Collection of short non W/T stories

[T.G.I.F.]

It was just meant to be a story on my blog, where I put all the random stuff that pops into my head. But then I remembered that I never shared any of my writing on the the board. So I thought what the hell, I just put it on here. It is very short, but I hope you like it.

The Weirdness of Mothballs

“I don’t feel anything,” I say while turning my head to the side to face the man sitting next to me. He raises his glasses from his nose a little with one of his aging hands and frowns. I see a weird resemblance between the just formed wrinkles on his forehead and the grey veins in the hand that is still holding the side of his glasses. His skin looks a little pale, no, more greyish actually. Which makes the vains more a weird shade of blue than gray. He sighs like he is trying to let me know he’s waiting for me to continue, but I don’t. “What are you supposed to feel young lady?” he finally askes when he realizes I remain silent. “I don’t know,” I answer while I am caressing the red velvet where the sofa is made of. The older man scrambles something in his notebook and coughs softly. “The feeling that everyone talks about,” I roll over to my side and place my hand under my head to support it.

“The big relief or something that I’m supposed to have after confessing something big.” He smiles politely and closes the notebook. “My child, no one is telling you what to feel. You can feel anything you want,” he says. I let myself fall back on the sofa while thinking about his words. “Yeah, but the thing is, I don’t feel anything,” I rub my eyes to wake myself up more in the hope that something will reach into my body, my brains or my heart. Wherever feelings were supposed to be. But nothing happens.

“It’s not that I don’t want to feel anything. Trust me, I do. It would make my life much easier, or simpler for you to determine a diagnosis.” I look at the man hopefully. Maybe he already knows what’s wrong with me, but he looks back at me like he is just as confused as I am. I continue my story like I am there for the first time and he’s a complete stranger to me. “I just feel lost, like I am expected somewhere but I don’t know the way, how to get there.” He silently picks up his notebook again and nods in agreement or understanding, I can’t really tell. “It is not so strange that you feel lost after what happened to you back then,” I can tell he is just trying to reassure me I’m not crazy.

“Is there anything in your youth that happened because of the incident, something weird?” he askes while staring at me like I could completely lose it right there and then. I shrug my shoulders and answer his question. “I ate some mothballs once,” I am telling the truth. It was the most weirdest thing I have ever done while I was little, Well afterwards it was, I was 5 years old and I thought it were peppermint balls. “I ended up in the hospital, to empty my stomach,” I ended the commentation. He nods quickly, I must have said something that is obvious in the world of psychologists. “Did you do that to get attention from your mother?” He sounds like he is really sure of his conclussion. “No, I just thought they were mints,” I respond like I know that wasn’t a case cracker.

He sighs again, he does sigh a lot actually when I think about it, and looks on his watch. “I’m afraid that our session for today is over miss Sadler. We will meet again next week for a consecutive session,” he stands up and checks his calendar that is lying on his very neat and orginazed desk. “Same day, same time?” I agree to the question while I put on my coat. He opens the door for me and when I walk trough I turn around to him. “What do you think doctor? Am I crazy?”, I ask him, afraid for the answer. “No, I think you’re just human.” Then the door closes behind me.

[SJ]

Great writing.

[T.G.I.F.]

Thank you very much. Here is another one I just finished.

The Mad Witness

So here I am, sitting in a witness stand for the first time in my life. In all of the thirtyfive years I was a well-acclaimed psychiatrist, I was never called to testify. Frankly that still suprises me, because –I say this as a overall remark, I do not want to break my oath of trust- I’ve had some serious mad cases on my sofa. But now while I’m standing up, I have another oath to take. With my hand on a book that is thousands and thousands of years old –and I still don’t even know if the content of it is in fact true or not- I have to swear that I will tell the truth and nothing but the truth while being in this locked judgement hall. I always found it quite remarkable that we have to swear on an object that isn’t solidly proven to be a source of truth itself. Well, that is a comment that can be debated by several populations in this country, or even on this whole planet called earth. For me it doesn’t work, but I don’t judge anyone who thinks it’s the guidance in their existence.

Because I place no value on the most famous and also most discussed book in the world, I decided right there and then to tell the truth if it was convenient to save my own ass. So, you may wonder how I ended up here, repeating the words said by the man who is standing right before me. Well, that might be a long and weird story, but I will try to make it as briefly as I can. About four years ago a young man walked into my office, well, more dragged in by his worried mother. The mother told me on the phone –when she called to confirm if I accepted new patients, because I was about to retire in less then two years, but that’s another story, which I will not bother you with- the boy was a loner. He used to be a very happy, social and active boy untill he went to middle school. He didn’t seem to fit in, he always came straight home after school and he never brought any friends with him. His mother tried to talk to him, but somehow he seemed unavailable for any human contact. The only time when he communicated to his mother at all was when he just snapped for no reason, he would trhow with whatever that was in his reach and he would blame her for things she didn’t even know he was talking about. He never talked to his father, ignored him the second they were both in the same place. He never looked him in the eyes, let alone he would speak to him.

I considered it to be a classic case, just some kid that was bullied when he transferred classes and thought his father wasn’t around enough when he was little. Boy, was I ever wrong. He sat on the sofa without making any sound while watching at his shoes for the first couple of sessions. Never looked up and I never pushed him. After a while he started to look at me like he was observing me, trying to figure out if it was safe to talk to me. I just patiently waited for him to make up his mind, luckily that didn’t take very long. When he lay down and started talking it was just small talk, but it was a start. Every session he seemed to open up more, he even started to make jokes. But whatever we talked about it was never about his problems. Untill one day I was putting away my notebook when suddenly out of the blue he said something that made me freeze right on the spot. I turned around and looked at him, checking if he really said what I thought he said. His eyes were dark, his face mad and expressionless at the same time. The sight of his appearance confirmed the words he just said, but he repeated them anyway. “My father raped me and now I want to kill him!”

**********************************************************

The next sessions he told me everything, it’s like he had enough of keeping it all to himself. I didn’t know if he really trusted me by then, or that he just needed to tell someone, before all of it suffocated him. I never talked him out of it, I encouraged him to talk about it. To explain every little thought about killing the man who fathered him, but also tormented and humiliated him. I thought that the more we talked about it, the more the anger and fury would slowly become less. And for a long while it seemed to work.

The cops showed up at my doorstep about a year ago. The father was found murdered, lying in the garage with a bullet through the front of his head. The murder weapon was nowhere to be found, so suicide was out of the question. Another big problem was that the son was missing, dissappeared without a trace. The police thought he had something to do with the death of his father and ran away out of fear. The mother noted that he had been in therapy at my practice, but I hadn’t seen him since I retired. But still these men where standing outside my door trying to find out if I had any idea where the boy could be. I told them I didn’t know anything, I still had my oath of trust –even if I was already retired- and I wouldn’t tell them. To be honest I didn’t want to tell them even if I was permitted to. Over the sessions I had with the boy he started to grow on me and I began to understand his motivation to kill his father. The stories the boy told me were so horrible that I started to hate this man myself. Sometimes the incidents were so detailed in his tellings that I fought the urge to throw up. I was getting to personal attached and I knew it, it was the main reason for me to retire a year early. The boy seemed fine, but I was more screwed up than ever.

They found the boy, all the evidence that was found and collected was pointing in his direction so he was arrested. Because I was his treating psychiatrist for a year I was called to testify on behalf of the boy’s mental state. So here I was. But how could I tell them the truth? I could never, too many was on stake. I was thinking about my wife and how I loved her, she was the centre of my universe. I smiled while picturing how lovely she was this morning. Sitting at the breakfast table, while the sun lightened up her hair. She was lost in todays newspaper, scissors lay next to it. Like every Friday she was sorting coupons, a habit she had for all the fortythree years they were together.

I couldn’t do it, I had to lie. I turned my head when they took him away, to ashamed to look him in the eye. He had to suffer for the cruelty I commited. I slowly looked up when he was almost out of the room, just before he was dragged through the door he turned his head and looked straight in my eyes. He had the same look in his eyes as his father, seconds before he died. The look of pure fear.

[SJ]

Great read.

[T.G.I.F.]

The Darkest Room in my Imagination

Sometimes things get a little clouded inside my head. It’s like being surrounded by a giant fog and it makes things a little darker than they normally are. But the weird part of it is that it gives me peace. Standing alone in some place that no one can enter, feeling totally in control. Everything is possible. Sinister objects or beings feel totally normal and comforting. The window to the outside world is covered with greace and dirt from neglection. It’s colder inside than outside were the sun is shining and the sky looks blue, though it’s hard to see through the decayed window. Due to the temperature difference condens formed on the spots that are slightly cleaner than the rest of the glass. Waterdrops escape and find their way down to end up in a small puddle that is resting on the tiled windowsill. The room smells like a mix of rot and mold, penetrating my nostrills while I wrap my arms around my own body to warm myself. The walls are covered with wallpaper that has been there for years. The corners are curled up and some small strips came of the walls completely. Bigger parts that still stick to their subsoil have lost their original color when the occupants left. There are words written on them. Words that used to have a meaning to me. Feelings I used to have when I was younger. Names of people I have met. Persons that were very important for a certain period in my life, some I called friends. Others just acquaintances I met once, maybe twice. A few of them I can’t even remember. But they are up there, so it must have some kind of connection with the person I am today. My fingers trace the letters while my heavy breathing causes small puffs along the frosty wall.

Dried blood has found its place on the wooden floor, creaking with each step I take. The red fluid seeped through the boards in some places, blending with the mice corpses that are dissolving in the dust and sand. The blood trail leads back to a knife that is lying in the corner of the room. It is part of the voices I occasionaly hear, trying to get through from some far away place. Its sound familair but yet so unknown and obscure. Those cry outs used to be a result from feeling lonely and desperate. They are a reflection of my deepest fears and darkest places. Only to be silenced by the knife that is still lying on the floor. But I am no longer sitting beside it, I do not control its movement and journey along my skin anymore. I am just an observer, an audience in the most sinister room in my head.

I only visit randomly to assure myself that I am not her anymore, a scared fragile thirteen year old girl trying to hide from the big bad world. I am living it now, with two feet firmly anchored to its fruitful soil. No more attempts to escape.

Sometimes she still sits in the corner, the knife in her hand. On these occasions I sit down next to her and we talk. Sometimes she tells me things to help me write my stories. How she experiences life and death, describing the few friends that make her smile, even if it's infrequently. She still is a part of me, even if she is totally different person than the woman I’ve become. But she is not here today, and I knew she wouldn’t be. I just wanted to know if the view from the window had changed. But the sky is still blue, the sun is shining and the grass is green. It even seems greener today. I’m glad that it’s getting better there, it’s the place where I am living now. But yet I feel sorry for her that the grass is still getting greener on the other side. A side that she will experience when she grows up, but now will make her feel even more aboned and misunderstood on this dark side. I let my hand rest on the glass of the window and it gives me the chills. My hand trembles lightly and I pull it back. I notice the blue veins that are lying just beneath my skin and realize it is almost seventeen years later and I am older.

It is time to get back outside and I turn around. I see myself staring back from a broken mirror that is hanging on the door. An almost translucent appearance flickers through my reflection and then dissapears again. I smile slightly and open the door. I leave while it closes itself behind me. A little girl is staring into the room from the mirror.

[T.G.I.F.]

The Deathly Hangover

I’m all out of vodka and the sigarettes have all turned into ash and filter stubs. My mind takes trampoline jumps from suffocated highs to numb depths. The second hand on my watch is eating time, time I can’t take back. It’s been an hour since I left you there. Death and half eaten by these walking corpses that used to be humans. It’s hard to imagine that these things, because that is what they are, empty shells with only a craving for flesh, human flesh, used to have feelings. The experience of hearbreak, love, dispair and happiness. All that they do now is eating it away, eating you away and I couldn’t save you. I just witnessed the horror of the love of my life being ripped out of my life, just seconds before I ran away, saving my own ass. I managed to find an abandoned bar, complete with fallen bottles all over the floor. All of them broken except one bottle of vodka. But that bottle of stronger spirits is now nothing more than an empty shell, just like the living death. I curled up against the bar, nauseous from the large amount of alcohol and the sound of hungry corpses just outside.

One moment I wanted to go outside and kill them all to revenge you, but the next second I couldn’t care less if the tear me apart completely. I had nothing left. Before I lost you we hadn’t seen any sign of life anywhere in days. We lived on canned food for the same amount of time and my stomach began to protest in combination with the vodka and my despair. I don’t know why I was still trying to survive right now. I wanted nothing more than to put out of my misery, but I wouldn’t go down without a statement of disapproval of this whole invasion. If this was the apocalypse it would know that I was the last one standing.

I raised myself from the ground and started to gather all the small amounts of liquor that stayed behind in the broken bottles that were scattered all over the floor. I poured it all in an old small ked that was still standing in a corner as decoration. I torn the billiard cloth that was already damaged to small strips and drenched it in the alcohol that was left after filling the keg, and hung the end of one of them in it. The floor was already sooked in it from the mess that was created. I took the ligther that you gave to me on our five year anniversary, our names and date engraved in the silver outside. I kissed it and stept towards the door.

The moment I stepped outside, thousands of empty looking eyes stared at me. I got in front of the door, spread my arms and yelled at these flesh eating suckers. “If you want me, you have to get me.”
The gathering of deaths started to move in my direction. Their growling piercing through my brains. I ran inside and placed myself a few yards away from the keg. I looked at their rotten faces when they came in. They made me sick and filled me with hate. “F*cking zombies,” I said out loud to myself. The most anterior was close enough for my nostrils to catch the putrid smell. I gagged and placed my hand over my mouth when I felt something stabbing my leg. One of these bastard had put his teeth into my spawn. I started to laugh incredibly hard. I felt invinsible even though I knew I would be dying within a few seconds. I clenched my right hand into a fist and squeezed the lighter very hard before opening the top and lit it. “You are going with me losers!” I yelled for the last time. I felt the heat of the flames crawling up my arm and I heard a big bang. It was done.

[T.G.I.F.]

I am working on my first novel called 'The twisted life of a single almost thirty year old girl' and I posted a preview of the first chapter on my blog. But as sweet as I am I will also post it here.

It is totally R-rated, so read at your own risk!

One thing is true about single women who are turning thirty. We shamelessly reminisce about the twenty-nine years we have already lived, and try to figure out where things went wrong. Obsessively wondering why we are still single is a big part of our daily routine, even if we loudly pronounce at every party that we are happily single, and that it’s a delight not to justify everything we do or descide to a life partner.

To be honest, I was single for a very long time now, and sure I was really enjoying myself just fine. I went through my daily activities without any significant problems, and at weekends I celebrated the ending of the past workweek with some friends. Drinking beers and other beverages while scaring people off with our old fasioned dancemoves at our favorite bar. But it was a dread to end up alone in bed after a fun night like that. It wasn’t really about sex, and I am certainly not a type for one night stands. Please don’t misunderstand me, I like sex, a lot even. But the whole akward morning after where you have to figure out how to get out of your briefly met bedpartner’s house wasn’t really that appealing to me. It kind of leads to the fact that I have to help myself in that area regularly. And I am in no way ashamed to admit it. Masturbation is not something that only boys and men claim to have a lot of experience in, and I don’t understand that are many women in this world that never laid a hand on themselfs.

I mean, how else can you find out what you really like when it comes to sex? I’ve had my share of different sexual partners, men and women, who really didn’t have a clue about what they were doing. For instance, my clitoris is not a door bell. I don’t open up quicker if you’re keep pressing on it repeatedly like you’ve got chased and my house is the only one around to find shelter. And it really does not share any similarities with a postage stamp, it’s not going to stick any harder if you’re licking it like your life is depending on it. It is a delicate part of the erogenous zones, and it needs to be handled with respect and care if you want to get something out of it. But the truth is, when you really love someone, these are not such insurmountable problems. I’d rather have sex with someone who loves me back and is willing to try and please you than have casual sex with a person that you only shared a few superficial sentences with in some obscure bar. Personally I like the whole bed activity more when there are feelings involved. Not to say that I never had any casual sex, in fact I am not as innocent as most people think I am. But I like the romantic kind of sex, or as they say 'the luuvmaking', more. The only problem about it is that you have to go through the whole dating circus first. And I am not really good in that area.

The first problem is that when I like somebody, I turn into some insecure retard who is questioning everything she does. Am I subtle enough? Because I don’t want them running in the opposite direction, screaming. Am I too subtle? So the other one doesn’t even have a clue that I am interested. I mean, I already feel like a weird stalker when I text someone more than once without any reply from their side. And when the miracle happens that I finally have a date I turn completely shut, making a complete fool of myself. Or even worse, I just keep on rambling about things that nobody wants to know, ever! Like enumerating very weird random facts, that I secretly love. But I know that not everybody shares that interest with me. For example, I know that dolphins are the only mammals besides humans that have sex for pleasure and not just for reproduction. Or that the king of hearts in a deck of cards is the only king without a moustache. And my favorite fact is that both Whoopi Goldberg and the Mona Lisa have no eyebrows. But sometimes I have the incredible luck that someone is able to sit through multiple dates with me and it grows into a relationship after a while. But the lack of succes on that matter, I blame completely on myself. Because I myself am not that difficult when it comes to finding a suitable partner. If you are sweet, funny and I can have a descent conversation with you, you’re as good as in. Top it of with a wonderful smile and I am sold! So I am the weirdo that you’re stuck with on a date.

[Laragh]

I pretty much died at the doorbell analogy

[Ariel]

The doorbell rang true for me too; but I couldn't laugh - it hurt, damn it! Fresh stuff - thanks for sharing it!