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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Smoke drifted out of the gun rising higher in a room of silence. I saw his dead body now limp, sprawled on the floor, with liquid the color of lipstick leaking out from two holes in his chest cavity. I stopped, I stared, I remained motionless. In that moment after letting the hammer fall and thunder striking, I could see that he really loved me. He just wasn't so good at showing it.
"I'm sorry Dad."
|
Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
If you're reading this, I'm sorry.
I believe myself to be of strong moral character. I would never have put someone into this position if I could have avoided it. A great curse was laid upon me and I have found freedom by thrusting it upon you. Right now, from your point of view this all probably seems incredible. Like a dream where you can fly. Before you curse my name, please understand that it wasn't my fault. It had to happen.
I'm getting ahead of myself here though. I think it'll help you to better understand if I start closer to the beginning.
I was a young man, not much older than yourself when I took my first trip away from home. The world was a different place then. Slower. Calmer. I was bored and restless so I sought out adventure. I found it in Vienna. I had seen a flyer once for an opera there and had heard of the great architecture and art. I was an artist then you see, so I was captured by the city. So much so in fact that after less than a week I had spent all of my money. I was too embarrassed to go home or ask for more. I tried to live by painting but I had some trouble selling my art and gave it up completely after some pretty embarrassing rejections.
That is when it happened. I was drunk, fresh off a new school rejection. It was late and I had nowhere to go. I found myself on a bench in a park. I hadn't been there long before an older, wealthy man took a seat beside me. We talked for a few moments when he asked me if I'd like to be given a gift. A gift that no one had ever seen before. I thought that maybe he had indulged the spirits a bit more than myself but I humored him. He gave out a satisfied sigh as he pulled his "gift" out from under his jacket. In his hand was a revolver. In one swift motion the gun was cocked and pointed in my direction.
"In a moment, one of us will be dead. This is my gift to you." the old man said as he moved to hit me with the pistol. He was old but stronger and quicker than he should have been. The hit landed hard and I fell but the man hesitated and that gave me enough time to kick his legs out from under him. As he hit the ground the gun flew out of his hand and in my direction. I wouldn't repeat his mistake. I wouldn't hesitate I thought to myself as I grabbed the pistol and shot him dead.
I felt sick to stomach as I looked at him there, but only for a moment. I felt a warmth swell inside. Close to an orgasam but deeper, more intense. I felt stronger too.
Some nearby shouting brought me back to reality and I fled. I ran all night before I realized that I couldn't do that before. I wasn't tired or hungry. Something had happened to me but I didn't understand what until the withdrawal set in.
It had been a month since the old man had given me his gift. I had been in the best shape of my life for weeks when I started to notice symptoms. Deep headaches and aching, throbbing joints. I had overwhelming nausea and couldn't sleep for days on end. I tried every cure and snake oil I could find but nothing worked. Every day became a new hell, worse than the day before. I set out to end my own life but was unable to accomplish the task. Every time I tried I woke up the next morning, healed of all wounds but still sick inside.
In my most desperate hour I remembered the old man and how I had felt right after killing him. I decided that I'd kill again. Maybe I'd feel better, or maybe they'd kill me. Either way I had to have relief. So I set about my task, planning and executing a murder. It worked, but not as much as I thought it would. I had to kill again, and again to stay healthy. Each time I had to kill more and more people to feel better. Each time I hoped they would kill me.
When I would kill, I would take a part of them into myself. I don't know how, but I could feel them there. I could look into their thoughts for answers to questions. I used them to gain power. I used the power to satisfy my pain. If the world refused to let me die then I would do my best to kill the world. I started a political party and using my new found "skills" and power I was able to feed my addiction at every increasing levels. I was able to manipulate people because I understood them all. I had killed so many and seen into their minds. It was easy to mislead them. I used those that helped me and killed anyone in my way. I almost took the world before they trapped me in this bunker.
I couldn't kill myself, but I suspected you could do it for me. That's why I ordered you to give me the poison. It was a suicide, but one by your hands. Enough for me to be free of this curse. I hope you'll be stronger than me. I hope you'll find a way to end yourself before being consumed by it.
Destiny awaits you as hell awaits me.
Sincerely,
Adolf
|
Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Call it a rush. Meeting new people. Appraising them. The catalogue of my mind is full from charming first dates, and it's ever growing fuller. I can't cram just anyone in there
But this one seems worth it.
This evening's date--Thalia, 33, originally from Norway, now here on my side of the world by some careful working of fate--met me at Aux Trois Capitaines. Good setting. She's charmed, I'm charming. Instant spark.
We hit it off, instantly.
I've been doing this a while. I have met many people. For me, the gender matters less than the person: who they are, what they have done. But she is one of the most interesting.
Her hobby is mountain climbing. She is a polyglot dabbling in nearly ten languages. In school she studied organic chemistry, a skill whose usefulness I can't think of now, but it is rare in such a pleasant person. She has seen
The champagne bubbles like the blood in my brain. I watch her smooth pale arms move and wonder at seeing the Balkans through her eyes. Or how the world looked from the top of Kilimanjaro as she stood there, gasping and humbled by the vastness of the world.
I love her. I crave her.
That's the best part. The exhilarating part. It is what brings me back to some bar or restaurant somewhere, anywhere, over and over again. As long as I can feel that spark. That forward tug of compulsion that cries, *I need you and your everything.*
I offer to walk her to the train station. She seems relieved, tipsy and delighted. We walk holding hands. She is wobbly in her heels.
I draw her down an alley, promising a shortcut. The look she gives me is halting, hesitant.
"C'mon," I say. "I grew up here. I know what I'm doing it."
That or the alcohol in her brain convinces her. She follows me into the dim, giggling stupidly about muggers in America.
My belly rises in delight. I can hear nothing beyond my own blood roaring in my ears.
Call it a rush. In that final second you can hear the both of us, our thoughts and selves inextricably wound together thenceforth. Your life changed, irreversibly, and become mine.
I reach for her face as if to kiss her. When she relents to me I grab her by her skull and slam her head into the wall. She makes a stunned sparrow cry and looks at me in horror.
Just before she dies, I think how lovely her fear looks. She realizes with animal panic that she doesn't want to die.
And then I open her skull against the stone. She slumps bonelessly down, leaving behind a splatter of blond hair and brain like spaghetti on the brick wall.
It was unbefitting, to ruin someone as lovely as her. But I just couldn't wait another moment to get her inside of me.
"*Farvel og takk*," I say. Goodbye, and thank you.
|
Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Beer bottles and pizza boxes were scattered across the room. My phone had a dozen messages and as many missed calls from worried friends who hadn't seen me except online in a week.
They wouldn't understand.
I couldn't get it out of my head. The rush, the endorphins - it was the highest high I'd ever had. No games, no sports, no alcohol or drugs from college, nothing touched it.
Beer and games and pizza, anything that shut down my mind with these memories that weren't mine. I needed to stop thinking, because thinking inevitably led to that moment.
Honestly though, a mugger? Targeting me? I guess I'm not poor. I could afford this week of food and booze. But why me? I didn't have any cash. My coat's not that nice. I was just walking in the cold. But then that knife. It was dark out, but somehow it glinted anyways. I thought that was a camera trick in movies or whatever, but Jesus that blade caught any light around when he held it out.
Really I just pushed him. I pushed him and it was snowing and icy and he slipped. A simple slip that's all. Straight backwards, and *crack* - his head against the concrete. Maybe in a field the blood and the snow would look poetic, but there, in the muddy slush, it just looked like rusty iron.
But then the sensation. Like I was drawing the life from that opening in his skull. Like I was drinking it. He was great at tool and die work I found out. But everything went to shit with the Big Three folding here in Michigan. Lost his job, never told his wife. Just took to the streets eight hours a day - panhandling, petty thieving, shoplifting for presents. Whatever worked. Until today. Poor woman. What a way to find out.
Someone had called the cops, and they found me there staring at him five minutes later. Said I was in shock, gave me a shiny blanket. That whole deal. Took my statement, and that of the witness who called. The whole thing seemed cut and dry. No charges pressed anywhere said the police. The family I'm sure is mourning.
Me? I've got the shakes. Bad. Worse than the line of coke I did once. My neighbor's some kinda cleaning person for crime scenes. They told me about it once. Pretty up a house so it's liveable again. Fix up a workplace so people will come back, maybe forget in a while.
I never learned how to use a press, but I'm sure I could do it now after the last guy.
Damn it. I knew I shouldn't let myself think.
|
Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
The first person I killed was Andy Chang, a fifty-five-year-old doctor.
My car collided with his body. He tumbled across the darkened sidewalk and crunched against the curb.
I thought I was dying too.
My world exploded with light and colour- swirls of memories and pain. Shrill music echoed in my head. I threw open the door and vomited onto the road. Beige chunks splattered my boots.
Chang’s body was a crumpled heap; dark red clumps spilled from his head over his grey peacoat. His rounded glasses lay next to the sewage drain, the lens cracked and frames bent. One shoe sat in front of my sedan. Chang’s white sock darkened with the rain.
A couple yelled something from across the street. *Help him*.
It jolted me out of my shock. I hadn’t considered the possibility Chang might be alive.
“Call 911,” I directed the young woman.
I pulled off my scarf and held it against the blood spilling from Chang’s head. “Hold this here,” I direct an onlooker. “Don’t stop pressing.”
I hovered over Chang’s body and tilted my ear over his mouth. I watched his chest and looked for any rise or fall. I pressed my fingers against the side of his upper neck looking for a pulse.
Nothing.
*Landmark* I told myself. I lined my hands up and began to press.
I pumped against his sternum.
Two inches down. Recoil. Down again. And again.
Tilt the head, open the airway. Two breaths.
Compressions again.
And again.
When the paramedics arrived I already knew Chang was dead. If the impact hadn’t killed him, the blood he lost would have.
Later, the police arrived.
Chang was at fault - he was jaywalking. Stepped out from between two parked cars.
“The witnesses said you acted quickly, miss,” Officer Dawkins said.
“I only wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did all you could. Quick thinking and first aid can’t solve everything.”
I nodded.
And then frowned.
I had never taken a first aid course.
Last month, when my roommate sliced the tip of her pinky off with the vegetable knife, I was the one who passed out.
I didn’t realize until that night, when Chang’s memories flooded in, what had happened.
I also didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip into my new life.
I craved it.
The thud of the body.
A burst of light and colour.
Swirls of memories and pain.
Shrill music echoing in my head.
And a rush of new talent.
/r/liswrites
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Journal entry # 1 (Day 1):
As I shot the man I felt as lifeless as the cold, dead body he was about to be. For a while. Then it hit me, everything that was him was now me. Even the pain. It burns. So. Much. But everything else, oh so delightful. Surreal in other words.
The rush of taking a man's life has no equal. The feeling of living, experiencing another man's life is like a drug. You're not yourself for a while. But once you've absorbed everything, the feeling goes away. All that remains are memories. I am me again.
Michael, whoever you are. Thanks for the memories, & the wallet.
Journal entry # 2 (Day 5):
I've killed again. But this time it was not of necessity. I wanted to not be me again, even if only for a while. I grow tired and weary of this existence. All my joy has been swept away. What once brought smiles avross my face now bring nothing. I grow emotionless.
This kill was different. His name was Gerald. Tall man. Hard to subdue but I habe my methods. Back to Gerald.
He lived a too short but fulfilling life. A pilot by trade, athlete by heart. I've always wanted to fly but I've always been afraid of heights. Ironic, I know. Gerald had a gorgeous woman for a wife. Great in bed. The last week of his life had been his best. Got a raise; Celebrated the birth of his first child; Flew his first commercial jet. Then he ran into me.
I pretended to be someone he knew. He asked me if I was one of his passengers. His downfall was that question. From there I worked my way into getting him to have lunch with me today.
STAB.
I felt the pain of his last memory. His dying breath. Everything until his body hit the ground. Thank you, and sorry, Gerald.
Journal Entry # 3 (Day 20):
It's been 2 weeks since Gerald. I grow weary of my existence. I am not who I want to be. Knowing I could be someone else drives me insane. It's a literal out of body experience. I need it. The feeling. The memories. The joy I lack. I miss it. I couldnt care less about their suffering. The joy they have brings me joy.
It's 10 a.m. I've had my coffee. I hate it. It wakes me up to this futile life.
Journal Entry # 4 (Day 34)
Is this how vampires feel like when they go for long periods of time without blood? I think so. I write infrequently. This isn't a daily thing. I remember why I write here. Its to keep me sane, the written word. My thoughts scatter. I feel the urge again. Nothing on this Earth compares to the rush of taking a man's life. Later, I will strike. And even if for just a moment, I will be happy.
Journal Entry # 5 (Day 35)
I feel ecstatic! I am writing this in front of some girl strapped onto a chair, my next victim. She calls me looney. I say deprived. This is my first live writing session. No detail left unimagined.
Her name is Jean. I found her lying on the street near the office, the dreaded white cubicle of despair. Oh Jean, thank you for this.
Adrelaine fills me as I slowly slice her arms. Her muffled screams but an appetizer for what's to follow. As I say that no one will her, a street dweller, I see the tears drip from her eyes filled with fear. She pleads for mercy, or so I think. I can't discern anything from the duct tape.
I carry on slowly cutting her arms, dicing her skin as if it had a grid pattern. My garage now soaked in blood. I won't let her bleed out. So I slit her throat.
SLASH.
I AM HER. The joy of this feeling! She used to be a banker. Happy days, happy days! Then her husband, Kent, what a douchebag, left her. Left her with nothing, nothing at all. THE PAIN! I HATE IT. IT'S ALL PAIN IN HER LIFE FROM HERE ON OUT. EVICTION. DEBT. OSTRACISM FROM FAMILY. DENIAL BY FRIENDS. NO. IT'S ME.
I see me. I can't believe I am about to experience the pain I dealt to her. THE CUTS! THE CUTS!
Journal Entry # 6 (Day 36)
I blacked out yesterday. I woke up on the floor drenched in blood. I have to clean up.
Journal Entry # 7 (Day 42)
This is a double-edged sword. Not everyone is happy. The happier you are the harder you are to kill. In my case as I am now, I'm as good as dead. One more. Just. One. More. Kill.
Journal Entry # 8 (Day 70)
I have neglected my writing, no wonder I grow more insane. I think the awareness of my sanity is the only reason why I write. A placebo, a fun one nonetheless.
I have been planning my next kill for a good month's time. I hate my job, I hate my boss. I will kill my boss, Harold.
I have prepared an elaborate plan. I will write about it when the time comes.
Journal Entry # 9 (Day 77)
FUCK! I MESSED UP!
All was going smoothly until Kylie. Damn receptionist! Mind your own fucking business!
I went early to set-up everything. I put up laughing gas I had acquired from a "friend". This caused hysteria & panic after I had it opened. While everyone was out of their minds I would lure my boss, Harold to my car if not for Kylie. She saw my stuff! My office floor plans, the receipt for the laughing gas, the notes, everything. Harold was already in the goddamned car by that time.
NO WITNESSES.
I forced her into my car. Everyone saw me. The whole office. I'm in too deep. I panicked. I could have avoided all this bullshit! I'm pretty sure the cops will come looking for me. Harold and Kylie are both tied up in my basement. I will deal with them ASAP.
Journal Entry # 10 (Day 84)
I left as fast as I could. In the past week I managed to transport both Harold, & Kylie to an undisclosed location by the shore.
I can't wait to dig into them.
Journal Entry # 11 (Day 85)
I just finished setting up my new "home". I turned on the news to relax before my play time. I was on the news. Apparently there's a manhunt for me. I AM INFAMOUS! If that's what they want I'll just have to play my role.
Journal Entry # 12 (Day 86)
Harold. Harold. Harold.
I cut into this pig's belly. Fat from greed. He's the definition of a bad boss. He grew money hungry & abused his power. What a fat fuck. He'll be soooo skinny when I'm done with him.
I continue to lacerate his stomach. His guts spill out. I kick them back in. The writhing pain remains etched on his face. What a noisy motherfucker. I cut his tongue and make him choke on it. As he gargles his own blood I feel his imminent death. AHHHH, sweet, sweet memories.
Damn. Harold was always fat. Well fed. Spoiled. He never had a hard life. Lucky bastard. I am enjoying this. He lived way faster than he could run. Goodbye fatso & thanks for the memories.
I need to rest. Tomorrow's a special day. Its Kylie's turn.
Journal Entry # 13 (Day 87)
KYLIE!
She will suffer. Although I hated life, I never wanted it to end this way. A criminal on the run, & worst of all, imagine all the other lives I could have lived. Bye bye bitch.
I cut her mercislessly with no remorse. I mixed glue & salt on my blade which I then dipped in lemon juice. She'll feel this. I don't care if I will feel it too. I want her to feel it first.
Not to sound sadistic, but let's just say no hole was left uncut. The pain of every slash was etched on her face. Sweet bliss.
As her body died on her I lived her life. I kinda feel sad for her. Foster kid. Thrown into different homes. Abused by various "fathers", hell even Harold. Her pain. I feel it. I want it to stop.
It's the first time I cried since my first kill. Kylie, I know I can't take it back. I'm sorry. I mean it.
Journal Entry # 14 (Day 91)
They've found me. They finallu found me. I write this as the police are trying to break the doors. I've decided I will have to kill myself. I don't want to rot in jail. To whomever will read this. Goodbye. I never intended this to be read by anyone else but me, as I kept this journal to check in on my sanity.
I write this as the police bang louder on my door. I put a gun to my mouth.
BANG.
End of Journal Entries
NO.
I WANTED TO ESCAPE THIS LIFE. I AM ABSORBING MYSELF. NO. NOT AGAIN. NOT LIFE.
My life flashes before my eyes. Limbo.
Journal Entry # 1 (Day 1)
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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I'm a bot, *bleep*, *bloop*. Someone has linked to this thread from another place on reddit:
- [/r/highlander] [\[WP\] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.](https://www.reddit.com/r/highlander/comments/7ignwl/wp_you_accidentally_kill_a_person_you_instantly/)
 *^(If you follow any of the above links, please respect the rules of reddit and don't vote in the other threads.) ^\([Info](/r/TotesMessenger) ^/ ^[Contact](/message/compose?to=/r/TotesMessenger))*
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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I am an Irish or maybe Scottish character from a show called highlander in which I weild a monster of a sword and as an eventuality will become the last of my kind since we are all trying to kill each other and I'm the main character of the show.
Also I created /r/iamverybadass
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
|
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Rey Crave, he was a normal traveler, he appeared one day in this village filled with dirt, horse shit, and sand asking for temporal refuge. He looked suspicious as all hell, but even so, they accepted him. It might have had to do with the fact that he had a lot of money in his person or because he was really charming.
He made a name for himself in this town, not only he was touring, he was helping out when he could and even sometimes when he shouldn't. All of his goodwill was breath of fresh air for the town, they didn't like him at first, but eventually, all suspicion was lost. They were used to travelers making a mess when they arrived and not cleaning up when they left. it was the kind of town no one cared for.
Despite all of this, he wasn't someone who stood out much, unlike some of the people who lived here, he didn't have any special talent whatsoever, all he had was his goodwill and that special charm that made people trust him as if people were drawn to him, identify with him somehow, until eventually he was known by all.
He was offered a chance to move in here, he was so appreciated that he was offered to work for one of the richest people in town, as a servant. He, of course, accepted, he had no reason to refuse. He lived and worked in that house for years, he was a nice addition to it and as expected made everything in the house flow better.
He lived a normal life, made close friends, fell in love and eventually got a house on his own. he started a family and even had children, or so I'm told.
But, what was his objective? his *original* objective, it feels like he came to this town for some other reason than just sightseeing, it's almost like he forgot midway what he was supposed to do and decided to leave everything behind. I knew of Rey, he had many different names, many different builds and many different personas, for every town he visited. For every town, he *ate*.
And this is just like those cases, and at the same time is not, probably because it's the last? or probably because he actually liked this good for nothing town that had nothing precious to offer his being? I guess his objective and his origins is something I'll never know, not in the state he is in now.
In the distance, I could see a half destroyed building, the remains of his house. I could see something red and black pulsating within, like a heart, and the cries and moans of all the people that lived in this good for nothing town, they were like faces carved on his gigantic form, twitching, bleeding from every injury the many muscular arms that erupted from within his body provided.
But no matter how much he tried, there isn't a single talent nor a single action that could help him, no amount of intelligence could help him now and of course, the memories only reminded him of all the lives he forcibly took. forever haunting him.
He couldn't do it, he wasn't able to kill himself, to take out all the people he absorbed after his addiction took over, and of course there was nothing I could do, just a normal traveller chasing after legends, only watch as he suffered in there for eternity trapped in a cage of meat, the many lives he took screaming at him in a thousand voices.
***
Any critique you can provide is really appreciated - [r/Onni21](https://www.reddit.com/r/Onni21/)
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
|
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
The trembling finally subsided, but even as I gazed at my hands there was still a sort of ethereal aftershock subtly and persistently effecting my perception. Even the normal exercise of recalling memories seemed strained and foreign, as if the empty space normally occupied by only my mind was somehow finding resistance and invisible obstacles. I could not direct my inner eye directly at the source of this resistance, it seemed to hover just on the edge of my awareness darting away as I turned towards it, seeping obstruction into my intentions when I tried to turn away from it.
Finding the proper delicate balance between attention and avoidance finally, like overcoming the surface tension of water, I managed to break through this emergent barricade between my mind and memories. It hit me all at once, the accident played back in my head like two overlapping movie reels. On one reel, the memories made sense, they were the memories of myself in my car heading down the road that I drive every day on my commute home. I remember the hypnotic effects of the approaching headlights on the opposite side of the road, and the brief wonderment I felt as a pair of lights broke off from the endless stream and suddenly grew larger and larger until the light was all that I saw, until abruptly darkness descended.
The second reel was causing me to feel nauseous, the images did not match any I had ever seen before. The car interior was not a car I'd ever driven in, the hands gripping the wheel were not mine. A phone on the passenger seat was ringing and the name displayed on the screen was not a name I recognized, but at the same time none of the scene felt completely foreign to me. I felt on some deep level, and knew that this was not a dream, or a fabricated thought - this memory was as genuine as the first. The scene continues from the first person point of view and I reach down for the ringing phone, but an unlucky bump on the road causes the phone to fall in front of the seat. The call suddenly feels critically important, the name on the screen starts to pop out at me with urgency so I pursue the phone during its tumble. As my hand inches on the floor towards the phone I feel my body weight shift sideways and my hand on the steering wheel is jerked towards the passenger seat. I never even manage to get my hand fully around the phone before the sound of screeching metal and crumpling plastics give way to darkness.
I gasp for air and look up from my hands again. I look around and see the wreckage all around me. I'm sitting in my ruined SUV, the back end of a small sedan sticking out from underneath my smoking hood and emergency lights extending in every direction.
I suppose this numb feeling is shock, but its something more. I dont feel nothing, I feel too much. When I think back on the events leading up to the accident, my mind forks and I have two divergent mornings. The further removed from the accident I get, the less I can remember which memory feels more genuine. Sitting in the back of an ambulance with a blanket wrapped around me I try thinking back further than this morning. I somehow have access to two entirely different minds, full of their own history and memories and feelings of joy and pain. I can remember birthdays surrounded by two entirely distinct sets of families, I can remember schoolyard conflicts from entirely different districts, and most discerning I can remember two entirely different faces looking back at me from the mirror.
The realization that my mind was no longer alone would have brought the old me to my knees, but this new me, this dual me had a different idea.
We returned home, our lives forever changed and intertwined. I still had a vague idea of self, but no longer choose to identify in the singular. That was the old me, this new me will go forward as a plurality, embracing my diversity of mind. We quickly ascended the stairs to the master bedroom. The house was entirely empty and silent except for the faint beeping of electronics, and the slight rustling of bed sheets as the cat adjusted itself at the foot of the bed.
Next to the bed, machines stood stoicly all around it, beeping the melancholy song of life support systems. Wires of every gauge seemed to run from the computers into and onto the woman in the bed. Seeing the woman brought a powerful surge of energy to the original host of my mind and quickly that plurality was push aside in favor of the original self.
Her eyes were closed as they had been for almost two decades now. Twenty years asleep in a coma the doctors said was irreversible. If I had any tears left I wouldve shed them, but my dried up ducts remained without wetness as I leaned in to kiss her forehead. While my lips touched her forehead, I let my self-mind relax as I reached towards the power cord supplying energy to the machines supporting my wife's mortal slumber. I did not have the strength alone to do what must be done, but with my new duality I found it possible. We pulled the cord out of the wall and heard the somber songs of the machines fade into a susurrus.
Our breath caught, our heart seemingly frozen in time between beats. Suddenly, I could feel it. My mind, once mine alone, had gained another occupant. This new addition was a blazing beacon of light, dwarfing every other emotion and memory I'd ever felt with overwhelming waves of love and warmth. Every late night whisper, every book and joke, every loving caress was amplified and magnified to infinite degrees. It vaporized the very essence of the loneliness and sadness built up over the past two decades.
The girl I fell in love with was back with me, and she would never be taken from me again.
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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*There's a monster inside everyone of us.*
The slow, calculated trickle of fresh blood announced the arrival of Darren Joyman in the sheer blackness. There wasn't even a flickering of light, only the damp, heavy darkness of an unknown place.
Darren was a truly smart man. Years ago, a lost bullet blew his best friend's life away, a bullet Darren himself shot. He felt the intense thrill of murdering a man blazing through his blood and core, growing into an unusual pain. A pain that wasn't physical nor emotional. It was much stronger than that, and to Darren it felt *right*.
The thrill lasted a second or two, and suddenly the guilt faded away. Call it magic, or sheer madness but in Darren's mind strange things took place. His best friend's memories became his, he now grasped concepts that moments ago were unknown to him, and he could whistle too. If he focused hard enough, he could heard the voice of his friend thanking him.
And so the monster was unchained.
---------------------------------------------
Down there, in the pure blackness, the painful babbling of men with broken jaws along with their tears striking softly against the ground, killed the silence. A familiar, terrifying sound joined them today. The steady, calculated *thump* of the concrete being walked on, growing closer and closer.
It suddenly stopped, somewhere in the darkness. Then, the clattering of steel bouncing against the concrete joined the painful cries, and then Darren talked:
"Shut up, or I will turn on the lights."
For a brief time, the babbling came to a halt and so did most of the tears.
But one.
In the sheer silence, it struck the ground with the strength of a lightning, thundering across the place and sealing the fates of many.
Darren whistled joyfully as he stepped gently towards somewhere. A cacophony of hyperventilated chests and hammering hearts joined the concert.
Two lamps with dim lights came to life. Enough to blind the eyes of the twenty starving and scruffy men tightly shackled against the walls of the windowless place.
"You know, if you were to tell me I would use this basement for something when I bought it, I would've laughed at your face," Darren said as he walked.
After many pronounced blinks, the eyes of the men managed to dissipate the flash in their eyes. There, in the center of the basement stood Darrel. hands.
"Let alone livestock."
---------------------------------------
/r/therobertfall for more not so great stories!
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
|
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Smoke drifted out of the gun rising higher in a room of silence. I saw his dead body now limp, sprawled on the floor, with liquid the color of lipstick leaking out from two holes in his chest cavity. I stopped, I stared, I remained motionless. In that moment after letting the hammer fall and thunder striking, I could see that he really loved me. He just wasn't so good at showing it.
"I'm sorry Dad."
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
|
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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If you're reading this, I'm sorry.
I believe myself to be of strong moral character. I would never have put someone into this position if I could have avoided it. A great curse was laid upon me and I have found freedom by thrusting it upon you. Right now, from your point of view this all probably seems incredible. Like a dream where you can fly. Before you curse my name, please understand that it wasn't my fault. It had to happen.
I'm getting ahead of myself here though. I think it'll help you to better understand if I start closer to the beginning.
I was a young man, not much older than yourself when I took my first trip away from home. The world was a different place then. Slower. Calmer. I was bored and restless so I sought out adventure. I found it in Vienna. I had seen a flyer once for an opera there and had heard of the great architecture and art. I was an artist then you see, so I was captured by the city. So much so in fact that after less than a week I had spent all of my money. I was too embarrassed to go home or ask for more. I tried to live by painting but I had some trouble selling my art and gave it up completely after some pretty embarrassing rejections.
That is when it happened. I was drunk, fresh off a new school rejection. It was late and I had nowhere to go. I found myself on a bench in a park. I hadn't been there long before an older, wealthy man took a seat beside me. We talked for a few moments when he asked me if I'd like to be given a gift. A gift that no one had ever seen before. I thought that maybe he had indulged the spirits a bit more than myself but I humored him. He gave out a satisfied sigh as he pulled his "gift" out from under his jacket. In his hand was a revolver. In one swift motion the gun was cocked and pointed in my direction.
"In a moment, one of us will be dead. This is my gift to you." the old man said as he moved to hit me with the pistol. He was old but stronger and quicker than he should have been. The hit landed hard and I fell but the man hesitated and that gave me enough time to kick his legs out from under him. As he hit the ground the gun flew out of his hand and in my direction. I wouldn't repeat his mistake. I wouldn't hesitate I thought to myself as I grabbed the pistol and shot him dead.
I felt sick to stomach as I looked at him there, but only for a moment. I felt a warmth swell inside. Close to an orgasam but deeper, more intense. I felt stronger too.
Some nearby shouting brought me back to reality and I fled. I ran all night before I realized that I couldn't do that before. I wasn't tired or hungry. Something had happened to me but I didn't understand what until the withdrawal set in.
It had been a month since the old man had given me his gift. I had been in the best shape of my life for weeks when I started to notice symptoms. Deep headaches and aching, throbbing joints. I had overwhelming nausea and couldn't sleep for days on end. I tried every cure and snake oil I could find but nothing worked. Every day became a new hell, worse than the day before. I set out to end my own life but was unable to accomplish the task. Every time I tried I woke up the next morning, healed of all wounds but still sick inside.
In my most desperate hour I remembered the old man and how I had felt right after killing him. I decided that I'd kill again. Maybe I'd feel better, or maybe they'd kill me. Either way I had to have relief. So I set about my task, planning and executing a murder. It worked, but not as much as I thought it would. I had to kill again, and again to stay healthy. Each time I had to kill more and more people to feel better. Each time I hoped they would kill me.
When I would kill, I would take a part of them into myself. I don't know how, but I could feel them there. I could look into their thoughts for answers to questions. I used them to gain power. I used the power to satisfy my pain. If the world refused to let me die then I would do my best to kill the world. I started a political party and using my new found "skills" and power I was able to feed my addiction at every increasing levels. I was able to manipulate people because I understood them all. I had killed so many and seen into their minds. It was easy to mislead them. I used those that helped me and killed anyone in my way. I almost took the world before they trapped me in this bunker.
I couldn't kill myself, but I suspected you could do it for me. That's why I ordered you to give me the poison. It was a suicide, but one by your hands. Enough for me to be free of this curse. I hope you'll be stronger than me. I hope you'll find a way to end yourself before being consumed by it.
Destiny awaits you as hell awaits me.
Sincerely,
Adolf
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
|
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Call it a rush. Meeting new people. Appraising them. The catalogue of my mind is full from charming first dates, and it's ever growing fuller. I can't cram just anyone in there
But this one seems worth it.
This evening's date--Thalia, 33, originally from Norway, now here on my side of the world by some careful working of fate--met me at Aux Trois Capitaines. Good setting. She's charmed, I'm charming. Instant spark.
We hit it off, instantly.
I've been doing this a while. I have met many people. For me, the gender matters less than the person: who they are, what they have done. But she is one of the most interesting.
Her hobby is mountain climbing. She is a polyglot dabbling in nearly ten languages. In school she studied organic chemistry, a skill whose usefulness I can't think of now, but it is rare in such a pleasant person. She has seen
The champagne bubbles like the blood in my brain. I watch her smooth pale arms move and wonder at seeing the Balkans through her eyes. Or how the world looked from the top of Kilimanjaro as she stood there, gasping and humbled by the vastness of the world.
I love her. I crave her.
That's the best part. The exhilarating part. It is what brings me back to some bar or restaurant somewhere, anywhere, over and over again. As long as I can feel that spark. That forward tug of compulsion that cries, *I need you and your everything.*
I offer to walk her to the train station. She seems relieved, tipsy and delighted. We walk holding hands. She is wobbly in her heels.
I draw her down an alley, promising a shortcut. The look she gives me is halting, hesitant.
"C'mon," I say. "I grew up here. I know what I'm doing it."
That or the alcohol in her brain convinces her. She follows me into the dim, giggling stupidly about muggers in America.
My belly rises in delight. I can hear nothing beyond my own blood roaring in my ears.
Call it a rush. In that final second you can hear the both of us, our thoughts and selves inextricably wound together thenceforth. Your life changed, irreversibly, and become mine.
I reach for her face as if to kiss her. When she relents to me I grab her by her skull and slam her head into the wall. She makes a stunned sparrow cry and looks at me in horror.
Just before she dies, I think how lovely her fear looks. She realizes with animal panic that she doesn't want to die.
And then I open her skull against the stone. She slumps bonelessly down, leaving behind a splatter of blond hair and brain like spaghetti on the brick wall.
It was unbefitting, to ruin someone as lovely as her. But I just couldn't wait another moment to get her inside of me.
"*Farvel og takk*," I say. Goodbye, and thank you.
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
|
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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The first person I killed was Andy Chang, a fifty-five-year-old doctor.
My car collided with his body. He tumbled across the darkened sidewalk and crunched against the curb.
I thought I was dying too.
My world exploded with light and colour- swirls of memories and pain. Shrill music echoed in my head. I threw open the door and vomited onto the road. Beige chunks splattered my boots.
Chang’s body was a crumpled heap; dark red clumps spilled from his head over his grey peacoat. His rounded glasses lay next to the sewage drain, the lens cracked and frames bent. One shoe sat in front of my sedan. Chang’s white sock darkened with the rain.
A couple yelled something from across the street. *Help him*.
It jolted me out of my shock. I hadn’t considered the possibility Chang might be alive.
“Call 911,” I directed the young woman.
I pulled off my scarf and held it against the blood spilling from Chang’s head. “Hold this here,” I direct an onlooker. “Don’t stop pressing.”
I hovered over Chang’s body and tilted my ear over his mouth. I watched his chest and looked for any rise or fall. I pressed my fingers against the side of his upper neck looking for a pulse.
Nothing.
*Landmark* I told myself. I lined my hands up and began to press.
I pumped against his sternum.
Two inches down. Recoil. Down again. And again.
Tilt the head, open the airway. Two breaths.
Compressions again.
And again.
When the paramedics arrived I already knew Chang was dead. If the impact hadn’t killed him, the blood he lost would have.
Later, the police arrived.
Chang was at fault - he was jaywalking. Stepped out from between two parked cars.
“The witnesses said you acted quickly, miss,” Officer Dawkins said.
“I only wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did all you could. Quick thinking and first aid can’t solve everything.”
I nodded.
And then frowned.
I had never taken a first aid course.
Last month, when my roommate sliced the tip of her pinky off with the vegetable knife, I was the one who passed out.
I didn’t realize until that night, when Chang’s memories flooded in, what had happened.
I also didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip into my new life.
I craved it.
The thud of the body.
A burst of light and colour.
Swirls of memories and pain.
Shrill music echoing in my head.
And a rush of new talent.
/r/liswrites
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A scarlet surge, standing on the vinyl floor
Tiles pooling, tides pulling toward a thirst for blood
Momma on the floor but the memories are all mine
The intimate pain of my birth swelling in a flood
Regret adds depth like tannins in a heavy wine
At the bottom of the bottle, still wanting more
|
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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I'm a bot, *bleep*, *bloop*. Someone has linked to this thread from another place on reddit:
- [/r/highlander] [\[WP\] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.](https://www.reddit.com/r/highlander/comments/7ignwl/wp_you_accidentally_kill_a_person_you_instantly/)
 *^(If you follow any of the above links, please respect the rules of reddit and don't vote in the other threads.) ^\([Info](/r/TotesMessenger) ^/ ^[Contact](/message/compose?to=/r/TotesMessenger))*
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"JUST ONE MORE," the words streamed around my head like a news banner. I spent four long years working to this moment. It started off in a happy hit and run accident. It was almost 2 am when I heard the crunch of bones slapping against the hood of my car. I immediately pulled off to the side to find an elderly gentleman writhing in pain on the floor. I walked up to his body and gently turned him over, and then it happened. I knew who he was, I knew what his life meant, I knew all of his innermost secrets. I'd never experienced anything like this. The death of another brought me something I so desperately needed in my life, adventure.
The next one had to be carefully planned. I'd always envied my next door neighbor. He had a trophy wife, countless investments, and was always buying the latest and greatest gadgets. He always seemed able to one up me in all of my endeavors. Surely he had unlocked some mystery to life that I was missing? I am not an inferior human being, no, no, I'm very special. His family was gone for the weekend. Mom took the kids to visit her family, Dad would've taken anything over a weekend with his in-laws. I offered to spend the evening with him. We started off easy with a few light beers and a football game, and finally found our way into the bottle of Glenfiddich. It wasn't long until we were both immensely intoxicated, or so I made him believe. He passed out on the couch and I took out my knife and it was over in a few seconds. I learned so much that night.
I coasted along with my new found knowledge benefiting my life. They blamed the neighbors death on the homeless guy who lived by the underpass 3 miles away. They found the blood covered knife among his many assorted belongings. My stock portfolio grew so much that year. I moved out into a condo downtown. I grew closer to the inner circle of elites within my city, and I waited patiently.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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I am an Irish or maybe Scottish character from a show called highlander in which I weild a monster of a sword and as an eventuality will become the last of my kind since we are all trying to kill each other and I'm the main character of the show.
Also I created /r/iamverybadass
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"JUST ONE MORE," the words streamed around my head like a news banner. I spent four long years working to this moment. It started off in a happy hit and run accident. It was almost 2 am when I heard the crunch of bones slapping against the hood of my car. I immediately pulled off to the side to find an elderly gentleman writhing in pain on the floor. I walked up to his body and gently turned him over, and then it happened. I knew who he was, I knew what his life meant, I knew all of his innermost secrets. I'd never experienced anything like this. The death of another brought me something I so desperately needed in my life, adventure.
The next one had to be carefully planned. I'd always envied my next door neighbor. He had a trophy wife, countless investments, and was always buying the latest and greatest gadgets. He always seemed able to one up me in all of my endeavors. Surely he had unlocked some mystery to life that I was missing? I am not an inferior human being, no, no, I'm very special. His family was gone for the weekend. Mom took the kids to visit her family, Dad would've taken anything over a weekend with his in-laws. I offered to spend the evening with him. We started off easy with a few light beers and a football game, and finally found our way into the bottle of Glenfiddich. It wasn't long until we were both immensely intoxicated, or so I made him believe. He passed out on the couch and I took out my knife and it was over in a few seconds. I learned so much that night.
I coasted along with my new found knowledge benefiting my life. They blamed the neighbors death on the homeless guy who lived by the underpass 3 miles away. They found the blood covered knife among his many assorted belongings. My stock portfolio grew so much that year. I moved out into a condo downtown. I grew closer to the inner circle of elites within my city, and I waited patiently.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
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"JUST ONE MORE," the words streamed around my head like a news banner. I spent four long years working to this moment. It started off in a happy hit and run accident. It was almost 2 am when I heard the crunch of bones slapping against the hood of my car. I immediately pulled off to the side to find an elderly gentleman writhing in pain on the floor. I walked up to his body and gently turned him over, and then it happened. I knew who he was, I knew what his life meant, I knew all of his innermost secrets. I'd never experienced anything like this. The death of another brought me something I so desperately needed in my life, adventure.
The next one had to be carefully planned. I'd always envied my next door neighbor. He had a trophy wife, countless investments, and was always buying the latest and greatest gadgets. He always seemed able to one up me in all of my endeavors. Surely he had unlocked some mystery to life that I was missing? I am not an inferior human being, no, no, I'm very special. His family was gone for the weekend. Mom took the kids to visit her family, Dad would've taken anything over a weekend with his in-laws. I offered to spend the evening with him. We started off easy with a few light beers and a football game, and finally found our way into the bottle of Glenfiddich. It wasn't long until we were both immensely intoxicated, or so I made him believe. He passed out on the couch and I took out my knife and it was over in a few seconds. I learned so much that night.
I coasted along with my new found knowledge benefiting my life. They blamed the neighbors death on the homeless guy who lived by the underpass 3 miles away. They found the blood covered knife among his many assorted belongings. My stock portfolio grew so much that year. I moved out into a condo downtown. I grew closer to the inner circle of elites within my city, and I waited patiently.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
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"JUST ONE MORE," the words streamed around my head like a news banner. I spent four long years working to this moment. It started off in a happy hit and run accident. It was almost 2 am when I heard the crunch of bones slapping against the hood of my car. I immediately pulled off to the side to find an elderly gentleman writhing in pain on the floor. I walked up to his body and gently turned him over, and then it happened. I knew who he was, I knew what his life meant, I knew all of his innermost secrets. I'd never experienced anything like this. The death of another brought me something I so desperately needed in my life, adventure.
The next one had to be carefully planned. I'd always envied my next door neighbor. He had a trophy wife, countless investments, and was always buying the latest and greatest gadgets. He always seemed able to one up me in all of my endeavors. Surely he had unlocked some mystery to life that I was missing? I am not an inferior human being, no, no, I'm very special. His family was gone for the weekend. Mom took the kids to visit her family, Dad would've taken anything over a weekend with his in-laws. I offered to spend the evening with him. We started off easy with a few light beers and a football game, and finally found our way into the bottle of Glenfiddich. It wasn't long until we were both immensely intoxicated, or so I made him believe. He passed out on the couch and I took out my knife and it was over in a few seconds. I learned so much that night.
I coasted along with my new found knowledge benefiting my life. They blamed the neighbors death on the homeless guy who lived by the underpass 3 miles away. They found the blood covered knife among his many assorted belongings. My stock portfolio grew so much that year. I moved out into a condo downtown. I grew closer to the inner circle of elites within my city, and I waited patiently.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
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"JUST ONE MORE," the words streamed around my head like a news banner. I spent four long years working to this moment. It started off in a happy hit and run accident. It was almost 2 am when I heard the crunch of bones slapping against the hood of my car. I immediately pulled off to the side to find an elderly gentleman writhing in pain on the floor. I walked up to his body and gently turned him over, and then it happened. I knew who he was, I knew what his life meant, I knew all of his innermost secrets. I'd never experienced anything like this. The death of another brought me something I so desperately needed in my life, adventure.
The next one had to be carefully planned. I'd always envied my next door neighbor. He had a trophy wife, countless investments, and was always buying the latest and greatest gadgets. He always seemed able to one up me in all of my endeavors. Surely he had unlocked some mystery to life that I was missing? I am not an inferior human being, no, no, I'm very special. His family was gone for the weekend. Mom took the kids to visit her family, Dad would've taken anything over a weekend with his in-laws. I offered to spend the evening with him. We started off easy with a few light beers and a football game, and finally found our way into the bottle of Glenfiddich. It wasn't long until we were both immensely intoxicated, or so I made him believe. He passed out on the couch and I took out my knife and it was over in a few seconds. I learned so much that night.
I coasted along with my new found knowledge benefiting my life. They blamed the neighbors death on the homeless guy who lived by the underpass 3 miles away. They found the blood covered knife among his many assorted belongings. My stock portfolio grew so much that year. I moved out into a condo downtown. I grew closer to the inner circle of elites within my city, and I waited patiently.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Rey Crave, he was a normal traveler, he appeared one day in this village filled with dirt, horse shit, and sand asking for temporal refuge. He looked suspicious as all hell, but even so, they accepted him. It might have had to do with the fact that he had a lot of money in his person or because he was really charming.
He made a name for himself in this town, not only he was touring, he was helping out when he could and even sometimes when he shouldn't. All of his goodwill was breath of fresh air for the town, they didn't like him at first, but eventually, all suspicion was lost. They were used to travelers making a mess when they arrived and not cleaning up when they left. it was the kind of town no one cared for.
Despite all of this, he wasn't someone who stood out much, unlike some of the people who lived here, he didn't have any special talent whatsoever, all he had was his goodwill and that special charm that made people trust him as if people were drawn to him, identify with him somehow, until eventually he was known by all.
He was offered a chance to move in here, he was so appreciated that he was offered to work for one of the richest people in town, as a servant. He, of course, accepted, he had no reason to refuse. He lived and worked in that house for years, he was a nice addition to it and as expected made everything in the house flow better.
He lived a normal life, made close friends, fell in love and eventually got a house on his own. he started a family and even had children, or so I'm told.
But, what was his objective? his *original* objective, it feels like he came to this town for some other reason than just sightseeing, it's almost like he forgot midway what he was supposed to do and decided to leave everything behind. I knew of Rey, he had many different names, many different builds and many different personas, for every town he visited. For every town, he *ate*.
And this is just like those cases, and at the same time is not, probably because it's the last? or probably because he actually liked this good for nothing town that had nothing precious to offer his being? I guess his objective and his origins is something I'll never know, not in the state he is in now.
In the distance, I could see a half destroyed building, the remains of his house. I could see something red and black pulsating within, like a heart, and the cries and moans of all the people that lived in this good for nothing town, they were like faces carved on his gigantic form, twitching, bleeding from every injury the many muscular arms that erupted from within his body provided.
But no matter how much he tried, there isn't a single talent nor a single action that could help him, no amount of intelligence could help him now and of course, the memories only reminded him of all the lives he forcibly took. forever haunting him.
He couldn't do it, he wasn't able to kill himself, to take out all the people he absorbed after his addiction took over, and of course there was nothing I could do, just a normal traveller chasing after legends, only watch as he suffered in there for eternity trapped in a cage of meat, the many lives he took screaming at him in a thousand voices.
***
Any critique you can provide is really appreciated - [r/Onni21](https://www.reddit.com/r/Onni21/)
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"JUST ONE MORE," the words streamed around my head like a news banner. I spent four long years working to this moment. It started off in a happy hit and run accident. It was almost 2 am when I heard the crunch of bones slapping against the hood of my car. I immediately pulled off to the side to find an elderly gentleman writhing in pain on the floor. I walked up to his body and gently turned him over, and then it happened. I knew who he was, I knew what his life meant, I knew all of his innermost secrets. I'd never experienced anything like this. The death of another brought me something I so desperately needed in my life, adventure.
The next one had to be carefully planned. I'd always envied my next door neighbor. He had a trophy wife, countless investments, and was always buying the latest and greatest gadgets. He always seemed able to one up me in all of my endeavors. Surely he had unlocked some mystery to life that I was missing? I am not an inferior human being, no, no, I'm very special. His family was gone for the weekend. Mom took the kids to visit her family, Dad would've taken anything over a weekend with his in-laws. I offered to spend the evening with him. We started off easy with a few light beers and a football game, and finally found our way into the bottle of Glenfiddich. It wasn't long until we were both immensely intoxicated, or so I made him believe. He passed out on the couch and I took out my knife and it was over in a few seconds. I learned so much that night.
I coasted along with my new found knowledge benefiting my life. They blamed the neighbors death on the homeless guy who lived by the underpass 3 miles away. They found the blood covered knife among his many assorted belongings. My stock portfolio grew so much that year. I moved out into a condo downtown. I grew closer to the inner circle of elites within my city, and I waited patiently.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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The trembling finally subsided, but even as I gazed at my hands there was still a sort of ethereal aftershock subtly and persistently effecting my perception. Even the normal exercise of recalling memories seemed strained and foreign, as if the empty space normally occupied by only my mind was somehow finding resistance and invisible obstacles. I could not direct my inner eye directly at the source of this resistance, it seemed to hover just on the edge of my awareness darting away as I turned towards it, seeping obstruction into my intentions when I tried to turn away from it.
Finding the proper delicate balance between attention and avoidance finally, like overcoming the surface tension of water, I managed to break through this emergent barricade between my mind and memories. It hit me all at once, the accident played back in my head like two overlapping movie reels. On one reel, the memories made sense, they were the memories of myself in my car heading down the road that I drive every day on my commute home. I remember the hypnotic effects of the approaching headlights on the opposite side of the road, and the brief wonderment I felt as a pair of lights broke off from the endless stream and suddenly grew larger and larger until the light was all that I saw, until abruptly darkness descended.
The second reel was causing me to feel nauseous, the images did not match any I had ever seen before. The car interior was not a car I'd ever driven in, the hands gripping the wheel were not mine. A phone on the passenger seat was ringing and the name displayed on the screen was not a name I recognized, but at the same time none of the scene felt completely foreign to me. I felt on some deep level, and knew that this was not a dream, or a fabricated thought - this memory was as genuine as the first. The scene continues from the first person point of view and I reach down for the ringing phone, but an unlucky bump on the road causes the phone to fall in front of the seat. The call suddenly feels critically important, the name on the screen starts to pop out at me with urgency so I pursue the phone during its tumble. As my hand inches on the floor towards the phone I feel my body weight shift sideways and my hand on the steering wheel is jerked towards the passenger seat. I never even manage to get my hand fully around the phone before the sound of screeching metal and crumpling plastics give way to darkness.
I gasp for air and look up from my hands again. I look around and see the wreckage all around me. I'm sitting in my ruined SUV, the back end of a small sedan sticking out from underneath my smoking hood and emergency lights extending in every direction.
I suppose this numb feeling is shock, but its something more. I dont feel nothing, I feel too much. When I think back on the events leading up to the accident, my mind forks and I have two divergent mornings. The further removed from the accident I get, the less I can remember which memory feels more genuine. Sitting in the back of an ambulance with a blanket wrapped around me I try thinking back further than this morning. I somehow have access to two entirely different minds, full of their own history and memories and feelings of joy and pain. I can remember birthdays surrounded by two entirely distinct sets of families, I can remember schoolyard conflicts from entirely different districts, and most discerning I can remember two entirely different faces looking back at me from the mirror.
The realization that my mind was no longer alone would have brought the old me to my knees, but this new me, this dual me had a different idea.
We returned home, our lives forever changed and intertwined. I still had a vague idea of self, but no longer choose to identify in the singular. That was the old me, this new me will go forward as a plurality, embracing my diversity of mind. We quickly ascended the stairs to the master bedroom. The house was entirely empty and silent except for the faint beeping of electronics, and the slight rustling of bed sheets as the cat adjusted itself at the foot of the bed.
Next to the bed, machines stood stoicly all around it, beeping the melancholy song of life support systems. Wires of every gauge seemed to run from the computers into and onto the woman in the bed. Seeing the woman brought a powerful surge of energy to the original host of my mind and quickly that plurality was push aside in favor of the original self.
Her eyes were closed as they had been for almost two decades now. Twenty years asleep in a coma the doctors said was irreversible. If I had any tears left I wouldve shed them, but my dried up ducts remained without wetness as I leaned in to kiss her forehead. While my lips touched her forehead, I let my self-mind relax as I reached towards the power cord supplying energy to the machines supporting my wife's mortal slumber. I did not have the strength alone to do what must be done, but with my new duality I found it possible. We pulled the cord out of the wall and heard the somber songs of the machines fade into a susurrus.
Our breath caught, our heart seemingly frozen in time between beats. Suddenly, I could feel it. My mind, once mine alone, had gained another occupant. This new addition was a blazing beacon of light, dwarfing every other emotion and memory I'd ever felt with overwhelming waves of love and warmth. Every late night whisper, every book and joke, every loving caress was amplified and magnified to infinite degrees. It vaporized the very essence of the loneliness and sadness built up over the past two decades.
The girl I fell in love with was back with me, and she would never be taken from me again.
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"JUST ONE MORE," the words streamed around my head like a news banner. I spent four long years working to this moment. It started off in a happy hit and run accident. It was almost 2 am when I heard the crunch of bones slapping against the hood of my car. I immediately pulled off to the side to find an elderly gentleman writhing in pain on the floor. I walked up to his body and gently turned him over, and then it happened. I knew who he was, I knew what his life meant, I knew all of his innermost secrets. I'd never experienced anything like this. The death of another brought me something I so desperately needed in my life, adventure.
The next one had to be carefully planned. I'd always envied my next door neighbor. He had a trophy wife, countless investments, and was always buying the latest and greatest gadgets. He always seemed able to one up me in all of my endeavors. Surely he had unlocked some mystery to life that I was missing? I am not an inferior human being, no, no, I'm very special. His family was gone for the weekend. Mom took the kids to visit her family, Dad would've taken anything over a weekend with his in-laws. I offered to spend the evening with him. We started off easy with a few light beers and a football game, and finally found our way into the bottle of Glenfiddich. It wasn't long until we were both immensely intoxicated, or so I made him believe. He passed out on the couch and I took out my knife and it was over in a few seconds. I learned so much that night.
I coasted along with my new found knowledge benefiting my life. They blamed the neighbors death on the homeless guy who lived by the underpass 3 miles away. They found the blood covered knife among his many assorted belongings. My stock portfolio grew so much that year. I moved out into a condo downtown. I grew closer to the inner circle of elites within my city, and I waited patiently.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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If you're reading this, I'm sorry.
I believe myself to be of strong moral character. I would never have put someone into this position if I could have avoided it. A great curse was laid upon me and I have found freedom by thrusting it upon you. Right now, from your point of view this all probably seems incredible. Like a dream where you can fly. Before you curse my name, please understand that it wasn't my fault. It had to happen.
I'm getting ahead of myself here though. I think it'll help you to better understand if I start closer to the beginning.
I was a young man, not much older than yourself when I took my first trip away from home. The world was a different place then. Slower. Calmer. I was bored and restless so I sought out adventure. I found it in Vienna. I had seen a flyer once for an opera there and had heard of the great architecture and art. I was an artist then you see, so I was captured by the city. So much so in fact that after less than a week I had spent all of my money. I was too embarrassed to go home or ask for more. I tried to live by painting but I had some trouble selling my art and gave it up completely after some pretty embarrassing rejections.
That is when it happened. I was drunk, fresh off a new school rejection. It was late and I had nowhere to go. I found myself on a bench in a park. I hadn't been there long before an older, wealthy man took a seat beside me. We talked for a few moments when he asked me if I'd like to be given a gift. A gift that no one had ever seen before. I thought that maybe he had indulged the spirits a bit more than myself but I humored him. He gave out a satisfied sigh as he pulled his "gift" out from under his jacket. In his hand was a revolver. In one swift motion the gun was cocked and pointed in my direction.
"In a moment, one of us will be dead. This is my gift to you." the old man said as he moved to hit me with the pistol. He was old but stronger and quicker than he should have been. The hit landed hard and I fell but the man hesitated and that gave me enough time to kick his legs out from under him. As he hit the ground the gun flew out of his hand and in my direction. I wouldn't repeat his mistake. I wouldn't hesitate I thought to myself as I grabbed the pistol and shot him dead.
I felt sick to stomach as I looked at him there, but only for a moment. I felt a warmth swell inside. Close to an orgasam but deeper, more intense. I felt stronger too.
Some nearby shouting brought me back to reality and I fled. I ran all night before I realized that I couldn't do that before. I wasn't tired or hungry. Something had happened to me but I didn't understand what until the withdrawal set in.
It had been a month since the old man had given me his gift. I had been in the best shape of my life for weeks when I started to notice symptoms. Deep headaches and aching, throbbing joints. I had overwhelming nausea and couldn't sleep for days on end. I tried every cure and snake oil I could find but nothing worked. Every day became a new hell, worse than the day before. I set out to end my own life but was unable to accomplish the task. Every time I tried I woke up the next morning, healed of all wounds but still sick inside.
In my most desperate hour I remembered the old man and how I had felt right after killing him. I decided that I'd kill again. Maybe I'd feel better, or maybe they'd kill me. Either way I had to have relief. So I set about my task, planning and executing a murder. It worked, but not as much as I thought it would. I had to kill again, and again to stay healthy. Each time I had to kill more and more people to feel better. Each time I hoped they would kill me.
When I would kill, I would take a part of them into myself. I don't know how, but I could feel them there. I could look into their thoughts for answers to questions. I used them to gain power. I used the power to satisfy my pain. If the world refused to let me die then I would do my best to kill the world. I started a political party and using my new found "skills" and power I was able to feed my addiction at every increasing levels. I was able to manipulate people because I understood them all. I had killed so many and seen into their minds. It was easy to mislead them. I used those that helped me and killed anyone in my way. I almost took the world before they trapped me in this bunker.
I couldn't kill myself, but I suspected you could do it for me. That's why I ordered you to give me the poison. It was a suicide, but one by your hands. Enough for me to be free of this curse. I hope you'll be stronger than me. I hope you'll find a way to end yourself before being consumed by it.
Destiny awaits you as hell awaits me.
Sincerely,
Adolf
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"JUST ONE MORE," the words streamed around my head like a news banner. I spent four long years working to this moment. It started off in a happy hit and run accident. It was almost 2 am when I heard the crunch of bones slapping against the hood of my car. I immediately pulled off to the side to find an elderly gentleman writhing in pain on the floor. I walked up to his body and gently turned him over, and then it happened. I knew who he was, I knew what his life meant, I knew all of his innermost secrets. I'd never experienced anything like this. The death of another brought me something I so desperately needed in my life, adventure.
The next one had to be carefully planned. I'd always envied my next door neighbor. He had a trophy wife, countless investments, and was always buying the latest and greatest gadgets. He always seemed able to one up me in all of my endeavors. Surely he had unlocked some mystery to life that I was missing? I am not an inferior human being, no, no, I'm very special. His family was gone for the weekend. Mom took the kids to visit her family, Dad would've taken anything over a weekend with his in-laws. I offered to spend the evening with him. We started off easy with a few light beers and a football game, and finally found our way into the bottle of Glenfiddich. It wasn't long until we were both immensely intoxicated, or so I made him believe. He passed out on the couch and I took out my knife and it was over in a few seconds. I learned so much that night.
I coasted along with my new found knowledge benefiting my life. They blamed the neighbors death on the homeless guy who lived by the underpass 3 miles away. They found the blood covered knife among his many assorted belongings. My stock portfolio grew so much that year. I moved out into a condo downtown. I grew closer to the inner circle of elites within my city, and I waited patiently.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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The first person I killed was Andy Chang, a fifty-five-year-old doctor.
My car collided with his body. He tumbled across the darkened sidewalk and crunched against the curb.
I thought I was dying too.
My world exploded with light and colour- swirls of memories and pain. Shrill music echoed in my head. I threw open the door and vomited onto the road. Beige chunks splattered my boots.
Chang’s body was a crumpled heap; dark red clumps spilled from his head over his grey peacoat. His rounded glasses lay next to the sewage drain, the lens cracked and frames bent. One shoe sat in front of my sedan. Chang’s white sock darkened with the rain.
A couple yelled something from across the street. *Help him*.
It jolted me out of my shock. I hadn’t considered the possibility Chang might be alive.
“Call 911,” I directed the young woman.
I pulled off my scarf and held it against the blood spilling from Chang’s head. “Hold this here,” I direct an onlooker. “Don’t stop pressing.”
I hovered over Chang’s body and tilted my ear over his mouth. I watched his chest and looked for any rise or fall. I pressed my fingers against the side of his upper neck looking for a pulse.
Nothing.
*Landmark* I told myself. I lined my hands up and began to press.
I pumped against his sternum.
Two inches down. Recoil. Down again. And again.
Tilt the head, open the airway. Two breaths.
Compressions again.
And again.
When the paramedics arrived I already knew Chang was dead. If the impact hadn’t killed him, the blood he lost would have.
Later, the police arrived.
Chang was at fault - he was jaywalking. Stepped out from between two parked cars.
“The witnesses said you acted quickly, miss,” Officer Dawkins said.
“I only wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did all you could. Quick thinking and first aid can’t solve everything.”
I nodded.
And then frowned.
I had never taken a first aid course.
Last month, when my roommate sliced the tip of her pinky off with the vegetable knife, I was the one who passed out.
I didn’t realize until that night, when Chang’s memories flooded in, what had happened.
I also didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip into my new life.
I craved it.
The thud of the body.
A burst of light and colour.
Swirls of memories and pain.
Shrill music echoing in my head.
And a rush of new talent.
/r/liswrites
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"JUST ONE MORE," the words streamed around my head like a news banner. I spent four long years working to this moment. It started off in a happy hit and run accident. It was almost 2 am when I heard the crunch of bones slapping against the hood of my car. I immediately pulled off to the side to find an elderly gentleman writhing in pain on the floor. I walked up to his body and gently turned him over, and then it happened. I knew who he was, I knew what his life meant, I knew all of his innermost secrets. I'd never experienced anything like this. The death of another brought me something I so desperately needed in my life, adventure.
The next one had to be carefully planned. I'd always envied my next door neighbor. He had a trophy wife, countless investments, and was always buying the latest and greatest gadgets. He always seemed able to one up me in all of my endeavors. Surely he had unlocked some mystery to life that I was missing? I am not an inferior human being, no, no, I'm very special. His family was gone for the weekend. Mom took the kids to visit her family, Dad would've taken anything over a weekend with his in-laws. I offered to spend the evening with him. We started off easy with a few light beers and a football game, and finally found our way into the bottle of Glenfiddich. It wasn't long until we were both immensely intoxicated, or so I made him believe. He passed out on the couch and I took out my knife and it was over in a few seconds. I learned so much that night.
I coasted along with my new found knowledge benefiting my life. They blamed the neighbors death on the homeless guy who lived by the underpass 3 miles away. They found the blood covered knife among his many assorted belongings. My stock portfolio grew so much that year. I moved out into a condo downtown. I grew closer to the inner circle of elites within my city, and I waited patiently.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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"The one thing that never changes is the amount of heartbreak. It's difficult to deal with, and is so uniquely overpowering each time that it can leave you speechless."
"Sure, you've got gifts, memories, abilities, all of that the instant that person passes on, but you also have every pain they've ever felt in an instant. The euphoria soon loses out to the hollowness."
He stared at me silently crying, with a bit of a goofy smile on his face. The tubes were running through every inch of him and it took all of his energy just to nod. He used his eyes to acknowledge that he heard me, and that he understood.
"I've lived far too long, and wasted most of it, longer than any human should, and you know what? The feeling wanes, the euphoria gets weaker each time and you're just left with that trauma, enough trauma to drown in for a thousand lifetimes.'
His feeble hand had found enough energy to spasm towards the book on his bedside table, but it just wasn't in him to reach it. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye though, but only briefly, before wincing from the effort.
"Oh, that thing? I guess I was around when it was written. Met some of the men and women who wrote it too. Doesn't look much like the original now but what can you do. Don't think there's anything in it for me though."
He'd shut his eyes, and I wasn't even sure he could hear me anymore, but our conversation would come to a close soon enough.
"My point is, when you know all there is to know, and do all there is to do, you realize it's not really much worth it. We're finite for a reason, we exist to die, but by the time I was smart enough to figure that out, it was too late."
I slipped my hand into his and one of his eyes opened slightly, steadily watching me, an alertness there that hadn't been there before.
"Now the only thing that makes this worth it, the only reason to keep going, is to help. I've found that the only way to combat the immensity of taking on someone else's tortured soul is through kindness and mercy, and living the life that you have, you've been given such little mercy.
The toxin on my fingertips had begun spreading into his body, slowly numbing away the pain of his tortured existence. A political prisoner held captive and experimented on for decades, no light, no love, no life, just pain.
The look of contentment in his face and his final squeeze of my hand was drowned out by the blazing memory that was combining with my own. It was his grattitude and it burned in my head stronger than any pain he'd suffered.
A few of the guards began to stir, waking up to find themselves paralyzed from the neck down. These men who would torture their own for money, these men who did nothing but inflict harm.
I would not kill them, because they deserved no mercy. This prison would be their tomb until they rotted.
The handful of prisoners who could still walk stared wide-eyed at me as I exited the room into the corridor. They refused to inch any nearer to me and cowered from my gaze.
"When I walk through the door, that will be the last you see of me. You have your freedom and my mercy. Do what you will with the guards who tortured you all these years, but remember, true tyrants will soon come to regret their chosen path."
They nodded slowly without lifting their eyes off the ground.
Outside of the entrance, a trail of paralyzed soon-to-be-corpses lined the path of my initial assault on the secret prison. Admiring my own handiwork I thought briefly on the many rebellions launched, the many governments overthrown and the free people who still shivered at the mere mention of me. This would keep me distracted for a few centuries.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
I am an Irish or maybe Scottish character from a show called highlander in which I weild a monster of a sword and as an eventuality will become the last of my kind since we are all trying to kill each other and I'm the main character of the show.
Also I created /r/iamverybadass
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"The one thing that never changes is the amount of heartbreak. It's difficult to deal with, and is so uniquely overpowering each time that it can leave you speechless."
"Sure, you've got gifts, memories, abilities, all of that the instant that person passes on, but you also have every pain they've ever felt in an instant. The euphoria soon loses out to the hollowness."
He stared at me silently crying, with a bit of a goofy smile on his face. The tubes were running through every inch of him and it took all of his energy just to nod. He used his eyes to acknowledge that he heard me, and that he understood.
"I've lived far too long, and wasted most of it, longer than any human should, and you know what? The feeling wanes, the euphoria gets weaker each time and you're just left with that trauma, enough trauma to drown in for a thousand lifetimes.'
His feeble hand had found enough energy to spasm towards the book on his bedside table, but it just wasn't in him to reach it. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye though, but only briefly, before wincing from the effort.
"Oh, that thing? I guess I was around when it was written. Met some of the men and women who wrote it too. Doesn't look much like the original now but what can you do. Don't think there's anything in it for me though."
He'd shut his eyes, and I wasn't even sure he could hear me anymore, but our conversation would come to a close soon enough.
"My point is, when you know all there is to know, and do all there is to do, you realize it's not really much worth it. We're finite for a reason, we exist to die, but by the time I was smart enough to figure that out, it was too late."
I slipped my hand into his and one of his eyes opened slightly, steadily watching me, an alertness there that hadn't been there before.
"Now the only thing that makes this worth it, the only reason to keep going, is to help. I've found that the only way to combat the immensity of taking on someone else's tortured soul is through kindness and mercy, and living the life that you have, you've been given such little mercy.
The toxin on my fingertips had begun spreading into his body, slowly numbing away the pain of his tortured existence. A political prisoner held captive and experimented on for decades, no light, no love, no life, just pain.
The look of contentment in his face and his final squeeze of my hand was drowned out by the blazing memory that was combining with my own. It was his grattitude and it burned in my head stronger than any pain he'd suffered.
A few of the guards began to stir, waking up to find themselves paralyzed from the neck down. These men who would torture their own for money, these men who did nothing but inflict harm.
I would not kill them, because they deserved no mercy. This prison would be their tomb until they rotted.
The handful of prisoners who could still walk stared wide-eyed at me as I exited the room into the corridor. They refused to inch any nearer to me and cowered from my gaze.
"When I walk through the door, that will be the last you see of me. You have your freedom and my mercy. Do what you will with the guards who tortured you all these years, but remember, true tyrants will soon come to regret their chosen path."
They nodded slowly without lifting their eyes off the ground.
Outside of the entrance, a trail of paralyzed soon-to-be-corpses lined the path of my initial assault on the secret prison. Admiring my own handiwork I thought briefly on the many rebellions launched, the many governments overthrown and the free people who still shivered at the mere mention of me. This would keep me distracted for a few centuries.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
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"The one thing that never changes is the amount of heartbreak. It's difficult to deal with, and is so uniquely overpowering each time that it can leave you speechless."
"Sure, you've got gifts, memories, abilities, all of that the instant that person passes on, but you also have every pain they've ever felt in an instant. The euphoria soon loses out to the hollowness."
He stared at me silently crying, with a bit of a goofy smile on his face. The tubes were running through every inch of him and it took all of his energy just to nod. He used his eyes to acknowledge that he heard me, and that he understood.
"I've lived far too long, and wasted most of it, longer than any human should, and you know what? The feeling wanes, the euphoria gets weaker each time and you're just left with that trauma, enough trauma to drown in for a thousand lifetimes.'
His feeble hand had found enough energy to spasm towards the book on his bedside table, but it just wasn't in him to reach it. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye though, but only briefly, before wincing from the effort.
"Oh, that thing? I guess I was around when it was written. Met some of the men and women who wrote it too. Doesn't look much like the original now but what can you do. Don't think there's anything in it for me though."
He'd shut his eyes, and I wasn't even sure he could hear me anymore, but our conversation would come to a close soon enough.
"My point is, when you know all there is to know, and do all there is to do, you realize it's not really much worth it. We're finite for a reason, we exist to die, but by the time I was smart enough to figure that out, it was too late."
I slipped my hand into his and one of his eyes opened slightly, steadily watching me, an alertness there that hadn't been there before.
"Now the only thing that makes this worth it, the only reason to keep going, is to help. I've found that the only way to combat the immensity of taking on someone else's tortured soul is through kindness and mercy, and living the life that you have, you've been given such little mercy.
The toxin on my fingertips had begun spreading into his body, slowly numbing away the pain of his tortured existence. A political prisoner held captive and experimented on for decades, no light, no love, no life, just pain.
The look of contentment in his face and his final squeeze of my hand was drowned out by the blazing memory that was combining with my own. It was his grattitude and it burned in my head stronger than any pain he'd suffered.
A few of the guards began to stir, waking up to find themselves paralyzed from the neck down. These men who would torture their own for money, these men who did nothing but inflict harm.
I would not kill them, because they deserved no mercy. This prison would be their tomb until they rotted.
The handful of prisoners who could still walk stared wide-eyed at me as I exited the room into the corridor. They refused to inch any nearer to me and cowered from my gaze.
"When I walk through the door, that will be the last you see of me. You have your freedom and my mercy. Do what you will with the guards who tortured you all these years, but remember, true tyrants will soon come to regret their chosen path."
They nodded slowly without lifting their eyes off the ground.
Outside of the entrance, a trail of paralyzed soon-to-be-corpses lined the path of my initial assault on the secret prison. Admiring my own handiwork I thought briefly on the many rebellions launched, the many governments overthrown and the free people who still shivered at the mere mention of me. This would keep me distracted for a few centuries.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
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"The one thing that never changes is the amount of heartbreak. It's difficult to deal with, and is so uniquely overpowering each time that it can leave you speechless."
"Sure, you've got gifts, memories, abilities, all of that the instant that person passes on, but you also have every pain they've ever felt in an instant. The euphoria soon loses out to the hollowness."
He stared at me silently crying, with a bit of a goofy smile on his face. The tubes were running through every inch of him and it took all of his energy just to nod. He used his eyes to acknowledge that he heard me, and that he understood.
"I've lived far too long, and wasted most of it, longer than any human should, and you know what? The feeling wanes, the euphoria gets weaker each time and you're just left with that trauma, enough trauma to drown in for a thousand lifetimes.'
His feeble hand had found enough energy to spasm towards the book on his bedside table, but it just wasn't in him to reach it. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye though, but only briefly, before wincing from the effort.
"Oh, that thing? I guess I was around when it was written. Met some of the men and women who wrote it too. Doesn't look much like the original now but what can you do. Don't think there's anything in it for me though."
He'd shut his eyes, and I wasn't even sure he could hear me anymore, but our conversation would come to a close soon enough.
"My point is, when you know all there is to know, and do all there is to do, you realize it's not really much worth it. We're finite for a reason, we exist to die, but by the time I was smart enough to figure that out, it was too late."
I slipped my hand into his and one of his eyes opened slightly, steadily watching me, an alertness there that hadn't been there before.
"Now the only thing that makes this worth it, the only reason to keep going, is to help. I've found that the only way to combat the immensity of taking on someone else's tortured soul is through kindness and mercy, and living the life that you have, you've been given such little mercy.
The toxin on my fingertips had begun spreading into his body, slowly numbing away the pain of his tortured existence. A political prisoner held captive and experimented on for decades, no light, no love, no life, just pain.
The look of contentment in his face and his final squeeze of my hand was drowned out by the blazing memory that was combining with my own. It was his grattitude and it burned in my head stronger than any pain he'd suffered.
A few of the guards began to stir, waking up to find themselves paralyzed from the neck down. These men who would torture their own for money, these men who did nothing but inflict harm.
I would not kill them, because they deserved no mercy. This prison would be their tomb until they rotted.
The handful of prisoners who could still walk stared wide-eyed at me as I exited the room into the corridor. They refused to inch any nearer to me and cowered from my gaze.
"When I walk through the door, that will be the last you see of me. You have your freedom and my mercy. Do what you will with the guards who tortured you all these years, but remember, true tyrants will soon come to regret their chosen path."
They nodded slowly without lifting their eyes off the ground.
Outside of the entrance, a trail of paralyzed soon-to-be-corpses lined the path of my initial assault on the secret prison. Admiring my own handiwork I thought briefly on the many rebellions launched, the many governments overthrown and the free people who still shivered at the mere mention of me. This would keep me distracted for a few centuries.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
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"The one thing that never changes is the amount of heartbreak. It's difficult to deal with, and is so uniquely overpowering each time that it can leave you speechless."
"Sure, you've got gifts, memories, abilities, all of that the instant that person passes on, but you also have every pain they've ever felt in an instant. The euphoria soon loses out to the hollowness."
He stared at me silently crying, with a bit of a goofy smile on his face. The tubes were running through every inch of him and it took all of his energy just to nod. He used his eyes to acknowledge that he heard me, and that he understood.
"I've lived far too long, and wasted most of it, longer than any human should, and you know what? The feeling wanes, the euphoria gets weaker each time and you're just left with that trauma, enough trauma to drown in for a thousand lifetimes.'
His feeble hand had found enough energy to spasm towards the book on his bedside table, but it just wasn't in him to reach it. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye though, but only briefly, before wincing from the effort.
"Oh, that thing? I guess I was around when it was written. Met some of the men and women who wrote it too. Doesn't look much like the original now but what can you do. Don't think there's anything in it for me though."
He'd shut his eyes, and I wasn't even sure he could hear me anymore, but our conversation would come to a close soon enough.
"My point is, when you know all there is to know, and do all there is to do, you realize it's not really much worth it. We're finite for a reason, we exist to die, but by the time I was smart enough to figure that out, it was too late."
I slipped my hand into his and one of his eyes opened slightly, steadily watching me, an alertness there that hadn't been there before.
"Now the only thing that makes this worth it, the only reason to keep going, is to help. I've found that the only way to combat the immensity of taking on someone else's tortured soul is through kindness and mercy, and living the life that you have, you've been given such little mercy.
The toxin on my fingertips had begun spreading into his body, slowly numbing away the pain of his tortured existence. A political prisoner held captive and experimented on for decades, no light, no love, no life, just pain.
The look of contentment in his face and his final squeeze of my hand was drowned out by the blazing memory that was combining with my own. It was his grattitude and it burned in my head stronger than any pain he'd suffered.
A few of the guards began to stir, waking up to find themselves paralyzed from the neck down. These men who would torture their own for money, these men who did nothing but inflict harm.
I would not kill them, because they deserved no mercy. This prison would be their tomb until they rotted.
The handful of prisoners who could still walk stared wide-eyed at me as I exited the room into the corridor. They refused to inch any nearer to me and cowered from my gaze.
"When I walk through the door, that will be the last you see of me. You have your freedom and my mercy. Do what you will with the guards who tortured you all these years, but remember, true tyrants will soon come to regret their chosen path."
They nodded slowly without lifting their eyes off the ground.
Outside of the entrance, a trail of paralyzed soon-to-be-corpses lined the path of my initial assault on the secret prison. Admiring my own handiwork I thought briefly on the many rebellions launched, the many governments overthrown and the free people who still shivered at the mere mention of me. This would keep me distracted for a few centuries.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
If you're reading this, I'm sorry.
I believe myself to be of strong moral character. I would never have put someone into this position if I could have avoided it. A great curse was laid upon me and I have found freedom by thrusting it upon you. Right now, from your point of view this all probably seems incredible. Like a dream where you can fly. Before you curse my name, please understand that it wasn't my fault. It had to happen.
I'm getting ahead of myself here though. I think it'll help you to better understand if I start closer to the beginning.
I was a young man, not much older than yourself when I took my first trip away from home. The world was a different place then. Slower. Calmer. I was bored and restless so I sought out adventure. I found it in Vienna. I had seen a flyer once for an opera there and had heard of the great architecture and art. I was an artist then you see, so I was captured by the city. So much so in fact that after less than a week I had spent all of my money. I was too embarrassed to go home or ask for more. I tried to live by painting but I had some trouble selling my art and gave it up completely after some pretty embarrassing rejections.
That is when it happened. I was drunk, fresh off a new school rejection. It was late and I had nowhere to go. I found myself on a bench in a park. I hadn't been there long before an older, wealthy man took a seat beside me. We talked for a few moments when he asked me if I'd like to be given a gift. A gift that no one had ever seen before. I thought that maybe he had indulged the spirits a bit more than myself but I humored him. He gave out a satisfied sigh as he pulled his "gift" out from under his jacket. In his hand was a revolver. In one swift motion the gun was cocked and pointed in my direction.
"In a moment, one of us will be dead. This is my gift to you." the old man said as he moved to hit me with the pistol. He was old but stronger and quicker than he should have been. The hit landed hard and I fell but the man hesitated and that gave me enough time to kick his legs out from under him. As he hit the ground the gun flew out of his hand and in my direction. I wouldn't repeat his mistake. I wouldn't hesitate I thought to myself as I grabbed the pistol and shot him dead.
I felt sick to stomach as I looked at him there, but only for a moment. I felt a warmth swell inside. Close to an orgasam but deeper, more intense. I felt stronger too.
Some nearby shouting brought me back to reality and I fled. I ran all night before I realized that I couldn't do that before. I wasn't tired or hungry. Something had happened to me but I didn't understand what until the withdrawal set in.
It had been a month since the old man had given me his gift. I had been in the best shape of my life for weeks when I started to notice symptoms. Deep headaches and aching, throbbing joints. I had overwhelming nausea and couldn't sleep for days on end. I tried every cure and snake oil I could find but nothing worked. Every day became a new hell, worse than the day before. I set out to end my own life but was unable to accomplish the task. Every time I tried I woke up the next morning, healed of all wounds but still sick inside.
In my most desperate hour I remembered the old man and how I had felt right after killing him. I decided that I'd kill again. Maybe I'd feel better, or maybe they'd kill me. Either way I had to have relief. So I set about my task, planning and executing a murder. It worked, but not as much as I thought it would. I had to kill again, and again to stay healthy. Each time I had to kill more and more people to feel better. Each time I hoped they would kill me.
When I would kill, I would take a part of them into myself. I don't know how, but I could feel them there. I could look into their thoughts for answers to questions. I used them to gain power. I used the power to satisfy my pain. If the world refused to let me die then I would do my best to kill the world. I started a political party and using my new found "skills" and power I was able to feed my addiction at every increasing levels. I was able to manipulate people because I understood them all. I had killed so many and seen into their minds. It was easy to mislead them. I used those that helped me and killed anyone in my way. I almost took the world before they trapped me in this bunker.
I couldn't kill myself, but I suspected you could do it for me. That's why I ordered you to give me the poison. It was a suicide, but one by your hands. Enough for me to be free of this curse. I hope you'll be stronger than me. I hope you'll find a way to end yourself before being consumed by it.
Destiny awaits you as hell awaits me.
Sincerely,
Adolf
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"The one thing that never changes is the amount of heartbreak. It's difficult to deal with, and is so uniquely overpowering each time that it can leave you speechless."
"Sure, you've got gifts, memories, abilities, all of that the instant that person passes on, but you also have every pain they've ever felt in an instant. The euphoria soon loses out to the hollowness."
He stared at me silently crying, with a bit of a goofy smile on his face. The tubes were running through every inch of him and it took all of his energy just to nod. He used his eyes to acknowledge that he heard me, and that he understood.
"I've lived far too long, and wasted most of it, longer than any human should, and you know what? The feeling wanes, the euphoria gets weaker each time and you're just left with that trauma, enough trauma to drown in for a thousand lifetimes.'
His feeble hand had found enough energy to spasm towards the book on his bedside table, but it just wasn't in him to reach it. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye though, but only briefly, before wincing from the effort.
"Oh, that thing? I guess I was around when it was written. Met some of the men and women who wrote it too. Doesn't look much like the original now but what can you do. Don't think there's anything in it for me though."
He'd shut his eyes, and I wasn't even sure he could hear me anymore, but our conversation would come to a close soon enough.
"My point is, when you know all there is to know, and do all there is to do, you realize it's not really much worth it. We're finite for a reason, we exist to die, but by the time I was smart enough to figure that out, it was too late."
I slipped my hand into his and one of his eyes opened slightly, steadily watching me, an alertness there that hadn't been there before.
"Now the only thing that makes this worth it, the only reason to keep going, is to help. I've found that the only way to combat the immensity of taking on someone else's tortured soul is through kindness and mercy, and living the life that you have, you've been given such little mercy.
The toxin on my fingertips had begun spreading into his body, slowly numbing away the pain of his tortured existence. A political prisoner held captive and experimented on for decades, no light, no love, no life, just pain.
The look of contentment in his face and his final squeeze of my hand was drowned out by the blazing memory that was combining with my own. It was his grattitude and it burned in my head stronger than any pain he'd suffered.
A few of the guards began to stir, waking up to find themselves paralyzed from the neck down. These men who would torture their own for money, these men who did nothing but inflict harm.
I would not kill them, because they deserved no mercy. This prison would be their tomb until they rotted.
The handful of prisoners who could still walk stared wide-eyed at me as I exited the room into the corridor. They refused to inch any nearer to me and cowered from my gaze.
"When I walk through the door, that will be the last you see of me. You have your freedom and my mercy. Do what you will with the guards who tortured you all these years, but remember, true tyrants will soon come to regret their chosen path."
They nodded slowly without lifting their eyes off the ground.
Outside of the entrance, a trail of paralyzed soon-to-be-corpses lined the path of my initial assault on the secret prison. Admiring my own handiwork I thought briefly on the many rebellions launched, the many governments overthrown and the free people who still shivered at the mere mention of me. This would keep me distracted for a few centuries.
|
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
I'm a bot, *bleep*, *bloop*. Someone has linked to this thread from another place on reddit:
- [/r/highlander] [\[WP\] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.](https://www.reddit.com/r/highlander/comments/7ignwl/wp_you_accidentally_kill_a_person_you_instantly/)
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I'm not really Bob anymore. I remember when I was just Bob. Before I met Andrew.
We had met at work. He had seen my bicycle helmet clipped to my bag and invited me for a day tip the next Saturday. It seemed innocent enough. I agreed.
The sun had been blistering hot. We peddled fast just to get the breeze up on our faces. Andrew had stripped down to the waist, while I continued to drench my workout shirt. We both had pretty decent bikes, carbon fiber and skinny tires, so we flew down the asphalt when we built up some speed.
There was no traffic on the road, so I swung wide coming out of the next turn. I turned back to smile at Andrew, but his face was contorted in a shout back at me, his arm half outstretched. I turned back just in time to see the car swerve out of way of me..
..and into the incoming lane with Andrew.
I remember the driver calling 911 as I held him, sobbing, begging for forgiveness. He just gurgled up blood, although now I know he was trying to tell me, "It's ok. I forgive you."
Then the hit came.
I was laid out. The paramedics had said it was shock when Andrew had died in my arms. I knew better.
I walked to Andrew's boyfriend's place that evening. I cried so hard on his shoulder. I kept using the wrong pronouns. "I, I mean Andrew, he loved you so much." I managed to lie about my intimate knowledge, "Andrew talked about you all the time at work." Juan was the one in shock. He had always been a stoic man. He cried, but he didn't sob like I did. I remember the last time they had made love. I couldn't give him that. Couldn't console him as a lover. I was Bob. At least, I was in Bob's body. I wasn't Bob, or Andrew, anymore.
I extricated myself from Juan's arms and walked away.
It wasn't until the next day that the euphoria really started kicking in. Like the world was born again. I knew what it was like now to grow up in Connecticut, what Mami Everett's pies tasted like, what it was to have been gay, to come out of the closet to two divorced parents. I reminisced on a lifetime of pleasant, pleasurable, or dramatic moments in Andrew's life.
I realized that I had his entire encyclopedic knowledge of Latin, drilled in by years at prep school, reinforced by a secret hobby of bird watching. I could do his job as easily as he had if his boss wanted me to.
I wondered if this all was an effect of something special about Andrew, or something about me. Or if it didn't really have anything to do with either of us, a just one time thing, an inexplicable mystery of the universe. I suffered bad shakes over the next couple of weeks. I worried what the process had done to my body might be taking its toll. The memories and skills remained, but the euphoria of nostalgia gradually wore off. I went back to work. I trained Andrew's replacement, even though I wasn't part of his department. "Andrew told me all about this stuff. We were close."
I thought it was over. Just Bob and his +1 lifetime pal Andrew. Then I met Sara.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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I am an Irish or maybe Scottish character from a show called highlander in which I weild a monster of a sword and as an eventuality will become the last of my kind since we are all trying to kill each other and I'm the main character of the show.
Also I created /r/iamverybadass
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I'm not really Bob anymore. I remember when I was just Bob. Before I met Andrew.
We had met at work. He had seen my bicycle helmet clipped to my bag and invited me for a day tip the next Saturday. It seemed innocent enough. I agreed.
The sun had been blistering hot. We peddled fast just to get the breeze up on our faces. Andrew had stripped down to the waist, while I continued to drench my workout shirt. We both had pretty decent bikes, carbon fiber and skinny tires, so we flew down the asphalt when we built up some speed.
There was no traffic on the road, so I swung wide coming out of the next turn. I turned back to smile at Andrew, but his face was contorted in a shout back at me, his arm half outstretched. I turned back just in time to see the car swerve out of way of me..
..and into the incoming lane with Andrew.
I remember the driver calling 911 as I held him, sobbing, begging for forgiveness. He just gurgled up blood, although now I know he was trying to tell me, "It's ok. I forgive you."
Then the hit came.
I was laid out. The paramedics had said it was shock when Andrew had died in my arms. I knew better.
I walked to Andrew's boyfriend's place that evening. I cried so hard on his shoulder. I kept using the wrong pronouns. "I, I mean Andrew, he loved you so much." I managed to lie about my intimate knowledge, "Andrew talked about you all the time at work." Juan was the one in shock. He had always been a stoic man. He cried, but he didn't sob like I did. I remember the last time they had made love. I couldn't give him that. Couldn't console him as a lover. I was Bob. At least, I was in Bob's body. I wasn't Bob, or Andrew, anymore.
I extricated myself from Juan's arms and walked away.
It wasn't until the next day that the euphoria really started kicking in. Like the world was born again. I knew what it was like now to grow up in Connecticut, what Mami Everett's pies tasted like, what it was to have been gay, to come out of the closet to two divorced parents. I reminisced on a lifetime of pleasant, pleasurable, or dramatic moments in Andrew's life.
I realized that I had his entire encyclopedic knowledge of Latin, drilled in by years at prep school, reinforced by a secret hobby of bird watching. I could do his job as easily as he had if his boss wanted me to.
I wondered if this all was an effect of something special about Andrew, or something about me. Or if it didn't really have anything to do with either of us, a just one time thing, an inexplicable mystery of the universe. I suffered bad shakes over the next couple of weeks. I worried what the process had done to my body might be taking its toll. The memories and skills remained, but the euphoria of nostalgia gradually wore off. I went back to work. I trained Andrew's replacement, even though I wasn't part of his department. "Andrew told me all about this stuff. We were close."
I thought it was over. Just Bob and his +1 lifetime pal Andrew. Then I met Sara.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
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I'm not really Bob anymore. I remember when I was just Bob. Before I met Andrew.
We had met at work. He had seen my bicycle helmet clipped to my bag and invited me for a day tip the next Saturday. It seemed innocent enough. I agreed.
The sun had been blistering hot. We peddled fast just to get the breeze up on our faces. Andrew had stripped down to the waist, while I continued to drench my workout shirt. We both had pretty decent bikes, carbon fiber and skinny tires, so we flew down the asphalt when we built up some speed.
There was no traffic on the road, so I swung wide coming out of the next turn. I turned back to smile at Andrew, but his face was contorted in a shout back at me, his arm half outstretched. I turned back just in time to see the car swerve out of way of me..
..and into the incoming lane with Andrew.
I remember the driver calling 911 as I held him, sobbing, begging for forgiveness. He just gurgled up blood, although now I know he was trying to tell me, "It's ok. I forgive you."
Then the hit came.
I was laid out. The paramedics had said it was shock when Andrew had died in my arms. I knew better.
I walked to Andrew's boyfriend's place that evening. I cried so hard on his shoulder. I kept using the wrong pronouns. "I, I mean Andrew, he loved you so much." I managed to lie about my intimate knowledge, "Andrew talked about you all the time at work." Juan was the one in shock. He had always been a stoic man. He cried, but he didn't sob like I did. I remember the last time they had made love. I couldn't give him that. Couldn't console him as a lover. I was Bob. At least, I was in Bob's body. I wasn't Bob, or Andrew, anymore.
I extricated myself from Juan's arms and walked away.
It wasn't until the next day that the euphoria really started kicking in. Like the world was born again. I knew what it was like now to grow up in Connecticut, what Mami Everett's pies tasted like, what it was to have been gay, to come out of the closet to two divorced parents. I reminisced on a lifetime of pleasant, pleasurable, or dramatic moments in Andrew's life.
I realized that I had his entire encyclopedic knowledge of Latin, drilled in by years at prep school, reinforced by a secret hobby of bird watching. I could do his job as easily as he had if his boss wanted me to.
I wondered if this all was an effect of something special about Andrew, or something about me. Or if it didn't really have anything to do with either of us, a just one time thing, an inexplicable mystery of the universe. I suffered bad shakes over the next couple of weeks. I worried what the process had done to my body might be taking its toll. The memories and skills remained, but the euphoria of nostalgia gradually wore off. I went back to work. I trained Andrew's replacement, even though I wasn't part of his department. "Andrew told me all about this stuff. We were close."
I thought it was over. Just Bob and his +1 lifetime pal Andrew. Then I met Sara.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
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I'm not really Bob anymore. I remember when I was just Bob. Before I met Andrew.
We had met at work. He had seen my bicycle helmet clipped to my bag and invited me for a day tip the next Saturday. It seemed innocent enough. I agreed.
The sun had been blistering hot. We peddled fast just to get the breeze up on our faces. Andrew had stripped down to the waist, while I continued to drench my workout shirt. We both had pretty decent bikes, carbon fiber and skinny tires, so we flew down the asphalt when we built up some speed.
There was no traffic on the road, so I swung wide coming out of the next turn. I turned back to smile at Andrew, but his face was contorted in a shout back at me, his arm half outstretched. I turned back just in time to see the car swerve out of way of me..
..and into the incoming lane with Andrew.
I remember the driver calling 911 as I held him, sobbing, begging for forgiveness. He just gurgled up blood, although now I know he was trying to tell me, "It's ok. I forgive you."
Then the hit came.
I was laid out. The paramedics had said it was shock when Andrew had died in my arms. I knew better.
I walked to Andrew's boyfriend's place that evening. I cried so hard on his shoulder. I kept using the wrong pronouns. "I, I mean Andrew, he loved you so much." I managed to lie about my intimate knowledge, "Andrew talked about you all the time at work." Juan was the one in shock. He had always been a stoic man. He cried, but he didn't sob like I did. I remember the last time they had made love. I couldn't give him that. Couldn't console him as a lover. I was Bob. At least, I was in Bob's body. I wasn't Bob, or Andrew, anymore.
I extricated myself from Juan's arms and walked away.
It wasn't until the next day that the euphoria really started kicking in. Like the world was born again. I knew what it was like now to grow up in Connecticut, what Mami Everett's pies tasted like, what it was to have been gay, to come out of the closet to two divorced parents. I reminisced on a lifetime of pleasant, pleasurable, or dramatic moments in Andrew's life.
I realized that I had his entire encyclopedic knowledge of Latin, drilled in by years at prep school, reinforced by a secret hobby of bird watching. I could do his job as easily as he had if his boss wanted me to.
I wondered if this all was an effect of something special about Andrew, or something about me. Or if it didn't really have anything to do with either of us, a just one time thing, an inexplicable mystery of the universe. I suffered bad shakes over the next couple of weeks. I worried what the process had done to my body might be taking its toll. The memories and skills remained, but the euphoria of nostalgia gradually wore off. I went back to work. I trained Andrew's replacement, even though I wasn't part of his department. "Andrew told me all about this stuff. We were close."
I thought it was over. Just Bob and his +1 lifetime pal Andrew. Then I met Sara.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
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I'm not really Bob anymore. I remember when I was just Bob. Before I met Andrew.
We had met at work. He had seen my bicycle helmet clipped to my bag and invited me for a day tip the next Saturday. It seemed innocent enough. I agreed.
The sun had been blistering hot. We peddled fast just to get the breeze up on our faces. Andrew had stripped down to the waist, while I continued to drench my workout shirt. We both had pretty decent bikes, carbon fiber and skinny tires, so we flew down the asphalt when we built up some speed.
There was no traffic on the road, so I swung wide coming out of the next turn. I turned back to smile at Andrew, but his face was contorted in a shout back at me, his arm half outstretched. I turned back just in time to see the car swerve out of way of me..
..and into the incoming lane with Andrew.
I remember the driver calling 911 as I held him, sobbing, begging for forgiveness. He just gurgled up blood, although now I know he was trying to tell me, "It's ok. I forgive you."
Then the hit came.
I was laid out. The paramedics had said it was shock when Andrew had died in my arms. I knew better.
I walked to Andrew's boyfriend's place that evening. I cried so hard on his shoulder. I kept using the wrong pronouns. "I, I mean Andrew, he loved you so much." I managed to lie about my intimate knowledge, "Andrew talked about you all the time at work." Juan was the one in shock. He had always been a stoic man. He cried, but he didn't sob like I did. I remember the last time they had made love. I couldn't give him that. Couldn't console him as a lover. I was Bob. At least, I was in Bob's body. I wasn't Bob, or Andrew, anymore.
I extricated myself from Juan's arms and walked away.
It wasn't until the next day that the euphoria really started kicking in. Like the world was born again. I knew what it was like now to grow up in Connecticut, what Mami Everett's pies tasted like, what it was to have been gay, to come out of the closet to two divorced parents. I reminisced on a lifetime of pleasant, pleasurable, or dramatic moments in Andrew's life.
I realized that I had his entire encyclopedic knowledge of Latin, drilled in by years at prep school, reinforced by a secret hobby of bird watching. I could do his job as easily as he had if his boss wanted me to.
I wondered if this all was an effect of something special about Andrew, or something about me. Or if it didn't really have anything to do with either of us, a just one time thing, an inexplicable mystery of the universe. I suffered bad shakes over the next couple of weeks. I worried what the process had done to my body might be taking its toll. The memories and skills remained, but the euphoria of nostalgia gradually wore off. I went back to work. I trained Andrew's replacement, even though I wasn't part of his department. "Andrew told me all about this stuff. We were close."
I thought it was over. Just Bob and his +1 lifetime pal Andrew. Then I met Sara.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
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First WP, hope you enjoy.
I could feel it in the air, before it came the first time. Yet, It is always the smell I remember most. Copper and Mint. Those are the closest things in our world I can compare it to. Which in my mind, makes perfect sense. As I believe, that whatever this Ability? Experience? Entity? is not from our world. I have looked and researched and poured through hundreds of books looking for any mention of something like this happening throughout history. I have found nothing in 200 hundred years of searching. Not a book, a painting, or a tale mentions it. Yet I know it to be real! Even as no man has spoken of it to me I have seen the Name and words in my mind countless times.
Something must be said before I continue. When it happens it hurts like hell, but there is also euphoria. Makes no sense, I know. Such a difficult thing to explain with words. It's...It's kinda... It is the beauty and pain of an entire life flowing into you at once. Instantly giving you the knowledge of every single thing the person has learned, experienced, felt, or forgot. It is a feeling one could easily become addicted to and corrupted by. It grants you for lack of a better term, the soul of the dead. I am not a saint, I have killed many men and women. I have absorbed the lives of over 250 people. Still, I have never killed simply for the pleasure. I have used my....gift? Curse seems a more apt term. Regardless, I have used it to save many lives. Hopefully more than I have taken.
I have no delusions about my actions. I dole out executions sanctioned by nothing, but my own morals. I have killed people that had made bad choices, but were not inherently evil people. Yet their death was necessary for me to gain information or skills I needed. Death for most, is just an end. A period on a life run its course. For me, death was not the end. It was a beginning. A new start in a world that looked the same but was wholly different. Every life I take gives me another point of view. The old adage, walk a mile in a mans shoes. Shit, I have walked hundreds of miles in a hundreds of shoes. Although after all these years and through all these memories I can still recall the first man that ever fell by my hands. As he is still the only man to kill me in over 200 hundred years.
It was a normal day for me. Got off work at 5, and I dropped by DD's to eat some supper. Ate, paid up, tipped my hat to Tracy the waitress and headed to my car. You never think that your life is going to end in the back parking lot of a greasy spoon. Yet here I was. I had rounded the corner and no sooner than I had turned, I was falling. It took my mind a moment to process what the fuck just happened. When I can see the world in focus again I am looking up at a man from the ground of the parking lot. He looked as average as a man can look holding a 3 ft blade. I try to move my hands, but nothing moves more than a twitch. I am cold, but can feel heat spreading all over my chest and back. I recoil in horror realizing that this mother fucker has just ran me through. I can see the blood dripping from the end of his blade. I can taste my blood in my mouth and all I can smell is copper. My vision begins to fade, my body goes numb to the world and in my mind I curse the bastard the felt the need to kill me in a goddam dinner parking lot. "What a shitty way to check out." Those were the last words that crossed my mind.
Then I heard a crackle, and a loud POP. Like someone had just snapped some bubble wrap in my head. I notice that I can hear sounds, and feel the wetness on my skin. So I open my eyes. I am still looking up at red sky behind DD's. Still laying in the parking lot. I fell the blood soaking around my clothes. What I do not feel is pain. I try to move my head and find that i have no problem moving around. I feel my chest through the blood trying to find the hole made by the blade. I cannot find anything. I look around for the man, gone. I remove my shirt and see that nothing is wrong with me minus being coated in a very concerning amount of blood. Without an injury I look like someone that just committed a murder not a victim of it. So I run to my car throw my blood covered shirt in the trunk and grab one of my work shirts. I then decide I should look around and try to find this guy before he tried to kill someone else. Or someone in the first place since I'm alive? Not sure, no time to have the internal debate.
First though is what if he went into DD"s? Shit. Only Tracy and the fry cook inside when I left. I sprint to the front and throw open the door to be confronted by Tracy. Looking bewildered she holds out her hands "Whoa there Mr. Callum! You forget something?"
"Did you see a man come out front just now?" I ask her pointedly as I am scanning the dinner. No sign of him in here, just empty booths around the outside walls. No one at the counter top but the old fry cook, looking at me like he was watching a man go insane.
"Sweetie, you were the last one out the door and not 5 minutes ago." Tracy said calmly, trying to bring me back down from this fever pitch I have worked myself into.
"Alright, Thanks. Do me a favor? Lock up behind me, ok?" I ask as i am already halfway out the door.
"Alright, You get home and get some rest Mr. Callum. You looking rough." Tracy says with a mixture of exasperation and empathy.
I walk out of the dinner and I scan the side walks. Not much to see of what I CAN see. The dust is rolling in and everything past 40 ft in front of me seems like a mirage. The pale blue and red neon sign reading Deimos Dinner over my head cuts through the dust giving it a haunting hue. I take another look around and head back down the ally. I don't know what to believe at this point. Was that all some sort of dam hallucination? I made it to my car and check the trunk again. Shirts still there, still covered in blood. So not a hallucination. I was not sure if that made me feel better or worse to be honest. I get in fire up the ride and start to pull out of the parking lot. Then as I pull out I see what looks like a man walking close to the buildings down the side ally. I pull in front of the ally and flood it with my headlights.
Its Him. He freezes in place, still welding a blood covered blade in his right hand. I get out of the car and yet at him. "Im calling the Peacekeepers DONT MOVE!"
He looks at me, and I mean it was as though he was looking in me. Then he meets my eyes and gets a very perplexed look on his face. "You Dead"his voice is low and gritty. "I stabbed you dead."
My mind is racing again. So he did stab me? How the fuck am I still alive, where is the wound? Who the fuck is this? As I am still processioning this insanity he lurches toward me. I notice he has an odd gait, he moves quite quick with what appears to be an injured left knee. He reaches the car flicks his right arm sending the blade screaming at my head. I drop to the ground feeling a dull crunch on the bad of my head as I smash the side mirror off on my way down. The Man recovers from the miss and try's to stab me again, this time in the face. I dodge again as the blade barley misses and slides into my quarter panel like it was made of butter.
He try's to pull the blade and it wont budge. He lets go of the blade and lunges toward me. I want to run but worry even with the limp he might catch me. So I put everything i have into a single kick and try to drive his kneecap out the back of his leg. He wails trying to clutch his knee and catch himself as he falls. Unfortunately for him he fell forward unto his own blade. He hits it with enough force that his cleaves completely through his neck. His head lands with a thump and rolled under the car. His body, now headless, begins to spew blood like a torrent from his neck. I was frozen. The blood spewing from the body had covered my face and second shirt in blood. I stood up reviewing the gory scene before me. Then I felt my hair stand on end, and then it happened for the first time.
I could feel the power in the air! Like it was charged with energy. Then the neon Deimos Dinner sign began to flicker in the background, the winds pick up speed. All the lights around me began to pulse. I mean all the lights, even the parked cars in the lot. All of the sudden a bolt of blue electricity poured from his headless corpse. It flowed up into the air it was like it was dancing. In a moment it stopped flowing up, and shot directly into my chest. I thought I was going to die....again. I don't feel like I am dying though. I see....flashes, like flipping through a book and remembering everything that is on every page at once. It felt like i was on fire inside and at the same time icy on my skin. I taste blood in my mouth and smell mint in the charged air swirling around me. Then as quickly as it began it was done. I sat there with my back against the car, thinking. Thinking of everything that man had ever done in his entire life. He was ancient, One of the first settlers here it turns out. Without him I would never have had my purpose. I would not know what I am. We did not have much more information for me regarding this insanity other than a what we immortals were and what this power was called.
I am Callum McCloud, I am a Highlander. I have experienced The Quickening 257 times on my planet. I am now sure that my answers lay on a dead world that mankind has long forgot. The Planet is called Earth and I believe it holds the Source of this power, of this...curse.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
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First WP, hope you enjoy.
I could feel it in the air, before it came the first time. Yet, It is always the smell I remember most. Copper and Mint. Those are the closest things in our world I can compare it to. Which in my mind, makes perfect sense. As I believe, that whatever this Ability? Experience? Entity? is not from our world. I have looked and researched and poured through hundreds of books looking for any mention of something like this happening throughout history. I have found nothing in 200 hundred years of searching. Not a book, a painting, or a tale mentions it. Yet I know it to be real! Even as no man has spoken of it to me I have seen the Name and words in my mind countless times.
Something must be said before I continue. When it happens it hurts like hell, but there is also euphoria. Makes no sense, I know. Such a difficult thing to explain with words. It's...It's kinda... It is the beauty and pain of an entire life flowing into you at once. Instantly giving you the knowledge of every single thing the person has learned, experienced, felt, or forgot. It is a feeling one could easily become addicted to and corrupted by. It grants you for lack of a better term, the soul of the dead. I am not a saint, I have killed many men and women. I have absorbed the lives of over 250 people. Still, I have never killed simply for the pleasure. I have used my....gift? Curse seems a more apt term. Regardless, I have used it to save many lives. Hopefully more than I have taken.
I have no delusions about my actions. I dole out executions sanctioned by nothing, but my own morals. I have killed people that had made bad choices, but were not inherently evil people. Yet their death was necessary for me to gain information or skills I needed. Death for most, is just an end. A period on a life run its course. For me, death was not the end. It was a beginning. A new start in a world that looked the same but was wholly different. Every life I take gives me another point of view. The old adage, walk a mile in a mans shoes. Shit, I have walked hundreds of miles in a hundreds of shoes. Although after all these years and through all these memories I can still recall the first man that ever fell by my hands. As he is still the only man to kill me in over 200 hundred years.
It was a normal day for me. Got off work at 5, and I dropped by DD's to eat some supper. Ate, paid up, tipped my hat to Tracy the waitress and headed to my car. You never think that your life is going to end in the back parking lot of a greasy spoon. Yet here I was. I had rounded the corner and no sooner than I had turned, I was falling. It took my mind a moment to process what the fuck just happened. When I can see the world in focus again I am looking up at a man from the ground of the parking lot. He looked as average as a man can look holding a 3 ft blade. I try to move my hands, but nothing moves more than a twitch. I am cold, but can feel heat spreading all over my chest and back. I recoil in horror realizing that this mother fucker has just ran me through. I can see the blood dripping from the end of his blade. I can taste my blood in my mouth and all I can smell is copper. My vision begins to fade, my body goes numb to the world and in my mind I curse the bastard the felt the need to kill me in a goddam dinner parking lot. "What a shitty way to check out." Those were the last words that crossed my mind.
Then I heard a crackle, and a loud POP. Like someone had just snapped some bubble wrap in my head. I notice that I can hear sounds, and feel the wetness on my skin. So I open my eyes. I am still looking up at red sky behind DD's. Still laying in the parking lot. I fell the blood soaking around my clothes. What I do not feel is pain. I try to move my head and find that i have no problem moving around. I feel my chest through the blood trying to find the hole made by the blade. I cannot find anything. I look around for the man, gone. I remove my shirt and see that nothing is wrong with me minus being coated in a very concerning amount of blood. Without an injury I look like someone that just committed a murder not a victim of it. So I run to my car throw my blood covered shirt in the trunk and grab one of my work shirts. I then decide I should look around and try to find this guy before he tried to kill someone else. Or someone in the first place since I'm alive? Not sure, no time to have the internal debate.
First though is what if he went into DD"s? Shit. Only Tracy and the fry cook inside when I left. I sprint to the front and throw open the door to be confronted by Tracy. Looking bewildered she holds out her hands "Whoa there Mr. Callum! You forget something?"
"Did you see a man come out front just now?" I ask her pointedly as I am scanning the dinner. No sign of him in here, just empty booths around the outside walls. No one at the counter top but the old fry cook, looking at me like he was watching a man go insane.
"Sweetie, you were the last one out the door and not 5 minutes ago." Tracy said calmly, trying to bring me back down from this fever pitch I have worked myself into.
"Alright, Thanks. Do me a favor? Lock up behind me, ok?" I ask as i am already halfway out the door.
"Alright, You get home and get some rest Mr. Callum. You looking rough." Tracy says with a mixture of exasperation and empathy.
I walk out of the dinner and I scan the side walks. Not much to see of what I CAN see. The dust is rolling in and everything past 40 ft in front of me seems like a mirage. The pale blue and red neon sign reading Deimos Dinner over my head cuts through the dust giving it a haunting hue. I take another look around and head back down the ally. I don't know what to believe at this point. Was that all some sort of dam hallucination? I made it to my car and check the trunk again. Shirts still there, still covered in blood. So not a hallucination. I was not sure if that made me feel better or worse to be honest. I get in fire up the ride and start to pull out of the parking lot. Then as I pull out I see what looks like a man walking close to the buildings down the side ally. I pull in front of the ally and flood it with my headlights.
Its Him. He freezes in place, still welding a blood covered blade in his right hand. I get out of the car and yet at him. "Im calling the Peacekeepers DONT MOVE!"
He looks at me, and I mean it was as though he was looking in me. Then he meets my eyes and gets a very perplexed look on his face. "You Dead"his voice is low and gritty. "I stabbed you dead."
My mind is racing again. So he did stab me? How the fuck am I still alive, where is the wound? Who the fuck is this? As I am still processioning this insanity he lurches toward me. I notice he has an odd gait, he moves quite quick with what appears to be an injured left knee. He reaches the car flicks his right arm sending the blade screaming at my head. I drop to the ground feeling a dull crunch on the bad of my head as I smash the side mirror off on my way down. The Man recovers from the miss and try's to stab me again, this time in the face. I dodge again as the blade barley misses and slides into my quarter panel like it was made of butter.
He try's to pull the blade and it wont budge. He lets go of the blade and lunges toward me. I want to run but worry even with the limp he might catch me. So I put everything i have into a single kick and try to drive his kneecap out the back of his leg. He wails trying to clutch his knee and catch himself as he falls. Unfortunately for him he fell forward unto his own blade. He hits it with enough force that his cleaves completely through his neck. His head lands with a thump and rolled under the car. His body, now headless, begins to spew blood like a torrent from his neck. I was frozen. The blood spewing from the body had covered my face and second shirt in blood. I stood up reviewing the gory scene before me. Then I felt my hair stand on end, and then it happened for the first time.
I could feel the power in the air! Like it was charged with energy. Then the neon Deimos Dinner sign began to flicker in the background, the winds pick up speed. All the lights around me began to pulse. I mean all the lights, even the parked cars in the lot. All of the sudden a bolt of blue electricity poured from his headless corpse. It flowed up into the air it was like it was dancing. In a moment it stopped flowing up, and shot directly into my chest. I thought I was going to die....again. I don't feel like I am dying though. I see....flashes, like flipping through a book and remembering everything that is on every page at once. It felt like i was on fire inside and at the same time icy on my skin. I taste blood in my mouth and smell mint in the charged air swirling around me. Then as quickly as it began it was done. I sat there with my back against the car, thinking. Thinking of everything that man had ever done in his entire life. He was ancient, One of the first settlers here it turns out. Without him I would never have had my purpose. I would not know what I am. We did not have much more information for me regarding this insanity other than a what we immortals were and what this power was called.
I am Callum McCloud, I am a Highlander. I have experienced The Quickening 257 times on my planet. I am now sure that my answers lay on a dead world that mankind has long forgot. The Planet is called Earth and I believe it holds the Source of this power, of this...curse.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
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First WP, hope you enjoy.
I could feel it in the air, before it came the first time. Yet, It is always the smell I remember most. Copper and Mint. Those are the closest things in our world I can compare it to. Which in my mind, makes perfect sense. As I believe, that whatever this Ability? Experience? Entity? is not from our world. I have looked and researched and poured through hundreds of books looking for any mention of something like this happening throughout history. I have found nothing in 200 hundred years of searching. Not a book, a painting, or a tale mentions it. Yet I know it to be real! Even as no man has spoken of it to me I have seen the Name and words in my mind countless times.
Something must be said before I continue. When it happens it hurts like hell, but there is also euphoria. Makes no sense, I know. Such a difficult thing to explain with words. It's...It's kinda... It is the beauty and pain of an entire life flowing into you at once. Instantly giving you the knowledge of every single thing the person has learned, experienced, felt, or forgot. It is a feeling one could easily become addicted to and corrupted by. It grants you for lack of a better term, the soul of the dead. I am not a saint, I have killed many men and women. I have absorbed the lives of over 250 people. Still, I have never killed simply for the pleasure. I have used my....gift? Curse seems a more apt term. Regardless, I have used it to save many lives. Hopefully more than I have taken.
I have no delusions about my actions. I dole out executions sanctioned by nothing, but my own morals. I have killed people that had made bad choices, but were not inherently evil people. Yet their death was necessary for me to gain information or skills I needed. Death for most, is just an end. A period on a life run its course. For me, death was not the end. It was a beginning. A new start in a world that looked the same but was wholly different. Every life I take gives me another point of view. The old adage, walk a mile in a mans shoes. Shit, I have walked hundreds of miles in a hundreds of shoes. Although after all these years and through all these memories I can still recall the first man that ever fell by my hands. As he is still the only man to kill me in over 200 hundred years.
It was a normal day for me. Got off work at 5, and I dropped by DD's to eat some supper. Ate, paid up, tipped my hat to Tracy the waitress and headed to my car. You never think that your life is going to end in the back parking lot of a greasy spoon. Yet here I was. I had rounded the corner and no sooner than I had turned, I was falling. It took my mind a moment to process what the fuck just happened. When I can see the world in focus again I am looking up at a man from the ground of the parking lot. He looked as average as a man can look holding a 3 ft blade. I try to move my hands, but nothing moves more than a twitch. I am cold, but can feel heat spreading all over my chest and back. I recoil in horror realizing that this mother fucker has just ran me through. I can see the blood dripping from the end of his blade. I can taste my blood in my mouth and all I can smell is copper. My vision begins to fade, my body goes numb to the world and in my mind I curse the bastard the felt the need to kill me in a goddam dinner parking lot. "What a shitty way to check out." Those were the last words that crossed my mind.
Then I heard a crackle, and a loud POP. Like someone had just snapped some bubble wrap in my head. I notice that I can hear sounds, and feel the wetness on my skin. So I open my eyes. I am still looking up at red sky behind DD's. Still laying in the parking lot. I fell the blood soaking around my clothes. What I do not feel is pain. I try to move my head and find that i have no problem moving around. I feel my chest through the blood trying to find the hole made by the blade. I cannot find anything. I look around for the man, gone. I remove my shirt and see that nothing is wrong with me minus being coated in a very concerning amount of blood. Without an injury I look like someone that just committed a murder not a victim of it. So I run to my car throw my blood covered shirt in the trunk and grab one of my work shirts. I then decide I should look around and try to find this guy before he tried to kill someone else. Or someone in the first place since I'm alive? Not sure, no time to have the internal debate.
First though is what if he went into DD"s? Shit. Only Tracy and the fry cook inside when I left. I sprint to the front and throw open the door to be confronted by Tracy. Looking bewildered she holds out her hands "Whoa there Mr. Callum! You forget something?"
"Did you see a man come out front just now?" I ask her pointedly as I am scanning the dinner. No sign of him in here, just empty booths around the outside walls. No one at the counter top but the old fry cook, looking at me like he was watching a man go insane.
"Sweetie, you were the last one out the door and not 5 minutes ago." Tracy said calmly, trying to bring me back down from this fever pitch I have worked myself into.
"Alright, Thanks. Do me a favor? Lock up behind me, ok?" I ask as i am already halfway out the door.
"Alright, You get home and get some rest Mr. Callum. You looking rough." Tracy says with a mixture of exasperation and empathy.
I walk out of the dinner and I scan the side walks. Not much to see of what I CAN see. The dust is rolling in and everything past 40 ft in front of me seems like a mirage. The pale blue and red neon sign reading Deimos Dinner over my head cuts through the dust giving it a haunting hue. I take another look around and head back down the ally. I don't know what to believe at this point. Was that all some sort of dam hallucination? I made it to my car and check the trunk again. Shirts still there, still covered in blood. So not a hallucination. I was not sure if that made me feel better or worse to be honest. I get in fire up the ride and start to pull out of the parking lot. Then as I pull out I see what looks like a man walking close to the buildings down the side ally. I pull in front of the ally and flood it with my headlights.
Its Him. He freezes in place, still welding a blood covered blade in his right hand. I get out of the car and yet at him. "Im calling the Peacekeepers DONT MOVE!"
He looks at me, and I mean it was as though he was looking in me. Then he meets my eyes and gets a very perplexed look on his face. "You Dead"his voice is low and gritty. "I stabbed you dead."
My mind is racing again. So he did stab me? How the fuck am I still alive, where is the wound? Who the fuck is this? As I am still processioning this insanity he lurches toward me. I notice he has an odd gait, he moves quite quick with what appears to be an injured left knee. He reaches the car flicks his right arm sending the blade screaming at my head. I drop to the ground feeling a dull crunch on the bad of my head as I smash the side mirror off on my way down. The Man recovers from the miss and try's to stab me again, this time in the face. I dodge again as the blade barley misses and slides into my quarter panel like it was made of butter.
He try's to pull the blade and it wont budge. He lets go of the blade and lunges toward me. I want to run but worry even with the limp he might catch me. So I put everything i have into a single kick and try to drive his kneecap out the back of his leg. He wails trying to clutch his knee and catch himself as he falls. Unfortunately for him he fell forward unto his own blade. He hits it with enough force that his cleaves completely through his neck. His head lands with a thump and rolled under the car. His body, now headless, begins to spew blood like a torrent from his neck. I was frozen. The blood spewing from the body had covered my face and second shirt in blood. I stood up reviewing the gory scene before me. Then I felt my hair stand on end, and then it happened for the first time.
I could feel the power in the air! Like it was charged with energy. Then the neon Deimos Dinner sign began to flicker in the background, the winds pick up speed. All the lights around me began to pulse. I mean all the lights, even the parked cars in the lot. All of the sudden a bolt of blue electricity poured from his headless corpse. It flowed up into the air it was like it was dancing. In a moment it stopped flowing up, and shot directly into my chest. I thought I was going to die....again. I don't feel like I am dying though. I see....flashes, like flipping through a book and remembering everything that is on every page at once. It felt like i was on fire inside and at the same time icy on my skin. I taste blood in my mouth and smell mint in the charged air swirling around me. Then as quickly as it began it was done. I sat there with my back against the car, thinking. Thinking of everything that man had ever done in his entire life. He was ancient, One of the first settlers here it turns out. Without him I would never have had my purpose. I would not know what I am. We did not have much more information for me regarding this insanity other than a what we immortals were and what this power was called.
I am Callum McCloud, I am a Highlander. I have experienced The Quickening 257 times on my planet. I am now sure that my answers lay on a dead world that mankind has long forgot. The Planet is called Earth and I believe it holds the Source of this power, of this...curse.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
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I've been an airline pilot and flown hundreds of flights around the world. I've been a master chef and served dinner for heads of state. I've been a race car driver and experienced the thrill of driving over 100 MPH down dirt roads in the backwoods and hills.
I've been a plumber and a carpenter and a janitor. For a brief while, I was even a trombonist. Boy, I had some good times down in the French Quarter. I've had some good times all over, really. The past thirty years have been ... well, they've been amazing. But to be perfectly honest, the older I get, the more bored I've become.
You can only be so much in one lifetime, you know? I know what you're thinking. You're wondering how this balding, middle-aged man has had such a fantastic and varied life. Well, when I was fifteen, I discovered something fascinating about myself. You see, I was running in the woods with my best friend Tony. I loved Tony. As a brother, of course. I idolized him. He was the captain of the track team, fastest young man I ever knew. He liked to run in the woods. Said it developed agility and quick reflexes having to dodge roots and find trails in the undergrowth. And I chased after him, as I always did.
And one Saturday in the woods along the bluffs in the state park, I chased after him and missed the root that he so adeptly dodged. And I tumbled headfirst into him. And his body flung forward and his head struck a rock. In a millisecond, the light left his eyes.
And it entered mine. Suddenly, I saw my entire friendship with Tony from his eyes. And his home life. And his childhood. And that awkward first date he had and how his father cried when his mother died and everything else he knew. In my shock, I stood up and stared at his body lying limp in the undergrowth. With the combined intelligence of two people, I knew that I would face terrible consequences if I was blamed for his death. I picked up his body, my own strangely stronger than it had been moments before. I carried his body to the edge of the bluffs and dug his hands into the rock at the edge. I scraped his arms against the dirt and cliff. And then I pushed him off.
Then, through gritted teeth, I scraped my own hands against the rocks and the dirt. I pressed myself into the ground at the edge of the rock. After I stood up, I walked back to the rock where he died and pulled it up out of the ground, pushing the dirt and piling some greenery to make it look natural. I walked for twenty minutes down along the cliff's edge and tossed it over.
I then took off at a run back toward town, feeling my body move with alacrity it has never had before. I felt even faster than Tony would have been, almost as if we'd somehow coupled our knowledge of motion. I ran, the exhilaration of the run and the knowledge and the feeling of what had happened bringing tears to my eyes. When I made it to town, tears streaming down my face, I contorted it into a frantic expression, shouting for help.
My story, as the police wrote it down, was that Tony had tripped near the cliff's edge, clung on for dear life, and I tried in vain to save him. They found his crumpled body on the rocks at the base of the bluff, rocks which had broken him open in many places beyond just the right temple.
And from that moment forward, I was both me and Tony. And, of course, I couldn't *not* try it again. And then I was me and Tony and a homeless man who, for all anyone knew, froze to death one harsh winter. He had been a veteran, sadly. And then I knew how to fire a gun and kill a man with my hands and move with silent skill.
You may be wondering why I'm telling you all of this. Well, it's getting more difficult to grow myself without getting caught. I worry that the death penalty means I die but also seventeen others die along with me all over again. So I need to get better at this. That's why you're here. In that chair. With that gag on your mouth. And tonight, I'll be better than I've ever been. I'll be able to think of all the angles and tricks. I'll be able to think ten steps ahead. You see, I've never been a homicide detective before. And they say you're one of the best.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
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I've been an airline pilot and flown hundreds of flights around the world. I've been a master chef and served dinner for heads of state. I've been a race car driver and experienced the thrill of driving over 100 MPH down dirt roads in the backwoods and hills.
I've been a plumber and a carpenter and a janitor. For a brief while, I was even a trombonist. Boy, I had some good times down in the French Quarter. I've had some good times all over, really. The past thirty years have been ... well, they've been amazing. But to be perfectly honest, the older I get, the more bored I've become.
You can only be so much in one lifetime, you know? I know what you're thinking. You're wondering how this balding, middle-aged man has had such a fantastic and varied life. Well, when I was fifteen, I discovered something fascinating about myself. You see, I was running in the woods with my best friend Tony. I loved Tony. As a brother, of course. I idolized him. He was the captain of the track team, fastest young man I ever knew. He liked to run in the woods. Said it developed agility and quick reflexes having to dodge roots and find trails in the undergrowth. And I chased after him, as I always did.
And one Saturday in the woods along the bluffs in the state park, I chased after him and missed the root that he so adeptly dodged. And I tumbled headfirst into him. And his body flung forward and his head struck a rock. In a millisecond, the light left his eyes.
And it entered mine. Suddenly, I saw my entire friendship with Tony from his eyes. And his home life. And his childhood. And that awkward first date he had and how his father cried when his mother died and everything else he knew. In my shock, I stood up and stared at his body lying limp in the undergrowth. With the combined intelligence of two people, I knew that I would face terrible consequences if I was blamed for his death. I picked up his body, my own strangely stronger than it had been moments before. I carried his body to the edge of the bluffs and dug his hands into the rock at the edge. I scraped his arms against the dirt and cliff. And then I pushed him off.
Then, through gritted teeth, I scraped my own hands against the rocks and the dirt. I pressed myself into the ground at the edge of the rock. After I stood up, I walked back to the rock where he died and pulled it up out of the ground, pushing the dirt and piling some greenery to make it look natural. I walked for twenty minutes down along the cliff's edge and tossed it over.
I then took off at a run back toward town, feeling my body move with alacrity it has never had before. I felt even faster than Tony would have been, almost as if we'd somehow coupled our knowledge of motion. I ran, the exhilaration of the run and the knowledge and the feeling of what had happened bringing tears to my eyes. When I made it to town, tears streaming down my face, I contorted it into a frantic expression, shouting for help.
My story, as the police wrote it down, was that Tony had tripped near the cliff's edge, clung on for dear life, and I tried in vain to save him. They found his crumpled body on the rocks at the base of the bluff, rocks which had broken him open in many places beyond just the right temple.
And from that moment forward, I was both me and Tony. And, of course, I couldn't *not* try it again. And then I was me and Tony and a homeless man who, for all anyone knew, froze to death one harsh winter. He had been a veteran, sadly. And then I knew how to fire a gun and kill a man with my hands and move with silent skill.
You may be wondering why I'm telling you all of this. Well, it's getting more difficult to grow myself without getting caught. I worry that the death penalty means I die but also seventeen others die along with me all over again. So I need to get better at this. That's why you're here. In that chair. With that gag on your mouth. And tonight, I'll be better than I've ever been. I'll be able to think of all the angles and tricks. I'll be able to think ten steps ahead. You see, I've never been a homicide detective before. And they say you're one of the best.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
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I've been an airline pilot and flown hundreds of flights around the world. I've been a master chef and served dinner for heads of state. I've been a race car driver and experienced the thrill of driving over 100 MPH down dirt roads in the backwoods and hills.
I've been a plumber and a carpenter and a janitor. For a brief while, I was even a trombonist. Boy, I had some good times down in the French Quarter. I've had some good times all over, really. The past thirty years have been ... well, they've been amazing. But to be perfectly honest, the older I get, the more bored I've become.
You can only be so much in one lifetime, you know? I know what you're thinking. You're wondering how this balding, middle-aged man has had such a fantastic and varied life. Well, when I was fifteen, I discovered something fascinating about myself. You see, I was running in the woods with my best friend Tony. I loved Tony. As a brother, of course. I idolized him. He was the captain of the track team, fastest young man I ever knew. He liked to run in the woods. Said it developed agility and quick reflexes having to dodge roots and find trails in the undergrowth. And I chased after him, as I always did.
And one Saturday in the woods along the bluffs in the state park, I chased after him and missed the root that he so adeptly dodged. And I tumbled headfirst into him. And his body flung forward and his head struck a rock. In a millisecond, the light left his eyes.
And it entered mine. Suddenly, I saw my entire friendship with Tony from his eyes. And his home life. And his childhood. And that awkward first date he had and how his father cried when his mother died and everything else he knew. In my shock, I stood up and stared at his body lying limp in the undergrowth. With the combined intelligence of two people, I knew that I would face terrible consequences if I was blamed for his death. I picked up his body, my own strangely stronger than it had been moments before. I carried his body to the edge of the bluffs and dug his hands into the rock at the edge. I scraped his arms against the dirt and cliff. And then I pushed him off.
Then, through gritted teeth, I scraped my own hands against the rocks and the dirt. I pressed myself into the ground at the edge of the rock. After I stood up, I walked back to the rock where he died and pulled it up out of the ground, pushing the dirt and piling some greenery to make it look natural. I walked for twenty minutes down along the cliff's edge and tossed it over.
I then took off at a run back toward town, feeling my body move with alacrity it has never had before. I felt even faster than Tony would have been, almost as if we'd somehow coupled our knowledge of motion. I ran, the exhilaration of the run and the knowledge and the feeling of what had happened bringing tears to my eyes. When I made it to town, tears streaming down my face, I contorted it into a frantic expression, shouting for help.
My story, as the police wrote it down, was that Tony had tripped near the cliff's edge, clung on for dear life, and I tried in vain to save him. They found his crumpled body on the rocks at the base of the bluff, rocks which had broken him open in many places beyond just the right temple.
And from that moment forward, I was both me and Tony. And, of course, I couldn't *not* try it again. And then I was me and Tony and a homeless man who, for all anyone knew, froze to death one harsh winter. He had been a veteran, sadly. And then I knew how to fire a gun and kill a man with my hands and move with silent skill.
You may be wondering why I'm telling you all of this. Well, it's getting more difficult to grow myself without getting caught. I worry that the death penalty means I die but also seventeen others die along with me all over again. So I need to get better at this. That's why you're here. In that chair. With that gag on your mouth. And tonight, I'll be better than I've ever been. I'll be able to think of all the angles and tricks. I'll be able to think ten steps ahead. You see, I've never been a homicide detective before. And they say you're one of the best.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
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There's five of us in here now. I haven't been completely caught yet, but I won't need to be. They're going to admit me since I have the most advanced case of multiple personality disorder that has ever been witnessed. If I had of been taken in for observation after just one or two of them I wouldn't have seemed like I was mentally ill.
Now I only know who I am because I'm the one that killed all of the others. They don't exist, I didn't absorb their souls, but their brains connections are all still there. At first it was just a mistake that provided the greatest rush of my life. I was remembering what never was, but still... was. After that I wanted to do it again, but that would be horrible right? I didn't realize that Jessica was more than just memories. I'd do something and I'd have her motor function. I'd tie my shoes in a different way sometimes, chew in a way that annoyed myself and have those playful self-conversations but with new responses that I didn't think!
She doesn't live in me, but just about everything that made me her does. If I didn't have extra equipment down there, I'd have given in to the new patterns. Instead, I went out dressed like a shorter, more scrawnier version of Jessica. I felt like I was looking at a close friend but I had never seen her in my life or Jessica's. I went out dancing, got lots of free drinks and took a cute guy home.
Ugh, I do not like men. Jessica likes men. Men are not cute, and Hank was not cute. Hank was an asshole that was out of the league of Jessica and my drag version of her. Yet somehow I roped Hank into taking me home. The excitement from him picking me up and kissing me is still rather fond. I enjoyed it, I liked it. Jessica liked it, at least some facsimile of herself in my memories did. It reminded me of her first boyfriend, I reacted in all of the same ways. Hank is a titty man, but I told him no. Hank kept insisting in that may that men do.
"Come on baby, just one rub."
"One lick honey."
"Just a little bit, you're beautiful hon."
So I told Hank the truth.
"I'm as flat as billboard and built like a man, here take a look."
The fake boobs came out and his smile sagged a little. Then he did something that surprised me. Slowly, and very meticulously, he nibbled at my chest. Seeing his grin as he did so was enchanting. Every time the streetlight broke through the blinds and stroked his face I felt myself becoming hotter. It was becoming too much, Hank was too good at this. He didn't rush to the main act, instead he slowly invested his time in everything around it. When it came to the game over area I told him sternly that that's a no go, but "the other one is all yours".
I regretted that as soon as I said it, but my earlier thought of him being a breast man was definitely wrong. This is what he'd been truly wanting while being afraid to ask for it. We didn't know at the time that he wanted this, but after I bashed his head in with the lamp then tore his neck open with the shattered lightbulb I knew.
How did it come to that again?
Oh yea, after doggy styling it he wanted missionary. I had just barely managed to stop my pouch from showing from his previous work. When he turned me over to continue work in the same area, he saw what we both had in common. His voice erupted into thunder as those tree branches he called arms came down on me like lightning. With surprising efficiency Hank pressed me down into the bed as if a tree had fallen on my head. His knuckles were ghastly yet they fed his fingers with a near unlimited source of power as he strangled us. We couldn't turn our head or kick our way free. If Hank wasn't so overzealous we would have been dead. Instead, he started to slam our head into the night stand. That's when the lamp fall onto me. It busted my lip, but I knocked that fool out. The amount of time that passed between getting up and ensuring that at least one of us would come tonight is something that we cannot tell you.
But it was done, and it was good. Hank was so good, and in more ways than one. The feelings that rushed over our little tri-body were numerous, but they were all good. At least until they weren't. Hank had recently lost his family to divorce court and was effectively made into a slave with the wages that were left over after the ruling. Hank looked like a lumberjack, but was a surprisingly intelligent researcher at an Interstice Science laboratory. No one provided more rock solid results than Hank, but everyone else still managed to claim his ideas and earn his patents. Of the few that were associated with Hank, they were sucked up by the company legally as their own invention. All of his coworkers were multi-millionaires, but Hank was barely earning more than two McDonald's workers now. After selling blood plasma weekly and the last of his rare video games, he had decided to give himself one good night at bar.
Our bar.
The bar we met Hank at.
The bar where Hank believed he fell in love with us, with Jessica's concoction.
The bar where he spent what little money he had to impress us so that he could get a small amount of happiness in his life.
Hank was happy, at least until he saw that we had a penis. That had somehow been the ultimate betrayal to him. Jessica would have felt bad for Hank and I pity him. Unfortunately for Hank, only one of us was going to live and that person decided to get the revenge for Hank that he never once thought of taking for himself.
Locating his wife was easy, it was getting her away from the kids that were the difficult part. Any day now Hank's pension would become a hot button issue for the family that he was ex-communicated from. We all agree that Hank was a loving husband, great provider and awesome father. It's easy to agree with that when you go beyond what took him down. However, Hank was a pushover. He had no spine at all until he only had a few minutes left in his life. That's why his wife left him.
No. That's wrong.
Maybel from work has her arm around Francine, his wife. It's too close and intimate according to Jessica's memories. Everyone would have been able to recognize that beautifully ugly kiss as being the representation of the true reason Hank lost his wife. As they crossed the street making out, Hank made sure that the gas pedal was pressed to the max while Jessica and I kept the wheel steady. Humans are capable of so much, but we only have a finite amount of time available to actually learn our activities. As I've discovered, having three lifetimes of driving skills in 3 different perspectives all in sync in one body allows for making the most inglorious mess all over the sidewalk. Our body ran out of the car of its' own accord and used Hank's super tree arms to slap their heads together constantly. They were already dead, I knew this because the explosion of euphoria made it difficult to contain myself. I felt all of the sickness of the situation, of all of the situations coalesce into something terribly wrong. I couldn't stop myself from laughing. The tears stream and the vileness of my actions and these people all combined, but I couldn't stop laughing. The sirens are loud, and my car is irreversibly damaged. I'm grasping at the headlight and I just barely place it back into its' socket. After one final twist I lose myself in an endless sea of wonder, hysteria and madness.
I tell you this because you wanted to know why I'm here and how I came to lose my mind.
Well now you know. Not only that, but I'll answer your question from earlier now.
5.
It takes 5 Bill's to screw in a lightbulb.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
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There's five of us in here now. I haven't been completely caught yet, but I won't need to be. They're going to admit me since I have the most advanced case of multiple personality disorder that has ever been witnessed. If I had of been taken in for observation after just one or two of them I wouldn't have seemed like I was mentally ill.
Now I only know who I am because I'm the one that killed all of the others. They don't exist, I didn't absorb their souls, but their brains connections are all still there. At first it was just a mistake that provided the greatest rush of my life. I was remembering what never was, but still... was. After that I wanted to do it again, but that would be horrible right? I didn't realize that Jessica was more than just memories. I'd do something and I'd have her motor function. I'd tie my shoes in a different way sometimes, chew in a way that annoyed myself and have those playful self-conversations but with new responses that I didn't think!
She doesn't live in me, but just about everything that made me her does. If I didn't have extra equipment down there, I'd have given in to the new patterns. Instead, I went out dressed like a shorter, more scrawnier version of Jessica. I felt like I was looking at a close friend but I had never seen her in my life or Jessica's. I went out dancing, got lots of free drinks and took a cute guy home.
Ugh, I do not like men. Jessica likes men. Men are not cute, and Hank was not cute. Hank was an asshole that was out of the league of Jessica and my drag version of her. Yet somehow I roped Hank into taking me home. The excitement from him picking me up and kissing me is still rather fond. I enjoyed it, I liked it. Jessica liked it, at least some facsimile of herself in my memories did. It reminded me of her first boyfriend, I reacted in all of the same ways. Hank is a titty man, but I told him no. Hank kept insisting in that may that men do.
"Come on baby, just one rub."
"One lick honey."
"Just a little bit, you're beautiful hon."
So I told Hank the truth.
"I'm as flat as billboard and built like a man, here take a look."
The fake boobs came out and his smile sagged a little. Then he did something that surprised me. Slowly, and very meticulously, he nibbled at my chest. Seeing his grin as he did so was enchanting. Every time the streetlight broke through the blinds and stroked his face I felt myself becoming hotter. It was becoming too much, Hank was too good at this. He didn't rush to the main act, instead he slowly invested his time in everything around it. When it came to the game over area I told him sternly that that's a no go, but "the other one is all yours".
I regretted that as soon as I said it, but my earlier thought of him being a breast man was definitely wrong. This is what he'd been truly wanting while being afraid to ask for it. We didn't know at the time that he wanted this, but after I bashed his head in with the lamp then tore his neck open with the shattered lightbulb I knew.
How did it come to that again?
Oh yea, after doggy styling it he wanted missionary. I had just barely managed to stop my pouch from showing from his previous work. When he turned me over to continue work in the same area, he saw what we both had in common. His voice erupted into thunder as those tree branches he called arms came down on me like lightning. With surprising efficiency Hank pressed me down into the bed as if a tree had fallen on my head. His knuckles were ghastly yet they fed his fingers with a near unlimited source of power as he strangled us. We couldn't turn our head or kick our way free. If Hank wasn't so overzealous we would have been dead. Instead, he started to slam our head into the night stand. That's when the lamp fall onto me. It busted my lip, but I knocked that fool out. The amount of time that passed between getting up and ensuring that at least one of us would come tonight is something that we cannot tell you.
But it was done, and it was good. Hank was so good, and in more ways than one. The feelings that rushed over our little tri-body were numerous, but they were all good. At least until they weren't. Hank had recently lost his family to divorce court and was effectively made into a slave with the wages that were left over after the ruling. Hank looked like a lumberjack, but was a surprisingly intelligent researcher at an Interstice Science laboratory. No one provided more rock solid results than Hank, but everyone else still managed to claim his ideas and earn his patents. Of the few that were associated with Hank, they were sucked up by the company legally as their own invention. All of his coworkers were multi-millionaires, but Hank was barely earning more than two McDonald's workers now. After selling blood plasma weekly and the last of his rare video games, he had decided to give himself one good night at bar.
Our bar.
The bar we met Hank at.
The bar where Hank believed he fell in love with us, with Jessica's concoction.
The bar where he spent what little money he had to impress us so that he could get a small amount of happiness in his life.
Hank was happy, at least until he saw that we had a penis. That had somehow been the ultimate betrayal to him. Jessica would have felt bad for Hank and I pity him. Unfortunately for Hank, only one of us was going to live and that person decided to get the revenge for Hank that he never once thought of taking for himself.
Locating his wife was easy, it was getting her away from the kids that were the difficult part. Any day now Hank's pension would become a hot button issue for the family that he was ex-communicated from. We all agree that Hank was a loving husband, great provider and awesome father. It's easy to agree with that when you go beyond what took him down. However, Hank was a pushover. He had no spine at all until he only had a few minutes left in his life. That's why his wife left him.
No. That's wrong.
Maybel from work has her arm around Francine, his wife. It's too close and intimate according to Jessica's memories. Everyone would have been able to recognize that beautifully ugly kiss as being the representation of the true reason Hank lost his wife. As they crossed the street making out, Hank made sure that the gas pedal was pressed to the max while Jessica and I kept the wheel steady. Humans are capable of so much, but we only have a finite amount of time available to actually learn our activities. As I've discovered, having three lifetimes of driving skills in 3 different perspectives all in sync in one body allows for making the most inglorious mess all over the sidewalk. Our body ran out of the car of its' own accord and used Hank's super tree arms to slap their heads together constantly. They were already dead, I knew this because the explosion of euphoria made it difficult to contain myself. I felt all of the sickness of the situation, of all of the situations coalesce into something terribly wrong. I couldn't stop myself from laughing. The tears stream and the vileness of my actions and these people all combined, but I couldn't stop laughing. The sirens are loud, and my car is irreversibly damaged. I'm grasping at the headlight and I just barely place it back into its' socket. After one final twist I lose myself in an endless sea of wonder, hysteria and madness.
I tell you this because you wanted to know why I'm here and how I came to lose my mind.
Well now you know. Not only that, but I'll answer your question from earlier now.
5.
It takes 5 Bill's to screw in a lightbulb.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
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There's five of us in here now. I haven't been completely caught yet, but I won't need to be. They're going to admit me since I have the most advanced case of multiple personality disorder that has ever been witnessed. If I had of been taken in for observation after just one or two of them I wouldn't have seemed like I was mentally ill.
Now I only know who I am because I'm the one that killed all of the others. They don't exist, I didn't absorb their souls, but their brains connections are all still there. At first it was just a mistake that provided the greatest rush of my life. I was remembering what never was, but still... was. After that I wanted to do it again, but that would be horrible right? I didn't realize that Jessica was more than just memories. I'd do something and I'd have her motor function. I'd tie my shoes in a different way sometimes, chew in a way that annoyed myself and have those playful self-conversations but with new responses that I didn't think!
She doesn't live in me, but just about everything that made me her does. If I didn't have extra equipment down there, I'd have given in to the new patterns. Instead, I went out dressed like a shorter, more scrawnier version of Jessica. I felt like I was looking at a close friend but I had never seen her in my life or Jessica's. I went out dancing, got lots of free drinks and took a cute guy home.
Ugh, I do not like men. Jessica likes men. Men are not cute, and Hank was not cute. Hank was an asshole that was out of the league of Jessica and my drag version of her. Yet somehow I roped Hank into taking me home. The excitement from him picking me up and kissing me is still rather fond. I enjoyed it, I liked it. Jessica liked it, at least some facsimile of herself in my memories did. It reminded me of her first boyfriend, I reacted in all of the same ways. Hank is a titty man, but I told him no. Hank kept insisting in that may that men do.
"Come on baby, just one rub."
"One lick honey."
"Just a little bit, you're beautiful hon."
So I told Hank the truth.
"I'm as flat as billboard and built like a man, here take a look."
The fake boobs came out and his smile sagged a little. Then he did something that surprised me. Slowly, and very meticulously, he nibbled at my chest. Seeing his grin as he did so was enchanting. Every time the streetlight broke through the blinds and stroked his face I felt myself becoming hotter. It was becoming too much, Hank was too good at this. He didn't rush to the main act, instead he slowly invested his time in everything around it. When it came to the game over area I told him sternly that that's a no go, but "the other one is all yours".
I regretted that as soon as I said it, but my earlier thought of him being a breast man was definitely wrong. This is what he'd been truly wanting while being afraid to ask for it. We didn't know at the time that he wanted this, but after I bashed his head in with the lamp then tore his neck open with the shattered lightbulb I knew.
How did it come to that again?
Oh yea, after doggy styling it he wanted missionary. I had just barely managed to stop my pouch from showing from his previous work. When he turned me over to continue work in the same area, he saw what we both had in common. His voice erupted into thunder as those tree branches he called arms came down on me like lightning. With surprising efficiency Hank pressed me down into the bed as if a tree had fallen on my head. His knuckles were ghastly yet they fed his fingers with a near unlimited source of power as he strangled us. We couldn't turn our head or kick our way free. If Hank wasn't so overzealous we would have been dead. Instead, he started to slam our head into the night stand. That's when the lamp fall onto me. It busted my lip, but I knocked that fool out. The amount of time that passed between getting up and ensuring that at least one of us would come tonight is something that we cannot tell you.
But it was done, and it was good. Hank was so good, and in more ways than one. The feelings that rushed over our little tri-body were numerous, but they were all good. At least until they weren't. Hank had recently lost his family to divorce court and was effectively made into a slave with the wages that were left over after the ruling. Hank looked like a lumberjack, but was a surprisingly intelligent researcher at an Interstice Science laboratory. No one provided more rock solid results than Hank, but everyone else still managed to claim his ideas and earn his patents. Of the few that were associated with Hank, they were sucked up by the company legally as their own invention. All of his coworkers were multi-millionaires, but Hank was barely earning more than two McDonald's workers now. After selling blood plasma weekly and the last of his rare video games, he had decided to give himself one good night at bar.
Our bar.
The bar we met Hank at.
The bar where Hank believed he fell in love with us, with Jessica's concoction.
The bar where he spent what little money he had to impress us so that he could get a small amount of happiness in his life.
Hank was happy, at least until he saw that we had a penis. That had somehow been the ultimate betrayal to him. Jessica would have felt bad for Hank and I pity him. Unfortunately for Hank, only one of us was going to live and that person decided to get the revenge for Hank that he never once thought of taking for himself.
Locating his wife was easy, it was getting her away from the kids that were the difficult part. Any day now Hank's pension would become a hot button issue for the family that he was ex-communicated from. We all agree that Hank was a loving husband, great provider and awesome father. It's easy to agree with that when you go beyond what took him down. However, Hank was a pushover. He had no spine at all until he only had a few minutes left in his life. That's why his wife left him.
No. That's wrong.
Maybel from work has her arm around Francine, his wife. It's too close and intimate according to Jessica's memories. Everyone would have been able to recognize that beautifully ugly kiss as being the representation of the true reason Hank lost his wife. As they crossed the street making out, Hank made sure that the gas pedal was pressed to the max while Jessica and I kept the wheel steady. Humans are capable of so much, but we only have a finite amount of time available to actually learn our activities. As I've discovered, having three lifetimes of driving skills in 3 different perspectives all in sync in one body allows for making the most inglorious mess all over the sidewalk. Our body ran out of the car of its' own accord and used Hank's super tree arms to slap their heads together constantly. They were already dead, I knew this because the explosion of euphoria made it difficult to contain myself. I felt all of the sickness of the situation, of all of the situations coalesce into something terribly wrong. I couldn't stop myself from laughing. The tears stream and the vileness of my actions and these people all combined, but I couldn't stop laughing. The sirens are loud, and my car is irreversibly damaged. I'm grasping at the headlight and I just barely place it back into its' socket. After one final twist I lose myself in an endless sea of wonder, hysteria and madness.
I tell you this because you wanted to know why I'm here and how I came to lose my mind.
Well now you know. Not only that, but I'll answer your question from earlier now.
5.
It takes 5 Bill's to screw in a lightbulb.
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|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
|
I'm shaking. Why am I feeling this right now?
I just ran over this little girl on my motorcycle. I tried to drop my bike on it's side when I saw her, but the attempt was made too late. I skidded 50 feet past her. I broke my arm as I landed, but the first thing I did once when I came to a halt was get up and run to her. Bystanders came rushing to both of our aid, realizing the gravity of the situation. As I ran up to her, it was bone-chilling how still and lifeless her body was. I was out of control when I reached her, this 7 or 8 year old girl, out crossing the street with her bike. I was sobbing uncontrollably, unable to process what just happened. As the police started to show up, I started shaking really bad. I was experiencing a high that of which I've never had before. Something even more ridiculous than adrenaline. As police started making a barrier around us, I heard a couple in the back having a conversation.
"Esto es simplemente horrible, qué tragedia.'
'Lo sé, el chico ni siquiera iba tan rápido, pero aun así hizo tanto daño."
...
This is just horrible, what a tragedy.
I know, the guy wasn't even going that fast but it still did this much damage.
I don't even speak Spanish and I knew exactly what they were saying. I looked at the girl, and notice her Hispanic characteristics.
Oh god. What have I done...
You killed me, said the little girl in my head.
I scream out in mad confusion, clutching my head as cops try to calm me down. This little girls soul is now apart of me. What have I done..?
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
|
I'm shaking. Why am I feeling this right now?
I just ran over this little girl on my motorcycle. I tried to drop my bike on it's side when I saw her, but the attempt was made too late. I skidded 50 feet past her. I broke my arm as I landed, but the first thing I did once when I came to a halt was get up and run to her. Bystanders came rushing to both of our aid, realizing the gravity of the situation. As I ran up to her, it was bone-chilling how still and lifeless her body was. I was out of control when I reached her, this 7 or 8 year old girl, out crossing the street with her bike. I was sobbing uncontrollably, unable to process what just happened. As the police started to show up, I started shaking really bad. I was experiencing a high that of which I've never had before. Something even more ridiculous than adrenaline. As police started making a barrier around us, I heard a couple in the back having a conversation.
"Esto es simplemente horrible, qué tragedia.'
'Lo sé, el chico ni siquiera iba tan rápido, pero aun así hizo tanto daño."
...
This is just horrible, what a tragedy.
I know, the guy wasn't even going that fast but it still did this much damage.
I don't even speak Spanish and I knew exactly what they were saying. I looked at the girl, and notice her Hispanic characteristics.
Oh god. What have I done...
You killed me, said the little girl in my head.
I scream out in mad confusion, clutching my head as cops try to calm me down. This little girls soul is now apart of me. What have I done..?
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
|
I'm shaking. Why am I feeling this right now?
I just ran over this little girl on my motorcycle. I tried to drop my bike on it's side when I saw her, but the attempt was made too late. I skidded 50 feet past her. I broke my arm as I landed, but the first thing I did once when I came to a halt was get up and run to her. Bystanders came rushing to both of our aid, realizing the gravity of the situation. As I ran up to her, it was bone-chilling how still and lifeless her body was. I was out of control when I reached her, this 7 or 8 year old girl, out crossing the street with her bike. I was sobbing uncontrollably, unable to process what just happened. As the police started to show up, I started shaking really bad. I was experiencing a high that of which I've never had before. Something even more ridiculous than adrenaline. As police started making a barrier around us, I heard a couple in the back having a conversation.
"Esto es simplemente horrible, qué tragedia.'
'Lo sé, el chico ni siquiera iba tan rápido, pero aun así hizo tanto daño."
...
This is just horrible, what a tragedy.
I know, the guy wasn't even going that fast but it still did this much damage.
I don't even speak Spanish and I knew exactly what they were saying. I looked at the girl, and notice her Hispanic characteristics.
Oh god. What have I done...
You killed me, said the little girl in my head.
I scream out in mad confusion, clutching my head as cops try to calm me down. This little girls soul is now apart of me. What have I done..?
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
|
“Its been 26 years since you died.” I gently place a bouquet of chionodoxa on the tombstone. “Glory of the snow. Your favorite flowers.” I sit down in front of the stone, the grass still slightly wet from the morning dew.
People say you never forget your firsts. Ain’t that the truth. The tombstone belongs to one Amber Foller, my first kill. She was 37 and it was never meant to happen, but it completely changed the course of my life. She was beautiful. A brunette with alabaster skin and green eyes. She 5’4” and had a fiery personality. Her death gave me the wonderful ability of photographic memory. Everything she ever saw, I remember.
My next kill didn’t come for another 6 years. I tried hard to ignore my feelings. In all honesty, I didn’t know what those feeling were back then, but I knew they were “bad”. The next was Max King, a friend of the family. He was working on his car in the garage. He had taken the engine and transmission out to replace one of the mounting brackets. He was under the car when I released the engine hoist. I fainted with the rush of memories.
When I came to, I was in the back of an ambulance. Max was very much dead. They were having a hard time telling what was skull fragments, and what was broken concrete. I felt like a million bucks. I knew everything Max did. Every memory, thought, and emotions. It was a head rush and that had me hooked.
The next kill didn’t come for 10 years. I knew that I had to get older if I wanted to be more successful at killing. I Killed Jacob Thox next. A retired 86 year old police chief. The knowledge he gave me was priceless. It gave me much insight into how investigations were done. Of course I killed a younger forensics specialist later because times do change, but that came much later.
I’ve killed 28 People since Mr. Thox. I used my gained knowledge to become a Hitman. One of the best, but every year I come and place flowers here. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if she hadn’t died.
Coming to my senses, I check my watch. 2 hours. “I come here every year for my birthday, but I think this is the longest I’ve ever stayed.” As I stand, I brush the dirt and grass from my pants. “I’m sure if you hadn’t died, things would have been so much different. However, childbirth is a bitch.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a photo. My next target.
“I got to go mom. I have people to kill.”
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
|
“Its been 26 years since you died.” I gently place a bouquet of chionodoxa on the tombstone. “Glory of the snow. Your favorite flowers.” I sit down in front of the stone, the grass still slightly wet from the morning dew.
People say you never forget your firsts. Ain’t that the truth. The tombstone belongs to one Amber Foller, my first kill. She was 37 and it was never meant to happen, but it completely changed the course of my life. She was beautiful. A brunette with alabaster skin and green eyes. She 5’4” and had a fiery personality. Her death gave me the wonderful ability of photographic memory. Everything she ever saw, I remember.
My next kill didn’t come for another 6 years. I tried hard to ignore my feelings. In all honesty, I didn’t know what those feeling were back then, but I knew they were “bad”. The next was Max King, a friend of the family. He was working on his car in the garage. He had taken the engine and transmission out to replace one of the mounting brackets. He was under the car when I released the engine hoist. I fainted with the rush of memories.
When I came to, I was in the back of an ambulance. Max was very much dead. They were having a hard time telling what was skull fragments, and what was broken concrete. I felt like a million bucks. I knew everything Max did. Every memory, thought, and emotions. It was a head rush and that had me hooked.
The next kill didn’t come for 10 years. I knew that I had to get older if I wanted to be more successful at killing. I Killed Jacob Thox next. A retired 86 year old police chief. The knowledge he gave me was priceless. It gave me much insight into how investigations were done. Of course I killed a younger forensics specialist later because times do change, but that came much later.
I’ve killed 28 People since Mr. Thox. I used my gained knowledge to become a Hitman. One of the best, but every year I come and place flowers here. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if she hadn’t died.
Coming to my senses, I check my watch. 2 hours. “I come here every year for my birthday, but I think this is the longest I’ve ever stayed.” As I stand, I brush the dirt and grass from my pants. “I’m sure if you hadn’t died, things would have been so much different. However, childbirth is a bitch.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a photo. My next target.
“I got to go mom. I have people to kill.”
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
|
“Its been 26 years since you died.” I gently place a bouquet of chionodoxa on the tombstone. “Glory of the snow. Your favorite flowers.” I sit down in front of the stone, the grass still slightly wet from the morning dew.
People say you never forget your firsts. Ain’t that the truth. The tombstone belongs to one Amber Foller, my first kill. She was 37 and it was never meant to happen, but it completely changed the course of my life. She was beautiful. A brunette with alabaster skin and green eyes. She 5’4” and had a fiery personality. Her death gave me the wonderful ability of photographic memory. Everything she ever saw, I remember.
My next kill didn’t come for another 6 years. I tried hard to ignore my feelings. In all honesty, I didn’t know what those feeling were back then, but I knew they were “bad”. The next was Max King, a friend of the family. He was working on his car in the garage. He had taken the engine and transmission out to replace one of the mounting brackets. He was under the car when I released the engine hoist. I fainted with the rush of memories.
When I came to, I was in the back of an ambulance. Max was very much dead. They were having a hard time telling what was skull fragments, and what was broken concrete. I felt like a million bucks. I knew everything Max did. Every memory, thought, and emotions. It was a head rush and that had me hooked.
The next kill didn’t come for 10 years. I knew that I had to get older if I wanted to be more successful at killing. I Killed Jacob Thox next. A retired 86 year old police chief. The knowledge he gave me was priceless. It gave me much insight into how investigations were done. Of course I killed a younger forensics specialist later because times do change, but that came much later.
I’ve killed 28 People since Mr. Thox. I used my gained knowledge to become a Hitman. One of the best, but every year I come and place flowers here. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if she hadn’t died.
Coming to my senses, I check my watch. 2 hours. “I come here every year for my birthday, but I think this is the longest I’ve ever stayed.” As I stand, I brush the dirt and grass from my pants. “I’m sure if you hadn’t died, things would have been so much different. However, childbirth is a bitch.” I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a photo. My next target.
“I got to go mom. I have people to kill.”
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
|
The first time was an accident.
We were playing softball. I was using one of those hot bats- you know, with the trimmed edges and juiced up core so the ball goes farther when you hit it- and slammed a line drive into Julianna's head. Everyone at the park ran to see if she was ok, except for me. I knew.
I knew how she felt about me. I knew how her shorts felt in warmups, I knew what the softball felt like as it impacted her temple, crushing her sphenoid and ethnoid bones. I knew what a brain hemorrhage felt like. In that regard, I think I am still alone.
The second time was not an accident. I asked Charles to help me recover from the incident. I told him I feared playing softball and missed it desperately. I lied and told him it was a different bat.
He didn't know that Julianna had liked him more than me. He didn't know that she could aim a softball better than most people can aim a gun. Now I know that Charles never really liked me. He only pitied me because I was alone.
He liked you though, Bryan. He liked you a lot. He also liked to target shoot, with a .38 special. This one, in fact.
What do you know, Bryan?
I'm very curious.
What do you know?
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
|
The first time was an accident.
We were playing softball. I was using one of those hot bats- you know, with the trimmed edges and juiced up core so the ball goes farther when you hit it- and slammed a line drive into Julianna's head. Everyone at the park ran to see if she was ok, except for me. I knew.
I knew how she felt about me. I knew how her shorts felt in warmups, I knew what the softball felt like as it impacted her temple, crushing her sphenoid and ethnoid bones. I knew what a brain hemorrhage felt like. In that regard, I think I am still alone.
The second time was not an accident. I asked Charles to help me recover from the incident. I told him I feared playing softball and missed it desperately. I lied and told him it was a different bat.
He didn't know that Julianna had liked him more than me. He didn't know that she could aim a softball better than most people can aim a gun. Now I know that Charles never really liked me. He only pitied me because I was alone.
He liked you though, Bryan. He liked you a lot. He also liked to target shoot, with a .38 special. This one, in fact.
What do you know, Bryan?
I'm very curious.
What do you know?
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
|
The first time was an accident.
We were playing softball. I was using one of those hot bats- you know, with the trimmed edges and juiced up core so the ball goes farther when you hit it- and slammed a line drive into Julianna's head. Everyone at the park ran to see if she was ok, except for me. I knew.
I knew how she felt about me. I knew how her shorts felt in warmups, I knew what the softball felt like as it impacted her temple, crushing her sphenoid and ethnoid bones. I knew what a brain hemorrhage felt like. In that regard, I think I am still alone.
The second time was not an accident. I asked Charles to help me recover from the incident. I told him I feared playing softball and missed it desperately. I lied and told him it was a different bat.
He didn't know that Julianna had liked him more than me. He didn't know that she could aim a softball better than most people can aim a gun. Now I know that Charles never really liked me. He only pitied me because I was alone.
He liked you though, Bryan. He liked you a lot. He also liked to target shoot, with a .38 special. This one, in fact.
What do you know, Bryan?
I'm very curious.
What do you know?
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
|
“I’m not lost and I don’t need your damn directions.”
“You are lost.”
“Do you want to drive?”
“I can’t drive a manual, you fucking know that. Don’t be an ass, just admit you have no idea where we are.”
“Fuck you.”
For the next twenty minutes the silence was deafening. What an incompetent couple of career criminals. I think the driver’s name is Ryan or Brian. I can’t tell. His partner in crime, Cindy, forms consonants about as well as (B)rian drives. (B)rian is lost. I’m stuck in the fucking trunk and I can tell he’s lost from here. Cindy isn’t helping though. I can tell she knows exactly where we are and she’s insisting he admit he’s lost before she will give him directions. So I’m just hanging out, duct tape and all. I’m not really sure who they think they are going to claim a ransom from.
It’s not like my cats have jobs.
The next pothole (B)rian hits, I really get some air. My head his the top of the trunk and sounds like a lump of clay getting dropped on a tin roof. I feel the lurch of the breaks slamming, but my eyes might as well be globs of grape jelly for how useful they are. Especially after I roll to the front of the trunk and the bridge of my nose hits the sidewall.
Then there’s light and I can feel my equilibrium shifting but my gyroscope isn’t tracking. And it’s bright, but squinting hurts, and having my eyes closed is disorienting.
I can feel my feet under my weight and Cindy and (B)rian are trying to get me to stand on my own because they are idiots. I try to balance but (B)rian stabilizes me before the ground lifts up to meet my face.
“Cut the tape.”
My nose doesn’t hurt anymore but I can still feel the tickle of of something running down my face.
“She’s bleeding! What the fuck are we going to do?!”
Cindy is being dramatic. But she cuts my hands free so I’ll give her a pass for staying useful. (B)rian still has my shoulders. He reeks. As soon as I’m conscious enough to get a whiff I push him off me. Fucking hell, he probably bathes with his own shit.
That’s I feel the sharp breeze, the feel of a goliath moving too close, followed by the bellowing Doppler effect.
I feel fantastic. And I remember how to drive a manual. Weird, I didn’t know I was able to forget.
I hesitantly start letting some light hit the grape jellies sloshing around in my skull, and it’s not so bad anymore. My feet are on the ground, and (B)rian is nowhere to be found. Just Cindy standing next to me, with this face on that reminds me of one of those cheap blow up dolls. I realize I know a lot about Cindy, now. I also know I’m not the person they were suppose to kidnap. And I know way more than I wanted to about (B)rian. Unfortunately, I’m still lost.
Good thing there’s another truck coming.
Edit: I left out a word.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
|
“I’m not lost and I don’t need your damn directions.”
“You are lost.”
“Do you want to drive?”
“I can’t drive a manual, you fucking know that. Don’t be an ass, just admit you have no idea where we are.”
“Fuck you.”
For the next twenty minutes the silence was deafening. What an incompetent couple of career criminals. I think the driver’s name is Ryan or Brian. I can’t tell. His partner in crime, Cindy, forms consonants about as well as (B)rian drives. (B)rian is lost. I’m stuck in the fucking trunk and I can tell he’s lost from here. Cindy isn’t helping though. I can tell she knows exactly where we are and she’s insisting he admit he’s lost before she will give him directions. So I’m just hanging out, duct tape and all. I’m not really sure who they think they are going to claim a ransom from.
It’s not like my cats have jobs.
The next pothole (B)rian hits, I really get some air. My head his the top of the trunk and sounds like a lump of clay getting dropped on a tin roof. I feel the lurch of the breaks slamming, but my eyes might as well be globs of grape jelly for how useful they are. Especially after I roll to the front of the trunk and the bridge of my nose hits the sidewall.
Then there’s light and I can feel my equilibrium shifting but my gyroscope isn’t tracking. And it’s bright, but squinting hurts, and having my eyes closed is disorienting.
I can feel my feet under my weight and Cindy and (B)rian are trying to get me to stand on my own because they are idiots. I try to balance but (B)rian stabilizes me before the ground lifts up to meet my face.
“Cut the tape.”
My nose doesn’t hurt anymore but I can still feel the tickle of of something running down my face.
“She’s bleeding! What the fuck are we going to do?!”
Cindy is being dramatic. But she cuts my hands free so I’ll give her a pass for staying useful. (B)rian still has my shoulders. He reeks. As soon as I’m conscious enough to get a whiff I push him off me. Fucking hell, he probably bathes with his own shit.
That’s I feel the sharp breeze, the feel of a goliath moving too close, followed by the bellowing Doppler effect.
I feel fantastic. And I remember how to drive a manual. Weird, I didn’t know I was able to forget.
I hesitantly start letting some light hit the grape jellies sloshing around in my skull, and it’s not so bad anymore. My feet are on the ground, and (B)rian is nowhere to be found. Just Cindy standing next to me, with this face on that reminds me of one of those cheap blow up dolls. I realize I know a lot about Cindy, now. I also know I’m not the person they were suppose to kidnap. And I know way more than I wanted to about (B)rian. Unfortunately, I’m still lost.
Good thing there’s another truck coming.
Edit: I left out a word.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
|
“I’m not lost and I don’t need your damn directions.”
“You are lost.”
“Do you want to drive?”
“I can’t drive a manual, you fucking know that. Don’t be an ass, just admit you have no idea where we are.”
“Fuck you.”
For the next twenty minutes the silence was deafening. What an incompetent couple of career criminals. I think the driver’s name is Ryan or Brian. I can’t tell. His partner in crime, Cindy, forms consonants about as well as (B)rian drives. (B)rian is lost. I’m stuck in the fucking trunk and I can tell he’s lost from here. Cindy isn’t helping though. I can tell she knows exactly where we are and she’s insisting he admit he’s lost before she will give him directions. So I’m just hanging out, duct tape and all. I’m not really sure who they think they are going to claim a ransom from.
It’s not like my cats have jobs.
The next pothole (B)rian hits, I really get some air. My head his the top of the trunk and sounds like a lump of clay getting dropped on a tin roof. I feel the lurch of the breaks slamming, but my eyes might as well be globs of grape jelly for how useful they are. Especially after I roll to the front of the trunk and the bridge of my nose hits the sidewall.
Then there’s light and I can feel my equilibrium shifting but my gyroscope isn’t tracking. And it’s bright, but squinting hurts, and having my eyes closed is disorienting.
I can feel my feet under my weight and Cindy and (B)rian are trying to get me to stand on my own because they are idiots. I try to balance but (B)rian stabilizes me before the ground lifts up to meet my face.
“Cut the tape.”
My nose doesn’t hurt anymore but I can still feel the tickle of of something running down my face.
“She’s bleeding! What the fuck are we going to do?!”
Cindy is being dramatic. But she cuts my hands free so I’ll give her a pass for staying useful. (B)rian still has my shoulders. He reeks. As soon as I’m conscious enough to get a whiff I push him off me. Fucking hell, he probably bathes with his own shit.
That’s I feel the sharp breeze, the feel of a goliath moving too close, followed by the bellowing Doppler effect.
I feel fantastic. And I remember how to drive a manual. Weird, I didn’t know I was able to forget.
I hesitantly start letting some light hit the grape jellies sloshing around in my skull, and it’s not so bad anymore. My feet are on the ground, and (B)rian is nowhere to be found. Just Cindy standing next to me, with this face on that reminds me of one of those cheap blow up dolls. I realize I know a lot about Cindy, now. I also know I’m not the person they were suppose to kidnap. And I know way more than I wanted to about (B)rian. Unfortunately, I’m still lost.
Good thing there’s another truck coming.
Edit: I left out a word.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
|
I'm a bot, *bleep*, *bloop*. Someone has linked to this thread from another place on reddit:
- [/r/highlander] [\[WP\] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.](https://www.reddit.com/r/highlander/comments/7ignwl/wp_you_accidentally_kill_a_person_you_instantly/)
 *^(If you follow any of the above links, please respect the rules of reddit and don't vote in the other threads.) ^\([Info](/r/TotesMessenger) ^/ ^[Contact](/message/compose?to=/r/TotesMessenger))*
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
|
I'm a bot, *bleep*, *bloop*. Someone has linked to this thread from another place on reddit:
- [/r/highlander] [\[WP\] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.](https://www.reddit.com/r/highlander/comments/7ignwl/wp_you_accidentally_kill_a_person_you_instantly/)
 *^(If you follow any of the above links, please respect the rules of reddit and don't vote in the other threads.) ^\([Info](/r/TotesMessenger) ^/ ^[Contact](/message/compose?to=/r/TotesMessenger))*
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
|
I am an Irish or maybe Scottish character from a show called highlander in which I weild a monster of a sword and as an eventuality will become the last of my kind since we are all trying to kill each other and I'm the main character of the show.
Also I created /r/iamverybadass
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
|
I am an Irish or maybe Scottish character from a show called highlander in which I weild a monster of a sword and as an eventuality will become the last of my kind since we are all trying to kill each other and I'm the main character of the show.
Also I created /r/iamverybadass
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
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I'm not sure if it's appropriate to post here or not, but for those that are interested in the concept behind this writing prompt, there's a novel by Eric Nylund, named "A Game of Universe" that incorporates this concept. I enjoyed the book and thought others might like it too, if they're interested in this concept.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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Apologies for formatting, also first attempt. Please be gentle.
I awoke feeling a strange mixture of dread, quiet acceptance, and anticipation. Beside me lay my loving wife of many years. I gently nudged her awake, and she woke lightly. We gently held hands and lay together for a long time, simply enjoying each other's presence and the sound of the silence.
By the time we had the inclination to rise, most of our dearest friends and family had arrived. We spent a blissful day together. My wife and I were treated to a glorious home-cooked breakfast, pints at our favorite bar, and a lovely wine tasting.
We returned home mid-afternoon and enjoyed our time together. As the day drew to a close, our loved ones gave us tearful hugs, and gradually filtered out. Soon the only ones left were myself and my wife.
We held hands and watched the sun set. As it slipped below the horizon my eldest son and daughter entered the room with the ceremonial daggers under a cloth.
He places the point above my heart. I turn to face my wife one last time. "I'll see you in a few moments." she tearfully smiles to me. I place my hand on my son's, and together we thrust the dagger into my heart.
I feel my memories, knowledge, and dreams fade away as they become his. What more are we than vessels to launch forth the new generation?
So nothing is ever lost.
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Followed by a tall figure, wearing pink sunglasses and a wide umbrella-hat, I weave in and out of garbage cans in a damp alley, catching him in my peripheral as I move past broke-down cars with shattered mirrors hanging carelessly by dismembered cables.
He moves closer still, his footsteps heard in the puddles of milk and discolored water spilled by old women outside their balconies above, smoking and coughing, calling to their cats and their small, shaven men too afraid to ask what they're doing. But this is their day and it's why they watch, and they always watch; they've seen it 11 times since Tuesday.
A stalker, following someone down this dreary murder shaft that used to be the VIP depository, expelling always high rollers and Hollywood stars from the bars and clubs worth spending a buck in.
But as the footsteps subside I duck behind a broken down Chevy, putting my back to the cold, bloodied headlights. Everything's bloody in this hellscape, and the fact I'm here, hiding, doesn't bode well for my plans ten minutes from now.
Suddenly he darts past me, spinning all at once as his umbrella hat struggles to keep up. He stumbles and kicks his left foot, falling over himself and tumbling into a pool of engine oil and coagulated blood.
He reaches for something, a gun or knife, but he can't have me. I'm a good person followed by a nut, a psycho! It was six blocks back that he gripped my wrist, thrust his arms around me and squeezed me till I thought my back might snap. I couldn't breath, I couldn't scream, and this fleshy hell hound was trying to kill me!
But he can't have me, Christ, he'll never have me, not here, not in this toilet! So I charge him, slapping the hat off and squeezing his neck. "Fuck you!" I scream, ready to run the way I'd come. "Fucking die! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!".
And at this I lose myself, plunging my thumbs into his eyes as blood spills out his nose, muddied by his screams and howls, his horrendous death rattle as I withdraw one thumb to grip his neck, pulling at his esophagus until the swollen tube rips and spills horrible goo, the screams then continuing through the gurgling pipe now in my fist.
And all at once, in a moment of horror, he and I become one, paradoxically and forever recalling what was and was and would be again and AGAIN, and screams filled my head until I realized it was me! I was screaming, something deafening and absent, howling and machine-like, as an engine without a kill switch.
My son, who at this moment was only two years old, had come back for me. Back to this day, to this year, from a time when travel was possible. And through this sudden clarity I knew I had died only six years from this very day, and he loved me and wanted to know me. And he had visited me EVERY day, of every week, and in the past I hadn't noticed him, and in the future he was near invisible, and he would watch and learn to love the man who'd played with him and tickled him, and taught him to cry when he was sad and laugh when he was happy - and to run when he was scared.
And he was married and had three kids, and in two years he was going to break his arm. And he would grow up to be a screen writer, and his mother would live with him until she died of Parkinson's disease.
And I paused at this - Marcie? You have Parkinson's disease? You can't. But I knew it was true, because I'd always known it, from the moment I learned and felt and lived this life that my boy had just spilled over me, like a blanket. And all at once I was different. Could I go home and hold my boy? Would he be there, or would he be gone? How much time did I have with Marcie? And I cried, stumbling home, unsure how the next six years would unfold, and if I could make right my son's death by somehow undoing what was done.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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The trembling finally subsided, but even as I gazed at my hands there was still a sort of ethereal aftershock subtly and persistently effecting my perception. Even the normal exercise of recalling memories seemed strained and foreign, as if the empty space normally occupied by only my mind was somehow finding resistance and invisible obstacles. I could not direct my inner eye directly at the source of this resistance, it seemed to hover just on the edge of my awareness darting away as I turned towards it, seeping obstruction into my intentions when I tried to turn away from it.
Finding the proper delicate balance between attention and avoidance finally, like overcoming the surface tension of water, I managed to break through this emergent barricade between my mind and memories. It hit me all at once, the accident played back in my head like two overlapping movie reels. On one reel, the memories made sense, they were the memories of myself in my car heading down the road that I drive every day on my commute home. I remember the hypnotic effects of the approaching headlights on the opposite side of the road, and the brief wonderment I felt as a pair of lights broke off from the endless stream and suddenly grew larger and larger until the light was all that I saw, until abruptly darkness descended.
The second reel was causing me to feel nauseous, the images did not match any I had ever seen before. The car interior was not a car I'd ever driven in, the hands gripping the wheel were not mine. A phone on the passenger seat was ringing and the name displayed on the screen was not a name I recognized, but at the same time none of the scene felt completely foreign to me. I felt on some deep level, and knew that this was not a dream, or a fabricated thought - this memory was as genuine as the first. The scene continues from the first person point of view and I reach down for the ringing phone, but an unlucky bump on the road causes the phone to fall in front of the seat. The call suddenly feels critically important, the name on the screen starts to pop out at me with urgency so I pursue the phone during its tumble. As my hand inches on the floor towards the phone I feel my body weight shift sideways and my hand on the steering wheel is jerked towards the passenger seat. I never even manage to get my hand fully around the phone before the sound of screeching metal and crumpling plastics give way to darkness.
I gasp for air and look up from my hands again. I look around and see the wreckage all around me. I'm sitting in my ruined SUV, the back end of a small sedan sticking out from underneath my smoking hood and emergency lights extending in every direction.
I suppose this numb feeling is shock, but its something more. I dont feel nothing, I feel too much. When I think back on the events leading up to the accident, my mind forks and I have two divergent mornings. The further removed from the accident I get, the less I can remember which memory feels more genuine. Sitting in the back of an ambulance with a blanket wrapped around me I try thinking back further than this morning. I somehow have access to two entirely different minds, full of their own history and memories and feelings of joy and pain. I can remember birthdays surrounded by two entirely distinct sets of families, I can remember schoolyard conflicts from entirely different districts, and most discerning I can remember two entirely different faces looking back at me from the mirror.
The realization that my mind was no longer alone would have brought the old me to my knees, but this new me, this dual me had a different idea.
We returned home, our lives forever changed and intertwined. I still had a vague idea of self, but no longer choose to identify in the singular. That was the old me, this new me will go forward as a plurality, embracing my diversity of mind. We quickly ascended the stairs to the master bedroom. The house was entirely empty and silent except for the faint beeping of electronics, and the slight rustling of bed sheets as the cat adjusted itself at the foot of the bed.
Next to the bed, machines stood stoicly all around it, beeping the melancholy song of life support systems. Wires of every gauge seemed to run from the computers into and onto the woman in the bed. Seeing the woman brought a powerful surge of energy to the original host of my mind and quickly that plurality was push aside in favor of the original self.
Her eyes were closed as they had been for almost two decades now. Twenty years asleep in a coma the doctors said was irreversible. If I had any tears left I wouldve shed them, but my dried up ducts remained without wetness as I leaned in to kiss her forehead. While my lips touched her forehead, I let my self-mind relax as I reached towards the power cord supplying energy to the machines supporting my wife's mortal slumber. I did not have the strength alone to do what must be done, but with my new duality I found it possible. We pulled the cord out of the wall and heard the somber songs of the machines fade into a susurrus.
Our breath caught, our heart seemingly frozen in time between beats. Suddenly, I could feel it. My mind, once mine alone, had gained another occupant. This new addition was a blazing beacon of light, dwarfing every other emotion and memory I'd ever felt with overwhelming waves of love and warmth. Every late night whisper, every book and joke, every loving caress was amplified and magnified to infinite degrees. It vaporized the very essence of the loneliness and sadness built up over the past two decades.
The girl I fell in love with was back with me, and she would never be taken from me again.
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Rey Crave, he was a normal traveler, he appeared one day in this village filled with dirt, horse shit, and sand asking for temporal refuge. He looked suspicious as all hell, but even so, they accepted him. It might have had to do with the fact that he had a lot of money in his person or because he was really charming.
He made a name for himself in this town, not only he was touring, he was helping out when he could and even sometimes when he shouldn't. All of his goodwill was breath of fresh air for the town, they didn't like him at first, but eventually, all suspicion was lost. They were used to travelers making a mess when they arrived and not cleaning up when they left. it was the kind of town no one cared for.
Despite all of this, he wasn't someone who stood out much, unlike some of the people who lived here, he didn't have any special talent whatsoever, all he had was his goodwill and that special charm that made people trust him as if people were drawn to him, identify with him somehow, until eventually he was known by all.
He was offered a chance to move in here, he was so appreciated that he was offered to work for one of the richest people in town, as a servant. He, of course, accepted, he had no reason to refuse. He lived and worked in that house for years, he was a nice addition to it and as expected made everything in the house flow better.
He lived a normal life, made close friends, fell in love and eventually got a house on his own. he started a family and even had children, or so I'm told.
But, what was his objective? his *original* objective, it feels like he came to this town for some other reason than just sightseeing, it's almost like he forgot midway what he was supposed to do and decided to leave everything behind. I knew of Rey, he had many different names, many different builds and many different personas, for every town he visited. For every town, he *ate*.
And this is just like those cases, and at the same time is not, probably because it's the last? or probably because he actually liked this good for nothing town that had nothing precious to offer his being? I guess his objective and his origins is something I'll never know, not in the state he is in now.
In the distance, I could see a half destroyed building, the remains of his house. I could see something red and black pulsating within, like a heart, and the cries and moans of all the people that lived in this good for nothing town, they were like faces carved on his gigantic form, twitching, bleeding from every injury the many muscular arms that erupted from within his body provided.
But no matter how much he tried, there isn't a single talent nor a single action that could help him, no amount of intelligence could help him now and of course, the memories only reminded him of all the lives he forcibly took. forever haunting him.
He couldn't do it, he wasn't able to kill himself, to take out all the people he absorbed after his addiction took over, and of course there was nothing I could do, just a normal traveller chasing after legends, only watch as he suffered in there for eternity trapped in a cage of meat, the many lives he took screaming at him in a thousand voices.
***
Any critique you can provide is really appreciated - [r/Onni21](https://www.reddit.com/r/Onni21/)
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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If you're reading this, I'm sorry.
I believe myself to be of strong moral character. I would never have put someone into this position if I could have avoided it. A great curse was laid upon me and I have found freedom by thrusting it upon you. Right now, from your point of view this all probably seems incredible. Like a dream where you can fly. Before you curse my name, please understand that it wasn't my fault. It had to happen.
I'm getting ahead of myself here though. I think it'll help you to better understand if I start closer to the beginning.
I was a young man, not much older than yourself when I took my first trip away from home. The world was a different place then. Slower. Calmer. I was bored and restless so I sought out adventure. I found it in Vienna. I had seen a flyer once for an opera there and had heard of the great architecture and art. I was an artist then you see, so I was captured by the city. So much so in fact that after less than a week I had spent all of my money. I was too embarrassed to go home or ask for more. I tried to live by painting but I had some trouble selling my art and gave it up completely after some pretty embarrassing rejections.
That is when it happened. I was drunk, fresh off a new school rejection. It was late and I had nowhere to go. I found myself on a bench in a park. I hadn't been there long before an older, wealthy man took a seat beside me. We talked for a few moments when he asked me if I'd like to be given a gift. A gift that no one had ever seen before. I thought that maybe he had indulged the spirits a bit more than myself but I humored him. He gave out a satisfied sigh as he pulled his "gift" out from under his jacket. In his hand was a revolver. In one swift motion the gun was cocked and pointed in my direction.
"In a moment, one of us will be dead. This is my gift to you." the old man said as he moved to hit me with the pistol. He was old but stronger and quicker than he should have been. The hit landed hard and I fell but the man hesitated and that gave me enough time to kick his legs out from under him. As he hit the ground the gun flew out of his hand and in my direction. I wouldn't repeat his mistake. I wouldn't hesitate I thought to myself as I grabbed the pistol and shot him dead.
I felt sick to stomach as I looked at him there, but only for a moment. I felt a warmth swell inside. Close to an orgasam but deeper, more intense. I felt stronger too.
Some nearby shouting brought me back to reality and I fled. I ran all night before I realized that I couldn't do that before. I wasn't tired or hungry. Something had happened to me but I didn't understand what until the withdrawal set in.
It had been a month since the old man had given me his gift. I had been in the best shape of my life for weeks when I started to notice symptoms. Deep headaches and aching, throbbing joints. I had overwhelming nausea and couldn't sleep for days on end. I tried every cure and snake oil I could find but nothing worked. Every day became a new hell, worse than the day before. I set out to end my own life but was unable to accomplish the task. Every time I tried I woke up the next morning, healed of all wounds but still sick inside.
In my most desperate hour I remembered the old man and how I had felt right after killing him. I decided that I'd kill again. Maybe I'd feel better, or maybe they'd kill me. Either way I had to have relief. So I set about my task, planning and executing a murder. It worked, but not as much as I thought it would. I had to kill again, and again to stay healthy. Each time I had to kill more and more people to feel better. Each time I hoped they would kill me.
When I would kill, I would take a part of them into myself. I don't know how, but I could feel them there. I could look into their thoughts for answers to questions. I used them to gain power. I used the power to satisfy my pain. If the world refused to let me die then I would do my best to kill the world. I started a political party and using my new found "skills" and power I was able to feed my addiction at every increasing levels. I was able to manipulate people because I understood them all. I had killed so many and seen into their minds. It was easy to mislead them. I used those that helped me and killed anyone in my way. I almost took the world before they trapped me in this bunker.
I couldn't kill myself, but I suspected you could do it for me. That's why I ordered you to give me the poison. It was a suicide, but one by your hands. Enough for me to be free of this curse. I hope you'll be stronger than me. I hope you'll find a way to end yourself before being consumed by it.
Destiny awaits you as hell awaits me.
Sincerely,
Adolf
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Rey Crave, he was a normal traveler, he appeared one day in this village filled with dirt, horse shit, and sand asking for temporal refuge. He looked suspicious as all hell, but even so, they accepted him. It might have had to do with the fact that he had a lot of money in his person or because he was really charming.
He made a name for himself in this town, not only he was touring, he was helping out when he could and even sometimes when he shouldn't. All of his goodwill was breath of fresh air for the town, they didn't like him at first, but eventually, all suspicion was lost. They were used to travelers making a mess when they arrived and not cleaning up when they left. it was the kind of town no one cared for.
Despite all of this, he wasn't someone who stood out much, unlike some of the people who lived here, he didn't have any special talent whatsoever, all he had was his goodwill and that special charm that made people trust him as if people were drawn to him, identify with him somehow, until eventually he was known by all.
He was offered a chance to move in here, he was so appreciated that he was offered to work for one of the richest people in town, as a servant. He, of course, accepted, he had no reason to refuse. He lived and worked in that house for years, he was a nice addition to it and as expected made everything in the house flow better.
He lived a normal life, made close friends, fell in love and eventually got a house on his own. he started a family and even had children, or so I'm told.
But, what was his objective? his *original* objective, it feels like he came to this town for some other reason than just sightseeing, it's almost like he forgot midway what he was supposed to do and decided to leave everything behind. I knew of Rey, he had many different names, many different builds and many different personas, for every town he visited. For every town, he *ate*.
And this is just like those cases, and at the same time is not, probably because it's the last? or probably because he actually liked this good for nothing town that had nothing precious to offer his being? I guess his objective and his origins is something I'll never know, not in the state he is in now.
In the distance, I could see a half destroyed building, the remains of his house. I could see something red and black pulsating within, like a heart, and the cries and moans of all the people that lived in this good for nothing town, they were like faces carved on his gigantic form, twitching, bleeding from every injury the many muscular arms that erupted from within his body provided.
But no matter how much he tried, there isn't a single talent nor a single action that could help him, no amount of intelligence could help him now and of course, the memories only reminded him of all the lives he forcibly took. forever haunting him.
He couldn't do it, he wasn't able to kill himself, to take out all the people he absorbed after his addiction took over, and of course there was nothing I could do, just a normal traveller chasing after legends, only watch as he suffered in there for eternity trapped in a cage of meat, the many lives he took screaming at him in a thousand voices.
***
Any critique you can provide is really appreciated - [r/Onni21](https://www.reddit.com/r/Onni21/)
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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The first person I killed was Andy Chang, a fifty-five-year-old doctor.
My car collided with his body. He tumbled across the darkened sidewalk and crunched against the curb.
I thought I was dying too.
My world exploded with light and colour- swirls of memories and pain. Shrill music echoed in my head. I threw open the door and vomited onto the road. Beige chunks splattered my boots.
Chang’s body was a crumpled heap; dark red clumps spilled from his head over his grey peacoat. His rounded glasses lay next to the sewage drain, the lens cracked and frames bent. One shoe sat in front of my sedan. Chang’s white sock darkened with the rain.
A couple yelled something from across the street. *Help him*.
It jolted me out of my shock. I hadn’t considered the possibility Chang might be alive.
“Call 911,” I directed the young woman.
I pulled off my scarf and held it against the blood spilling from Chang’s head. “Hold this here,” I direct an onlooker. “Don’t stop pressing.”
I hovered over Chang’s body and tilted my ear over his mouth. I watched his chest and looked for any rise or fall. I pressed my fingers against the side of his upper neck looking for a pulse.
Nothing.
*Landmark* I told myself. I lined my hands up and began to press.
I pumped against his sternum.
Two inches down. Recoil. Down again. And again.
Tilt the head, open the airway. Two breaths.
Compressions again.
And again.
When the paramedics arrived I already knew Chang was dead. If the impact hadn’t killed him, the blood he lost would have.
Later, the police arrived.
Chang was at fault - he was jaywalking. Stepped out from between two parked cars.
“The witnesses said you acted quickly, miss,” Officer Dawkins said.
“I only wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did all you could. Quick thinking and first aid can’t solve everything.”
I nodded.
And then frowned.
I had never taken a first aid course.
Last month, when my roommate sliced the tip of her pinky off with the vegetable knife, I was the one who passed out.
I didn’t realize until that night, when Chang’s memories flooded in, what had happened.
I also didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip into my new life.
I craved it.
The thud of the body.
A burst of light and colour.
Swirls of memories and pain.
Shrill music echoing in my head.
And a rush of new talent.
/r/liswrites
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Rey Crave, he was a normal traveler, he appeared one day in this village filled with dirt, horse shit, and sand asking for temporal refuge. He looked suspicious as all hell, but even so, they accepted him. It might have had to do with the fact that he had a lot of money in his person or because he was really charming.
He made a name for himself in this town, not only he was touring, he was helping out when he could and even sometimes when he shouldn't. All of his goodwill was breath of fresh air for the town, they didn't like him at first, but eventually, all suspicion was lost. They were used to travelers making a mess when they arrived and not cleaning up when they left. it was the kind of town no one cared for.
Despite all of this, he wasn't someone who stood out much, unlike some of the people who lived here, he didn't have any special talent whatsoever, all he had was his goodwill and that special charm that made people trust him as if people were drawn to him, identify with him somehow, until eventually he was known by all.
He was offered a chance to move in here, he was so appreciated that he was offered to work for one of the richest people in town, as a servant. He, of course, accepted, he had no reason to refuse. He lived and worked in that house for years, he was a nice addition to it and as expected made everything in the house flow better.
He lived a normal life, made close friends, fell in love and eventually got a house on his own. he started a family and even had children, or so I'm told.
But, what was his objective? his *original* objective, it feels like he came to this town for some other reason than just sightseeing, it's almost like he forgot midway what he was supposed to do and decided to leave everything behind. I knew of Rey, he had many different names, many different builds and many different personas, for every town he visited. For every town, he *ate*.
And this is just like those cases, and at the same time is not, probably because it's the last? or probably because he actually liked this good for nothing town that had nothing precious to offer his being? I guess his objective and his origins is something I'll never know, not in the state he is in now.
In the distance, I could see a half destroyed building, the remains of his house. I could see something red and black pulsating within, like a heart, and the cries and moans of all the people that lived in this good for nothing town, they were like faces carved on his gigantic form, twitching, bleeding from every injury the many muscular arms that erupted from within his body provided.
But no matter how much he tried, there isn't a single talent nor a single action that could help him, no amount of intelligence could help him now and of course, the memories only reminded him of all the lives he forcibly took. forever haunting him.
He couldn't do it, he wasn't able to kill himself, to take out all the people he absorbed after his addiction took over, and of course there was nothing I could do, just a normal traveller chasing after legends, only watch as he suffered in there for eternity trapped in a cage of meat, the many lives he took screaming at him in a thousand voices.
***
Any critique you can provide is really appreciated - [r/Onni21](https://www.reddit.com/r/Onni21/)
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
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If you're reading this, I'm sorry.
I believe myself to be of strong moral character. I would never have put someone into this position if I could have avoided it. A great curse was laid upon me and I have found freedom by thrusting it upon you. Right now, from your point of view this all probably seems incredible. Like a dream where you can fly. Before you curse my name, please understand that it wasn't my fault. It had to happen.
I'm getting ahead of myself here though. I think it'll help you to better understand if I start closer to the beginning.
I was a young man, not much older than yourself when I took my first trip away from home. The world was a different place then. Slower. Calmer. I was bored and restless so I sought out adventure. I found it in Vienna. I had seen a flyer once for an opera there and had heard of the great architecture and art. I was an artist then you see, so I was captured by the city. So much so in fact that after less than a week I had spent all of my money. I was too embarrassed to go home or ask for more. I tried to live by painting but I had some trouble selling my art and gave it up completely after some pretty embarrassing rejections.
That is when it happened. I was drunk, fresh off a new school rejection. It was late and I had nowhere to go. I found myself on a bench in a park. I hadn't been there long before an older, wealthy man took a seat beside me. We talked for a few moments when he asked me if I'd like to be given a gift. A gift that no one had ever seen before. I thought that maybe he had indulged the spirits a bit more than myself but I humored him. He gave out a satisfied sigh as he pulled his "gift" out from under his jacket. In his hand was a revolver. In one swift motion the gun was cocked and pointed in my direction.
"In a moment, one of us will be dead. This is my gift to you." the old man said as he moved to hit me with the pistol. He was old but stronger and quicker than he should have been. The hit landed hard and I fell but the man hesitated and that gave me enough time to kick his legs out from under him. As he hit the ground the gun flew out of his hand and in my direction. I wouldn't repeat his mistake. I wouldn't hesitate I thought to myself as I grabbed the pistol and shot him dead.
I felt sick to stomach as I looked at him there, but only for a moment. I felt a warmth swell inside. Close to an orgasam but deeper, more intense. I felt stronger too.
Some nearby shouting brought me back to reality and I fled. I ran all night before I realized that I couldn't do that before. I wasn't tired or hungry. Something had happened to me but I didn't understand what until the withdrawal set in.
It had been a month since the old man had given me his gift. I had been in the best shape of my life for weeks when I started to notice symptoms. Deep headaches and aching, throbbing joints. I had overwhelming nausea and couldn't sleep for days on end. I tried every cure and snake oil I could find but nothing worked. Every day became a new hell, worse than the day before. I set out to end my own life but was unable to accomplish the task. Every time I tried I woke up the next morning, healed of all wounds but still sick inside.
In my most desperate hour I remembered the old man and how I had felt right after killing him. I decided that I'd kill again. Maybe I'd feel better, or maybe they'd kill me. Either way I had to have relief. So I set about my task, planning and executing a murder. It worked, but not as much as I thought it would. I had to kill again, and again to stay healthy. Each time I had to kill more and more people to feel better. Each time I hoped they would kill me.
When I would kill, I would take a part of them into myself. I don't know how, but I could feel them there. I could look into their thoughts for answers to questions. I used them to gain power. I used the power to satisfy my pain. If the world refused to let me die then I would do my best to kill the world. I started a political party and using my new found "skills" and power I was able to feed my addiction at every increasing levels. I was able to manipulate people because I understood them all. I had killed so many and seen into their minds. It was easy to mislead them. I used those that helped me and killed anyone in my way. I almost took the world before they trapped me in this bunker.
I couldn't kill myself, but I suspected you could do it for me. That's why I ordered you to give me the poison. It was a suicide, but one by your hands. Enough for me to be free of this curse. I hope you'll be stronger than me. I hope you'll find a way to end yourself before being consumed by it.
Destiny awaits you as hell awaits me.
Sincerely,
Adolf
|
The trembling finally subsided, but even as I gazed at my hands there was still a sort of ethereal aftershock subtly and persistently effecting my perception. Even the normal exercise of recalling memories seemed strained and foreign, as if the empty space normally occupied by only my mind was somehow finding resistance and invisible obstacles. I could not direct my inner eye directly at the source of this resistance, it seemed to hover just on the edge of my awareness darting away as I turned towards it, seeping obstruction into my intentions when I tried to turn away from it.
Finding the proper delicate balance between attention and avoidance finally, like overcoming the surface tension of water, I managed to break through this emergent barricade between my mind and memories. It hit me all at once, the accident played back in my head like two overlapping movie reels. On one reel, the memories made sense, they were the memories of myself in my car heading down the road that I drive every day on my commute home. I remember the hypnotic effects of the approaching headlights on the opposite side of the road, and the brief wonderment I felt as a pair of lights broke off from the endless stream and suddenly grew larger and larger until the light was all that I saw, until abruptly darkness descended.
The second reel was causing me to feel nauseous, the images did not match any I had ever seen before. The car interior was not a car I'd ever driven in, the hands gripping the wheel were not mine. A phone on the passenger seat was ringing and the name displayed on the screen was not a name I recognized, but at the same time none of the scene felt completely foreign to me. I felt on some deep level, and knew that this was not a dream, or a fabricated thought - this memory was as genuine as the first. The scene continues from the first person point of view and I reach down for the ringing phone, but an unlucky bump on the road causes the phone to fall in front of the seat. The call suddenly feels critically important, the name on the screen starts to pop out at me with urgency so I pursue the phone during its tumble. As my hand inches on the floor towards the phone I feel my body weight shift sideways and my hand on the steering wheel is jerked towards the passenger seat. I never even manage to get my hand fully around the phone before the sound of screeching metal and crumpling plastics give way to darkness.
I gasp for air and look up from my hands again. I look around and see the wreckage all around me. I'm sitting in my ruined SUV, the back end of a small sedan sticking out from underneath my smoking hood and emergency lights extending in every direction.
I suppose this numb feeling is shock, but its something more. I dont feel nothing, I feel too much. When I think back on the events leading up to the accident, my mind forks and I have two divergent mornings. The further removed from the accident I get, the less I can remember which memory feels more genuine. Sitting in the back of an ambulance with a blanket wrapped around me I try thinking back further than this morning. I somehow have access to two entirely different minds, full of their own history and memories and feelings of joy and pain. I can remember birthdays surrounded by two entirely distinct sets of families, I can remember schoolyard conflicts from entirely different districts, and most discerning I can remember two entirely different faces looking back at me from the mirror.
The realization that my mind was no longer alone would have brought the old me to my knees, but this new me, this dual me had a different idea.
We returned home, our lives forever changed and intertwined. I still had a vague idea of self, but no longer choose to identify in the singular. That was the old me, this new me will go forward as a plurality, embracing my diversity of mind. We quickly ascended the stairs to the master bedroom. The house was entirely empty and silent except for the faint beeping of electronics, and the slight rustling of bed sheets as the cat adjusted itself at the foot of the bed.
Next to the bed, machines stood stoicly all around it, beeping the melancholy song of life support systems. Wires of every gauge seemed to run from the computers into and onto the woman in the bed. Seeing the woman brought a powerful surge of energy to the original host of my mind and quickly that plurality was push aside in favor of the original self.
Her eyes were closed as they had been for almost two decades now. Twenty years asleep in a coma the doctors said was irreversible. If I had any tears left I wouldve shed them, but my dried up ducts remained without wetness as I leaned in to kiss her forehead. While my lips touched her forehead, I let my self-mind relax as I reached towards the power cord supplying energy to the machines supporting my wife's mortal slumber. I did not have the strength alone to do what must be done, but with my new duality I found it possible. We pulled the cord out of the wall and heard the somber songs of the machines fade into a susurrus.
Our breath caught, our heart seemingly frozen in time between beats. Suddenly, I could feel it. My mind, once mine alone, had gained another occupant. This new addition was a blazing beacon of light, dwarfing every other emotion and memory I'd ever felt with overwhelming waves of love and warmth. Every late night whisper, every book and joke, every loving caress was amplified and magnified to infinite degrees. It vaporized the very essence of the loneliness and sadness built up over the past two decades.
The girl I fell in love with was back with me, and she would never be taken from me again.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
If you're reading this, I'm sorry.
I believe myself to be of strong moral character. I would never have put someone into this position if I could have avoided it. A great curse was laid upon me and I have found freedom by thrusting it upon you. Right now, from your point of view this all probably seems incredible. Like a dream where you can fly. Before you curse my name, please understand that it wasn't my fault. It had to happen.
I'm getting ahead of myself here though. I think it'll help you to better understand if I start closer to the beginning.
I was a young man, not much older than yourself when I took my first trip away from home. The world was a different place then. Slower. Calmer. I was bored and restless so I sought out adventure. I found it in Vienna. I had seen a flyer once for an opera there and had heard of the great architecture and art. I was an artist then you see, so I was captured by the city. So much so in fact that after less than a week I had spent all of my money. I was too embarrassed to go home or ask for more. I tried to live by painting but I had some trouble selling my art and gave it up completely after some pretty embarrassing rejections.
That is when it happened. I was drunk, fresh off a new school rejection. It was late and I had nowhere to go. I found myself on a bench in a park. I hadn't been there long before an older, wealthy man took a seat beside me. We talked for a few moments when he asked me if I'd like to be given a gift. A gift that no one had ever seen before. I thought that maybe he had indulged the spirits a bit more than myself but I humored him. He gave out a satisfied sigh as he pulled his "gift" out from under his jacket. In his hand was a revolver. In one swift motion the gun was cocked and pointed in my direction.
"In a moment, one of us will be dead. This is my gift to you." the old man said as he moved to hit me with the pistol. He was old but stronger and quicker than he should have been. The hit landed hard and I fell but the man hesitated and that gave me enough time to kick his legs out from under him. As he hit the ground the gun flew out of his hand and in my direction. I wouldn't repeat his mistake. I wouldn't hesitate I thought to myself as I grabbed the pistol and shot him dead.
I felt sick to stomach as I looked at him there, but only for a moment. I felt a warmth swell inside. Close to an orgasam but deeper, more intense. I felt stronger too.
Some nearby shouting brought me back to reality and I fled. I ran all night before I realized that I couldn't do that before. I wasn't tired or hungry. Something had happened to me but I didn't understand what until the withdrawal set in.
It had been a month since the old man had given me his gift. I had been in the best shape of my life for weeks when I started to notice symptoms. Deep headaches and aching, throbbing joints. I had overwhelming nausea and couldn't sleep for days on end. I tried every cure and snake oil I could find but nothing worked. Every day became a new hell, worse than the day before. I set out to end my own life but was unable to accomplish the task. Every time I tried I woke up the next morning, healed of all wounds but still sick inside.
In my most desperate hour I remembered the old man and how I had felt right after killing him. I decided that I'd kill again. Maybe I'd feel better, or maybe they'd kill me. Either way I had to have relief. So I set about my task, planning and executing a murder. It worked, but not as much as I thought it would. I had to kill again, and again to stay healthy. Each time I had to kill more and more people to feel better. Each time I hoped they would kill me.
When I would kill, I would take a part of them into myself. I don't know how, but I could feel them there. I could look into their thoughts for answers to questions. I used them to gain power. I used the power to satisfy my pain. If the world refused to let me die then I would do my best to kill the world. I started a political party and using my new found "skills" and power I was able to feed my addiction at every increasing levels. I was able to manipulate people because I understood them all. I had killed so many and seen into their minds. It was easy to mislead them. I used those that helped me and killed anyone in my way. I almost took the world before they trapped me in this bunker.
I couldn't kill myself, but I suspected you could do it for me. That's why I ordered you to give me the poison. It was a suicide, but one by your hands. Enough for me to be free of this curse. I hope you'll be stronger than me. I hope you'll find a way to end yourself before being consumed by it.
Destiny awaits you as hell awaits me.
Sincerely,
Adolf
|
*There's a monster inside everyone of us.*
The slow, calculated trickle of fresh blood announced the arrival of Darren Joyman in the sheer blackness. There wasn't even a flickering of light, only the damp, heavy darkness of an unknown place.
Darren was a truly smart man. Years ago, a lost bullet blew his best friend's life away, a bullet Darren himself shot. He felt the intense thrill of murdering a man blazing through his blood and core, growing into an unusual pain. A pain that wasn't physical nor emotional. It was much stronger than that, and to Darren it felt *right*.
The thrill lasted a second or two, and suddenly the guilt faded away. Call it magic, or sheer madness but in Darren's mind strange things took place. His best friend's memories became his, he now grasped concepts that moments ago were unknown to him, and he could whistle too. If he focused hard enough, he could heard the voice of his friend thanking him.
And so the monster was unchained.
---------------------------------------------
Down there, in the pure blackness, the painful babbling of men with broken jaws along with their tears striking softly against the ground, killed the silence. A familiar, terrifying sound joined them today. The steady, calculated *thump* of the concrete being walked on, growing closer and closer.
It suddenly stopped, somewhere in the darkness. Then, the clattering of steel bouncing against the concrete joined the painful cries, and then Darren talked:
"Shut up, or I will turn on the lights."
For a brief time, the babbling came to a halt and so did most of the tears.
But one.
In the sheer silence, it struck the ground with the strength of a lightning, thundering across the place and sealing the fates of many.
Darren whistled joyfully as he stepped gently towards somewhere. A cacophony of hyperventilated chests and hammering hearts joined the concert.
Two lamps with dim lights came to life. Enough to blind the eyes of the twenty starving and scruffy men tightly shackled against the walls of the windowless place.
"You know, if you were to tell me I would use this basement for something when I bought it, I would've laughed at your face," Darren said as he walked.
After many pronounced blinks, the eyes of the men managed to dissipate the flash in their eyes. There, in the center of the basement stood Darrel. hands.
"Let alone livestock."
---------------------------------------
/r/therobertfall for more not so great stories!
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
The first person I killed was Andy Chang, a fifty-five-year-old doctor.
My car collided with his body. He tumbled across the darkened sidewalk and crunched against the curb.
I thought I was dying too.
My world exploded with light and colour- swirls of memories and pain. Shrill music echoed in my head. I threw open the door and vomited onto the road. Beige chunks splattered my boots.
Chang’s body was a crumpled heap; dark red clumps spilled from his head over his grey peacoat. His rounded glasses lay next to the sewage drain, the lens cracked and frames bent. One shoe sat in front of my sedan. Chang’s white sock darkened with the rain.
A couple yelled something from across the street. *Help him*.
It jolted me out of my shock. I hadn’t considered the possibility Chang might be alive.
“Call 911,” I directed the young woman.
I pulled off my scarf and held it against the blood spilling from Chang’s head. “Hold this here,” I direct an onlooker. “Don’t stop pressing.”
I hovered over Chang’s body and tilted my ear over his mouth. I watched his chest and looked for any rise or fall. I pressed my fingers against the side of his upper neck looking for a pulse.
Nothing.
*Landmark* I told myself. I lined my hands up and began to press.
I pumped against his sternum.
Two inches down. Recoil. Down again. And again.
Tilt the head, open the airway. Two breaths.
Compressions again.
And again.
When the paramedics arrived I already knew Chang was dead. If the impact hadn’t killed him, the blood he lost would have.
Later, the police arrived.
Chang was at fault - he was jaywalking. Stepped out from between two parked cars.
“The witnesses said you acted quickly, miss,” Officer Dawkins said.
“I only wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did all you could. Quick thinking and first aid can’t solve everything.”
I nodded.
And then frowned.
I had never taken a first aid course.
Last month, when my roommate sliced the tip of her pinky off with the vegetable knife, I was the one who passed out.
I didn’t realize until that night, when Chang’s memories flooded in, what had happened.
I also didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip into my new life.
I craved it.
The thud of the body.
A burst of light and colour.
Swirls of memories and pain.
Shrill music echoing in my head.
And a rush of new talent.
/r/liswrites
|
*There's a monster inside everyone of us.*
The slow, calculated trickle of fresh blood announced the arrival of Darren Joyman in the sheer blackness. There wasn't even a flickering of light, only the damp, heavy darkness of an unknown place.
Darren was a truly smart man. Years ago, a lost bullet blew his best friend's life away, a bullet Darren himself shot. He felt the intense thrill of murdering a man blazing through his blood and core, growing into an unusual pain. A pain that wasn't physical nor emotional. It was much stronger than that, and to Darren it felt *right*.
The thrill lasted a second or two, and suddenly the guilt faded away. Call it magic, or sheer madness but in Darren's mind strange things took place. His best friend's memories became his, he now grasped concepts that moments ago were unknown to him, and he could whistle too. If he focused hard enough, he could heard the voice of his friend thanking him.
And so the monster was unchained.
---------------------------------------------
Down there, in the pure blackness, the painful babbling of men with broken jaws along with their tears striking softly against the ground, killed the silence. A familiar, terrifying sound joined them today. The steady, calculated *thump* of the concrete being walked on, growing closer and closer.
It suddenly stopped, somewhere in the darkness. Then, the clattering of steel bouncing against the concrete joined the painful cries, and then Darren talked:
"Shut up, or I will turn on the lights."
For a brief time, the babbling came to a halt and so did most of the tears.
But one.
In the sheer silence, it struck the ground with the strength of a lightning, thundering across the place and sealing the fates of many.
Darren whistled joyfully as he stepped gently towards somewhere. A cacophony of hyperventilated chests and hammering hearts joined the concert.
Two lamps with dim lights came to life. Enough to blind the eyes of the twenty starving and scruffy men tightly shackled against the walls of the windowless place.
"You know, if you were to tell me I would use this basement for something when I bought it, I would've laughed at your face," Darren said as he walked.
After many pronounced blinks, the eyes of the men managed to dissipate the flash in their eyes. There, in the center of the basement stood Darrel. hands.
"Let alone livestock."
---------------------------------------
/r/therobertfall for more not so great stories!
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
If you're reading this, I'm sorry.
I believe myself to be of strong moral character. I would never have put someone into this position if I could have avoided it. A great curse was laid upon me and I have found freedom by thrusting it upon you. Right now, from your point of view this all probably seems incredible. Like a dream where you can fly. Before you curse my name, please understand that it wasn't my fault. It had to happen.
I'm getting ahead of myself here though. I think it'll help you to better understand if I start closer to the beginning.
I was a young man, not much older than yourself when I took my first trip away from home. The world was a different place then. Slower. Calmer. I was bored and restless so I sought out adventure. I found it in Vienna. I had seen a flyer once for an opera there and had heard of the great architecture and art. I was an artist then you see, so I was captured by the city. So much so in fact that after less than a week I had spent all of my money. I was too embarrassed to go home or ask for more. I tried to live by painting but I had some trouble selling my art and gave it up completely after some pretty embarrassing rejections.
That is when it happened. I was drunk, fresh off a new school rejection. It was late and I had nowhere to go. I found myself on a bench in a park. I hadn't been there long before an older, wealthy man took a seat beside me. We talked for a few moments when he asked me if I'd like to be given a gift. A gift that no one had ever seen before. I thought that maybe he had indulged the spirits a bit more than myself but I humored him. He gave out a satisfied sigh as he pulled his "gift" out from under his jacket. In his hand was a revolver. In one swift motion the gun was cocked and pointed in my direction.
"In a moment, one of us will be dead. This is my gift to you." the old man said as he moved to hit me with the pistol. He was old but stronger and quicker than he should have been. The hit landed hard and I fell but the man hesitated and that gave me enough time to kick his legs out from under him. As he hit the ground the gun flew out of his hand and in my direction. I wouldn't repeat his mistake. I wouldn't hesitate I thought to myself as I grabbed the pistol and shot him dead.
I felt sick to stomach as I looked at him there, but only for a moment. I felt a warmth swell inside. Close to an orgasam but deeper, more intense. I felt stronger too.
Some nearby shouting brought me back to reality and I fled. I ran all night before I realized that I couldn't do that before. I wasn't tired or hungry. Something had happened to me but I didn't understand what until the withdrawal set in.
It had been a month since the old man had given me his gift. I had been in the best shape of my life for weeks when I started to notice symptoms. Deep headaches and aching, throbbing joints. I had overwhelming nausea and couldn't sleep for days on end. I tried every cure and snake oil I could find but nothing worked. Every day became a new hell, worse than the day before. I set out to end my own life but was unable to accomplish the task. Every time I tried I woke up the next morning, healed of all wounds but still sick inside.
In my most desperate hour I remembered the old man and how I had felt right after killing him. I decided that I'd kill again. Maybe I'd feel better, or maybe they'd kill me. Either way I had to have relief. So I set about my task, planning and executing a murder. It worked, but not as much as I thought it would. I had to kill again, and again to stay healthy. Each time I had to kill more and more people to feel better. Each time I hoped they would kill me.
When I would kill, I would take a part of them into myself. I don't know how, but I could feel them there. I could look into their thoughts for answers to questions. I used them to gain power. I used the power to satisfy my pain. If the world refused to let me die then I would do my best to kill the world. I started a political party and using my new found "skills" and power I was able to feed my addiction at every increasing levels. I was able to manipulate people because I understood them all. I had killed so many and seen into their minds. It was easy to mislead them. I used those that helped me and killed anyone in my way. I almost took the world before they trapped me in this bunker.
I couldn't kill myself, but I suspected you could do it for me. That's why I ordered you to give me the poison. It was a suicide, but one by your hands. Enough for me to be free of this curse. I hope you'll be stronger than me. I hope you'll find a way to end yourself before being consumed by it.
Destiny awaits you as hell awaits me.
Sincerely,
Adolf
|
Smoke drifted out of the gun rising higher in a room of silence. I saw his dead body now limp, sprawled on the floor, with liquid the color of lipstick leaking out from two holes in his chest cavity. I stopped, I stared, I remained motionless. In that moment after letting the hammer fall and thunder striking, I could see that he really loved me. He just wasn't so good at showing it.
"I'm sorry Dad."
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Call it a rush. Meeting new people. Appraising them. The catalogue of my mind is full from charming first dates, and it's ever growing fuller. I can't cram just anyone in there
But this one seems worth it.
This evening's date--Thalia, 33, originally from Norway, now here on my side of the world by some careful working of fate--met me at Aux Trois Capitaines. Good setting. She's charmed, I'm charming. Instant spark.
We hit it off, instantly.
I've been doing this a while. I have met many people. For me, the gender matters less than the person: who they are, what they have done. But she is one of the most interesting.
Her hobby is mountain climbing. She is a polyglot dabbling in nearly ten languages. In school she studied organic chemistry, a skill whose usefulness I can't think of now, but it is rare in such a pleasant person. She has seen
The champagne bubbles like the blood in my brain. I watch her smooth pale arms move and wonder at seeing the Balkans through her eyes. Or how the world looked from the top of Kilimanjaro as she stood there, gasping and humbled by the vastness of the world.
I love her. I crave her.
That's the best part. The exhilarating part. It is what brings me back to some bar or restaurant somewhere, anywhere, over and over again. As long as I can feel that spark. That forward tug of compulsion that cries, *I need you and your everything.*
I offer to walk her to the train station. She seems relieved, tipsy and delighted. We walk holding hands. She is wobbly in her heels.
I draw her down an alley, promising a shortcut. The look she gives me is halting, hesitant.
"C'mon," I say. "I grew up here. I know what I'm doing it."
That or the alcohol in her brain convinces her. She follows me into the dim, giggling stupidly about muggers in America.
My belly rises in delight. I can hear nothing beyond my own blood roaring in my ears.
Call it a rush. In that final second you can hear the both of us, our thoughts and selves inextricably wound together thenceforth. Your life changed, irreversibly, and become mine.
I reach for her face as if to kiss her. When she relents to me I grab her by her skull and slam her head into the wall. She makes a stunned sparrow cry and looks at me in horror.
Just before she dies, I think how lovely her fear looks. She realizes with animal panic that she doesn't want to die.
And then I open her skull against the stone. She slumps bonelessly down, leaving behind a splatter of blond hair and brain like spaghetti on the brick wall.
It was unbefitting, to ruin someone as lovely as her. But I just couldn't wait another moment to get her inside of me.
"*Farvel og takk*," I say. Goodbye, and thank you.
|
Smoke drifted out of the gun rising higher in a room of silence. I saw his dead body now limp, sprawled on the floor, with liquid the color of lipstick leaking out from two holes in his chest cavity. I stopped, I stared, I remained motionless. In that moment after letting the hammer fall and thunder striking, I could see that he really loved me. He just wasn't so good at showing it.
"I'm sorry Dad."
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
The first person I killed was Andy Chang, a fifty-five-year-old doctor.
My car collided with his body. He tumbled across the darkened sidewalk and crunched against the curb.
I thought I was dying too.
My world exploded with light and colour- swirls of memories and pain. Shrill music echoed in my head. I threw open the door and vomited onto the road. Beige chunks splattered my boots.
Chang’s body was a crumpled heap; dark red clumps spilled from his head over his grey peacoat. His rounded glasses lay next to the sewage drain, the lens cracked and frames bent. One shoe sat in front of my sedan. Chang’s white sock darkened with the rain.
A couple yelled something from across the street. *Help him*.
It jolted me out of my shock. I hadn’t considered the possibility Chang might be alive.
“Call 911,” I directed the young woman.
I pulled off my scarf and held it against the blood spilling from Chang’s head. “Hold this here,” I direct an onlooker. “Don’t stop pressing.”
I hovered over Chang’s body and tilted my ear over his mouth. I watched his chest and looked for any rise or fall. I pressed my fingers against the side of his upper neck looking for a pulse.
Nothing.
*Landmark* I told myself. I lined my hands up and began to press.
I pumped against his sternum.
Two inches down. Recoil. Down again. And again.
Tilt the head, open the airway. Two breaths.
Compressions again.
And again.
When the paramedics arrived I already knew Chang was dead. If the impact hadn’t killed him, the blood he lost would have.
Later, the police arrived.
Chang was at fault - he was jaywalking. Stepped out from between two parked cars.
“The witnesses said you acted quickly, miss,” Officer Dawkins said.
“I only wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did all you could. Quick thinking and first aid can’t solve everything.”
I nodded.
And then frowned.
I had never taken a first aid course.
Last month, when my roommate sliced the tip of her pinky off with the vegetable knife, I was the one who passed out.
I didn’t realize until that night, when Chang’s memories flooded in, what had happened.
I also didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip into my new life.
I craved it.
The thud of the body.
A burst of light and colour.
Swirls of memories and pain.
Shrill music echoing in my head.
And a rush of new talent.
/r/liswrites
|
Smoke drifted out of the gun rising higher in a room of silence. I saw his dead body now limp, sprawled on the floor, with liquid the color of lipstick leaking out from two holes in his chest cavity. I stopped, I stared, I remained motionless. In that moment after letting the hammer fall and thunder striking, I could see that he really loved me. He just wasn't so good at showing it.
"I'm sorry Dad."
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Call it a rush. Meeting new people. Appraising them. The catalogue of my mind is full from charming first dates, and it's ever growing fuller. I can't cram just anyone in there
But this one seems worth it.
This evening's date--Thalia, 33, originally from Norway, now here on my side of the world by some careful working of fate--met me at Aux Trois Capitaines. Good setting. She's charmed, I'm charming. Instant spark.
We hit it off, instantly.
I've been doing this a while. I have met many people. For me, the gender matters less than the person: who they are, what they have done. But she is one of the most interesting.
Her hobby is mountain climbing. She is a polyglot dabbling in nearly ten languages. In school she studied organic chemistry, a skill whose usefulness I can't think of now, but it is rare in such a pleasant person. She has seen
The champagne bubbles like the blood in my brain. I watch her smooth pale arms move and wonder at seeing the Balkans through her eyes. Or how the world looked from the top of Kilimanjaro as she stood there, gasping and humbled by the vastness of the world.
I love her. I crave her.
That's the best part. The exhilarating part. It is what brings me back to some bar or restaurant somewhere, anywhere, over and over again. As long as I can feel that spark. That forward tug of compulsion that cries, *I need you and your everything.*
I offer to walk her to the train station. She seems relieved, tipsy and delighted. We walk holding hands. She is wobbly in her heels.
I draw her down an alley, promising a shortcut. The look she gives me is halting, hesitant.
"C'mon," I say. "I grew up here. I know what I'm doing it."
That or the alcohol in her brain convinces her. She follows me into the dim, giggling stupidly about muggers in America.
My belly rises in delight. I can hear nothing beyond my own blood roaring in my ears.
Call it a rush. In that final second you can hear the both of us, our thoughts and selves inextricably wound together thenceforth. Your life changed, irreversibly, and become mine.
I reach for her face as if to kiss her. When she relents to me I grab her by her skull and slam her head into the wall. She makes a stunned sparrow cry and looks at me in horror.
Just before she dies, I think how lovely her fear looks. She realizes with animal panic that she doesn't want to die.
And then I open her skull against the stone. She slumps bonelessly down, leaving behind a splatter of blond hair and brain like spaghetti on the brick wall.
It was unbefitting, to ruin someone as lovely as her. But I just couldn't wait another moment to get her inside of me.
"*Farvel og takk*," I say. Goodbye, and thank you.
|
It wasn't intentional when I pulled the trigger on that rifle that I killed a man. Originally I was aiming for a Buck, but this idiot went and wore camoflague *'because it'll never see me coming.'*
My original though trailed off as I got an epiphany... This man was a father on his last legs trying to feed his family. He has a cabin a dozen miles north-north-west of here. I know because he's been tracking this kill for a few hours. I also know he married a bombshell of a wife and has a grandfather who served in several wars.
I lick my lips. He checked the mirror this morning and we're pretty similar... just need to dye my hair and cut an inch off and she might never know the difference.
Even if she did, I know exactly where they keep their weapons.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
Beer bottles and pizza boxes were scattered across the room. My phone had a dozen messages and as many missed calls from worried friends who hadn't seen me except online in a week.
They wouldn't understand.
I couldn't get it out of my head. The rush, the endorphins - it was the highest high I'd ever had. No games, no sports, no alcohol or drugs from college, nothing touched it.
Beer and games and pizza, anything that shut down my mind with these memories that weren't mine. I needed to stop thinking, because thinking inevitably led to that moment.
Honestly though, a mugger? Targeting me? I guess I'm not poor. I could afford this week of food and booze. But why me? I didn't have any cash. My coat's not that nice. I was just walking in the cold. But then that knife. It was dark out, but somehow it glinted anyways. I thought that was a camera trick in movies or whatever, but Jesus that blade caught any light around when he held it out.
Really I just pushed him. I pushed him and it was snowing and icy and he slipped. A simple slip that's all. Straight backwards, and *crack* - his head against the concrete. Maybe in a field the blood and the snow would look poetic, but there, in the muddy slush, it just looked like rusty iron.
But then the sensation. Like I was drawing the life from that opening in his skull. Like I was drinking it. He was great at tool and die work I found out. But everything went to shit with the Big Three folding here in Michigan. Lost his job, never told his wife. Just took to the streets eight hours a day - panhandling, petty thieving, shoplifting for presents. Whatever worked. Until today. Poor woman. What a way to find out.
Someone had called the cops, and they found me there staring at him five minutes later. Said I was in shock, gave me a shiny blanket. That whole deal. Took my statement, and that of the witness who called. The whole thing seemed cut and dry. No charges pressed anywhere said the police. The family I'm sure is mourning.
Me? I've got the shakes. Bad. Worse than the line of coke I did once. My neighbor's some kinda cleaning person for crime scenes. They told me about it once. Pretty up a house so it's liveable again. Fix up a workplace so people will come back, maybe forget in a while.
I never learned how to use a press, but I'm sure I could do it now after the last guy.
Damn it. I knew I shouldn't let myself think.
|
It wasn't intentional when I pulled the trigger on that rifle that I killed a man. Originally I was aiming for a Buck, but this idiot went and wore camoflague *'because it'll never see me coming.'*
My original though trailed off as I got an epiphany... This man was a father on his last legs trying to feed his family. He has a cabin a dozen miles north-north-west of here. I know because he's been tracking this kill for a few hours. I also know he married a bombshell of a wife and has a grandfather who served in several wars.
I lick my lips. He checked the mirror this morning and we're pretty similar... just need to dye my hair and cut an inch off and she might never know the difference.
Even if she did, I know exactly where they keep their weapons.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
“And the story continues with reporter Chad Chadley who is on the scene.”
“The suspect, who is being touted as the ‘Ordinary Person Killer’, has been on a spree worthy of the history books, taking the souls of at least 15 victims so far along with their memories, intelligence and talents. Although police are asking the public to refrain from approaching the killer, they have said not to worry about divulging identification as the suspect is currently housing the unfortunate talent of forgetting names within three seconds of learning them.”
“Disturbing stuff, Chad. Do the police have an idea of how he is managing to kill in locations which are quite some distance from each other?”
“Well, the theories are vast but the prevailing idea is that he has murdered someone who was gifted with the ability of falling asleep regardless of position or environment. One suspect reportedly identified the killer sleeping perfectly aboard a cramped airplane stating, 'he looked beyond comfortable. It was infuriating.'.”
“There have been questions of the police regarding this case given how many times the suspect has been spotted in public. Have they commented on this?”
“They have, Tom. Chief Officer Kelly released a statement this morning saying: ‘It’s weird as shit. He does this thing where he moves his eyebrows up and down super fast then runs around a wall, disappearing as soon as we give chase. We are unsure who he absorbed this power from but we are currently investigating anyone who starred in a 1920s silent comedy.'”
“Is the kill rate expected to rise?”
“Yes, Tom. Police believe the only reason the body count isn’t higher is due to the suspect also absorbing lesser ordinary person traits such as the psyche of one of his most recent victims, Steph Patterson. Steph was a Californian who would over analyse even the most insubstantial situations, especially if Steph had been out drinking the night before and found herself lying in bed the morning after filled with irrational regret and self-hatred."
"Sometimes I think about removing my consciousness and placing it inside another vessel after a bout of drunken regret, Chad. A vessel none of the people I know can recognise. But that's not possible. At least not with today's technology."
"Indeed, Tom. And in another stroke of luck, it is also believed the killer now carries the bewildering talent of always being 5 minutes late for stuff just like that one person you know and hate."
“Fascinating stuff, Chad. Anything else to add?"
“Well, the suspect has also acquired some other disturbingly powerful ordinary guy talents which the police are wary of such as awkwardly stretching to put HDMI cables in to the back of televisions without becoming angry, the ability to identify the glasses cupboard first time while at a friends house, and there are some unconfirmed reports that he has been able to attract multiple victims by cupping his hands and doing that sweet owl noise thing.”
“May God have mercy on our souls.”
****
I write shitty, silly stories on /r/BillMurrayMovies. Feel free to come along, not laugh at any of them and leave some judgement.
|
It wasn't intentional when I pulled the trigger on that rifle that I killed a man. Originally I was aiming for a Buck, but this idiot went and wore camoflague *'because it'll never see me coming.'*
My original though trailed off as I got an epiphany... This man was a father on his last legs trying to feed his family. He has a cabin a dozen miles north-north-west of here. I know because he's been tracking this kill for a few hours. I also know he married a bombshell of a wife and has a grandfather who served in several wars.
I lick my lips. He checked the mirror this morning and we're pretty similar... just need to dye my hair and cut an inch off and she might never know the difference.
Even if she did, I know exactly where they keep their weapons.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
"You were right, your carburator is broken." said the mechanic, wiping his hands. "You know a lot about cars for a doctor."
"You'd be surprised what I know." replied the man knows as Dr. Leimann.
"I'm surprised. Usually big heads like you don't think much of cars and just ask us to fix it."
"I'm not like the others though."
"What do you mean?
"I guess I can tell..." started the doctor, turning his back from the mechanic to look around. "The first time I learned I could syphon life, I was giving care to a patient. It had been a long night and I didn't realize the nurse had put 20 ml more than I asked. A couple of minutes later, I was cleaning my hands when I felt the energy course through my system for the first time, an energy that wasn't mine. Before I could understand, the monitor started its alert, pointing at room 26, where the patient I had just treated was lying."
"You should write a book, you have some great fantasy novel ideas." replied the mechanic, while working on the car.
"Maybe. But here I was, running back to the patient, a feeling of fun and hilariousness running through my system. The more I ran, the faster I felt I could run." continued the doctor. "By the time I got there, the nurse declared the patient dead from a morphine overdose, which I had just admistrated. Fatigue related negligence they called it. I thought I had lost my licence right there."
"I'm guessing you got it back?" replied the mechanic, under the car.
"I managed to kill an attorney before my trial and successfully defended myself." said the doctor, before muttering hnder his breath. "Stop being salty, Steven."
"You sure you don't want to become an auteur or give your ideas for a video game?" questionned the mechanic, reaching out from under the car for a tool he had dropped.
"I could." said the doctor, stepping on the hand reaching out from under his car, immobilizing it. "Alas, that would mean they might catch me."
As the mechanic screamed, the car lift descended completely, crushing him underneath.
"Alright, let's finish this repair then leave." said the doctor, lifting the car back up. "Yes, John, I won't forget to clean up the data. Do you think I would leave my plate number here?"
-_-_-_-_-_-_-
Thanks for reading, if you want to read more, you can search for r/volvaryWrites. It's out of date, I need to update it.
As always, I love critics and comments.
|
It wasn't intentional when I pulled the trigger on that rifle that I killed a man. Originally I was aiming for a Buck, but this idiot went and wore camoflague *'because it'll never see me coming.'*
My original though trailed off as I got an epiphany... This man was a father on his last legs trying to feed his family. He has a cabin a dozen miles north-north-west of here. I know because he's been tracking this kill for a few hours. I also know he married a bombshell of a wife and has a grandfather who served in several wars.
I lick my lips. He checked the mirror this morning and we're pretty similar... just need to dye my hair and cut an inch off and she might never know the difference.
Even if she did, I know exactly where they keep their weapons.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
The first person I killed was Andy Chang, a fifty-five-year-old doctor.
My car collided with his body. He tumbled across the darkened sidewalk and crunched against the curb.
I thought I was dying too.
My world exploded with light and colour- swirls of memories and pain. Shrill music echoed in my head. I threw open the door and vomited onto the road. Beige chunks splattered my boots.
Chang’s body was a crumpled heap; dark red clumps spilled from his head over his grey peacoat. His rounded glasses lay next to the sewage drain, the lens cracked and frames bent. One shoe sat in front of my sedan. Chang’s white sock darkened with the rain.
A couple yelled something from across the street. *Help him*.
It jolted me out of my shock. I hadn’t considered the possibility Chang might be alive.
“Call 911,” I directed the young woman.
I pulled off my scarf and held it against the blood spilling from Chang’s head. “Hold this here,” I direct an onlooker. “Don’t stop pressing.”
I hovered over Chang’s body and tilted my ear over his mouth. I watched his chest and looked for any rise or fall. I pressed my fingers against the side of his upper neck looking for a pulse.
Nothing.
*Landmark* I told myself. I lined my hands up and began to press.
I pumped against his sternum.
Two inches down. Recoil. Down again. And again.
Tilt the head, open the airway. Two breaths.
Compressions again.
And again.
When the paramedics arrived I already knew Chang was dead. If the impact hadn’t killed him, the blood he lost would have.
Later, the police arrived.
Chang was at fault - he was jaywalking. Stepped out from between two parked cars.
“The witnesses said you acted quickly, miss,” Officer Dawkins said.
“I only wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did all you could. Quick thinking and first aid can’t solve everything.”
I nodded.
And then frowned.
I had never taken a first aid course.
Last month, when my roommate sliced the tip of her pinky off with the vegetable knife, I was the one who passed out.
I didn’t realize until that night, when Chang’s memories flooded in, what had happened.
I also didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip into my new life.
I craved it.
The thud of the body.
A burst of light and colour.
Swirls of memories and pain.
Shrill music echoing in my head.
And a rush of new talent.
/r/liswrites
|
It wasn't intentional when I pulled the trigger on that rifle that I killed a man. Originally I was aiming for a Buck, but this idiot went and wore camoflague *'because it'll never see me coming.'*
My original though trailed off as I got an epiphany... This man was a father on his last legs trying to feed his family. He has a cabin a dozen miles north-north-west of here. I know because he's been tracking this kill for a few hours. I also know he married a bombshell of a wife and has a grandfather who served in several wars.
I lick my lips. He checked the mirror this morning and we're pretty similar... just need to dye my hair and cut an inch off and she might never know the difference.
Even if she did, I know exactly where they keep their weapons.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
The first person I killed was Andy Chang, a fifty-five-year-old doctor.
My car collided with his body. He tumbled across the darkened sidewalk and crunched against the curb.
I thought I was dying too.
My world exploded with light and colour- swirls of memories and pain. Shrill music echoed in my head. I threw open the door and vomited onto the road. Beige chunks splattered my boots.
Chang’s body was a crumpled heap; dark red clumps spilled from his head over his grey peacoat. His rounded glasses lay next to the sewage drain, the lens cracked and frames bent. One shoe sat in front of my sedan. Chang’s white sock darkened with the rain.
A couple yelled something from across the street. *Help him*.
It jolted me out of my shock. I hadn’t considered the possibility Chang might be alive.
“Call 911,” I directed the young woman.
I pulled off my scarf and held it against the blood spilling from Chang’s head. “Hold this here,” I direct an onlooker. “Don’t stop pressing.”
I hovered over Chang’s body and tilted my ear over his mouth. I watched his chest and looked for any rise or fall. I pressed my fingers against the side of his upper neck looking for a pulse.
Nothing.
*Landmark* I told myself. I lined my hands up and began to press.
I pumped against his sternum.
Two inches down. Recoil. Down again. And again.
Tilt the head, open the airway. Two breaths.
Compressions again.
And again.
When the paramedics arrived I already knew Chang was dead. If the impact hadn’t killed him, the blood he lost would have.
Later, the police arrived.
Chang was at fault - he was jaywalking. Stepped out from between two parked cars.
“The witnesses said you acted quickly, miss,” Officer Dawkins said.
“I only wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did all you could. Quick thinking and first aid can’t solve everything.”
I nodded.
And then frowned.
I had never taken a first aid course.
Last month, when my roommate sliced the tip of her pinky off with the vegetable knife, I was the one who passed out.
I didn’t realize until that night, when Chang’s memories flooded in, what had happened.
I also didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip into my new life.
I craved it.
The thud of the body.
A burst of light and colour.
Swirls of memories and pain.
Shrill music echoing in my head.
And a rush of new talent.
/r/liswrites
|
Call it a rush. Meeting new people. Appraising them. The catalogue of my mind is full from charming first dates, and it's ever growing fuller. I can't cram just anyone in there
But this one seems worth it.
This evening's date--Thalia, 33, originally from Norway, now here on my side of the world by some careful working of fate--met me at Aux Trois Capitaines. Good setting. She's charmed, I'm charming. Instant spark.
We hit it off, instantly.
I've been doing this a while. I have met many people. For me, the gender matters less than the person: who they are, what they have done. But she is one of the most interesting.
Her hobby is mountain climbing. She is a polyglot dabbling in nearly ten languages. In school she studied organic chemistry, a skill whose usefulness I can't think of now, but it is rare in such a pleasant person. She has seen
The champagne bubbles like the blood in my brain. I watch her smooth pale arms move and wonder at seeing the Balkans through her eyes. Or how the world looked from the top of Kilimanjaro as she stood there, gasping and humbled by the vastness of the world.
I love her. I crave her.
That's the best part. The exhilarating part. It is what brings me back to some bar or restaurant somewhere, anywhere, over and over again. As long as I can feel that spark. That forward tug of compulsion that cries, *I need you and your everything.*
I offer to walk her to the train station. She seems relieved, tipsy and delighted. We walk holding hands. She is wobbly in her heels.
I draw her down an alley, promising a shortcut. The look she gives me is halting, hesitant.
"C'mon," I say. "I grew up here. I know what I'm doing it."
That or the alcohol in her brain convinces her. She follows me into the dim, giggling stupidly about muggers in America.
My belly rises in delight. I can hear nothing beyond my own blood roaring in my ears.
Call it a rush. In that final second you can hear the both of us, our thoughts and selves inextricably wound together thenceforth. Your life changed, irreversibly, and become mine.
I reach for her face as if to kiss her. When she relents to me I grab her by her skull and slam her head into the wall. She makes a stunned sparrow cry and looks at me in horror.
Just before she dies, I think how lovely her fear looks. She realizes with animal panic that she doesn't want to die.
And then I open her skull against the stone. She slumps bonelessly down, leaving behind a splatter of blond hair and brain like spaghetti on the brick wall.
It was unbefitting, to ruin someone as lovely as her. But I just couldn't wait another moment to get her inside of me.
"*Farvel og takk*," I say. Goodbye, and thank you.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
The first person I killed was Andy Chang, a fifty-five-year-old doctor.
My car collided with his body. He tumbled across the darkened sidewalk and crunched against the curb.
I thought I was dying too.
My world exploded with light and colour- swirls of memories and pain. Shrill music echoed in my head. I threw open the door and vomited onto the road. Beige chunks splattered my boots.
Chang’s body was a crumpled heap; dark red clumps spilled from his head over his grey peacoat. His rounded glasses lay next to the sewage drain, the lens cracked and frames bent. One shoe sat in front of my sedan. Chang’s white sock darkened with the rain.
A couple yelled something from across the street. *Help him*.
It jolted me out of my shock. I hadn’t considered the possibility Chang might be alive.
“Call 911,” I directed the young woman.
I pulled off my scarf and held it against the blood spilling from Chang’s head. “Hold this here,” I direct an onlooker. “Don’t stop pressing.”
I hovered over Chang’s body and tilted my ear over his mouth. I watched his chest and looked for any rise or fall. I pressed my fingers against the side of his upper neck looking for a pulse.
Nothing.
*Landmark* I told myself. I lined my hands up and began to press.
I pumped against his sternum.
Two inches down. Recoil. Down again. And again.
Tilt the head, open the airway. Two breaths.
Compressions again.
And again.
When the paramedics arrived I already knew Chang was dead. If the impact hadn’t killed him, the blood he lost would have.
Later, the police arrived.
Chang was at fault - he was jaywalking. Stepped out from between two parked cars.
“The witnesses said you acted quickly, miss,” Officer Dawkins said.
“I only wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did all you could. Quick thinking and first aid can’t solve everything.”
I nodded.
And then frowned.
I had never taken a first aid course.
Last month, when my roommate sliced the tip of her pinky off with the vegetable knife, I was the one who passed out.
I didn’t realize until that night, when Chang’s memories flooded in, what had happened.
I also didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip into my new life.
I craved it.
The thud of the body.
A burst of light and colour.
Swirls of memories and pain.
Shrill music echoing in my head.
And a rush of new talent.
/r/liswrites
|
Beer bottles and pizza boxes were scattered across the room. My phone had a dozen messages and as many missed calls from worried friends who hadn't seen me except online in a week.
They wouldn't understand.
I couldn't get it out of my head. The rush, the endorphins - it was the highest high I'd ever had. No games, no sports, no alcohol or drugs from college, nothing touched it.
Beer and games and pizza, anything that shut down my mind with these memories that weren't mine. I needed to stop thinking, because thinking inevitably led to that moment.
Honestly though, a mugger? Targeting me? I guess I'm not poor. I could afford this week of food and booze. But why me? I didn't have any cash. My coat's not that nice. I was just walking in the cold. But then that knife. It was dark out, but somehow it glinted anyways. I thought that was a camera trick in movies or whatever, but Jesus that blade caught any light around when he held it out.
Really I just pushed him. I pushed him and it was snowing and icy and he slipped. A simple slip that's all. Straight backwards, and *crack* - his head against the concrete. Maybe in a field the blood and the snow would look poetic, but there, in the muddy slush, it just looked like rusty iron.
But then the sensation. Like I was drawing the life from that opening in his skull. Like I was drinking it. He was great at tool and die work I found out. But everything went to shit with the Big Three folding here in Michigan. Lost his job, never told his wife. Just took to the streets eight hours a day - panhandling, petty thieving, shoplifting for presents. Whatever worked. Until today. Poor woman. What a way to find out.
Someone had called the cops, and they found me there staring at him five minutes later. Said I was in shock, gave me a shiny blanket. That whole deal. Took my statement, and that of the witness who called. The whole thing seemed cut and dry. No charges pressed anywhere said the police. The family I'm sure is mourning.
Me? I've got the shakes. Bad. Worse than the line of coke I did once. My neighbor's some kinda cleaning person for crime scenes. They told me about it once. Pretty up a house so it's liveable again. Fix up a workplace so people will come back, maybe forget in a while.
I never learned how to use a press, but I'm sure I could do it now after the last guy.
Damn it. I knew I shouldn't let myself think.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
"You were right, your carburator is broken." said the mechanic, wiping his hands. "You know a lot about cars for a doctor."
"You'd be surprised what I know." replied the man knows as Dr. Leimann.
"I'm surprised. Usually big heads like you don't think much of cars and just ask us to fix it."
"I'm not like the others though."
"What do you mean?
"I guess I can tell..." started the doctor, turning his back from the mechanic to look around. "The first time I learned I could syphon life, I was giving care to a patient. It had been a long night and I didn't realize the nurse had put 20 ml more than I asked. A couple of minutes later, I was cleaning my hands when I felt the energy course through my system for the first time, an energy that wasn't mine. Before I could understand, the monitor started its alert, pointing at room 26, where the patient I had just treated was lying."
"You should write a book, you have some great fantasy novel ideas." replied the mechanic, while working on the car.
"Maybe. But here I was, running back to the patient, a feeling of fun and hilariousness running through my system. The more I ran, the faster I felt I could run." continued the doctor. "By the time I got there, the nurse declared the patient dead from a morphine overdose, which I had just admistrated. Fatigue related negligence they called it. I thought I had lost my licence right there."
"I'm guessing you got it back?" replied the mechanic, under the car.
"I managed to kill an attorney before my trial and successfully defended myself." said the doctor, before muttering hnder his breath. "Stop being salty, Steven."
"You sure you don't want to become an auteur or give your ideas for a video game?" questionned the mechanic, reaching out from under the car for a tool he had dropped.
"I could." said the doctor, stepping on the hand reaching out from under his car, immobilizing it. "Alas, that would mean they might catch me."
As the mechanic screamed, the car lift descended completely, crushing him underneath.
"Alright, let's finish this repair then leave." said the doctor, lifting the car back up. "Yes, John, I won't forget to clean up the data. Do you think I would leave my plate number here?"
-_-_-_-_-_-_-
Thanks for reading, if you want to read more, you can search for r/volvaryWrites. It's out of date, I need to update it.
As always, I love critics and comments.
|
“And the story continues with reporter Chad Chadley who is on the scene.”
“The suspect, who is being touted as the ‘Ordinary Person Killer’, has been on a spree worthy of the history books, taking the souls of at least 15 victims so far along with their memories, intelligence and talents. Although police are asking the public to refrain from approaching the killer, they have said not to worry about divulging identification as the suspect is currently housing the unfortunate talent of forgetting names within three seconds of learning them.”
“Disturbing stuff, Chad. Do the police have an idea of how he is managing to kill in locations which are quite some distance from each other?”
“Well, the theories are vast but the prevailing idea is that he has murdered someone who was gifted with the ability of falling asleep regardless of position or environment. One suspect reportedly identified the killer sleeping perfectly aboard a cramped airplane stating, 'he looked beyond comfortable. It was infuriating.'.”
“There have been questions of the police regarding this case given how many times the suspect has been spotted in public. Have they commented on this?”
“They have, Tom. Chief Officer Kelly released a statement this morning saying: ‘It’s weird as shit. He does this thing where he moves his eyebrows up and down super fast then runs around a wall, disappearing as soon as we give chase. We are unsure who he absorbed this power from but we are currently investigating anyone who starred in a 1920s silent comedy.'”
“Is the kill rate expected to rise?”
“Yes, Tom. Police believe the only reason the body count isn’t higher is due to the suspect also absorbing lesser ordinary person traits such as the psyche of one of his most recent victims, Steph Patterson. Steph was a Californian who would over analyse even the most insubstantial situations, especially if Steph had been out drinking the night before and found herself lying in bed the morning after filled with irrational regret and self-hatred."
"Sometimes I think about removing my consciousness and placing it inside another vessel after a bout of drunken regret, Chad. A vessel none of the people I know can recognise. But that's not possible. At least not with today's technology."
"Indeed, Tom. And in another stroke of luck, it is also believed the killer now carries the bewildering talent of always being 5 minutes late for stuff just like that one person you know and hate."
“Fascinating stuff, Chad. Anything else to add?"
“Well, the suspect has also acquired some other disturbingly powerful ordinary guy talents which the police are wary of such as awkwardly stretching to put HDMI cables in to the back of televisions without becoming angry, the ability to identify the glasses cupboard first time while at a friends house, and there are some unconfirmed reports that he has been able to attract multiple victims by cupping his hands and doing that sweet owl noise thing.”
“May God have mercy on our souls.”
****
I write shitty, silly stories on /r/BillMurrayMovies. Feel free to come along, not laugh at any of them and leave some judgement.
|
|
[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
The first person I killed was Andy Chang, a fifty-five-year-old doctor.
My car collided with his body. He tumbled across the darkened sidewalk and crunched against the curb.
I thought I was dying too.
My world exploded with light and colour- swirls of memories and pain. Shrill music echoed in my head. I threw open the door and vomited onto the road. Beige chunks splattered my boots.
Chang’s body was a crumpled heap; dark red clumps spilled from his head over his grey peacoat. His rounded glasses lay next to the sewage drain, the lens cracked and frames bent. One shoe sat in front of my sedan. Chang’s white sock darkened with the rain.
A couple yelled something from across the street. *Help him*.
It jolted me out of my shock. I hadn’t considered the possibility Chang might be alive.
“Call 911,” I directed the young woman.
I pulled off my scarf and held it against the blood spilling from Chang’s head. “Hold this here,” I direct an onlooker. “Don’t stop pressing.”
I hovered over Chang’s body and tilted my ear over his mouth. I watched his chest and looked for any rise or fall. I pressed my fingers against the side of his upper neck looking for a pulse.
Nothing.
*Landmark* I told myself. I lined my hands up and began to press.
I pumped against his sternum.
Two inches down. Recoil. Down again. And again.
Tilt the head, open the airway. Two breaths.
Compressions again.
And again.
When the paramedics arrived I already knew Chang was dead. If the impact hadn’t killed him, the blood he lost would have.
Later, the police arrived.
Chang was at fault - he was jaywalking. Stepped out from between two parked cars.
“The witnesses said you acted quickly, miss,” Officer Dawkins said.
“I only wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did all you could. Quick thinking and first aid can’t solve everything.”
I nodded.
And then frowned.
I had never taken a first aid course.
Last month, when my roommate sliced the tip of her pinky off with the vegetable knife, I was the one who passed out.
I didn’t realize until that night, when Chang’s memories flooded in, what had happened.
I also didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip into my new life.
I craved it.
The thud of the body.
A burst of light and colour.
Swirls of memories and pain.
Shrill music echoing in my head.
And a rush of new talent.
/r/liswrites
|
“And the story continues with reporter Chad Chadley who is on the scene.”
“The suspect, who is being touted as the ‘Ordinary Person Killer’, has been on a spree worthy of the history books, taking the souls of at least 15 victims so far along with their memories, intelligence and talents. Although police are asking the public to refrain from approaching the killer, they have said not to worry about divulging identification as the suspect is currently housing the unfortunate talent of forgetting names within three seconds of learning them.”
“Disturbing stuff, Chad. Do the police have an idea of how he is managing to kill in locations which are quite some distance from each other?”
“Well, the theories are vast but the prevailing idea is that he has murdered someone who was gifted with the ability of falling asleep regardless of position or environment. One suspect reportedly identified the killer sleeping perfectly aboard a cramped airplane stating, 'he looked beyond comfortable. It was infuriating.'.”
“There have been questions of the police regarding this case given how many times the suspect has been spotted in public. Have they commented on this?”
“They have, Tom. Chief Officer Kelly released a statement this morning saying: ‘It’s weird as shit. He does this thing where he moves his eyebrows up and down super fast then runs around a wall, disappearing as soon as we give chase. We are unsure who he absorbed this power from but we are currently investigating anyone who starred in a 1920s silent comedy.'”
“Is the kill rate expected to rise?”
“Yes, Tom. Police believe the only reason the body count isn’t higher is due to the suspect also absorbing lesser ordinary person traits such as the psyche of one of his most recent victims, Steph Patterson. Steph was a Californian who would over analyse even the most insubstantial situations, especially if Steph had been out drinking the night before and found herself lying in bed the morning after filled with irrational regret and self-hatred."
"Sometimes I think about removing my consciousness and placing it inside another vessel after a bout of drunken regret, Chad. A vessel none of the people I know can recognise. But that's not possible. At least not with today's technology."
"Indeed, Tom. And in another stroke of luck, it is also believed the killer now carries the bewildering talent of always being 5 minutes late for stuff just like that one person you know and hate."
“Fascinating stuff, Chad. Anything else to add?"
“Well, the suspect has also acquired some other disturbingly powerful ordinary guy talents which the police are wary of such as awkwardly stretching to put HDMI cables in to the back of televisions without becoming angry, the ability to identify the glasses cupboard first time while at a friends house, and there are some unconfirmed reports that he has been able to attract multiple victims by cupping his hands and doing that sweet owl noise thing.”
“May God have mercy on our souls.”
****
I write shitty, silly stories on /r/BillMurrayMovies. Feel free to come along, not laugh at any of them and leave some judgement.
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[WP] You accidentally kill a person. You instantly absorb all of their memories, intelligence, and talents. You find it feels euphoric and quite addicting.
|
The first person I killed was Andy Chang, a fifty-five-year-old doctor.
My car collided with his body. He tumbled across the darkened sidewalk and crunched against the curb.
I thought I was dying too.
My world exploded with light and colour- swirls of memories and pain. Shrill music echoed in my head. I threw open the door and vomited onto the road. Beige chunks splattered my boots.
Chang’s body was a crumpled heap; dark red clumps spilled from his head over his grey peacoat. His rounded glasses lay next to the sewage drain, the lens cracked and frames bent. One shoe sat in front of my sedan. Chang’s white sock darkened with the rain.
A couple yelled something from across the street. *Help him*.
It jolted me out of my shock. I hadn’t considered the possibility Chang might be alive.
“Call 911,” I directed the young woman.
I pulled off my scarf and held it against the blood spilling from Chang’s head. “Hold this here,” I direct an onlooker. “Don’t stop pressing.”
I hovered over Chang’s body and tilted my ear over his mouth. I watched his chest and looked for any rise or fall. I pressed my fingers against the side of his upper neck looking for a pulse.
Nothing.
*Landmark* I told myself. I lined my hands up and began to press.
I pumped against his sternum.
Two inches down. Recoil. Down again. And again.
Tilt the head, open the airway. Two breaths.
Compressions again.
And again.
When the paramedics arrived I already knew Chang was dead. If the impact hadn’t killed him, the blood he lost would have.
Later, the police arrived.
Chang was at fault - he was jaywalking. Stepped out from between two parked cars.
“The witnesses said you acted quickly, miss,” Officer Dawkins said.
“I only wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did all you could. Quick thinking and first aid can’t solve everything.”
I nodded.
And then frowned.
I had never taken a first aid course.
Last month, when my roommate sliced the tip of her pinky off with the vegetable knife, I was the one who passed out.
I didn’t realize until that night, when Chang’s memories flooded in, what had happened.
I also didn’t realize how easy it would be to slip into my new life.
I craved it.
The thud of the body.
A burst of light and colour.
Swirls of memories and pain.
Shrill music echoing in my head.
And a rush of new talent.
/r/liswrites
|
"You were right, your carburator is broken." said the mechanic, wiping his hands. "You know a lot about cars for a doctor."
"You'd be surprised what I know." replied the man knows as Dr. Leimann.
"I'm surprised. Usually big heads like you don't think much of cars and just ask us to fix it."
"I'm not like the others though."
"What do you mean?
"I guess I can tell..." started the doctor, turning his back from the mechanic to look around. "The first time I learned I could syphon life, I was giving care to a patient. It had been a long night and I didn't realize the nurse had put 20 ml more than I asked. A couple of minutes later, I was cleaning my hands when I felt the energy course through my system for the first time, an energy that wasn't mine. Before I could understand, the monitor started its alert, pointing at room 26, where the patient I had just treated was lying."
"You should write a book, you have some great fantasy novel ideas." replied the mechanic, while working on the car.
"Maybe. But here I was, running back to the patient, a feeling of fun and hilariousness running through my system. The more I ran, the faster I felt I could run." continued the doctor. "By the time I got there, the nurse declared the patient dead from a morphine overdose, which I had just admistrated. Fatigue related negligence they called it. I thought I had lost my licence right there."
"I'm guessing you got it back?" replied the mechanic, under the car.
"I managed to kill an attorney before my trial and successfully defended myself." said the doctor, before muttering hnder his breath. "Stop being salty, Steven."
"You sure you don't want to become an auteur or give your ideas for a video game?" questionned the mechanic, reaching out from under the car for a tool he had dropped.
"I could." said the doctor, stepping on the hand reaching out from under his car, immobilizing it. "Alas, that would mean they might catch me."
As the mechanic screamed, the car lift descended completely, crushing him underneath.
"Alright, let's finish this repair then leave." said the doctor, lifting the car back up. "Yes, John, I won't forget to clean up the data. Do you think I would leave my plate number here?"
-_-_-_-_-_-_-
Thanks for reading, if you want to read more, you can search for r/volvaryWrites. It's out of date, I need to update it.
As always, I love critics and comments.
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[WP] You've recently become a werewolf. You slowly start to realise that you are being hunted.
|
Laura glanced around one last time. Satisfied she was still alone, she quickly stripped out of her shorts and bikini top, and hid them behind some rocks along with her sandals.
 
She always hated this part. She didn't want to be caught naked and alone on the beach in the middle of the night. It would be a simple enough explanation that she "just wanted to go skinny-dipping" and "no, she didn't realize the beach was closed".
 
She was afraid a group of young guys out here to do drugs and shoot off fireworks or guns would find her. Not the type who were just here to smoke a little pot and throw Bang Snaps at the rocks and each other. She was scared of the ones who wanted to smoke meth and throw M-80's (the "good ones" from Mexico) or shoot Glocks with filed off serial numbers at seagulls or whatever else they could find. The type of people who would kick the shit out of bums "for fun".
 
Laura shuddered at the thought of what they'd do to a naked, twenty-something woman alone on the beach.
 
*Although if they tried that on me it'd be a mistake*, she thought. *And probably their last one*. She frowned at the afterthought.
 
Laura turned and started down the beach at a light jog, the sand cold beneath her feet. She released the restraint on her new inner wildness as she'd taught herself to do over the last two months. The feeling of power and wildness grew and her pace increased in time with it.
 
In some dim, distant part of her mind she contemplated on how she must look quite the spectacle right now; a pale, naked form racing along, throwing up sand behind her, long dark hair fluttering as waves crashed beside her. The wildness consumed her and banished the far-off thoughts.
 
Laura grinned at the power inside her. She threw her head back and let out a primal howl as she sprinted, a feat she probably couldn't have accomplished without the wild power.
 
She felt herself start to change then. Her arms started to get longer, and her fingers shorter. Dark patches formed all over her body as she felt hair grow.
 
The rush of excitement and power elicited another howl. This one was longer, more animalistic, and echoed off the cliffs beside her. Her face had elongated and her back had become hunched from growing while she continued to run upright.
 
Laura tilted forward and began running on all fours, her hands and feet now thick paws. Her whole body was covered in dark hair, shorter on her back half and shaggier up front.
 
As she completed her transformation she let out a long, final howl. There wasn't a trace of humanity left in it. It sounded exactly like what she had turned into: a wolf. The wild power in her didn't abate, but it became manageable and allowed Laura's normal, human thoughts to return to the surface.
 
She padded over to the cliffs and found a shadow to hide in.
 
She turned north and sniffed the air to check if anyone was nearby. She only smelled the salt of the ocean, and the sickly sweet smell of decaying seaweed and beach critters. Laura lifted her snout to the south and repeated the process. She didn't detect anyone.
 
She let out a soft, involuntary whine. *Fuck*, she thought. *I hope the thunder of the waves masked my howling*. It was after all why she'd chosen this location to shift.
 
Laura hadn't run into anyone while in wolf form yet, but the last couple of times she'd shifted she felt like she was being watched.
 
She didn't know how people would react to a large wolf on a Southern California beach (*or anywhere in SoCal for that matter*), but she didn't think it would be good.
 
After waiting in the shadows for five minutes Laura decided she had just been paranoid, and took a few steps out into the pale moonlight.
 
**THWACK**!
 
Laura spun to see an arrow quivering upright in the sand where she had been hiding.
 
*An arrow?* she thought incredulously. *Who the fuck uses arrows?!*
 
She gazed at the top of the cliffs and caught a glint of silver reflected in the moonlight.
 
Without hesitation she bolted down the beach, headed toward a private staircase that led up the cliff face to the beach house above. If she had to guess it was about 300 yards away.
 
She ran in a serpentine pattern in an attempt to make herself a more difficult target. She knew her attacker had a distinct advantage with the height of the cliffs and the fact that the beach had no cover.
 
Adrenaline brought her speed and the time to have thoughts such as: *who the fuck was trying to kill her? Were the arrows silver tipped? Was silver really her kryptonite?* She wondered if they were a kind of werewolf hunter specialist. *Like some long lost descendant of Van Helsing or some shit*.
 
Two months ago she'd have laughed at the thought. Two months ago she hadn't believed werewolves were real. But that had all changed.
 
Laura figured if she could really be a werewolf, werewolf hunters could be real too, descendants of Van Helsing or not.
 
**THWACK**! Another arrow landed close by.
 
All Laura knew for sure was that she needed to keep running. So she did, and hoped she wouldn't feel the sharp, silver bite of an arrow in her back.
|
The wolf moon was nearing its peak - I looked out the window while drinking my mug of gin. For a split second I felt a jolt fear as I found someone staring right back at me - upon further reflection it was only mine.
"Damn werewolf nerves" I sputtered.
It was only recently that I became a werewolf. Normally people survive an attack only to develop symptoms and later carry on brutal attacks of their own but I chose a different route. I was working odd jobs bouncing from costco greeter to amazon drone cleaner when I saw a posting for werewolf extras in a local stage play-
"that was truly my calling" I said to myself-feeling slightly awkward speaking aloud to myself.
I always wanted to be in theatre and this was my ticket. I'd take the vial of werewolf saliva, audition, get the role, take the antidote before the next full moon and no one would be the wiser. The stage play unions are notoriously tough-once I got the role they wouldn't be able to fire me for curing the condition.
"genius" I sneered at my reflection-I was doing it again. "stop it. stop talking to yourself. ok!"
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Did they hear me? Shit. It's ok, you can pretend you were practicing lines for a stage play-genius.
"Who's there?" I barked at the door.
"Uhh.... it's Billy sir. Billy Baxter from Studio X - I'm here to talk about your audition" the small voice replied.
How peculiar I thought - I had applied to Studio Y... why is Studio X calling at my door? Especially at this hour... I walked over and opened the door.
"You're not who I was expecting." I gruffed.
"Yes, that's to be expected. We heard there was a new wolf on the market and thought we'd bring an offer for you before anyone else had a chance. We heard you are a shoe in for the Studio X stage play and well we'd like to offer you a role in our upcoming sitcom." Billy was noticeably eager talked fast without taking breaths-- he was looking for an instant affirmative response - I could see him clutching was looked like a rolled up contract.
The phone started ringing.
"Hang on to that thought"
I picked up the receiver.
"You filthy dog!" the speaker shouted "Bwahahaha, this is Bill Braske from Braske films up south and I have to say you're one sly sum' bitch if you think you can just waltz in and apply for a stage play unnoticed. I'd like to.."
I hung up the receiver and put my head in my hands "God damn head hunters."
I could feel the moon take its grip - I would have to take that antidote soon or little Billy wouldn't last past the second act.
|
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[WP] You've recently become a werewolf. You slowly start to realise that you are being hunted.
|
I huddled deep into my raincoat as I waited at the bus stop. It was miserable out. Water fell from the sky in drenching bucket loads, not the quaint little drops that most people would call rain. Not only that, the humidity only served to emphasize the late autumn chill. Even if it was above zero, I could still see my breath in foggy puffs as I exhaled. There was only one silver lining to missing my bus, and waiting another thirty minutes until the next.
There was no wet dog smell.
I guess I should be more specific. *I* didn't smell like wet dog. Thankfully. That was the last thing I wanted, or needed, in this sordid mess that was now my life. A dead give away to my tragedy every time it rained or I went swimming.
My fist clenched in my pocket, and I bit my tongue. I'd promised not to dwell on the past anymore. It only hurt like hell and it never accomplished anything. Chasing thoughts of dogs out of my head, I stared resolutely into the downpour. I hoped whatever mum was cooking tonight was warm. At this rate I'd have to thaw out when I got home.
Shifting my weight from one foot to the next, I did a small jig. Around me, other students from my school were waiting, huddled under umbrellas, thumbing through their smartphones. A couple shuffled like I did, trying to trick our muscles into giving off heat. Apparently I wasn't the only one who had missed the bus this afternoon.
Or perhaps the bus forgot to swing by the school. That happened sometimes, usually in the winter at minus twenty and at least two feet of snow on the ground.
Shaking one fist free of my pocket I checked my wrist for the time, then froze. The hairs on the back of my neck, my arms, and even my legs, stood at attention. In an eerie intensified goose-bump effect, I was suddenly *aware* of my surroundings in a way I hadn't been before. Like how the girl three people to my right was chewing cinnamon gum. Or the guy coughing behind me probably had a chest infection, and not a cold.
Or how of all the teenagers at this bus stop texting and taking selfies, only one didn't go to our school. There's a distinctive vinegar and lemon scented cleanser that our janitor uses to wipe down desks and chairs, and it clings to everyone who sits in them. Too subtle for most humans to smell, especially in this weather. But not for me.
And that one boy? Standing at the fringe, smelling too clean to have come from J.P. Crowe? He wasn't texting, or taking a selfie. He was aiming his phone at me, to take a picture.
|
The wolf moon was nearing its peak - I looked out the window while drinking my mug of gin. For a split second I felt a jolt fear as I found someone staring right back at me - upon further reflection it was only mine.
"Damn werewolf nerves" I sputtered.
It was only recently that I became a werewolf. Normally people survive an attack only to develop symptoms and later carry on brutal attacks of their own but I chose a different route. I was working odd jobs bouncing from costco greeter to amazon drone cleaner when I saw a posting for werewolf extras in a local stage play-
"that was truly my calling" I said to myself-feeling slightly awkward speaking aloud to myself.
I always wanted to be in theatre and this was my ticket. I'd take the vial of werewolf saliva, audition, get the role, take the antidote before the next full moon and no one would be the wiser. The stage play unions are notoriously tough-once I got the role they wouldn't be able to fire me for curing the condition.
"genius" I sneered at my reflection-I was doing it again. "stop it. stop talking to yourself. ok!"
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Did they hear me? Shit. It's ok, you can pretend you were practicing lines for a stage play-genius.
"Who's there?" I barked at the door.
"Uhh.... it's Billy sir. Billy Baxter from Studio X - I'm here to talk about your audition" the small voice replied.
How peculiar I thought - I had applied to Studio Y... why is Studio X calling at my door? Especially at this hour... I walked over and opened the door.
"You're not who I was expecting." I gruffed.
"Yes, that's to be expected. We heard there was a new wolf on the market and thought we'd bring an offer for you before anyone else had a chance. We heard you are a shoe in for the Studio X stage play and well we'd like to offer you a role in our upcoming sitcom." Billy was noticeably eager talked fast without taking breaths-- he was looking for an instant affirmative response - I could see him clutching was looked like a rolled up contract.
The phone started ringing.
"Hang on to that thought"
I picked up the receiver.
"You filthy dog!" the speaker shouted "Bwahahaha, this is Bill Braske from Braske films up south and I have to say you're one sly sum' bitch if you think you can just waltz in and apply for a stage play unnoticed. I'd like to.."
I hung up the receiver and put my head in my hands "God damn head hunters."
I could feel the moon take its grip - I would have to take that antidote soon or little Billy wouldn't last past the second act.
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[WP] Humanity is the only intelligent species that can directly sense electromagnetic radiation. This means that humanity are the only ones who can see the stars without expensive scientific equipment.
|
"What are they like?"
Lieutenant Alieva threw a quizzical look toward the alien's squat enviromobile, then remembered it couldn't interpret human expressions. "What do you mean?"
There was a wistful note in Radiant Warmth's synthesized voice, or at least she imagined one. Of all the Limpets she had worked with, Warmth (which was a semantic approximation of its name; certainly no human could pronounce or even hear the series of low pulses it would have used to identify itself at a distance, not to mention interpreting the electric modulation that would communicate its identity at a touch) seemed to be the most interested in communicating with humans. She considered it a sort of friend, inasmuch as Limpets could form friendships. Certainly it seemed to prefer her company to that of the rest of the Liman's crew.
"The stars. I find it curious, what is it like to sense them without even trying. When I was learning, I had problems understanding the concept itself. I still remember the sense of void when it finally clicked, like falling when your tendrils lose purchase on slippery rock."
Alieva shrugged, then caught herself again. "Kind of difficult to say, really. The void aspect is there, I suppose, but mostly we are fond of them. They've always guided us. We populated the sky with monsters and heroes, and they showed us where to go."
The enviromobile's echolocator disk turned toward her, seemingly contemplative. "This is hard for us. Do you know, we had strife over the discovery of space and stars? Many could not reconcile the great void with the promise of making the world into one big colony, with eternal companionship for all." Warmth took a pause. "I have to say, it rattled me at first. Untold billions, disordered, unending. It was the antithesis of all we held to be comfortable. But here I am, all alone. It scares me."
Alieva chewed her lip for a second, giving it some thought. "You know, I'll agree that they look chaotic, but in the end, aren't there patterns? Maybe you can't have... eternal companionship - not sure if I understand the idea correctly - but you can always find your way back home, as long as the stars shine."
They rounded a corner into an observation deck, where thick slabs of steel opened over a pane of hardened crystal glass half a meter thick. As they approached their usual spot in the corner, Warmth spoke again.
"You answered the wrong question."
She frowned. "How do you mean?"
"I asked you what the stars were like, not what other humans think they are like. What do you see when you look up?" Its voice was neutral as always, but she noticed a challenging note. She laughed, more to herself than at the alien.
"Oh, that's easy. When I was growing up, the Black and Orange Republic was just getting onto its feet - I'll explain later, the important bit is that life was hard as hell." She remembered, very sharply, the taste of cornstarch. "Anyway. Whenever it seemed too much, I'd go out on the porch and tell myself, 'That is Vega, and that is Sirius, and that one over there is actually Venus - and some day I'll go there.'" Another laugh. "In retrospect it still feels like some fairytale bullshit. Father thought I'd become a schoolteacher. He's a sensible old man. Did you know I was the first Daghestanian to be accepted into the Fleet academy? And a woman, at that!" Warmth's synthesizer made a polite noise. She'd tried to explain the concept of nationality to it, but gave up rather quickly, and its understanding of human gender seemed to be mostly academic.
It was lost in thought for a second, then seemed to brace itself.
"Very well. Perhaps I merely need to change my modus of thought. Before, we thought companionship was touch and separation was death and the world was limited to our caves under the waters, yet clearly we were wrong. I was wrong. I am not alone here, do you know?"
She opened her mouth to answer, but then a shiver ran through the ship's massive spine - the telltale sign of the fold drives coming online. Warmth shifted on its wheels ever so slightly.
"Where to, Lieutenant?" She smiled. "Port Enceladus." - "And then?" It seemed to be waiting for something.
"And then wherever the stars shine."
[[Not yet happy with this, but my phone is dying and I don't feel like dwelling on it any longer, so here it goes.]]
|
"Hang on just a second like a good man won't you? Should be any minute now. So as I was saying, me old lady was chasin' me with a kitchen knife, big ol' mean smile on her face, and I -- Oh, here we are."
"HEY BUTCHER! FRESH MEAT! HAHAHAHAHA!"
Dango gave the grunt a sour face. "He's alive you dumb brute. He's not a carcass. Show some damn respect, would ya?"
"HAAAA HAHAHA!"
"These people. No class. No class at all. First of all I have a medical degree. Do they REALLY think anyone could do what I do? Do you know how long I trained to get here? EIGHT years of book learning and then FIVE more spent in the ol' hospitals. And they call me BUTCHER. Can you believe that? It really makes me sick. Scalpel, please."
*The operation was a success!*
"Wakey wakey. There you are, good man. Yesss, there you are. You can see me, right? Everything look normal? Don't worry, you'll see the difference when you walk outside! The first time you see natural light is WILD, I promise you. Matter of fact, I'm off in a few hours myself if you want to grab a brew and a bite. Yeah. It'll still be light out. Think about it."
Dango walks over to the next table with a human lying on it.
"Howdy. Can you see me? Yes, yes, good, good. A deal's a deal. You've still got a pair of perfectly good eyes, you know. Ohhhh come, now. Don't get all weepy on me NOW. Come on now, we both know you hardly ever cared to look up anymore, let alone be out during daylight. And like I said, a deal's a deal! HEY! SOMEONE GET THIS BOY HIS BAG O' GOODS! Well, take care now. OH! One last reminder, day is dark and night is light now, okay? Let me know if ya wanna grab a brew and a bite after, I'm off in a bit."
|
|
[WP] Humanity is the only intelligent species that can directly sense electromagnetic radiation. This means that humanity are the only ones who can see the stars without expensive scientific equipment.
|
"What are they like?"
Lieutenant Alieva threw a quizzical look toward the alien's squat enviromobile, then remembered it couldn't interpret human expressions. "What do you mean?"
There was a wistful note in Radiant Warmth's synthesized voice, or at least she imagined one. Of all the Limpets she had worked with, Warmth (which was a semantic approximation of its name; certainly no human could pronounce or even hear the series of low pulses it would have used to identify itself at a distance, not to mention interpreting the electric modulation that would communicate its identity at a touch) seemed to be the most interested in communicating with humans. She considered it a sort of friend, inasmuch as Limpets could form friendships. Certainly it seemed to prefer her company to that of the rest of the Liman's crew.
"The stars. I find it curious, what is it like to sense them without even trying. When I was learning, I had problems understanding the concept itself. I still remember the sense of void when it finally clicked, like falling when your tendrils lose purchase on slippery rock."
Alieva shrugged, then caught herself again. "Kind of difficult to say, really. The void aspect is there, I suppose, but mostly we are fond of them. They've always guided us. We populated the sky with monsters and heroes, and they showed us where to go."
The enviromobile's echolocator disk turned toward her, seemingly contemplative. "This is hard for us. Do you know, we had strife over the discovery of space and stars? Many could not reconcile the great void with the promise of making the world into one big colony, with eternal companionship for all." Warmth took a pause. "I have to say, it rattled me at first. Untold billions, disordered, unending. It was the antithesis of all we held to be comfortable. But here I am, all alone. It scares me."
Alieva chewed her lip for a second, giving it some thought. "You know, I'll agree that they look chaotic, but in the end, aren't there patterns? Maybe you can't have... eternal companionship - not sure if I understand the idea correctly - but you can always find your way back home, as long as the stars shine."
They rounded a corner into an observation deck, where thick slabs of steel opened over a pane of hardened crystal glass half a meter thick. As they approached their usual spot in the corner, Warmth spoke again.
"You answered the wrong question."
She frowned. "How do you mean?"
"I asked you what the stars were like, not what other humans think they are like. What do you see when you look up?" Its voice was neutral as always, but she noticed a challenging note. She laughed, more to herself than at the alien.
"Oh, that's easy. When I was growing up, the Black and Orange Republic was just getting onto its feet - I'll explain later, the important bit is that life was hard as hell." She remembered, very sharply, the taste of cornstarch. "Anyway. Whenever it seemed too much, I'd go out on the porch and tell myself, 'That is Vega, and that is Sirius, and that one over there is actually Venus - and some day I'll go there.'" Another laugh. "In retrospect it still feels like some fairytale bullshit. Father thought I'd become a schoolteacher. He's a sensible old man. Did you know I was the first Daghestanian to be accepted into the Fleet academy? And a woman, at that!" Warmth's synthesizer made a polite noise. She'd tried to explain the concept of nationality to it, but gave up rather quickly, and its understanding of human gender seemed to be mostly academic.
It was lost in thought for a second, then seemed to brace itself.
"Very well. Perhaps I merely need to change my modus of thought. Before, we thought companionship was touch and separation was death and the world was limited to our caves under the waters, yet clearly we were wrong. I was wrong. I am not alone here, do you know?"
She opened her mouth to answer, but then a shiver ran through the ship's massive spine - the telltale sign of the fold drives coming online. Warmth shifted on its wheels ever so slightly.
"Where to, Lieutenant?" She smiled. "Port Enceladus." - "And then?" It seemed to be waiting for something.
"And then wherever the stars shine."
[[Not yet happy with this, but my phone is dying and I don't feel like dwelling on it any longer, so here it goes.]]
|
In all the millenia humanity spent wondering about what kind of beings dwelt out in the stars, and where its place amongst them might be, very few humans predicted the one thing that made the children of Earth unique.
It was all in the eyes. The ability to perceive the cosmos unaided was alien to the communities of the milky way, and when humanity finally ascended to join them, everything changed.
Their heralds of war against the galaxy struck terror into the hearts of the blind who heard it:
"We can see you"
|
|
[WP] Humanity is the only intelligent species that can directly sense electromagnetic radiation. This means that humanity are the only ones who can see the stars without expensive scientific equipment.
|
In a world of science and progress, it is important, at times, to ponder the aspect of the immaterial. Dreams, hope, things that can't so easily be identified under a microscope or a mass spectrometer; these are of interest today, because they are so often neglected in our examinations of our successes. When man first stepped out into the sky, was it not his fixation with the stars that motivated him, first and foremost? Ever since the days of early man, when life was subject to cancellation by sabertooth at any moment, it was our wonderment with the heavens that set us apart.
And so, as the millennia ran ever onward, we were guided by the night sky, and by our stories of it. It has been the one thread that has tied all of humanity together, across years and lightyears alike. When the first interstellar colonists made landfall, they did not immediately set to work, as pressing as the job of colony-building was. Instead, they took an hour to go outside, to breath in honest-to-god air, and to show their children the tiny pinpoint of light named Sol that they had spent so long in transit from. Every colony since has done the same thing, for it is the human thing to do; sometimes even efficiency, that great idol of progress, must take a backseat to the omnipresent wonder of the heavens. In some form or another, it is a sentiment present in all races; the Uli will pass around the soil of their homeworld, to smell deeply, and the Kida will sing the songs of their ancestors, with such intricate delicacy and grace that any human attempts at mimicry are rendered obscene and defiling. But humanity alone can actually look up and perceive, in its entirety, the place from which it originated. Smells and sounds do not carry over the great void; they must be guarded en route, protected from the screaming vacuum outside. Light however, is more resilient, and more welcoming; when humans arrive at their new worlds, they find that the light of their home is already there, waiting for them, inviting them in.
Mankind, wherever it travels, is accompanied by Sol, a gentle light visible as a beacon throughout the colonised universe. And, even now, although Einstein makes true intercolonial communication impossible, it still ties us together, the endless trillions of mankind. When technologies fail, when war rears its head, when any setback plunges a colony into darkness, we still know that, in time, the guiding light of Sol will bring back goodness and purity. It is mankind's greatest boon, and our most powerful pride; to see, and to believe. So, today, and forever, when you look outside, take a moment to appreciate the gift of man; not only that we have made such beautiful things to gaze upon, but that we have been given the ability to gaze at all.
|
It was slightly strange, these creatures that we discovered. We were so alike yet so different.
Come to think of it, the only intelligent life that we’ve seen other than our own. When we found them, they were on a broken planet, with their species destroying the only place they had ever lived. It was not unlike us, but they took it too far.
However, I digress. We met them after having some trouble navigating through a series of star systems, and they gave us some equipment to help get us around them.
They seemed to have an ability of their own, not unlike us, we could hear better than anything in the Milky Way. However, they could see stars, and we needed that to survive.
They were strange creatures these “humans”, but I hope our species will live in peace.
|
|
[WP] Humanity is the only intelligent species that can directly sense electromagnetic radiation. This means that humanity are the only ones who can see the stars without expensive scientific equipment.
|
Humans are an anomaly.
We rose from the depths of our world to become its champion, yes, but that's not unique. Sixty-four other sapient species that we've come across have done the same.
We mastered the arts of fire and water, air and earth, war and peace. So has everybody else.
We're unique because we have eyes.
Yes. *Eyes*.
We first learned this in 2031, when the invaders that mercilessly ravaged our planet from orbit started shooting at radios and television sets and laundry hampers once they were on the ground. They completely missed the people silently hiding under couches and beds in what should be plain sight. Word spread fast. The invasion fleet landed five million soldiers with power armor and war machines that could destroy cities in hours, and we beat them in back in three years using loudspeakers, rock concert recordings, and an industrially produced fake fart liquid. Our basic and crude infantry tactics quickly became the stuff of legends among our foes.
Our first space battles were no different. The enemy often had their titanium warships polished to a mirror finish for better aerodynamics, allowing us to see and successfully engage entire fleets from millions of kilometers away with comparatively small groups of cruisers. Our technologies and tactics weren't even that good, but we won time and time again by vast margins because our International Fleet had developed a policy of radio silence during battle, save for faint pings of resampled background noise to help with positioning. Our nascent navy quickly earned a reputation for both its invisibility and invincibility.
When we finally made peace with our little corner of the galaxy, the exchange of information that followed led to the emergency evacuation of a planet orbiting a visibly unstable star (for which the Khilk still believe they owe us a debt). Humans immediately became the Sunlisteners, mysterious and mythical oracles of boundless celestial knowledge that could naturally "hear" the ethereal radiance as well as they could hear music.
This led to some highly advantageous circumstances.
First, no empire wished to test their might on a race that could hear them coming *through the vacuum of space* with no special equipment. We were effective enough on the ground, but really, we only became truly unbeatable once we broke orbit.
Second, our advice was always taken, especially during times of strife. There was no doubt among our friends that we would be able to sense the coming of a hostile fleet long before any race's primitive EM sensors could pick anything up, so teams of people would station themselves in orbit around all of our allied worlds to detect and deter possible threats, which in turn earned us a seat at every Galactic negotiating table. Additionally, our noncombatant military advisors were eagerly sought out for their divine and inexplicable tactical superiority, which earned us a reasonable share of the spoils of almost every war.
Third, our mythical status in war combined with a penchant for saving planets in peace made us considered a race of benevolent gods to a few of the lesser-advanced species in our spiral arm. Doesn't matter whether or not it's ethical to correct their mistake, it is *pretty fucking cool* to be worshipped, one must admit.
So, yeah. We have eyes, so everybody cowers in fear and admiration. That's basically it.
|
It was slightly strange, these creatures that we discovered. We were so alike yet so different.
Come to think of it, the only intelligent life that we’ve seen other than our own. When we found them, they were on a broken planet, with their species destroying the only place they had ever lived. It was not unlike us, but they took it too far.
However, I digress. We met them after having some trouble navigating through a series of star systems, and they gave us some equipment to help get us around them.
They seemed to have an ability of their own, not unlike us, we could hear better than anything in the Milky Way. However, they could see stars, and we needed that to survive.
They were strange creatures these “humans”, but I hope our species will live in peace.
|
|
[WP] Humanity is the only intelligent species that can directly sense electromagnetic radiation. This means that humanity are the only ones who can see the stars without expensive scientific equipment.
|
Humans are an anomaly.
We rose from the depths of our world to become its champion, yes, but that's not unique. Sixty-four other sapient species that we've come across have done the same.
We mastered the arts of fire and water, air and earth, war and peace. So has everybody else.
We're unique because we have eyes.
Yes. *Eyes*.
We first learned this in 2031, when the invaders that mercilessly ravaged our planet from orbit started shooting at radios and television sets and laundry hampers once they were on the ground. They completely missed the people silently hiding under couches and beds in what should be plain sight. Word spread fast. The invasion fleet landed five million soldiers with power armor and war machines that could destroy cities in hours, and we beat them in back in three years using loudspeakers, rock concert recordings, and an industrially produced fake fart liquid. Our basic and crude infantry tactics quickly became the stuff of legends among our foes.
Our first space battles were no different. The enemy often had their titanium warships polished to a mirror finish for better aerodynamics, allowing us to see and successfully engage entire fleets from millions of kilometers away with comparatively small groups of cruisers. Our technologies and tactics weren't even that good, but we won time and time again by vast margins because our International Fleet had developed a policy of radio silence during battle, save for faint pings of resampled background noise to help with positioning. Our nascent navy quickly earned a reputation for both its invisibility and invincibility.
When we finally made peace with our little corner of the galaxy, the exchange of information that followed led to the emergency evacuation of a planet orbiting a visibly unstable star (for which the Khilk still believe they owe us a debt). Humans immediately became the Sunlisteners, mysterious and mythical oracles of boundless celestial knowledge that could naturally "hear" the ethereal radiance as well as they could hear music.
This led to some highly advantageous circumstances.
First, no empire wished to test their might on a race that could hear them coming *through the vacuum of space* with no special equipment. We were effective enough on the ground, but really, we only became truly unbeatable once we broke orbit.
Second, our advice was always taken, especially during times of strife. There was no doubt among our friends that we would be able to sense the coming of a hostile fleet long before any race's primitive EM sensors could pick anything up, so teams of people would station themselves in orbit around all of our allied worlds to detect and deter possible threats, which in turn earned us a seat at every Galactic negotiating table. Additionally, our noncombatant military advisors were eagerly sought out for their divine and inexplicable tactical superiority, which earned us a reasonable share of the spoils of almost every war.
Third, our mythical status in war combined with a penchant for saving planets in peace made us considered a race of benevolent gods to a few of the lesser-advanced species in our spiral arm. Doesn't matter whether or not it's ethical to correct their mistake, it is *pretty fucking cool* to be worshipped, one must admit.
So, yeah. We have eyes, so everybody cowers in fear and admiration. That's basically it.
|
In a world of science and progress, it is important, at times, to ponder the aspect of the immaterial. Dreams, hope, things that can't so easily be identified under a microscope or a mass spectrometer; these are of interest today, because they are so often neglected in our examinations of our successes. When man first stepped out into the sky, was it not his fixation with the stars that motivated him, first and foremost? Ever since the days of early man, when life was subject to cancellation by sabertooth at any moment, it was our wonderment with the heavens that set us apart.
And so, as the millennia ran ever onward, we were guided by the night sky, and by our stories of it. It has been the one thread that has tied all of humanity together, across years and lightyears alike. When the first interstellar colonists made landfall, they did not immediately set to work, as pressing as the job of colony-building was. Instead, they took an hour to go outside, to breath in honest-to-god air, and to show their children the tiny pinpoint of light named Sol that they had spent so long in transit from. Every colony since has done the same thing, for it is the human thing to do; sometimes even efficiency, that great idol of progress, must take a backseat to the omnipresent wonder of the heavens. In some form or another, it is a sentiment present in all races; the Uli will pass around the soil of their homeworld, to smell deeply, and the Kida will sing the songs of their ancestors, with such intricate delicacy and grace that any human attempts at mimicry are rendered obscene and defiling. But humanity alone can actually look up and perceive, in its entirety, the place from which it originated. Smells and sounds do not carry over the great void; they must be guarded en route, protected from the screaming vacuum outside. Light however, is more resilient, and more welcoming; when humans arrive at their new worlds, they find that the light of their home is already there, waiting for them, inviting them in.
Mankind, wherever it travels, is accompanied by Sol, a gentle light visible as a beacon throughout the colonised universe. And, even now, although Einstein makes true intercolonial communication impossible, it still ties us together, the endless trillions of mankind. When technologies fail, when war rears its head, when any setback plunges a colony into darkness, we still know that, in time, the guiding light of Sol will bring back goodness and purity. It is mankind's greatest boon, and our most powerful pride; to see, and to believe. So, today, and forever, when you look outside, take a moment to appreciate the gift of man; not only that we have made such beautiful things to gaze upon, but that we have been given the ability to gaze at all.
|
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
I heard the laughing once again. The high pitched burbling was like nails against a chalkboard to me. It seemed like I was the only one in this god-forsaken cul-de-sac to even notice the studio laughter, and the coincidence of its appearance with the killings. So far, it had been a 13 year old girl, snatched in the midst of her walk home from the local high school and found by a runner in a ditch the next morning. A family of 4, found in their home dead as door nails, with vicious lacerations running across their neck and seemingly randomly placed throughout their body. And before each one, I heard a laughing. The first time it was only a strange interjection into my day, an auditory hallucination that was just filed away into the place in my brain where the impossible little nothings that happen to us go. When I heard it 4 times in one night, it was frightening. What could this mean? Am I losing my mind? And when I woke, and flipped open the newspaper, there it was. Family of 4, Murdered in Home! The link between the laughing and the murders clicked together, and I rushed to the police, still in my pajamas. Of course, the secretaries simply laughed me off, and suggested I schedule a visit with the local loony bin before I come back. Now, hearing the laughter again, I could tell he was about to kill again. The only thing I could do was wait here, in my bed, and wait for the news. Of course, that all left my mind when I heard a creaking from my door, a breath against my paralyzed body, a flash of hot steel, and then, nothing.
|
The subtle squeaks in the floor boards play a melody to my cautious footsteps as I moved with the muffled musing. I could barely breathe with such thick panic in the air. Holding it was the only safe deterance to giving away my position in the moment. Laughs and murmers kept coming, Louder and harder, and was forced to focus in on the short distance of the rooms surrounding the hall. The mocking racket was now unbearable, but I was able to use the noise to get ready for the impending fight
And, with a loud foot step taken in a room I found clarity, and I was ready to kill again.
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
[Laugh Track]
Raymond: What the fuck was that?
Sammy: What was what?
Raymond: That laugh track. The one Dom was talking about before he disappeared.
*Enter Bruce*
Sammy: Brucey! Where were you?
*Bruce looks off toward audience with an emotionless expression*
Raymond: Bruce, what'cha lookin' at bud? You alright?
*Bruce looks at Raymond and Sammy and says nothing*
[Laugh Track]
Raymond: Oh my god, I fucking get it now.
Sammy: Get what?
Raymond: The laugh track. Every murder is connected. The victim only hears it shortly before they die. It's like we're on some kind of perverted sitcom.
Sammy: Raymond, you're scaring me.
[Laugh track]
Sammy: Now I'm hearing it!
Sammy and Raymond look at Bruce in utter terror
Raymond: Holy shit, you're going to murder us!
[Laugh track]
Bruce: Sorry. It's for the ratings.
Raymond: I understand.
*Raymond looks at the audience and shrugs*
|
The subtle squeaks in the floor boards play a melody to my cautious footsteps as I moved with the muffled musing. I could barely breathe with such thick panic in the air. Holding it was the only safe deterance to giving away my position in the moment. Laughs and murmers kept coming, Louder and harder, and was forced to focus in on the short distance of the rooms surrounding the hall. The mocking racket was now unbearable, but I was able to use the noise to get ready for the impending fight
And, with a loud foot step taken in a room I found clarity, and I was ready to kill again.
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
My head pounds. I sit up, wincing at the bright light. My vision clears and I see the room around me. I’m lying on a bed in a room that is horribly outdated. The obnoxious floral bedding, popcorn ceiling, and brass fixtures suggest the room hasn't been updated since the 80’s. I glance down and my heart stops. I look like I haven't updated my wardrobe since the 80’s. I’m wearing light blue jeans, and an obnoxious flannel shirt. I jump out of the bed and run to the mirror over the dresser.
“No…..”
I have a mullet. A full on, business in the front, party in the back, mullet. My hair wasn’t that long before; it must be a wig. I tug on it to pull it off and I wince in pain. It must have been glued to my scalp. Figures. I hear cheesy theme song music playing through the walls.
“It's the Ham-il-tons, the Ham-il-tons. They’re crazy, and zany, but fun!”
“It’s the ham-il-tons, the Ham-il-tons. They’re friendly, and frazzled, and maimed!”
I must’ve misheard the last word. Behind me is a window with heavy curtains closed. I walk to it and pull it open.
“Whoa”
I’m in the mountains, all covered in snow. People are skiing down the slopes. The air is crisp and clear. It’s beautiful.
The door opens behind me. Hair stands up on the back of my neck as I whirl around.
“MOMMY!” A little boy with a God-awful bowl cut screams, “THERE’S SOMEONE IN HERE!”
“I’m so sorry,” a woman with obnoxious blonde curls scoops him up, “They’ve triple-booked us, honey,” she called into the hall, “Come on,” she gestured for me to follow. I plodded after her in the hall, taking in the dark wood paneling and plush red carpeting. The hall opens into a large living room. Large wooden beams line the ceiling and in front of me is a fireplace facing tacky white sofas all a step down from the rest of the room. Still, it looks cozy. A group of people comes down the staircase, immediately recognizable as a family. They all have dark complexions and hair and look too perfect. The mom’s hair is silky perfect. The girl’s is in perky pigtails. The dad’s teeth are gleaming white and his wrinkles look painted on. The boy is smiling despite being stuck at a cabin with his family.
“This is the Adams,” The blonde woman said, naming them in the same order I saw them, “Kendra, Kate, Kevin, and Kyle”
Kevin approached me, “Nice to meet you, Mr.?”
I awkwardly extend my hand, “Uh, Jackson, but you call—can call— me Alex”
“Good to meet you Alex”
“Sorry about the circumstances,” Kendra said as she gracefully descended the stairs, “But we’re going to try to make the most of it”
“The circumstances?”
“You know, all ten of us being stuck at the cabin”
“Stuck?”
“You must a real sound sleeper,” the blonde woman said, “It thunder-snowed all night. The roads are covered with over a foot and several trees are down. The power’s out and the roads won’t be cleared for a couple days”
“But I saw people on the slopes”
A man with grey-tinged hair walked in from a hallway, “They’re from the resort. It’s farther than it looks. They managed to keep power”
“So we’re stuck here?”
“I’m afraid so”
Suddenly, the front door flew open and two kids plowed into the house, sending icy snow flying everywhere.
“I’m gonna get you, nerd!”
A snow ball smacked into a lamp, knocking it off balance. I dove and managed to catch it before it hit the ground.
“Nice try, short stack!”
“MAVIS! MATT!” the blonde woman yelled, “STOP IT, RIGHT NOW”
The two sheepishly dropped their snowballs.
The mom groaned and put the kid down, rubbing her temples, “I meant, put them outside”
The man with grey tinged hair helped me up, “Nice save, uh”
“Alex,” I put the lamp down, “Thanks”
“Marvin Hamilton,” he shook my hand, “These two demons are mine, Marge and Matt, and that angel,” he pointed to the kid the blonde woman picked up, “Is Mark”
The woman came over, “And I’m Mavis, sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier”
I shrugged, “It’s fine, good to meet you all”
“I know we’re stuck here,” but at least the back generator’s still running,” Kevin said to the two kids cleaning up their mess, “It could be a lot worse”
A laugh track played, one of those cheesy old ones. I remembered I read somewhere that they were recorded in the forties and fifties, and that all the people in them were dead now, so we were listening to dead people laugh every time a laugh track played. Weird.
The ground lurched. Everyone scrambled for something to hold onto. The power went out and the room was plunged into darkness. There were crashes and thuds. There were screams and cries and a squelching sound. I felt around in the darkness. I found the lamp I had saved, on the floor in pieces. I opened the drawer of the table it had been on and felt around. I grabbed a flashlight and flipped it on.
“Is everyone okay?” I shone the light around the room. Mark crawled toward his mother and latched onto her, sobbing. Matt and Marge were holding each other in front of the couch. Marvin had hit his head on the corner of a table as he fell and was holding a handkerchief to a gash on his head. I couldn’t find the Adams’.
There was a shriek. I panned over towards it. The flashlight beam caught something red. Kendra—Mrs. Adams—was lying against the wall. Her throat slit and wet crimson staining her perfect sweater.
There had been a small avalanche. The windows and door were covered with snow and the generator had been smothered by it. We couldn’t leave the cabin. We lit a few lanterns to see and all went back to our rooms.
Shadows from the lantern danced on the walls as I pondered everything. It all seemed like a 1980’s sitcom. Up until Kendra was killed. I could hear Kevin’s muffled sobs through the wall. He had wrapped his wife in a tarp in the basement. The accusations were going to start flying soon and probably turn into a witch hunt. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in”
Marge came in and sat on my bed. I looked at her face and noticed that she was about my age—22.
“I’m worried,” she confided.
“Worried about what?”
“Worried about who did it. About why”
“I know it wasn’t you,” she crossed her legs and faced me, “You couldn’t have gotten across the room in time”
“Glad to know I won’t get burned at the stake”
She smirked, “At this point I think everyone going Donner Party is more likely”
A draft suddenly blew through the house, blowing out the lamp. Marge grabbed my hand and squeezed. I squeezed back. The laugh track played rapidly three times. I quickly dropped Marge’s hand and grabbed matches from my bedside table and relit the lamp. The wick caught and slowly lit up the room. Marge was huddled over herself, petrified, her hair spilling over her back. I put my hand on her shoulder, “It’s oka—“
She fell back onto the floor with a thud. Her lips were blue and her eyes bloodshot. Her neck was black and blue.
I screamed.
The bodies were piling up quickly. The latest victims were Marge, Matt, and Kyle. After Kevin and I carried Marge to the basement, we got Kyle. He had been gutted, his sweater was the only thing keeping his organs from falling out. Mavis wouldn’t say what happened to Matt. I teared up when Marvin kissed Marge on the head, whispering, “My baby girl,” as he shut her eyes.
The survivors and I all met in the living room.
“Someone’s killed my wife and son,” Kevin said, “And I want to know who”
“I want an answer too,” Marvin said, tearing up, “A parent shouldn’t ever have to bury their children”
“Does Mark have to be here?” Mavis patted her son, sniffing.
“We need to stay together so we can keep ourselves safe,” Kevin replied, putting his arm around Kate.
“But there is more than one murderer,” I chimed in.
“What?!”
“Marge, Matt, and Kyle were all in different parts of the house and were only out of sight for a minute, max”
“max?”
“At the most”
“He’s right,” Kevin said. “No one man could’ve done this”
The group nodded in agreement.
Laughing began ringing in my ears. I covered them and fell to the ground.
“R-run!” I yelled, “RUN! RUN!”
The lamp went out, plunging the room into darkness. I heard snapping and screams and squishing. Hot sticky blood splattered onto my face and into my mouth. I gagged and spat it out. The lights came on, the electric lights. I stood up, shaking. Marge stood in front of me, bloodied knife in hand, playing with her hair.
“M-marge?! I thought you were dead”
“Yeah, that’s the point,” she smudged the bruises on her neck with her sleeve.
“Y-you…you killed them all….your whole family”
“And the Adams, don’t forget the Adams”
“Why? Why? Why would you do this?”
"I wanted to make sure you were special”
“Special?”
“You know none of this is real. It’s not”
“Is that what the laugh track’s about?”
“Exactly. None of them could here it. They weren’t real…not anymore”
“Not anymore?”
“We need to get out of here while we still can before we become part of The Hamiltons for good,” she turned on the TV, which promptly blared static.
“What are you talking about?”
“Get in, now”
“Into the TV?”
“Yes”
“Bu—“ she climbed into the TV so that only her arms and torso were visible, “Hurry. They aren’t real and now that they know we know, they’ll kill us”
“Wh—“
“Welcome home, honey!” Mrs. Hamilton stood up, her neck swinging back and forth broken, “I’ll get started on dinner,” she grabbed a meat cleaver from her husband’s back.
“What’re you thinking, dear?” Mr. Hamilton asked.
They started toward the us. I quickly hurried to the TV.
“I’m thinking something exotic”
I struggled to crawl into the TV.
“Exotic? Kate whined, blood dripping from her eyes, ears, mouth, and nose, “That sounds gross”
I was in the TV up to my waste. Marge was pulling me in when a laugh track played. Her face paled. “I-I’m sorry”
I felt something tug on my leg.
“No, No, NO!”
Marge pulled as hard as she could, but the Hamiltons pulled harder. The last thing I saw was her sobbing on the other side of the TV screen.
|
The subtle squeaks in the floor boards play a melody to my cautious footsteps as I moved with the muffled musing. I could barely breathe with such thick panic in the air. Holding it was the only safe deterance to giving away my position in the moment. Laughs and murmers kept coming, Louder and harder, and was forced to focus in on the short distance of the rooms surrounding the hall. The mocking racket was now unbearable, but I was able to use the noise to get ready for the impending fight
And, with a loud foot step taken in a room I found clarity, and I was ready to kill again.
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
I’m not a patterns guy. Maybe some people would have figured it out in less than two hundred episodes, but I didn’t. In my defense, I don’t think a lot of people would have handled being inside a sitcom for ten seasons as well as I have, so that’s okay.
Anyways, I was talking to Barry about chicks or parenthood or something, and suddenly there’s all this laughter coming from nowhere. And I’m like “Damn, not Barry!” Then I was like, “Wait, what am I talking about?” Then I realized that every time I’d heard that weird laughter someone I knew had died. I’d seen literally hundreds of people die, and somebody always started giggling right before it happened. I guess my subconscience had been waiting for a chance to tell me.
I didn’t know what to do about it, so I just smiled and nodded, which is what I had been doing before that anyways, so it didn’t really matter. Couple minutes later, Barry’s head is being carried off by a dog and me and my roommate are running after it.
Did we catch it? I don’t know. Probably. I mainly remember spending that time dealing with my dilemma. I now knew when people would die before it happened. It was a crazy power. I’d be sitting there with a coworker, or a barrista, or somebody’s pet monkey and then I’d hear the laughing. Next thing I knew they’d be accidentally drinking acid, scalding their face off, or being pooped out of a bigger monkey.
What do I do? I’m a nuclear scientist. What is a “nuclear scientist,” and why would we need acid? Good questions. Pass.
Does the laughter scare me? No, not really, and I’ll tell you why. After all I’ve seen, all the hilarious ways people have died before my eyes for ten years and me never even taking a scratch, I must be the star of this thing. Sweet, right?
What’s that? Not a lot of sitcoms make it more than ten years? Thanks, I know. I’m very proud. Oh. Wait. Now I see what you mean. Crap.
|
The subtle squeaks in the floor boards play a melody to my cautious footsteps as I moved with the muffled musing. I could barely breathe with such thick panic in the air. Holding it was the only safe deterance to giving away my position in the moment. Laughs and murmers kept coming, Louder and harder, and was forced to focus in on the short distance of the rooms surrounding the hall. The mocking racket was now unbearable, but I was able to use the noise to get ready for the impending fight
And, with a loud foot step taken in a room I found clarity, and I was ready to kill again.
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 3.
There has been a murder every night since I've become trapped in this weird hell. I seem to be in a TV show, but with less beautiful women. I seem to be the only one really affected by these occurrences. The other people - no, the other characters - carry on as if no one had died the previous day.
Their routines start predictably. They all come to my house in the morning. I think they have keys or something; I can't seem to keep them out. Last week I wedged a chair against the door and they 7 of them came in through the fire escape. On some days, they seem to take up my concern and investigate, but it's all very light-hearted, as if the deceased were not their friend just one day prior. But most of the time, they have a problem of the day and are completely focused on that one issue for one day. Then they all go to sleep, another one dies, and they continue on with their lives.
Am I the only one who remembers, who is concerned with these murders?
Today, there are only 3. Sean and Ronny burst in my room, joking about something amusing that happened during the walk over; whatever today's main topic will be. By process of elimination, Tony is dead. I guess my suspicions yesterday were off.
It has to be Ronny. He's way too cheerful not to be a psychopath. I spend ten minutes grilling about his whereabouts for the last few nights. "Look," he chuckles, "You want to go with me to meet the ladies tonight? That new club is hot! I've been with a different woman every night!"
I wanted to press on, but Sean stops me. "Look man, I know New York City going down the sh-" as a noisy truck passed on my street,"-er, with all these random murders on the news and everything, but you can't go accusing your friends like that.
I finally convince them to go over to Tony's. "Fine, fine, let's meet your new friend," as if they hadn't been together every day for the last week.
As I enter, I see Tony's body, mostly obscured by the couch. I hold on to the wall by the front door, feeling nauseous. Sean kneels over the body, looking like a real detective. He points at the opposite wall to where some of the blood was splattered. "Something's not right," he says, pointing to the knife embedded in the adjacent wall. Ronny is the last to enter the room. Checking out the fourth wall, he shrugs emphatically, "Well, it couldn't have been me!"
That laughter. I hear it again. It's never after something truly funny though.
I seem to be the only one who hears that laughter: I stopped asking after the third day. I think the laughter is associated with the real murderer. It has to be Ronny. I am sure.
I will pretend to not suspect anything, to continue on as normal. After they leave for the day, I will follow Ronny and make catch him in the act. They always hang around for the entire day, so I am exhausted at night. I don't really remember what happens after they leave, and I have been wrong the previous days, but I'm sure I will catch Ronny tonight.....
-----
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 2.
|
The subtle squeaks in the floor boards play a melody to my cautious footsteps as I moved with the muffled musing. I could barely breathe with such thick panic in the air. Holding it was the only safe deterance to giving away my position in the moment. Laughs and murmers kept coming, Louder and harder, and was forced to focus in on the short distance of the rooms surrounding the hall. The mocking racket was now unbearable, but I was able to use the noise to get ready for the impending fight
And, with a loud foot step taken in a room I found clarity, and I was ready to kill again.
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
I’m not a patterns guy. Maybe some people would have figured it out in less than two hundred episodes, but I didn’t. In my defense, I don’t think a lot of people would have handled being inside a sitcom for ten seasons as well as I have, so that’s okay.
Anyways, I was talking to Barry about chicks or parenthood or something, and suddenly there’s all this laughter coming from nowhere. And I’m like “Damn, not Barry!” Then I was like, “Wait, what am I talking about?” Then I realized that every time I’d heard that weird laughter someone I knew had died. I’d seen literally hundreds of people die, and somebody always started giggling right before it happened. I guess my subconscience had been waiting for a chance to tell me.
I didn’t know what to do about it, so I just smiled and nodded, which is what I had been doing before that anyways, so it didn’t really matter. Couple minutes later, Barry’s head is being carried off by a dog and me and my roommate are running after it.
Did we catch it? I don’t know. Probably. I mainly remember spending that time dealing with my dilemma. I now knew when people would die before it happened. It was a crazy power. I’d be sitting there with a coworker, or a barrista, or somebody’s pet monkey and then I’d hear the laughing. Next thing I knew they’d be accidentally drinking acid, scalding their face off, or being pooped out of a bigger monkey.
What do I do? I’m a nuclear scientist. What is a “nuclear scientist,” and why would we need acid? Good questions. Pass.
Does the laughter scare me? No, not really, and I’ll tell you why. After all I’ve seen, all the hilarious ways people have died before my eyes for ten years and me never even taking a scratch, I must be the star of this thing. Sweet, right?
What’s that? Not a lot of sitcoms make it more than ten years? Thanks, I know. I’m very proud. Oh. Wait. Now I see what you mean. Crap.
|
I heard the laughing once again. The high pitched burbling was like nails against a chalkboard to me. It seemed like I was the only one in this god-forsaken cul-de-sac to even notice the studio laughter, and the coincidence of its appearance with the killings. So far, it had been a 13 year old girl, snatched in the midst of her walk home from the local high school and found by a runner in a ditch the next morning. A family of 4, found in their home dead as door nails, with vicious lacerations running across their neck and seemingly randomly placed throughout their body. And before each one, I heard a laughing. The first time it was only a strange interjection into my day, an auditory hallucination that was just filed away into the place in my brain where the impossible little nothings that happen to us go. When I heard it 4 times in one night, it was frightening. What could this mean? Am I losing my mind? And when I woke, and flipped open the newspaper, there it was. Family of 4, Murdered in Home! The link between the laughing and the murders clicked together, and I rushed to the police, still in my pajamas. Of course, the secretaries simply laughed me off, and suggested I schedule a visit with the local loony bin before I come back. Now, hearing the laughter again, I could tell he was about to kill again. The only thing I could do was wait here, in my bed, and wait for the news. Of course, that all left my mind when I heard a creaking from my door, a breath against my paralyzed body, a flash of hot steel, and then, nothing.
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 3.
There has been a murder every night since I've become trapped in this weird hell. I seem to be in a TV show, but with less beautiful women. I seem to be the only one really affected by these occurrences. The other people - no, the other characters - carry on as if no one had died the previous day.
Their routines start predictably. They all come to my house in the morning. I think they have keys or something; I can't seem to keep them out. Last week I wedged a chair against the door and they 7 of them came in through the fire escape. On some days, they seem to take up my concern and investigate, but it's all very light-hearted, as if the deceased were not their friend just one day prior. But most of the time, they have a problem of the day and are completely focused on that one issue for one day. Then they all go to sleep, another one dies, and they continue on with their lives.
Am I the only one who remembers, who is concerned with these murders?
Today, there are only 3. Sean and Ronny burst in my room, joking about something amusing that happened during the walk over; whatever today's main topic will be. By process of elimination, Tony is dead. I guess my suspicions yesterday were off.
It has to be Ronny. He's way too cheerful not to be a psychopath. I spend ten minutes grilling about his whereabouts for the last few nights. "Look," he chuckles, "You want to go with me to meet the ladies tonight? That new club is hot! I've been with a different woman every night!"
I wanted to press on, but Sean stops me. "Look man, I know New York City going down the sh-" as a noisy truck passed on my street,"-er, with all these random murders on the news and everything, but you can't go accusing your friends like that.
I finally convince them to go over to Tony's. "Fine, fine, let's meet your new friend," as if they hadn't been together every day for the last week.
As I enter, I see Tony's body, mostly obscured by the couch. I hold on to the wall by the front door, feeling nauseous. Sean kneels over the body, looking like a real detective. He points at the opposite wall to where some of the blood was splattered. "Something's not right," he says, pointing to the knife embedded in the adjacent wall. Ronny is the last to enter the room. Checking out the fourth wall, he shrugs emphatically, "Well, it couldn't have been me!"
That laughter. I hear it again. It's never after something truly funny though.
I seem to be the only one who hears that laughter: I stopped asking after the third day. I think the laughter is associated with the real murderer. It has to be Ronny. I am sure.
I will pretend to not suspect anything, to continue on as normal. After they leave for the day, I will follow Ronny and make catch him in the act. They always hang around for the entire day, so I am exhausted at night. I don't really remember what happens after they leave, and I have been wrong the previous days, but I'm sure I will catch Ronny tonight.....
-----
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 2.
|
I heard the laughing once again. The high pitched burbling was like nails against a chalkboard to me. It seemed like I was the only one in this god-forsaken cul-de-sac to even notice the studio laughter, and the coincidence of its appearance with the killings. So far, it had been a 13 year old girl, snatched in the midst of her walk home from the local high school and found by a runner in a ditch the next morning. A family of 4, found in their home dead as door nails, with vicious lacerations running across their neck and seemingly randomly placed throughout their body. And before each one, I heard a laughing. The first time it was only a strange interjection into my day, an auditory hallucination that was just filed away into the place in my brain where the impossible little nothings that happen to us go. When I heard it 4 times in one night, it was frightening. What could this mean? Am I losing my mind? And when I woke, and flipped open the newspaper, there it was. Family of 4, Murdered in Home! The link between the laughing and the murders clicked together, and I rushed to the police, still in my pajamas. Of course, the secretaries simply laughed me off, and suggested I schedule a visit with the local loony bin before I come back. Now, hearing the laughter again, I could tell he was about to kill again. The only thing I could do was wait here, in my bed, and wait for the news. Of course, that all left my mind when I heard a creaking from my door, a breath against my paralyzed body, a flash of hot steel, and then, nothing.
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 3.
There has been a murder every night since I've become trapped in this weird hell. I seem to be in a TV show, but with less beautiful women. I seem to be the only one really affected by these occurrences. The other people - no, the other characters - carry on as if no one had died the previous day.
Their routines start predictably. They all come to my house in the morning. I think they have keys or something; I can't seem to keep them out. Last week I wedged a chair against the door and they 7 of them came in through the fire escape. On some days, they seem to take up my concern and investigate, but it's all very light-hearted, as if the deceased were not their friend just one day prior. But most of the time, they have a problem of the day and are completely focused on that one issue for one day. Then they all go to sleep, another one dies, and they continue on with their lives.
Am I the only one who remembers, who is concerned with these murders?
Today, there are only 3. Sean and Ronny burst in my room, joking about something amusing that happened during the walk over; whatever today's main topic will be. By process of elimination, Tony is dead. I guess my suspicions yesterday were off.
It has to be Ronny. He's way too cheerful not to be a psychopath. I spend ten minutes grilling about his whereabouts for the last few nights. "Look," he chuckles, "You want to go with me to meet the ladies tonight? That new club is hot! I've been with a different woman every night!"
I wanted to press on, but Sean stops me. "Look man, I know New York City going down the sh-" as a noisy truck passed on my street,"-er, with all these random murders on the news and everything, but you can't go accusing your friends like that.
I finally convince them to go over to Tony's. "Fine, fine, let's meet your new friend," as if they hadn't been together every day for the last week.
As I enter, I see Tony's body, mostly obscured by the couch. I hold on to the wall by the front door, feeling nauseous. Sean kneels over the body, looking like a real detective. He points at the opposite wall to where some of the blood was splattered. "Something's not right," he says, pointing to the knife embedded in the adjacent wall. Ronny is the last to enter the room. Checking out the fourth wall, he shrugs emphatically, "Well, it couldn't have been me!"
That laughter. I hear it again. It's never after something truly funny though.
I seem to be the only one who hears that laughter: I stopped asking after the third day. I think the laughter is associated with the real murderer. It has to be Ronny. I am sure.
I will pretend to not suspect anything, to continue on as normal. After they leave for the day, I will follow Ronny and make catch him in the act. They always hang around for the entire day, so I am exhausted at night. I don't really remember what happens after they leave, and I have been wrong the previous days, but I'm sure I will catch Ronny tonight.....
-----
I am awakened by the end of a catchy tune. There used to be 13, now there are 2.
|
"Confused? Wondering where you are and what's going on? Is this some Matrix type thing? They're using your body heat to fuel their schemes huh."
This style of questioning continued for a while in a unbelievably impudent tone for what seemed like an hour. Then out of the day dreaming I heard him exclaim:
"WRONG! YOU HAVEN'T THOUGHT OF THE SMELL YOU BITCH!"
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
I hear it every time I close my eyes. That twisted horrible noise and I see them. Their corpses. Their lifeless eyes. Their faces twisted in.....Laughter? No that can't be right.... laughter isn't scary. Right as death took them they were smiling. They looked so happy. Like smiling statues. That image has been "carved" into my mind. I can tell that the audience liked that one because I can hear their laughter right behind my ears
|
"Confused? Wondering where you are and what's going on? Is this some Matrix type thing? They're using your body heat to fuel their schemes huh."
This style of questioning continued for a while in a unbelievably impudent tone for what seemed like an hour. Then out of the day dreaming I heard him exclaim:
"WRONG! YOU HAVEN'T THOUGHT OF THE SMELL YOU BITCH!"
|
(This *does* imply that you can hear the laugh track, but who knows whether the show's regulars would be aware of it.)
|
[WP] You're mysteriously trapped in a cheesy sitcom with a seemingly random laugh track. After a string of murders, it becomes apparent that the laugh track signals when the killer is near.
|
"Oh, dear god," Joe thought. "I've killed another one."
The laughter in Joe's head reached new heights after the explosion. He had no idea that turning on the gas of his stove would, through a series of Rube Goldberg style interactions, cause an explosion next door.
How many was this now? Six? No, Seven.
Joe remembered the first person he killed. He was walking down the street and saw a piano dangling from a frayed rope as movers hauled the instrument up to a 10th story apartment. Joe saw the fibers splitting and knew the piano would drop. He looked on in horror as he realized that an elderly woman with a walker was about to be crushed.
Joe realized that this was his dare-to-be-great moment and lunged into a sprint. Joe threw himself at the elderly woman and pushed her over into a nearby pile of garbage that he hoped was soft, but was certain to be less deadly than the piano dropping.
As Joe hit the ground, he heard the rope holding the piano snap audibly. He knew he wouldn't be able to get out in time. He turned to look up, unable to stop himself, only he couldn't see the piano falling. An awning blocked his view.
Joe watched as the awning stretched when the piano hit it and closed his eyes thinking, "this is it."
Then Joe heard a very audible BOOOINNNGG sound. The piano bounced off of the awning like a gymnast off a trampoline, changing course, and landing directly on the nearby elderly woman. Then Joe heard laughter.
To this day, Joe couldn't understand how the awning had redirected the piano. It was physically impossible. The piano should have torn through it like tissue paper.
If Joe hadn't pushed the old lady out of the way, she would would have been saved by the awning.
The next time Joe killed someone, he was vacationing at Niagara falls. Joe tripped over his untied shoelace and bumped into a man who was leaning over a railing to get a picture of the falls. As the man fell, Joe heard him scream just like Goofy, "AH HA HA HA HOOOOEY." Then the laughter began again.
After that, the laughter started to come before someone died, like someone knew the gag and was anticipating the event. It was the worst part. Whenever Joe heard the laughter, he knew he was about to kill another person, but he never knew how.
How could Joe have known that when he threw pitch at one of his softball league games, the ball came from a shipment that had been used to smuggle volatile explosives. Somehow, one of the balls in which the explosives were hidden had found its way into Joe's local sporting goods store.
When the other player hit the softball, it detonated the hidden explosives. All that was left was a pair of smoking baseball cleats next to home plate.
Each death was more improbable than the last. I mean, who could anticipate that when Joe bought his former mother-in-law a sweater, it was a cheap knockoff made from flammable materials, and she would go up like a Roman candle when Joe asked her to pass the gravy at thanksgiving. The way she lit up as her sleeve passed over the candles on the table, you'd have thought the thing was soaked in kerosene.
Naturally, Joe's marriage hadn't survived that. In fact, Joe had been a shut-in since that day. He figured if he didn't go outside, he couldn't hurt anyone, and he'd never hear the dreaded, cacophonous laughter again.
That is, until today, when Joe blew up his neighbor Randall, whose scorched body the fire department found in the top of a tree 50 yards away.
The investigator from the fire department said he had never seen anything like it.
"I mean, you can't make this stuff up," the investigator told Joe.
___________________
"We need fresh ideas people," Zorglblax told the rest of the writing team as he flicked at his third eye-stalk. "Our ratings have been way up since we turned this bland, slice-of-life drama into a horror comedy, but the audience is starting to get bored. We should have gotten way more laughs when we blew up Randall, especially since he was on the toilet at the time."
"I mean, it was a stroke of genius when Joe's internal mic malfunctioned and he could hear the laughter and we decided to run with it, it really gave the show an interactive feeling and the audience loved it, but we haven't broken any new ground since then." Opting not to have Joe tranquilized and brought up to the network ship to have his mic fixed was actually because the show's underperformance before they changed the theme meant they didn't have the budget for the repair, but Zorglblax liked to pretend it was a brilliant idea of his.
"What if we give him a new love interest who also happens to be accident prone and constantly puts herself into dangerous situations and we tease the audience by making them think Joe will accidentally kill her, but we delay the payoff, maybe even for a whole season?" said Zeebumpbf.
"Get that fegnorian a raise!" Zorglblax slammed his hand on the conference room table. "You guys start putting together some scenarios and get started on a few spec scripts, I think this could be our best season yet. Get a few fleshbots setup as Joe's new girlfriend, we might have to parade a couple in front of him before we get the right one to snag his interest."
|
"Confused? Wondering where you are and what's going on? Is this some Matrix type thing? They're using your body heat to fuel their schemes huh."
This style of questioning continued for a while in a unbelievably impudent tone for what seemed like an hour. Then out of the day dreaming I heard him exclaim:
"WRONG! YOU HAVEN'T THOUGHT OF THE SMELL YOU BITCH!"
|
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