom. I stared into her eyes on last time before they would burst from her skull in a big puddle of bloody, filthy, whore-flesh. James was torn from his gruesome imagination by a shrill scream. A second later, his mother burst through his door in an accusing rage. “What the hell is your problem?!” she demanded. She continued screaming at her son, who was obviously ignoring her, until she broke down in tears.Her accusations were nothing but stuttered fragments. "James, wh...why... the microwave.... ". She composed herself at last, concluding... "My son is a fucking lunatic.” She stormed out of his room and slammed his door. |
| "James...? James, you're not even listening to me, " I pleaded. The boy sitting in front of my desk just stared, emotionless, back at me. After a moment, he nodded, retorting, "You're right, miss." . "Okay James, maybe you don't understand. First of all, why do you think you're here right now, talking to me? Tell me." "Because I have to be." "And why do you 'have to be'?" I challenged him. Maybe this would be a tough egg to break, but I was determined to scramble him. He sighed, frusterated at my seeming interogation. "Why are you asking me? You've already heard the story from my parents. I f***ing fried an itty bitty mouse in my microwave." His lips curled up at his last sentence. "...So you think this mandatory therapy is your punishment for killing a mouse?" "I guess." I bit my tongue, trying to mask my personal feelings with more professional, helpful reasoning. "Listen... Maybe the mouse incident is what triggered your parents to come to me, but that's not why your here. You're here because you obviously need something, and its my job to try and figure out what that 'something' is." He smirked and, dripping with sarcasm, "Then tell me, miss. What is it that I despritely need?" "You tell me, James". ....*silence*..... |
| "So... James. Tell me about yourself a little." James simply shrugged his shoulders, not even bothering to make eye contact. Mrs. Kathy Green locked her stare into his cloudy eyes. She repeated herself, but still received no reply. So she tried a different approach. “James, can you tell me why you think you’re here? Why do you think your parents sent you to me?” James grinned crookedly, and muttered “They think I’m crazy.” “Why do you think they think that?” No answer. Kathy pondered, deciding on what might be the best approach for this young man. They sat in silence for a few moments. “Your mother tells me that you’re a writer.” James looked up at her from across her desk, making eye contact for the first time this meeting. He nodded. “So what do you like to write about? What kind of things do you write?” “I write a lot.” Kathy cocked an eyebrow, clearing taken by surprise by his evasive answer. She could tell that she was obviously making the wrong approach, and decided to go at a more straight-forward angle. “So your mother told me about a recent incident you had involving a mouse. Would you like to explain this to me?” “No.” “Well I’m not asking anymore. Explain to me why you took a defenseless animal and treated it so cruelly.” James giggled remembering the mouse. “Well, I found a mouse and stuck it in a microwave. My mom opened it and was pretty pissed that I had ruined her microwave, ‘cause it was covered in blood and mouse guts on the inside. But she made me buy her a new one, so I don’t see the big deal.” “So you think the reason your mother was upset was because you ruined her microwave?” James shrugged, and then nodded. “I guess.” Kathy was amazed and disgusted at the same time. “You don’t think that the fact that you intentionally caused a living thing to suffer and face an agonizing death has anything to do with why your mother was concerned about you?!” Kathy caught herself getting out of control, and tried to calm herself down. She had to remember he was a client, a patient, and that if she said the wrong thing, she’d lose both her customer and his parent’s money. “Do you think it was a little uncalled for to do that?” “Maybe. But hey, what can ya do?” Kathy shook her head, unable to comprehend. “So tell me about your parents.” “There’s one called mom, one called dad.” “Your relationship with your parents, James.” Silence. “I don’t like them, they don’t like me. A normal teenage relationship.” “Are you saying you hate your parents?” ”No.” Kathy frowned. “What about as a child? Did you like your parents then?” “I don’t know. Probably.” “Have they ever hit you?” “No.” Kathy went in circles with James, getting nowhere. Even after several sessions with this kid, she knew nothing about him, and had yet to figure anything out about him. She sat back in her chair, defeated. “There’s no way I can help you if you don’t decide to open up a little, James.” “Okay.” “That’s okay?” “I don’t need help.” “Your parents seem to think that you do.” Silence. Nearly another hour went on without Kathy achieving anything. She had tried everything in her power to pry her way into James’ shut mind, but had gotten nowhere. She sat alone at her desk with her fingers digging into her throbbing temple. She had dealt with maniacs before, but James was a type she had never experienced. She momentarily questioned her position as a therapist. ***************************************** James lived in an average small-town community where he was as good as shunned. He was simply unaccepted, and he didn't have a problem with that. Sometimes he found himself wishing for someone, maybe a friend. But he knew that he would just get his hopes up, and he couldn't stand for any more disappointments in life. He had enough already. Since James' parents were so 'concerned' about him, they hired a stranger that would force her way into his thoughts, trying to poke and prod herself into his life. They referred to her as his 'special friend', encouraging him to tell her everything. He furiously insisted that he didn't need a clueless therapist to feel sorry for him... he got enough of that for free. He loathed visiting her office the two times a week he was required to. He hated sitting in her office as she drilled him with pointless question after question as he sat there listening to the music in his head. He never really acknowledged her exsistance, which was probably the reason he was still there. He figured maybe if he just told her what she wanted to hear, his parents would be satisfied enough and be done with it. Despite his oddity, even the people who hated James, or barely knew him, had to admit he had some serious skills. James was a writer, and a great one at that. "What a waste", they would say. "Such talent in such a pointless individual. Too bad it couldn't have gone to someone deserving." James never before cared for the opinions of others, and he wasn't about to start now. Sitting in the back of the classroom with his notebook and sinister thoughts, he scribbled down the fantasies racing through his head, avenging his classmates in his mind. He created menacing tales, starring the people he hated. He once had turned in a short story assignment for English, featuring the teacher as the victim in his twisted, deadly plot. That essay was the reason he was in therapy, and the reason for his unexpected schedual change to a different English teacher. James had always been quite the oddball, even since he was a child. The first thing that stood out about him was his appearance. He had always been a little too tall for his age, and towered above his peers. His hair was a beautifully stunning shade of blonde, always matted and tangled on his head. He had light brown, golden colored eyes that were almost always either squinty and focus, or completely vacant. His skin was as tanned as it could be for a white kid. A popular first impression many people had on James was that he was anorexic. He was completely skin and bones. His thinness may have gone unnoticed if it wasn't for his unusual height. Many girls found him very attractive, but could never get past his ugly reputation. |
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