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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1392252-Pulse
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Horror/Scary · #1392252
Too much internet time can make Alan a bad boy.
Pulse
By Stephen A Abell


Number of Words: 500



Midnight.

A small insignificant click breaks the silence. In the darkness, a small white glow appears in the corner of the room as a humming noise grows louder, like a swarm of angry bees.

Alan’s eyes flicker open from his peaceful rest, and squint in the harsh whiteness which has engulfed his bedroom. Struggling to make sense of it, his young mind quickly realises his computer has turned itself on. Alan is stunned by the impossibility of it, because at fourteen, he excels in computer science. With a confused mind, he asks the empty room, “What’s going on?”

The flat widescreen monitor is humming madly, the nearly blinding whiteness insinuates itself into Alan’s skull, creating a monster of a headache. He finds it difficult to concentrate; something important hangs on the edge of his memory.

Within the blaze, soft images form, hard to define until he squints hard, then they are all too clear. They are pictures of his single mum. Naked pictures. Dirty pictures. Nasty and vile. Yet the screen holds his attention. Each image is worse than the last.

“Mum?” His insecurity begs an answer.

“Hussy!” The electronic hum vehemently crackles, “Floozy!”

The insults brutishly stab at his heart, seeking entry into his love. Unable to steal himself away from the pictures on the screen his heart cracks and the corruption floods in.

Near the computer plug, lying uselessly on the floor, are his screwdrivers. Reverently, he picks up the two long shafted tools and stealthily creeps into his mother’s room. Endless second pass as he stands recording her image on the hard drive of his mind for posterity.

Her eyes quiver in the night-time gloom, slowly opening to the subdued light. The concern is evident, as she opens her mouth to speak. The screwdrivers slice through the air and plummet down into her chest. Fountains of blood dance in the air, in the opening act in the ballet of death. Amazement and horror are strange bedfellows on her once pretty features.

Like an assembly line robot, Alan pistons his arms, up and down, relentlessly until all her blood flows onto the mattress. In the newly dead silence, a steady dripping is all that can be heard, counting her into the afterlife.

As Maria’s life ebbs away and her vision dims, the last thing she can see is the blazing whiteness of her son’s eyes, as they stare emptily into the husk of her former self.

Turning away from the unnatural horror, she finds herself floating down a long tunnel. At the end, a white light draws her along. As she nears the exit all her family run to greet her. Arms are flung around her ethereal body and the hugs are strong and needy.

“Jezebel!” They crackle in unison, a chorus of the damned, “Harlot!”

Fighting to escape, the blackness erupts around her as they hurtle down the tunnel and away from salvation.

Alan smiles as the small white dot disappears from the centre of the monitor.

© Copyright 2008 Pennywise (pennywise at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1392252-Pulse