An innocent girl, thorn in her heart.
Is she sane? A moment passes,
her darkest place stood still.
She pulled the trigger,
on her sleeping cancer.
Friday, 13 August 2010
Sunday, 8 August 2010
Play Dead- passage VII
"Our father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us for our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory. for ever and ever. Amen."
"Amen" I repeated after Father Sawyer, He spoke the Lords prayer in a constant, grizzly monotone. A pointless, twisted ritual.
I stood behind the Pastor. The room was dimly lit; accentuating the sparse furnishings, deepening the heavy maroon curtains, drawn threateningly shut. The only prominent object in the room was a large edwardian bed, neatly made with a red velvet covers and white silken sheets. On the bed in hideous, angelic contrast lay a pubescent, comatose girl.
It was clear, from her bruised and skeletal ribs she was badly beaten. Her gaunt face showed no signs of being untouched. It was clear, she was still so very young, fourteen? Maybe thirteen? her breasts were not fully formed and still so firm.
I noticed she was chained, spread-eagled and gagged. I shivered with a crippling glee. Sawyer slowly walked over to a video camera, nested in a prime position to capture the evenings proceedings. "Where did you get this one from Sawyer?"
"Marston pulled her straight out of school, said she came willingly, fresh and wanting." For a man of the cloth Sawyer was a constant liar, no one would ever come willingly to this place, to this pit and rancid hell-hole. "Did Marston give any specific instructions?" I watched Sawyer nod, "he said he wanted us to break her in for Sheriff Roscoe, make sure she bleeds well."
The red light showed on the camera and I walked towards the bed.
"Amen" I repeated after Father Sawyer, He spoke the Lords prayer in a constant, grizzly monotone. A pointless, twisted ritual.
I stood behind the Pastor. The room was dimly lit; accentuating the sparse furnishings, deepening the heavy maroon curtains, drawn threateningly shut. The only prominent object in the room was a large edwardian bed, neatly made with a red velvet covers and white silken sheets. On the bed in hideous, angelic contrast lay a pubescent, comatose girl.
It was clear, from her bruised and skeletal ribs she was badly beaten. Her gaunt face showed no signs of being untouched. It was clear, she was still so very young, fourteen? Maybe thirteen? her breasts were not fully formed and still so firm.
I noticed she was chained, spread-eagled and gagged. I shivered with a crippling glee. Sawyer slowly walked over to a video camera, nested in a prime position to capture the evenings proceedings. "Where did you get this one from Sawyer?"
"Marston pulled her straight out of school, said she came willingly, fresh and wanting." For a man of the cloth Sawyer was a constant liar, no one would ever come willingly to this place, to this pit and rancid hell-hole. "Did Marston give any specific instructions?" I watched Sawyer nod, "he said he wanted us to break her in for Sheriff Roscoe, make sure she bleeds well."
The red light showed on the camera and I walked towards the bed.
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Play Dead- passage VI
What would my Father of done? Killed her, thats what. Like he did my mother. Gave her a double dose of rock salt, straight in her chest, said it was self defense, said she was a whore. I hated him. Bastard.
I remember that day. I was twelve years old, it was summer. I was playing in the cornfields when I heard the scream. Heard the shots, and ran, through the corn towards the house. Towards the last memory of my Mother.
Her body lay on the floor, pheotal and bleeding, stillborn. An empty bottle of bourborn smashed on the floor , a thousand glistening shards stained crimson. One for each ruptured promise. Cracked and Beautiful.
My father, sweating and shaking, sat at the kitchen table, one hand perched on the broken shotgun. The other gripped his drink, her drink, my Mothers jasmine tea. He died six years later, in a car accident, he tried the brakes and they didnt work. I never went to his funeral.
I remember that day. I was twelve years old, it was summer. I was playing in the cornfields when I heard the scream. Heard the shots, and ran, through the corn towards the house. Towards the last memory of my Mother.
Her body lay on the floor, pheotal and bleeding, stillborn. An empty bottle of bourborn smashed on the floor , a thousand glistening shards stained crimson. One for each ruptured promise. Cracked and Beautiful.
My father, sweating and shaking, sat at the kitchen table, one hand perched on the broken shotgun. The other gripped his drink, her drink, my Mothers jasmine tea. He died six years later, in a car accident, he tried the brakes and they didnt work. I never went to his funeral.
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