(no subject)

Fuck the NaNo, really. I'll write something else. ... heh, it'll just be crap anyway. I am so uninspired right now. Feh.

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... work in progress, obviously. I have a headache. *stabs brain, passes out.
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    "Can You Keep a Secret?" utada hikaru (Exodus)

(no subject)

She paused in the doorway, her hand on the door frame, feeling more than slightly apprehensive. Finally, with a shuddering sigh, she took a step into the room and paused to look around. Everything was just as he had left it: an unsteady pile of books on the chair, clothes strewn all over the floor, the bed unmade. Her hands reached up to the pendant around her neck, the one he had given her when they had first started dating.

Still clutching the pendant, she made her way further into the room, then paused in a beam of light that filtered in through the half-drawn shades. She shot a brief accusatory glare out of the corner of her eye at the offending sunbeam, as if to chastise it for shining so brightly when inside her there were only dark, dreary clouds.

She turned, then caught sight of his favourite shirt amidst the haphazard mess on the floor. Biting her lip to hold back the tears, she bent over to retrieve the shirt, then brought it up to her face. She breathed in the familiar scent of his cologne intermingled with the faint smell of cigarettes. Unable to fight her sadness any longer, she sat down heavily on the bed, the bed where they had made love so often in a happier past, and succumbed to her misery in huge shuddering sobs. Lying down in a fetal position, his shirt still clutched to her chest, her tears dampening his pillow, she recalled the day he had asked her to marry him.

Footsteps on the staircase snapped her out of her melancholic reverie, and she sat up, using the shirt to dry her tears in a vain attempt to regain her composure. The footsteps paused on the landing, then headed towards the room she was in.

"... Jenn?"

She looked up to find Kevin's mother hesitating in the doorway, a motherly, concerned look on her face.

"It's time for the funeral, honey."

She nodded, took one last look around, then followed the mother of her deceased fiancée outside.

(no subject)

"Paging Dr. Wellsby. Paging Dr. Wellsby. You're wanted in emergency room 3. Dr. Wellsby, you're wanted in emergency room 3..."

Dr. Ronald Wellsby did a comic about-step and powerwalked towards ER 3, swinging arms and all. A passing candy striper put her hand to her mouth to stifle the giggles when she saw him. He smiled broadly, tipped his head and winked at her, and continued striding down the hallway.

"Hi Dr. Wellsby!"

"Hello, Doctor."

"Hey there Doc!"

Ronald had a smile and a wave for everyone who passed him, whether they were RN's, OR techs, fellow surgeons, or just volunteers. Most of the other surgeons were stuffy old men who took themselves and their work way too seriously, and wouldn't give anyone who wasn't also a certified doctor the time of day. Ronald, on the other hand, was always willing to lend people a helping hand with whatever they needed help with.

"Doc! Hey Doc!"

"Oh hello Jeremy," Ronald greeted the young resident nurse as he fell into awkward step next to the still powerwalking doctor. Jeremy hardly glanced up from the papers he was frowning at; others had to hurry to get out of his oblivious meanderings.

"Doc, what do you think of these pathology scans? I need to classify them for class, but I wanted to doublecheck with you before I handed it in..." He trailed off, chewing his pen cap and still frowning at the offending papers.

"I'm sorry Jeremy, but I'm on my way to ER 3 right now and I have to hurry and go prep for surgery. If you want, you can stop by my office later and I'll go over them with you."

"Paging Dr. Wellsby. You're wanted in emergency room 3..." Jeremy frowned up at the speaker, obviously hearing the message for the first time. He blinked, then turned rather red. "Oh, right right, sorry Doc. Er, yeah, I guess I didn't hear the message... eheheh... Yeah, I'll stop by later... See ya!" He spun around and hurried back in the direction he had come. Ronald glanced back at the retreating figure, shaking his head and smiling. Kids. So wrapped up in their own little worlds. Ah, to be young again.

After cleaning up and donning his surgical gown and gloves, Ronald stepped through the door and into Emergency Room 3. He nodded at the anesthesiologist, who had just finished up, and nodded to everyone else in the room. In everyday life, Ronald was a vivacious, well-liked man with a wonderful sense of humour. But once he stepped into the ER, Dr. Wellsby went by the book; the fun and games were kept to almost nil. Even a fun-loving person like Ronald knew that a person's life depended on him, and he took that part of his job quite seriously.

The procedure went well, up until the very end. Ronald felt a slight tremor in his hand, and his eyes... seemed to twitch, but only once, so he ignored it. As he bent over to make one final cut before wrapping it up, his body started to spasm. Suddenly, blood started gushing everywhere, and very quickly the patient's vitals dropped alarmingly. He collapsed to the floor, amid the screaming nurses and the splurting blood. He'd sliced through the superior vena cava, and now his patient was dying a Class IV death: bloodloss. He passed out there on the floor, covered in his patient's blood...

Ronald sat up straight in his bed, drenched in sweat. Dreams of the day that ended his career as a doctor forever still haunted him, even now, seven years later.

(no subject)

Laughing maniacly, he swerved close to a jogging pedestrian, missing the balding, extremely sweaty obese man by mere centimeters. Huffing and puffing, the frightened man stopped and shook his fist at the speeding SUV, yelling: "Watch it, asshole! Yeah, it's all fun and games til you run some poor bloke over!"

Inside the SUV, he laughed even louder. Damn right it's all fun and games, "old chap!" And he doesn't even have a British accent. What decent American says "bloke" anyway? "You should be thanking whatever gods you worship that I didn't stop this car, fucker," he growled as he turned to slave the shrinking figure fading into the darkness in his drivers' side mirror.

And lucky the runner was indeed, for the man in the SUV was none other than the Surgeon himself. He almost did stop the car, but he decided that he was enjoying his joyride too much to stop now.

Half an hour later, he stopped the car and got out, staring at his surroundings with slow, stupid astonishment.

Ronald Wellsby was in an obviously rich neighborhood, and he had no idea how he'd gotten there, nor what he'd been doing since four that afternoon.

(no subject)

"Henry? Henry, I'm about to cook dinner, but I've run out of salt. Would you run out to the store and buy some? Henry? Henry, are you listening to me?"

Henry wasn't listening. Henry was currently absorbed in the latest news story: fifteen horribly mutilated bodies and the police didn't have even one solitary clue as to the murderer's identity. The press was calling him "the Surgeon," since the only thing left at the scene of the crime, other than the remains of his victims, was a note signed just that: The Surgeon. Also, the wounds of all his victims were inflicted with a scalpel.

He hadn't expected much attention for his little forays into murder, but they had hardly mentioned his latest kill in the news at all today. Everything was "the Surgeon this," and "the Surgeon that." Hell, the police hadn't even given him a name. He was just "the other murderer" to the public. And it enraged him. He was surprised at just how angry he was about being eclipsed out of the limelight.

"Bastard," he muttered with a visciousness totally uncharacteristic of his public image.

Clarise heard him, and was slightly taken aback by his unexpected outburst. But she agreed wholeheartedly, although she did not know that it was for all the wrong reasons. She went to stand beside him, not noticing him jump slightly at her sudden appearance at his side, and said, "I hope they catch him and put him away for good."

Hentry turned his attention back to the newscast and glared at it. I hope they give him the chair.

part 3

She strode busily through the front door and through the hallway, heading for the living room. "Henry? Did you remember to..." She stopped as a voice cut through the semi-darkness, the words chilling her to the bone.

"Hello, Clarise..."

"Goddamn it, Henry, I told you that I don't want you watching that godawful movie anymore! Turn it off! Right now!" She stalked over to the sofa, ripped the remote out of her husband's hand, and hit the off switch badtemperedly. She didn't see the slight smile fleet across her husband's face at her obvious emotional discomfort.

"I'm sorry dear..." he said as he cast his eyes downwards.

"Sorry? SORRY?! You know what that goddamn movie does to... to me... oh God I need to go lie down..." She whirled around awkwardly and lurched her way unsteadily into their bedroom. He relished every moment of it, every single second of imperfection that oozed its way through the cracks in her perfect makeup. Every dog has its day...

She slammed the door shut behind her, locking it. Only when she was alone did she let the tears come, gasping sobs racking her body, rubbing her throat raw. She was shaking uncontrollably now, and she collapsed onto the floor when her legs couldn't hold her up any longer. She crawled towards the bed and managed to get herself up onto it somehow. She then curled up and muffled her sobs with a pillow.

It wasn't just horror movies that did this to her. She hated that one movie in particular, more than any other movie in that horrid genre.

Her name was Clarise, too.

(no subject)

She tripped over something in the dark, and went sprawling facefirst into the dirt. As she fell, her mind dimly registered that she had tripped over a fallen tree branch. She got up quickly and stumbled onwards, cursing her high heels that only yesterday she had been praising to high heaven. Thorns scratched at her face and arms, catching the flimsy material of her dress and tearing off long strips of it as the crashing in the undergrowth behind her grew louder.

He was coming for her. He was coming for her and she didn't know why. All she knew was that she had to get out of there, and quickly.

Then she realized that the noises had stopped. She came to a stop and leaned against a tree, breathing hard and listening. All she could hear was the slight rustle of the wind through the treetops, and a solitary cricket chirping off to her left. She choked back a sob of relief and took several deep breaths. I have... to get out... o... I ... move! She pushed away from the tree and made her way forward as quietly as she could.

Straight into the arms of the figure that loomed out of the darkness in front of her.

"Hello 'Clarise'..."

She screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

And let out a strangled cough as she drowned in her own blood.

* * *

He walked back to his car, taking off the button-down shirt and extra pants that he had on over the clothes he had worn to work and stuffed the bloodsoaked garments into a plastic bag. And then his phone rang. He answered it immediately.

"Hello? Yes d... yes dear. Yes dear I kn- yes dear. No dear, I won't forget about the bread..."

(no subject)

That smile. That smug, self-satisfied grin. He hated it. He wanted to wipe it off her face with a sledgehammer. Just erase that face from existance, with those mocking, crystal-blue eyes, that plastic nose she paid so much for, those painted collagen lips, just obliterate the whole thing, like smashing the face of a porcelain doll.

His stepmother had had porcelain dolls. She kept them in the attic. She kept him in the attic too, all through his childhood. In the attic, surrounded by sightless, staring porcelain dolls and staring, starving rats. She'd send him up there whenever he was bad. And he was almost always bad, at least in her eyes. Breaking a cup, knocking over a lamp, crashing into a sidetable drawer, drawing on the walls with crayons. He had been a bad, bad boy, and so he had been punished. He'd sit there for days at a time, with no company but the rats, and the lacquered faces of the dolls. He'd never sleep up there. Once he did fall asleep up there, and when he woke up a rat was nibbling at his fingertips. He never fell asleep again. He'd sit there and cry in the darkness, the perfectly painted doll faces mocking him in his misery, in his state of imperfection. His stepmother loved those dolls, because they were perfect; he, on the other hand, was not.

She reminded him of his stepmother's porcelain dolls: the same perfectly manicured nails, the same perfect white skin, the same perfect smile with the same perfect colour lipstick.

He despised her and her perfection, and her superiority. She thought herself better than him, better than everyone else. And of course, she was better. She was perfect, just like those doll.

He wanted to hit that face. Drag her outside, through the mud, getting dirt and dead leaves in her blow-dried hair. Letting rocks gouge her perfect porcelain complexion. He wanted to poke those eyes into the back of her head, like he'd done to the dolls. He wanted to break her face, smash it to bits, watching the white china fall to the ground like sharp snowflakes. He wanted to throw her on the ground, get dirt under those perfectly-laquered fingernails, watching them break as she tried to claw the ground open so she could hide herself away from him. Just take her and rip her open and completely humiliate her. And see if she still thought herself so high and mighty then. Just smash her fa...

"... don't you think so, Henry? Henry, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times that if I'm explaining something to you and you just don't understand, then ask me again. I know it takes you awhile to understand things." Again with that smile. She sickened him.

"... yes... I know. I'm sorry, dear..."

(no subject)

YAR I have retur-ned, from the depths of... well... boredom and shiznit. Expect something tomorrow, unless I completely forget about writing it, although I don't know who would want to read what I plan to write. I deem it disturbing because I believe it would disturb normal people.

And truthfully, I got the idea for this prologue-to-nothing type story deal on the way back home from school, coming off the turnpike, and flicking some guy off and seeing my nail, which I'd painted black. And none of that has anything to do with the "story" thingy I plan to write, but that's where the story started spinning out in my head. Yes, I am weird like that.

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