Post by Evan on Jan 16, 2011 13:39:48 GMT -6
Note: This is another short story I just recently finished, fitting somewhere along the "psychotic" lines of my other story, I Never Really Liked Her but with kind of a fantasy or speculative twist. I wrote this is two sittings, with a few weeks between each part. I guess that's just how I work.
This one contains a lot of swearing and some obscenity and the like, which I tend to avoid using in things I write, but I felt like it was necessary here.
Also, I haven't fully edited and revised this, so grammatical and spelling errors may exist. Also, transferring things from a text editor to the forums like this sometimes results in weird formatting. I apologize in advance.
Enjoy.
Andrew
by Evan Bittle
"You know why you're here, Andrew?" the man said to me.
His dark eyes accented the dark browns of his hair, boxing in his face with help of a thick mustache of the same, deep auburn. Another man stood behind him, stoic and tall with slick, black hair. The lighting in this room made them both have ghastly, shadowy faces. "You know why you're here, Andrew," he said again, his voice low. This time it wasn't a question but instead a statement of fact. His voice grew monotone in my head, "You know why you're here, Andrew." He made sure to accent that word, 'know', like he was talking to a child, trying to make me understand. I understood perfectly. Still, he said it again, frustrated at my silence. "You know why you're here."
"How many times are you going to say that?" I said, bearing teeth.
"As many times as it takes for you to understand, Andrew," the brown-haired man said to me. "As many times as it takes for you to start listening to what we have to say." He sat directly across from me at a plain white table, the room we were in one used for interrogations. Behind him was a large mirror, most likely two-way, where others behind it would watch and scrutinize everything that went on. My own reflection was blocked by the man sitting in front of me and I felt compelled to avert my eyes and avoid trying to look at myself.
"Andrew," the other man said. "We're just trying to help you."
"Andrew!" I shouted at both of them in a mocking, high-pitched voice.
"Andrew, you have to understand why you're here."
"Andrew!" I shouted again. I could taste both of their thick colognes on my tongue, and it was making me feel sick. There was a twitch in my right hand, something I could never control ever since I was a child, especially in situations like this.
"Please, An-" the brown-haired man paused. "Please, just understand."
"I understand. I do understand," I said. "You're a cop and you've brought me in."
"I'm not a cop, I'm a detective," he said. The black-haired man stood silent.
"You've a gun and a badge, that makes you a cop; a pristine uniform with a few golden pins on its lapel in your closet, makes you think you're better than me. That smug look on your face! That iron fist at your side! It makes you a fascist-fuck and I hate you."
The brown-haired man looked down and sighed. It felt fake to me. There was sarcasm in the heat of his breath.
"Andrew..." he started.
"Andrew!" I blurted again. "Fucking Andrew! Never listens! You wonder why I'm here? I'm here because I killed those people. Eleven of them, slit their throats, watched their heads roll on the ground while I laughed." I smiled wide, my right hand shaking almost wildly at my side, "I fucking laughed."
"That didn't happen, Andrew," the black-haired man said. "You didn't hurt anyone."
"Yeah?" I said. "But I thought about it. I thought about it! Watched them in my head as their heads rolled. I could have done it. I should have done it. Rid this world of a near-dozen piles of filth - shit! - ugly little people who think their lives actually mean something. I put their pictures on my wall, to follow them until I knew when the time was right. Little Miss Prissy walking to work, tight ass, short skirt like she fucking wanted it. Bald-headed Suit with the thousand-dollar shoes, nose so brown he'd smell shit in a field of roses..."
The brown-haired man cleared his throat, "Andrew, we need you to understand that we're here to help."
"Is that why you brought tall-dark-and-ugly back there?"
The black-haired man seemed unfazed. The fascist bit his lip, “This is Mr. Samson, Andrew. He’s here to help you...” He paused briefly, then: “To help me help you.”
“Mr. Samson!” I said. “About as ugly as a dead-dog, and he smells like one, too. Are you a cop? Do you run your wife through with your little nightstick every evening like Mr. Detective Shit?”
“I’m a doctor, actually. It’s Dr. Samson.” His face was expressionless, “I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Well,” I said. “You know what, Dr. Samson? I’m not feeling too great. You see, you really remind me of someone I used to know.”
“And who’s that, Andrew?” Dr. Samson said.
“My father. And I didn’t like my father. In fact I didn’t like him so well at all, so much so that I ran him through with a knife. You know what I did after that?”
Silence.
I went on, saying, “I counted. I counted! One, two, three - each fucking heartbeat, each breath he took. Four, five - I could see all this blood! More with every count! I’ve never seen so much come out of a person before, not like that. Seven... He stopped breathing. His eyes turned white. I could smell his blood on my hands.”
I lowered my head between my knees and stared at the ground. My fists were both clenched on my lap and I could feel my heart pounding.
“Why did I do it?” I whispered.
“What’s that, Andrew?” the brown-haired man said.
I sat up, my lips drawn back, teeth grinding, “Why did I do it? Because I fucking could! I did it to see how far I could go, how much I could get away with. I would have killed those people if you gave me the chance. Not like I give a shit what you think about it. Fucking Andrew, murdering son-of-a-bitch who thinks he can get away with anything. Fucking Andrew, God-damned master of not giving a fuck.”
The psychiatrist and the fascist exchanged looks, a slight nod, and they both looked at me. Suddenly I felt very cold. The floor beneath by feet was liquid and the table beneath my hands was hard, smooth, and sharp.
Dr. Samson stepped closer to me, pulling a photograph from his pocket and placing it face down on the table in front of me. It's blank, white back was marked only by a single word: "Andrew".
I blinked, picking up on their silent cues.
"Look at the picture, Andrew," the brown-haired man said.
"Go ahead," the Doctor encouraged. "Take a look. What do you see?"
Slowly, I lifted my hand and gripped the photograph's edge, afraid - not sure why I was afraid - to turn it over. I felt like something was screaming at me, "Don't do it!" But I couldn't stop myself now.
The picture was simple, of a man with bright blonde hair and hazel eyes, sitting in a chair. Surprised, perhaps embarrassed, he had a hand lifted at his side, a sort of don't take a picture of me grin on his face. He looked and felt casual.
"Do you know who that is?" Dr. Samson asked me. I stared longer at the picture.
The man in this picture was relaxed and happy, comfortable with the lifestyle he was leading. He was free of stress, pleased with where the world had led him so far, and somehow I could this all just from looking at his picture.
"Andrew?" the Detective asked. "Are you listening, Andrew?"
"Don't call me that," I said, my voice low. "That's not who I am."
The detective smiled, sighed, "You're back, then?"
I nodded, straightened my posture and put the picture back down on the table. I felt like vomiting, but suppressed the urge with a deep breath. Dr. Samson placed a hand on my shoulder, an almost painful feeling through oversensitive skin, but still I glanced at him and smiled.
The detective cleared his throat, "Are you ready?"
I looked back to him, nodded once more.
"Why did he do it?" the detective asked. He furrowed his brow, ready to process any and everything I would say next.
"He was..." I weighed my words heavily, thinking them over before saying them for sure. "He was crazy. He hated his father. It was something deep and abusive, but he had put it away, dug it down deep so he could ignore it. But it was just one of those things that ate at him, corrupted him little by little on the inside." I took a breath, resisting the tears in my eyes as I adjusted in my seat. "He had a wife, kids, a house - fuck, and he'd throw it all away to satisfy some deep urge inside himself. He struggled with it for a long time - read some questionable literature, political and sociological shit, like that would give him purpose - but he never got help. Finally he just snapped, that's all it was. The obvious target was his father." I sighed, "You'd be surprised how far a 'normal' man can fall."
"Then why the others?" Dr. Samson asked. "Why did he want to kill more?"
"To see if he could. To feel that satisfying rush he got from murdering his father," I said. "It was an overwhelming sense of..." I looked for the right word, felt the experience reenacting in my own mind. "Catharsis. Complete and utter release from all the pain he'd ever felt. He wanted that again... As many times as he could get it."
The detective stood, "I think we've got what we need. Good job, Detective." He smiled, turning to a plain door in the corner of the room and exiting through it. I quickly lowered my eyes to avoid looking into the mirror, my eyes instead resting onto the picture of the man - Andrew. Meanwhile, Dr. Samson moved between me and door, saying, "Do you want to talk now?"
I tilted my head slowly, "Soon, but first, do you mind just grabbing me some water, or-"
Dr. Samson smiled, "Of course, no problem. I'll be right back." And with that, he too left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving me alone. Still in front of me was that two-way mirror and now, finally, I felt compelled to look into it.
I looked nothing like Andrew did, my features round and hair dark. I didn't have the subtle, outward happiness behind my eyes like he did. Instead, I was a psychological mess, my mind and body put under the inhuman stress of carrying around the emotional baggage and personalities of madmen, murderers, and rapists. But I was saving lives by getting a unique and personal look into these minds. It was exhausting, a little exhilarating, but somehow I couldn't help by worry about how much of myself I was leaving behind with each blend.
The real Andrew, the man in that picture, was still on trial. The evidence I provided, though controversial to some, had come to be almost a standard investigation practice amongst law enforcement. I had seen dozens of minds, sent hundreds of men to jail or Death Row due to my findings, and criminals nationwide began to fear the idea of their brains being picked at, their minds washed, their thoughts taken out and played around with like little toys to be manipulated. But it was what they deserved.
I am saving lives, I reminded myself again.
My hands at my sides, I felt the fingers of my right hand twitching.
This one contains a lot of swearing and some obscenity and the like, which I tend to avoid using in things I write, but I felt like it was necessary here.
Also, I haven't fully edited and revised this, so grammatical and spelling errors may exist. Also, transferring things from a text editor to the forums like this sometimes results in weird formatting. I apologize in advance.
Enjoy.
- - - -
Andrew
by Evan Bittle
"You know why you're here, Andrew?" the man said to me.
His dark eyes accented the dark browns of his hair, boxing in his face with help of a thick mustache of the same, deep auburn. Another man stood behind him, stoic and tall with slick, black hair. The lighting in this room made them both have ghastly, shadowy faces. "You know why you're here, Andrew," he said again, his voice low. This time it wasn't a question but instead a statement of fact. His voice grew monotone in my head, "You know why you're here, Andrew." He made sure to accent that word, 'know', like he was talking to a child, trying to make me understand. I understood perfectly. Still, he said it again, frustrated at my silence. "You know why you're here."
"How many times are you going to say that?" I said, bearing teeth.
"As many times as it takes for you to understand, Andrew," the brown-haired man said to me. "As many times as it takes for you to start listening to what we have to say." He sat directly across from me at a plain white table, the room we were in one used for interrogations. Behind him was a large mirror, most likely two-way, where others behind it would watch and scrutinize everything that went on. My own reflection was blocked by the man sitting in front of me and I felt compelled to avert my eyes and avoid trying to look at myself.
"Andrew," the other man said. "We're just trying to help you."
"Andrew!" I shouted at both of them in a mocking, high-pitched voice.
"Andrew, you have to understand why you're here."
"Andrew!" I shouted again. I could taste both of their thick colognes on my tongue, and it was making me feel sick. There was a twitch in my right hand, something I could never control ever since I was a child, especially in situations like this.
"Please, An-" the brown-haired man paused. "Please, just understand."
"I understand. I do understand," I said. "You're a cop and you've brought me in."
"I'm not a cop, I'm a detective," he said. The black-haired man stood silent.
"You've a gun and a badge, that makes you a cop; a pristine uniform with a few golden pins on its lapel in your closet, makes you think you're better than me. That smug look on your face! That iron fist at your side! It makes you a fascist-fuck and I hate you."
The brown-haired man looked down and sighed. It felt fake to me. There was sarcasm in the heat of his breath.
"Andrew..." he started.
"Andrew!" I blurted again. "Fucking Andrew! Never listens! You wonder why I'm here? I'm here because I killed those people. Eleven of them, slit their throats, watched their heads roll on the ground while I laughed." I smiled wide, my right hand shaking almost wildly at my side, "I fucking laughed."
"That didn't happen, Andrew," the black-haired man said. "You didn't hurt anyone."
"Yeah?" I said. "But I thought about it. I thought about it! Watched them in my head as their heads rolled. I could have done it. I should have done it. Rid this world of a near-dozen piles of filth - shit! - ugly little people who think their lives actually mean something. I put their pictures on my wall, to follow them until I knew when the time was right. Little Miss Prissy walking to work, tight ass, short skirt like she fucking wanted it. Bald-headed Suit with the thousand-dollar shoes, nose so brown he'd smell shit in a field of roses..."
The brown-haired man cleared his throat, "Andrew, we need you to understand that we're here to help."
"Is that why you brought tall-dark-and-ugly back there?"
The black-haired man seemed unfazed. The fascist bit his lip, “This is Mr. Samson, Andrew. He’s here to help you...” He paused briefly, then: “To help me help you.”
“Mr. Samson!” I said. “About as ugly as a dead-dog, and he smells like one, too. Are you a cop? Do you run your wife through with your little nightstick every evening like Mr. Detective Shit?”
“I’m a doctor, actually. It’s Dr. Samson.” His face was expressionless, “I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Well,” I said. “You know what, Dr. Samson? I’m not feeling too great. You see, you really remind me of someone I used to know.”
“And who’s that, Andrew?” Dr. Samson said.
“My father. And I didn’t like my father. In fact I didn’t like him so well at all, so much so that I ran him through with a knife. You know what I did after that?”
Silence.
I went on, saying, “I counted. I counted! One, two, three - each fucking heartbeat, each breath he took. Four, five - I could see all this blood! More with every count! I’ve never seen so much come out of a person before, not like that. Seven... He stopped breathing. His eyes turned white. I could smell his blood on my hands.”
I lowered my head between my knees and stared at the ground. My fists were both clenched on my lap and I could feel my heart pounding.
“Why did I do it?” I whispered.
“What’s that, Andrew?” the brown-haired man said.
I sat up, my lips drawn back, teeth grinding, “Why did I do it? Because I fucking could! I did it to see how far I could go, how much I could get away with. I would have killed those people if you gave me the chance. Not like I give a shit what you think about it. Fucking Andrew, murdering son-of-a-bitch who thinks he can get away with anything. Fucking Andrew, God-damned master of not giving a fuck.”
The psychiatrist and the fascist exchanged looks, a slight nod, and they both looked at me. Suddenly I felt very cold. The floor beneath by feet was liquid and the table beneath my hands was hard, smooth, and sharp.
Dr. Samson stepped closer to me, pulling a photograph from his pocket and placing it face down on the table in front of me. It's blank, white back was marked only by a single word: "Andrew".
I blinked, picking up on their silent cues.
"Look at the picture, Andrew," the brown-haired man said.
"Go ahead," the Doctor encouraged. "Take a look. What do you see?"
Slowly, I lifted my hand and gripped the photograph's edge, afraid - not sure why I was afraid - to turn it over. I felt like something was screaming at me, "Don't do it!" But I couldn't stop myself now.
The picture was simple, of a man with bright blonde hair and hazel eyes, sitting in a chair. Surprised, perhaps embarrassed, he had a hand lifted at his side, a sort of don't take a picture of me grin on his face. He looked and felt casual.
"Do you know who that is?" Dr. Samson asked me. I stared longer at the picture.
The man in this picture was relaxed and happy, comfortable with the lifestyle he was leading. He was free of stress, pleased with where the world had led him so far, and somehow I could this all just from looking at his picture.
"Andrew?" the Detective asked. "Are you listening, Andrew?"
"Don't call me that," I said, my voice low. "That's not who I am."
The detective smiled, sighed, "You're back, then?"
I nodded, straightened my posture and put the picture back down on the table. I felt like vomiting, but suppressed the urge with a deep breath. Dr. Samson placed a hand on my shoulder, an almost painful feeling through oversensitive skin, but still I glanced at him and smiled.
The detective cleared his throat, "Are you ready?"
I looked back to him, nodded once more.
"Why did he do it?" the detective asked. He furrowed his brow, ready to process any and everything I would say next.
"He was..." I weighed my words heavily, thinking them over before saying them for sure. "He was crazy. He hated his father. It was something deep and abusive, but he had put it away, dug it down deep so he could ignore it. But it was just one of those things that ate at him, corrupted him little by little on the inside." I took a breath, resisting the tears in my eyes as I adjusted in my seat. "He had a wife, kids, a house - fuck, and he'd throw it all away to satisfy some deep urge inside himself. He struggled with it for a long time - read some questionable literature, political and sociological shit, like that would give him purpose - but he never got help. Finally he just snapped, that's all it was. The obvious target was his father." I sighed, "You'd be surprised how far a 'normal' man can fall."
"Then why the others?" Dr. Samson asked. "Why did he want to kill more?"
"To see if he could. To feel that satisfying rush he got from murdering his father," I said. "It was an overwhelming sense of..." I looked for the right word, felt the experience reenacting in my own mind. "Catharsis. Complete and utter release from all the pain he'd ever felt. He wanted that again... As many times as he could get it."
The detective stood, "I think we've got what we need. Good job, Detective." He smiled, turning to a plain door in the corner of the room and exiting through it. I quickly lowered my eyes to avoid looking into the mirror, my eyes instead resting onto the picture of the man - Andrew. Meanwhile, Dr. Samson moved between me and door, saying, "Do you want to talk now?"
I tilted my head slowly, "Soon, but first, do you mind just grabbing me some water, or-"
Dr. Samson smiled, "Of course, no problem. I'll be right back." And with that, he too left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving me alone. Still in front of me was that two-way mirror and now, finally, I felt compelled to look into it.
I looked nothing like Andrew did, my features round and hair dark. I didn't have the subtle, outward happiness behind my eyes like he did. Instead, I was a psychological mess, my mind and body put under the inhuman stress of carrying around the emotional baggage and personalities of madmen, murderers, and rapists. But I was saving lives by getting a unique and personal look into these minds. It was exhausting, a little exhilarating, but somehow I couldn't help by worry about how much of myself I was leaving behind with each blend.
The real Andrew, the man in that picture, was still on trial. The evidence I provided, though controversial to some, had come to be almost a standard investigation practice amongst law enforcement. I had seen dozens of minds, sent hundreds of men to jail or Death Row due to my findings, and criminals nationwide began to fear the idea of their brains being picked at, their minds washed, their thoughts taken out and played around with like little toys to be manipulated. But it was what they deserved.
I am saving lives, I reminded myself again.
My hands at my sides, I felt the fingers of my right hand twitching.