Garrison Kelly's Blog, page 63
May 5, 2018
Beautiful Monster, Chapter 8
(FLASHBACK)
Even if Windham somehow managed to escape this hell, there would be no such thing as a good day for him. No fine fucking days, just an existence as a shell of his former self. The sex had long been over, but he could still feel Shelly’s slimy fluids all over himself. He could still feel cold water on his body from Torger’s methods of waking him up. These constant thoughts circled Windham’s mind and made his blood scalding hot every time. Every day he fought his bonds and every day they became slightly looser. His muscles thumped and pulsated with each resistance. The veins in his body had become more defined by this point, both due to the struggle and the building anger toward his captors.
And then one “fine” day, the strap on his right wrist snapped in two. His eyes bolted open in disbelief. He spent several long seconds staring at the purple ring around his wrist, which was now pounding with intense pain. He felt as though his hand would fall right off. Before he could give his captors such satisfaction, he hurried and undid the strap on his left wrist, then unfastened the straps on his ankles. All four of his limbs had dark circles around them and became much thinner than when he was first here in this castle.
Windham smiled insanely at his new lease on life, but still refused to give Torger and Shelly his tears. “No crying…no fucking crying….no fucking crying, damn it!” he belted to himself while pounding his naked thighs with his fists. He had no time to celebrate his well-earned freedom just yet.
“Hey! What the hell’s going on in there?!” shouted Torger from beyond the dungeon door. Windham’s bat-shit smile transformed to bat-shit rage as he grabbed hold of one of the leather straps and yanked it free to use as a weapon. He shuffled towards the door and hid behind it before Torger eventually made his entrance. The seven foot beast’s eyes flared up when he yelled, “What the fuck?!”
Windham wasted no time in wrapping the leather strap around Torger’s throat and squeezing his oxygen desert dry. The seven footer dropped down to one knee as his face turned a bright shade of red. The elf roared, “I’ll pop your head like a fucking pimple, you incestuous piece of trash!”
Torger’s face transitioned colors as he dropped to both knees and attempted to pry away the strap. He somehow found the strength to pop to his feet and back up against the stone wall with hard force. By the time he hit the wall, however, Windham had already released the chokehold and dropped away, making sure Torger’s spine cracked against the stone bricks. The vampire hacked and wheezed while rubbing his purple throat.
Windham had no designs of relenting when he whipped Torger across the back several times with the strap, making breathing even more difficult for the hulking giant. Before he could pass out, the vampire dug his fist into Windham’s stomach, doubling the elf over in pain and buying Torger valuable time to breathe.
Both men took their time in getting to their feet, each of them in a world of pain. Torger’s face glowed red for much different reasons than being choked. Windham already had red and purple skin from the anger of a week of sexual assaults. The elf waved Torger over with his hand, daring the seven foot beast to charge at him.
“I’ll break your ass in half, you little shit head!” threatened Torger while charging at Windham full speed ahead. Still holding his pain-wracked stomach, Windham slid underneath the brute and lashed the strap around his ankles, tripping the giant and allowing Torger’s forehead to smack against the edge of the table.
The lack of oxygen and the dribbling of blood caused the vampire’s face to glow like hot red neon light. Windham refused to let up as he whipped Torger’s back some more, opening deep gashes that revealed ribs and organs. The giant’s screams became leonine and monstrous as he took this vengeful beating. “Shelly!” he pathetically cried out. “Where the fuck are you?!”
Shelly, the lover of the two as opposed to the fighter, couldn’t save his giant ass this time. Windham continued lashing Torger’s back until it flowed like a waterfall of violence and anger. The elf let out a celebratory scream while striking a Jesus Christ pose. The seven foot brute laid helpless on the floor covered in blood, bones, and welts.
“You’re a loser!” shouted Windham as he rolled Torger on his battered back. “You’re supposed to be this big ass killing machine, but all I see in front of me is a goddamn loser! If I would have known killing your ass would be this easy, I would have done it a long time ago! I don’t give a damn about your bounty price now. All I want is a…little taste!”
Giving his psychotic chuckle, Windham leaned down and licked a small sample of the drooling blood off of Torger’s face. The vampire would have cringed in disgust, but doing so would have sent bursts of pain throughout his body. Windham taunted, “You see that? You see how sickening that is? That’s what I had to go through for the whole time I was here. Every day was the same: being kissed, being licked, being fondled, being fucked! And now you just got a small fraction of what I went through.”
“You’re crazy!” Torger shouted, spewing up throat blood in the process.
“You’re damn right I’m crazy! Crazy like a fox! Crazier than a shit house rat! Crazier than a pet coon! Woo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Woo-hoo!” Windham gave Torger a few more leather strikes across the chest, face, and nether regions for good measure, giving the elf more satisfying screams and more beautiful blood.
Windham grabbed Torger by his hair and psychotically whispered, “You think I’m done with you? I’ve saved the best part for last! I’m throwing away a lot of money by killing your ass. But it’s worth it! I don’t need the riches anyways! Woo-hoo!”
The vampire laid there spraying with blood and covered in misery. Only one thing left for Windham to do. The elf eyeballed the same torture table that kept him in traumatic hell for the longest time. He dropped the leather strap and gazed down at his violence-soaked hands. “Oh yes…I’m going to do it…you’re damn right I’m going to do it! Tee-hee!” bragged Windham.
The naked elf bent his knees down and gripped the bottom of the table, which thankfully was not bolted to the floor, lest he risk spinal injury or a hernia. He heaved. He roared. Every bit of venomous strength got the table just a little off the ground at a time. One inch became two. Two inches became twelve. One foot became several. And then the cumbersome torture table was heaved over Windham’s head while he grinned a toothy snake grin at his pathetic victim.
“No…no, no, no!” Torger begged while trying his hardest to keep his wide eyeballs in place. The cries for help were of no concern to Windham as he dropped the heavy table over the vampire’s ribs and crushed him like a bug. Bones crunched their loudest and blood oozed across the dungeon like a rolling tide. Soon the vampire’s heart stopped beating and his head limped over to the side. Within seconds, he was dead.
Windham gazed down at this masterpiece of a massacre he created with wild drooling eyes. He could have swam in this man’s blood until the end of time. He could have worn the seven footer’s body like a winter coat. He could have ran Torger’s powdered bones through his hands like sand at the beach. But all he wanted was something else.
The elf retrieved the leather strap and whispered in Torger’s ear, “Now that you won’t be using it anymore, I’m going to need something of yours for…let’s just say…a theatrical prop. I love a good theater production as much as anybody, so I want this to be good!”
Wrapping the leather strap around Torger’s neck, Windham squeezed and tugged until the vampire’s head came completely off. A splash of blood covered the floor once again as the new hole in the corpse’s neck opened wide up. The naked elf sifted his hand through the viscous liquid and smiled like it was a fond childhood memory.
He then reached down at pulled Torger’s key ring from his belt. “I’m assuming you have my gear locked up somewhere around here. I’m going to need that too, but not for theatrical purposes. Truth be told, it can actually get pretty chilly up here in the north. Why do you think Shelly puts on a ring on my dick every time we make love?”
Windham took one more crazy look at Torger’s broken and bloodied body and laughed like a villainous clown before exiting the room in search of his armor and whip. One down, one more rapist to go.
Even if Windham somehow managed to escape this hell, there would be no such thing as a good day for him. No fine fucking days, just an existence as a shell of his former self. The sex had long been over, but he could still feel Shelly’s slimy fluids all over himself. He could still feel cold water on his body from Torger’s methods of waking him up. These constant thoughts circled Windham’s mind and made his blood scalding hot every time. Every day he fought his bonds and every day they became slightly looser. His muscles thumped and pulsated with each resistance. The veins in his body had become more defined by this point, both due to the struggle and the building anger toward his captors.
And then one “fine” day, the strap on his right wrist snapped in two. His eyes bolted open in disbelief. He spent several long seconds staring at the purple ring around his wrist, which was now pounding with intense pain. He felt as though his hand would fall right off. Before he could give his captors such satisfaction, he hurried and undid the strap on his left wrist, then unfastened the straps on his ankles. All four of his limbs had dark circles around them and became much thinner than when he was first here in this castle.
Windham smiled insanely at his new lease on life, but still refused to give Torger and Shelly his tears. “No crying…no fucking crying….no fucking crying, damn it!” he belted to himself while pounding his naked thighs with his fists. He had no time to celebrate his well-earned freedom just yet.
“Hey! What the hell’s going on in there?!” shouted Torger from beyond the dungeon door. Windham’s bat-shit smile transformed to bat-shit rage as he grabbed hold of one of the leather straps and yanked it free to use as a weapon. He shuffled towards the door and hid behind it before Torger eventually made his entrance. The seven foot beast’s eyes flared up when he yelled, “What the fuck?!”
Windham wasted no time in wrapping the leather strap around Torger’s throat and squeezing his oxygen desert dry. The seven footer dropped down to one knee as his face turned a bright shade of red. The elf roared, “I’ll pop your head like a fucking pimple, you incestuous piece of trash!”
Torger’s face transitioned colors as he dropped to both knees and attempted to pry away the strap. He somehow found the strength to pop to his feet and back up against the stone wall with hard force. By the time he hit the wall, however, Windham had already released the chokehold and dropped away, making sure Torger’s spine cracked against the stone bricks. The vampire hacked and wheezed while rubbing his purple throat.
Windham had no designs of relenting when he whipped Torger across the back several times with the strap, making breathing even more difficult for the hulking giant. Before he could pass out, the vampire dug his fist into Windham’s stomach, doubling the elf over in pain and buying Torger valuable time to breathe.
Both men took their time in getting to their feet, each of them in a world of pain. Torger’s face glowed red for much different reasons than being choked. Windham already had red and purple skin from the anger of a week of sexual assaults. The elf waved Torger over with his hand, daring the seven foot beast to charge at him.
“I’ll break your ass in half, you little shit head!” threatened Torger while charging at Windham full speed ahead. Still holding his pain-wracked stomach, Windham slid underneath the brute and lashed the strap around his ankles, tripping the giant and allowing Torger’s forehead to smack against the edge of the table.
The lack of oxygen and the dribbling of blood caused the vampire’s face to glow like hot red neon light. Windham refused to let up as he whipped Torger’s back some more, opening deep gashes that revealed ribs and organs. The giant’s screams became leonine and monstrous as he took this vengeful beating. “Shelly!” he pathetically cried out. “Where the fuck are you?!”
Shelly, the lover of the two as opposed to the fighter, couldn’t save his giant ass this time. Windham continued lashing Torger’s back until it flowed like a waterfall of violence and anger. The elf let out a celebratory scream while striking a Jesus Christ pose. The seven foot brute laid helpless on the floor covered in blood, bones, and welts.
“You’re a loser!” shouted Windham as he rolled Torger on his battered back. “You’re supposed to be this big ass killing machine, but all I see in front of me is a goddamn loser! If I would have known killing your ass would be this easy, I would have done it a long time ago! I don’t give a damn about your bounty price now. All I want is a…little taste!”
Giving his psychotic chuckle, Windham leaned down and licked a small sample of the drooling blood off of Torger’s face. The vampire would have cringed in disgust, but doing so would have sent bursts of pain throughout his body. Windham taunted, “You see that? You see how sickening that is? That’s what I had to go through for the whole time I was here. Every day was the same: being kissed, being licked, being fondled, being fucked! And now you just got a small fraction of what I went through.”
“You’re crazy!” Torger shouted, spewing up throat blood in the process.
“You’re damn right I’m crazy! Crazy like a fox! Crazier than a shit house rat! Crazier than a pet coon! Woo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Woo-hoo!” Windham gave Torger a few more leather strikes across the chest, face, and nether regions for good measure, giving the elf more satisfying screams and more beautiful blood.
Windham grabbed Torger by his hair and psychotically whispered, “You think I’m done with you? I’ve saved the best part for last! I’m throwing away a lot of money by killing your ass. But it’s worth it! I don’t need the riches anyways! Woo-hoo!”
The vampire laid there spraying with blood and covered in misery. Only one thing left for Windham to do. The elf eyeballed the same torture table that kept him in traumatic hell for the longest time. He dropped the leather strap and gazed down at his violence-soaked hands. “Oh yes…I’m going to do it…you’re damn right I’m going to do it! Tee-hee!” bragged Windham.
The naked elf bent his knees down and gripped the bottom of the table, which thankfully was not bolted to the floor, lest he risk spinal injury or a hernia. He heaved. He roared. Every bit of venomous strength got the table just a little off the ground at a time. One inch became two. Two inches became twelve. One foot became several. And then the cumbersome torture table was heaved over Windham’s head while he grinned a toothy snake grin at his pathetic victim.
“No…no, no, no!” Torger begged while trying his hardest to keep his wide eyeballs in place. The cries for help were of no concern to Windham as he dropped the heavy table over the vampire’s ribs and crushed him like a bug. Bones crunched their loudest and blood oozed across the dungeon like a rolling tide. Soon the vampire’s heart stopped beating and his head limped over to the side. Within seconds, he was dead.
Windham gazed down at this masterpiece of a massacre he created with wild drooling eyes. He could have swam in this man’s blood until the end of time. He could have worn the seven footer’s body like a winter coat. He could have ran Torger’s powdered bones through his hands like sand at the beach. But all he wanted was something else.
The elf retrieved the leather strap and whispered in Torger’s ear, “Now that you won’t be using it anymore, I’m going to need something of yours for…let’s just say…a theatrical prop. I love a good theater production as much as anybody, so I want this to be good!”
Wrapping the leather strap around Torger’s neck, Windham squeezed and tugged until the vampire’s head came completely off. A splash of blood covered the floor once again as the new hole in the corpse’s neck opened wide up. The naked elf sifted his hand through the viscous liquid and smiled like it was a fond childhood memory.
He then reached down at pulled Torger’s key ring from his belt. “I’m assuming you have my gear locked up somewhere around here. I’m going to need that too, but not for theatrical purposes. Truth be told, it can actually get pretty chilly up here in the north. Why do you think Shelly puts on a ring on my dick every time we make love?”
Windham took one more crazy look at Torger’s broken and bloodied body and laughed like a villainous clown before exiting the room in search of his armor and whip. One down, one more rapist to go.
May 2, 2018
Creative Crossroads
***CREATIVE CROSSROADS***
Creatively, I have most of the things I could ever want as an author. I have six published books which are doing moderately well as far as reviews go. I have eight rough drafts which could be turned into awesome books under the right guidance. I have other creative outlets which give me the online attention I need as an author. But as far as marketing and putting myself out there go, I could be doing a lot more. I repeat: a LOT more. So I’ve decided to make a list of marketing techniques that will no doubt get me more views and book buys. Starting with…
1. Build a street team to promote my books (that’s a lot of fucking people)
2. Build a website (seems easy enough, right?)
3. Convert my Face Book page to an author’s profile (which means calling myself Author Garrison Kelly instead of using my real name)
4. Enlist the help of extra beta readers and editors (Ashley Uzzell is fantastic, don’t get me wrong, but getting multiple opinions is important to a book’s success)
5. Enroll in Skill Share classes about marketing (Jenna Moreci has an awesome one, I just need to sign up for Skill Share)
6. Find a time during the day where I have complete privacy from my family members and the phone (probably late at night, most likely)
7. Get a twitter account (fourth time is a charm, right?)
8. Get an Instagram account (even though it’s a veritable troll’s nest)
9. Get video editing software (for that special time of day when I’m brave enough to shoot You Tube clips)
10. Learn how to shoot videos on my digital camera (actually, I know how to do it, I just need the confidence to be in front of the judgmental lens)
11. Rent advertising space online
I have the time and funds to do pretty much all of these things (most of them are dirt cheap). So if these are the answers to my marketing problems, why am I not taking these steps right away? Well, that’s where the crossroads part of this blog entry comes from. I’ve been putting off discussing this topic for a while now, because I don’t want to be inaccurately perceived as lazy or uncaring.
The thing is, though, I’m not the kind of person who jumps into decision making right away. I’ve made a lot of shitty decisions in my life and I’m cautious about going back to those stressful days. Going to Western Washington University gave me the degree I needed to solidify my writing career, but being away from my family and friends that long made going to college one of the worst decisions in my life. I’ve applied for writing jobs that turned out to be creativity crushers and stress magnets. I’ve traveled to places that turned out to be shitty vacation destinations at best. I could go on and on when it comes to long-term decisions that have gone sour.
When it comes to book marketing, the worst that could happen is undue stress, which doesn’t seem like a big deal on the surface. But when you consider that I’m operating on a schizophrenic and autistic brain, stress is my worst enemy. To hear other authors describe the marketing process makes it sound like they’re having their teeth pulled. I’ve even heard one author describe it as working at least five hours a day. I’ve heard another describe it as eight hours. Or twelve. Or more. On top of all these marketing chores, they also have to write every single day in order to stay sharp. That’s a lot of responsibilities and it can get overwhelming.
Here’s where I’ve come to a crossroad. On one hand, I can keep doing what I’m doing and live comfortably for the time being, but my career would be stagnant forever. On the other hand, I could take all these necessary steps and throw myself into the fire, where the risk is schizophrenic and autistic stress and the reward is being well-known in the world of writing. It seems like an easy decision to an outsider, but when you’ve got my mind and my circumstances, it’s a decision that I can’t take lightly like I have the other ones in my life (which ended up being poor choices).
I know I talk about making bad decisions all the time, but this time, it could determine where I go from here as a writer. Do I live comfortably and go nowhere or do I overwhelm myself and have a slightly better chance at rising above mediocrity? And don’t think for a minute that this has anything to do with being a “snowflake” or a “momma’s boy” or whatever the case may be. It’d just be nice to have a safety net to catch me when things go haywire, that’s all.
I’m Garrison Kelly! As soon as forever is through, I’ll be over you!
***FAMILY DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
REINA: Garrison, no sleeping at the table. You’re not five anymore.
JAMES: He’s just mad because we’re not talking about barbarians and wizards.
GARRISON: That’s not all I write about!
JAMES: Yes, it is!
REINA: He also writes about necromancers and scatomancers.
JAMES: Those are wizards too.
GARRISON: You’re stereotyping me!
***POST-SCRIPT***
This coming Friday, I’m going to Seattle to watch Papa Roach put on a live show, with Nothing More and Escape the Fate as their opening acts. It’ll be my third time seeing Papa Roach live, but it’ll be my first time seeing the other two bands. I’ve especially wanted to see Nothing More live since they always put on elaborate performances. I’ll try to get my creative work done before the night of the concert, but no promises.
Creatively, I have most of the things I could ever want as an author. I have six published books which are doing moderately well as far as reviews go. I have eight rough drafts which could be turned into awesome books under the right guidance. I have other creative outlets which give me the online attention I need as an author. But as far as marketing and putting myself out there go, I could be doing a lot more. I repeat: a LOT more. So I’ve decided to make a list of marketing techniques that will no doubt get me more views and book buys. Starting with…
1. Build a street team to promote my books (that’s a lot of fucking people)
2. Build a website (seems easy enough, right?)
3. Convert my Face Book page to an author’s profile (which means calling myself Author Garrison Kelly instead of using my real name)
4. Enlist the help of extra beta readers and editors (Ashley Uzzell is fantastic, don’t get me wrong, but getting multiple opinions is important to a book’s success)
5. Enroll in Skill Share classes about marketing (Jenna Moreci has an awesome one, I just need to sign up for Skill Share)
6. Find a time during the day where I have complete privacy from my family members and the phone (probably late at night, most likely)
7. Get a twitter account (fourth time is a charm, right?)
8. Get an Instagram account (even though it’s a veritable troll’s nest)
9. Get video editing software (for that special time of day when I’m brave enough to shoot You Tube clips)
10. Learn how to shoot videos on my digital camera (actually, I know how to do it, I just need the confidence to be in front of the judgmental lens)
11. Rent advertising space online
I have the time and funds to do pretty much all of these things (most of them are dirt cheap). So if these are the answers to my marketing problems, why am I not taking these steps right away? Well, that’s where the crossroads part of this blog entry comes from. I’ve been putting off discussing this topic for a while now, because I don’t want to be inaccurately perceived as lazy or uncaring.
The thing is, though, I’m not the kind of person who jumps into decision making right away. I’ve made a lot of shitty decisions in my life and I’m cautious about going back to those stressful days. Going to Western Washington University gave me the degree I needed to solidify my writing career, but being away from my family and friends that long made going to college one of the worst decisions in my life. I’ve applied for writing jobs that turned out to be creativity crushers and stress magnets. I’ve traveled to places that turned out to be shitty vacation destinations at best. I could go on and on when it comes to long-term decisions that have gone sour.
When it comes to book marketing, the worst that could happen is undue stress, which doesn’t seem like a big deal on the surface. But when you consider that I’m operating on a schizophrenic and autistic brain, stress is my worst enemy. To hear other authors describe the marketing process makes it sound like they’re having their teeth pulled. I’ve even heard one author describe it as working at least five hours a day. I’ve heard another describe it as eight hours. Or twelve. Or more. On top of all these marketing chores, they also have to write every single day in order to stay sharp. That’s a lot of responsibilities and it can get overwhelming.
Here’s where I’ve come to a crossroad. On one hand, I can keep doing what I’m doing and live comfortably for the time being, but my career would be stagnant forever. On the other hand, I could take all these necessary steps and throw myself into the fire, where the risk is schizophrenic and autistic stress and the reward is being well-known in the world of writing. It seems like an easy decision to an outsider, but when you’ve got my mind and my circumstances, it’s a decision that I can’t take lightly like I have the other ones in my life (which ended up being poor choices).
I know I talk about making bad decisions all the time, but this time, it could determine where I go from here as a writer. Do I live comfortably and go nowhere or do I overwhelm myself and have a slightly better chance at rising above mediocrity? And don’t think for a minute that this has anything to do with being a “snowflake” or a “momma’s boy” or whatever the case may be. It’d just be nice to have a safety net to catch me when things go haywire, that’s all.
I’m Garrison Kelly! As soon as forever is through, I’ll be over you!
***FAMILY DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***
REINA: Garrison, no sleeping at the table. You’re not five anymore.
JAMES: He’s just mad because we’re not talking about barbarians and wizards.
GARRISON: That’s not all I write about!
JAMES: Yes, it is!
REINA: He also writes about necromancers and scatomancers.
JAMES: Those are wizards too.
GARRISON: You’re stereotyping me!
***POST-SCRIPT***
This coming Friday, I’m going to Seattle to watch Papa Roach put on a live show, with Nothing More and Escape the Fate as their opening acts. It’ll be my third time seeing Papa Roach live, but it’ll be my first time seeing the other two bands. I’ve especially wanted to see Nothing More live since they always put on elaborate performances. I’ll try to get my creative work done before the night of the concert, but no promises.
Beautiful Monster, Chapter 7
(PRESENT DAY)
“Come closer, my love…come closer…come closer…” The ethereal feminine voice wasn’t one that Windham recognized right away, but he was drawn to it. Could this faceless woman have been Shelly reborn? Could it have been Tarja? Was a combination of the two? Windham didn’t want to find out, but his body floated through the air nonetheless as he drew closer and closer to the mystery woman. Except for her purple lips, her body and face were shielded with a hooded robe. Those same lips continued to spout loving chants while making kissing gestures to the magnetic Windham. And just when it seemed the two of them would share a kiss together…
THWACK!
The jarring sound of a wooden staff against another human’s back snapped Windham Xavier wide awake. The young lady who had taken the staff shot collapsed over his body and was immediately shoved to the side, revealing the horrified faces of two male bandits. Tarja Rikkinen had already leapt to her feet with her twirling staff in hand while her opponents brandished sabers.
“I’ll be damned,” said Windham as he nipped up with his whip in hand. He lashed it a few times on the dirt ground to send chills up his opponents’ spines.
One of the bandits, who was in possession of Tarja’s satchel, high tailed it out of there with the staff fighter close behind. The other bandit formed a wicked grin on his face and waved a hand towards Windham, practically begging for this fight to begin. The two warriors flung their weapons at each other with breakneck speed, almost slashing skin, but not quite. They dodged, ducked, and rolled out of the way of each other’s strikes. The saber scraped bark off of nearby trees while shrubbery was uprooted with hellacious whip strikes.
The bandit made one microsecond of a mistake when he slashed high and Windham ducked low, wrapping the whip around his opponent’s ankles and dragging him face first to the ground. The bandit screamed every curse word he could think of while holding his bloodied nose. Windham formed a sick smile on his face as he unwound the whip and looked prepared to deal more damage.
The female bandit then came from behind and tackled Windham to the ground, her arms around his knees. She mounted his chest and rained down dagger strikes, all of which were blocked when Windham crossed his arms and held them against her forearm. She then grabbed Windham’s wrist and attempted to slash his hand off, but received a head butt from the elf instead, knocking her loopy and opening a small cut on Windham’s forehead.
While both of his opponents laid there stunned, Windham used a tree branch to pull himself up and wiped the blood off of his face with his finger. He smiled evilly at his foes and sucked on his bloodstained finger before throwing another whip strike to the ground. The male bandit with the broken nose sobbed lightly as he crawled away from the scene, leaving his female cohort to reach out with her hand and beg for a rescue.
Windham shook his head and stood the female bandit upright before cuffing her to a tree branch. She squirmed and struggled, but couldn’t get free: a familiar scenario for the one holding her captive. Instead of looking pathetic, however, she gazed back at Windham with a sly grin on her face. She even let out a few chuckles before the elf asked, “What’s so goddamn funny?”
“I need to ask you a question,” she smirked. “It’s for a friend.” She regained her breath after struggling in her binds for so long. “Is it true that Shelly Atwood fucks like a tiger?” She giggled like a witch while Windham’s facial expression sunk into droopy depression. “Well? Does she? Not that I’ve ever fucked a tiger before, but...you know…” She punctuated her mockery with a wink and another giggle.
Windham’s traumatic rage boiled over and reddened his complexion. His muscles tightened, his fists clenched tightly, and his cheeks trembled while he let out groans of unbridled anger. “You don’t know when you’ve lost, do you?” asked the elf in a furious whisper. “You need to learn your place!”
With blood-soaked tunnel vision zeroed in on the bandit’s comical visage, Windham lashed her back with so much force that it opened a massive gash. Her screams of agony echoed throughout the forest and brought a tingling sensation to Windham’s nether regions. He whipped her again. And again. And again. He whipped her until her back looked like chunks of raw shredded beef. She screamed so loudly that her throat could have exploded right then and there.
Just as Windham was ready to deal the death blow, he felt a wooden presence around his chest and throat along with the force of being held back. “Windham, that’s enough!” yelled Tarja from behind. “You’ve done enough damage! She can’t defend herself anymore!”
The staff-wielding mercenary rushed over to the battered vixen and undid her cuffs before angrily whispering, “Consider this your eviction notice, you bitch! Fuck off and don’t ever come back again!” The bandit couldn’t run, but she did bleed and stagger her way out of sight. She left a trail of skin, bone splinters, and life juices in her wake while Windham watched her with zero remorse.
Tarja pointed her staff at him and belted, “What the hell’s the matter with you, Windham?! You could have killed her! Is that what you really want?! To be a heartless killer?! For god’s sake, I got our stuff back already! We won the battle! You don’t need to do more than that!” No response, just cold icy eyes. “Goddamn it, Windham, you can’t do shit like that!”
“I’ll do whatever I want to that whore!” shouted Windham, pointing his whip at Tarja. “If you weren’t so busy chasing after your little hairbrush kit, you would have heard the nasty shit she said! She made fun of my rape!” He then held his mouth shut wishing what he said never escaped his lips.
Tarja’s expression softened from authoritative rage to sympathetic sadness. She edged slowly towards him while Windham made lazy attempts at backpedaling. She gripped both of his hands in hers and watched tears well up in the elf’s eyes, though he tried once again to fight his emotions. “Windham?” she whispered. “Is that what happened to you in Shelly’s castle?”
“…No….”
“Don’t lie to me, Windham. I heard the same thing you did. You need to come clean.” The two of them gazed into each other’s dewy eyes for a while before Tarja urged him to, “Say it.”
Windham’s anxiety and fury caused his heart rate to skyrocket in his chest. Blood covered his armor, whip, and hands. He lashed out at the bandit for a reason. His tears continued to fall as his voice trembled. He had no choice. There was no going back. “I was raped,” he finally admitted. Even more tears showered from his eyes when he reiterated, “Shelly and Torger raped me in that castle.”
The traumatized elf dropped to his knees still trying to fight his tears, but unlike his whipping contest against the bandits, this was one battle he could never win. His emotions and ghosts outnumbered him. He had no chance. He let it all out. He went into full sobbing mode and gave Tarja the tears she desperately needed.
The staff fighter knelt down beside Windham and hugged him around the shoulders. “You can cry as much as you want, my friend,” she whispered. “We’re all alone out here. Just you and me. Your life doesn’t belong to just you anymore.” She kissed his scalp and ran her fingers through his hair to bring more comfort to this wounded soldier. “It’s okay, Windham. You’re safe now.”
His face drenched in emotional fluids, Windham sobbed, “Now do you see why I don’t want to tell any of this to Commander Rinehart? It’s not worth it, Tarja. It’s not fucking worth it.”
Tarja continued to pet and hug her traumatized partner, also rocking him back and forth like a mother with her child. “You’ll be okay, Windham. The nightmare will be over sooner than you know it. You did a brave thing by giving me your tears. You’ve been fighting it for so long. You don’t have to fight it anymore. I’ll hold you for as long as you need it.”
Windham didn’t know what to say to that, so he kept on soaking Tarja’s boots with his tears. His cheeks burned, his eyes scorched, and his head felt like it was being pounded from the inside with war hammers. Embarrassment and humiliation took over his heart just like it did when he was raped. And yet, bearing his soul in front of Tarja felt right for some reason….even if it only brought a slight modicum of healing. He wasn’t sure if he believed in the “lie” that a little bit went a long way. He had a lot of healing to do and not enough time to do it in between then and reaching home base.
“Come closer, my love…come closer…come closer…” The ethereal feminine voice wasn’t one that Windham recognized right away, but he was drawn to it. Could this faceless woman have been Shelly reborn? Could it have been Tarja? Was a combination of the two? Windham didn’t want to find out, but his body floated through the air nonetheless as he drew closer and closer to the mystery woman. Except for her purple lips, her body and face were shielded with a hooded robe. Those same lips continued to spout loving chants while making kissing gestures to the magnetic Windham. And just when it seemed the two of them would share a kiss together…
THWACK!
The jarring sound of a wooden staff against another human’s back snapped Windham Xavier wide awake. The young lady who had taken the staff shot collapsed over his body and was immediately shoved to the side, revealing the horrified faces of two male bandits. Tarja Rikkinen had already leapt to her feet with her twirling staff in hand while her opponents brandished sabers.
“I’ll be damned,” said Windham as he nipped up with his whip in hand. He lashed it a few times on the dirt ground to send chills up his opponents’ spines.
One of the bandits, who was in possession of Tarja’s satchel, high tailed it out of there with the staff fighter close behind. The other bandit formed a wicked grin on his face and waved a hand towards Windham, practically begging for this fight to begin. The two warriors flung their weapons at each other with breakneck speed, almost slashing skin, but not quite. They dodged, ducked, and rolled out of the way of each other’s strikes. The saber scraped bark off of nearby trees while shrubbery was uprooted with hellacious whip strikes.
The bandit made one microsecond of a mistake when he slashed high and Windham ducked low, wrapping the whip around his opponent’s ankles and dragging him face first to the ground. The bandit screamed every curse word he could think of while holding his bloodied nose. Windham formed a sick smile on his face as he unwound the whip and looked prepared to deal more damage.
The female bandit then came from behind and tackled Windham to the ground, her arms around his knees. She mounted his chest and rained down dagger strikes, all of which were blocked when Windham crossed his arms and held them against her forearm. She then grabbed Windham’s wrist and attempted to slash his hand off, but received a head butt from the elf instead, knocking her loopy and opening a small cut on Windham’s forehead.
While both of his opponents laid there stunned, Windham used a tree branch to pull himself up and wiped the blood off of his face with his finger. He smiled evilly at his foes and sucked on his bloodstained finger before throwing another whip strike to the ground. The male bandit with the broken nose sobbed lightly as he crawled away from the scene, leaving his female cohort to reach out with her hand and beg for a rescue.
Windham shook his head and stood the female bandit upright before cuffing her to a tree branch. She squirmed and struggled, but couldn’t get free: a familiar scenario for the one holding her captive. Instead of looking pathetic, however, she gazed back at Windham with a sly grin on her face. She even let out a few chuckles before the elf asked, “What’s so goddamn funny?”
“I need to ask you a question,” she smirked. “It’s for a friend.” She regained her breath after struggling in her binds for so long. “Is it true that Shelly Atwood fucks like a tiger?” She giggled like a witch while Windham’s facial expression sunk into droopy depression. “Well? Does she? Not that I’ve ever fucked a tiger before, but...you know…” She punctuated her mockery with a wink and another giggle.
Windham’s traumatic rage boiled over and reddened his complexion. His muscles tightened, his fists clenched tightly, and his cheeks trembled while he let out groans of unbridled anger. “You don’t know when you’ve lost, do you?” asked the elf in a furious whisper. “You need to learn your place!”
With blood-soaked tunnel vision zeroed in on the bandit’s comical visage, Windham lashed her back with so much force that it opened a massive gash. Her screams of agony echoed throughout the forest and brought a tingling sensation to Windham’s nether regions. He whipped her again. And again. And again. He whipped her until her back looked like chunks of raw shredded beef. She screamed so loudly that her throat could have exploded right then and there.
Just as Windham was ready to deal the death blow, he felt a wooden presence around his chest and throat along with the force of being held back. “Windham, that’s enough!” yelled Tarja from behind. “You’ve done enough damage! She can’t defend herself anymore!”
The staff-wielding mercenary rushed over to the battered vixen and undid her cuffs before angrily whispering, “Consider this your eviction notice, you bitch! Fuck off and don’t ever come back again!” The bandit couldn’t run, but she did bleed and stagger her way out of sight. She left a trail of skin, bone splinters, and life juices in her wake while Windham watched her with zero remorse.
Tarja pointed her staff at him and belted, “What the hell’s the matter with you, Windham?! You could have killed her! Is that what you really want?! To be a heartless killer?! For god’s sake, I got our stuff back already! We won the battle! You don’t need to do more than that!” No response, just cold icy eyes. “Goddamn it, Windham, you can’t do shit like that!”
“I’ll do whatever I want to that whore!” shouted Windham, pointing his whip at Tarja. “If you weren’t so busy chasing after your little hairbrush kit, you would have heard the nasty shit she said! She made fun of my rape!” He then held his mouth shut wishing what he said never escaped his lips.
Tarja’s expression softened from authoritative rage to sympathetic sadness. She edged slowly towards him while Windham made lazy attempts at backpedaling. She gripped both of his hands in hers and watched tears well up in the elf’s eyes, though he tried once again to fight his emotions. “Windham?” she whispered. “Is that what happened to you in Shelly’s castle?”
“…No….”
“Don’t lie to me, Windham. I heard the same thing you did. You need to come clean.” The two of them gazed into each other’s dewy eyes for a while before Tarja urged him to, “Say it.”
Windham’s anxiety and fury caused his heart rate to skyrocket in his chest. Blood covered his armor, whip, and hands. He lashed out at the bandit for a reason. His tears continued to fall as his voice trembled. He had no choice. There was no going back. “I was raped,” he finally admitted. Even more tears showered from his eyes when he reiterated, “Shelly and Torger raped me in that castle.”
The traumatized elf dropped to his knees still trying to fight his tears, but unlike his whipping contest against the bandits, this was one battle he could never win. His emotions and ghosts outnumbered him. He had no chance. He let it all out. He went into full sobbing mode and gave Tarja the tears she desperately needed.
The staff fighter knelt down beside Windham and hugged him around the shoulders. “You can cry as much as you want, my friend,” she whispered. “We’re all alone out here. Just you and me. Your life doesn’t belong to just you anymore.” She kissed his scalp and ran her fingers through his hair to bring more comfort to this wounded soldier. “It’s okay, Windham. You’re safe now.”
His face drenched in emotional fluids, Windham sobbed, “Now do you see why I don’t want to tell any of this to Commander Rinehart? It’s not worth it, Tarja. It’s not fucking worth it.”
Tarja continued to pet and hug her traumatized partner, also rocking him back and forth like a mother with her child. “You’ll be okay, Windham. The nightmare will be over sooner than you know it. You did a brave thing by giving me your tears. You’ve been fighting it for so long. You don’t have to fight it anymore. I’ll hold you for as long as you need it.”
Windham didn’t know what to say to that, so he kept on soaking Tarja’s boots with his tears. His cheeks burned, his eyes scorched, and his head felt like it was being pounded from the inside with war hammers. Embarrassment and humiliation took over his heart just like it did when he was raped. And yet, bearing his soul in front of Tarja felt right for some reason….even if it only brought a slight modicum of healing. He wasn’t sure if he believed in the “lie” that a little bit went a long way. He had a lot of healing to do and not enough time to do it in between then and reaching home base.
April 28, 2018
Busted
Cami Delmore had never looked more beautiful. Chocolate brown hair, strawberry red lips, icy blue eyes, and a body deserving of the many bikinis she wore in these modeling photos. Owen Finley sat in front of his computer clicking through these photos while having a wide-awake wet dream. Something about this felt so wrong, yet it was so right. This was the perfect way to wake up in the morning. Every day, pictures of Cami making his life so wonderful. And then…
“Owen!” shouted a feminine voice from the bedroom doorway. The teenager turned around and covered himself up with his hands while his stepmother stared him down with a look of shock and seriousness. “Breakfast is on the table. It’s oatmeal and honey. Come on down before it gets cold,” said Cami before shutting the bedroom door.
“Come on down? Is she kidding me?” panicked Owen as his arousal went flat. He scrambled as fast as he could to find clothing for the day. Black jeans? Check. A Green Day T-shirt? Check. Sneakers? Check. He never dressed himself so quickly in his lifetime. Was there time to eat the honey oatmeal? “Fuck the oatmeal, I’m out of here!” he said to himself.
He grabbed his backpack and bolted toward the door, but stopped midway knowing Cami’s judging eyes would be zeroed in on him throughout the morning. His hand trembled on the doorknob at the thought of being scrutinized by her. He’d probably never get an erection again, nor would he want one. Maybe his balls would be cut off with an olive fork. Maybe his dick would be broken with a meat tenderizer. Maybe his face would be slashed open with a butcher knife.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god…” Owen murmured while trying to think of a better escape route. Of course! The window! He snapped his fingers at the idea and made a beeline for the fresh air outside. He didn’t care if it was a tall drop to the outside; he jumped anyways. A sore ankle was better than being castrated by his own stepmother and it was the former he got. He hobbled and limped towards the bus stop looking like hell.
The whole school day was nothing but a numbed out blur. Math homework? What math homework? Gym class? Who needs that? US history? The revolutionary war actually happened? No shit! Owen almost got in trouble in class several times for his incessant shaking. The laughter from his various classmates made him tremble that much harder. But when asked about his quirky behavior, he kept giving false answers and otherwise remained tightlipped. He kept looking down at his own crotch to make sure he didn’t get an erection in the middle of a lecture.
By the time the school bus dropped him back off at his house, Owen took his sweet time getting to the front door. The front door? He couldn’t go there. Cami was probably waiting for him with a pair of surgical scissors. These thoughts brought a weakness to his stomach and jitteriness to his legs. Where was the goddamn ladder when he needed it? He snapped his fingers once again as he remembered it was in the tool shed.
He heaved the clumsy metal object towards his bedroom window and became winded after the anaerobic exercise for the day. Owen’s heavy breathing was for more reasons than that. He tried so hard to calm his stomach down and shake the feeling back in his rolled ankle. By the time he actually started climbing, the ankle pain flared up like a burning building, almost to where he fell off several times. He hurried as fast as he could up the metal device and successfully made it through the window.
Owen’s energy was completely sapped from his body and all he wanted to do was lie in bed and sleep it off. If he never woke up again, it would mean never having to talk to Cami. Mission accomplished. Not one awkward conversation was had. Not one genital was snipped. Not one more look of anger from the object of misplaced affection. Or at least so he thought.
“We need to talk,” was the quote the snapped him awake. Sure enough, Cami was standing right there in his doorway with her arms folded and her face emboldened. Now Owen really started to sweat. His eyebrows shot up to the ceiling while his eyeballs moistened and trembled. This was it. He was a dead man. He crawled backwards toward the window only to have Cami yell, “Hey!” at him several times and drag him back inside by his ankles.
“Let me go, damn it! Let me the fuck go!” shouted Owen, but nobody could hear him and he wasn’t going anywhere with Cami pinning his legs together on the bed. He tried screaming some more. “I’m sorry! I’m fucking sorry! Now please let me go!” It was no use. Cami held her hand over Owen’s mouth and the only other screams that came were capital M’s. He could thrash around all he wanted, but there was no escape from what he perceived to be a trip to the gallows. Owen couldn’t help but let a few soggy tears out.
And then Cami’s demeanor changed when she removed her hand from Owen’s mouth and instead petted his puffy black hair. She whispered, “It’s okay” to him over and over again until the stepson stopped shaking. His tears wouldn’t stop coming, but he was at least calm enough to sit on the bed and have a real conversation with the new family member he masturbated to this morning. He couldn’t even look her in the eyes. He kept his head down and allowed his tears to stain his jeans.
“Owen? Look at me,” she said, finally getting his semi-relaxed attention. “I’m not mad at you.”
“You’re not?”
“Not at all. I was more worried about you than I was angry. You left this morning without eating your breakfast. Come here,” she said while hugging her crying stepson around the shoulders. “You don’t need to be afraid to talk to me. I may not have given birth to you myself, but I’m still your mother. Nothing will ever change that, do you understand?”
Owen wiped the tears away with his wrist and sobbed, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Look, I know you don’t take kindly to being embarrassed and that’s okay. You’re a sensitive guy and I respect that. But we need to talk about what happened this morning. I saw what you did and I saw who you were doing it to. Can we please just talk about this and not avoid each other anymore?”
Snorting snot up his nose, Owen said, “Fine. Let’s talk.”
Cami hugged her stepson some more and rocked him back and forth while she talked. “There’s nothing wrong with masturbating, Owen. It’s perfectly normal. Everybody does it whether they like to admit it or not. I bet there’re some preachers in our neighborhood who do it too even though they don’t say anything. I’m sorry I walked in on you like that. I’ll knock next time, okay?”
She kissed him on top of his head and rocked him some more. “But here’s the part I want you to understand. You and I can never be together that way. You know that, right? It would tear our family apart. Your dad would divorce me and he’d never forgive either of us. On top of that, you’re only fourteen years old, Owen. You’re way too young to have sex, let alone with someone my age. I’ll still be your mother and you’ll still be my son. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Owen’s cheeks burned a bright red as he whispered, “I’m sorry, Cami. I really am. I feel stupid right now…”
“Hey,” said Cami while pointing her stepsons chin up with her delicate fingers. “You’re not stupid. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. You’re a teenager. This is what teenagers do. You’re just figuring out the world around you. And that’s okay. Besides, it’s not my place to tell you what you can and can’t fantasize about.” She pointed at his head and said, “What goes in on here is nobody else’s business but your own. Your mind is the last sanctuary you have.”
Owen’s jaw stopped convulsing and he could actually get words out this time. “I don’t know, Cami. I’m taking this sex ed class, right? And I don’t even want to ask anything in front of everybody because they’re a bunch of giggly assholes. Besides, the teacher won’t stop talking about abstinence and STD’s and shit. Yeah, like that’s going to do a lot of good. I’m already fucked up as it is!” Owen’s last sentence was punctuated by him kicking his own backpack and Cami holding him even tighter to calm him down.
“Sounds to me like you’re not getting a real education out of that class. I want you to listen to me, Owen. Forget everything that teacher taught you. There’s more to sex than just getting green stuff on your penis. There’s more to romance than waiting until you’re married. That’s all bullshit and it doesn’t work. If you see a girl at school that you like, don’t be afraid to introduce yourself to her. Treat her like an equal and she’ll treat you the same way. I should probably have a talk with the principal at your school.”
“No, Cami, you can’t do that! If the rest of the school finds out you…”
Cami shushed her stepson three times and petted his hair some more. “Nobody else has to know that I talked with him. It’ll just be a one on one conversation. They shouldn’t be teaching that abstinence crap anyways. It’s not realistic. There’s a lot they’re not talking about that they should. Do you even know how to use a condom?”
Owen shook his head and Cami sighed in disgust. “Yeah,” she said. “I should definitely have a talk with that principal. In the meantime, you’ve got homework to do. I’ll leave you alone and let you do that. And remember, if you have any questions that you don’t want to share in front of the class, you can share them with me. Okay? I love you.” She kissed him on the head again and proceeded towards the bedroom door. “Good talk tonight, son. Let’s do it again sometime.”
“Uh, Cami?”
“Yes?”
“C….could you not tell dad about what happened this morning?”
Cami smiled and made a lip-zipping motion to solidify her silence. She then waved at him and closed the bedroom door behind her. Owen plopped backwards on his bed and breathed heavy sighs of relief. Embarrassment still clung to him tightly and the tears still hadn’t dried up. But at least now he knew what he needed to do. He slowly picked his exhausted body off the bed and proceeded to delete all of Cami’s pictures from his computer. “I need this family. I love her too much for this bullshit,” Owen said to himself.
“Owen!” shouted a feminine voice from the bedroom doorway. The teenager turned around and covered himself up with his hands while his stepmother stared him down with a look of shock and seriousness. “Breakfast is on the table. It’s oatmeal and honey. Come on down before it gets cold,” said Cami before shutting the bedroom door.
“Come on down? Is she kidding me?” panicked Owen as his arousal went flat. He scrambled as fast as he could to find clothing for the day. Black jeans? Check. A Green Day T-shirt? Check. Sneakers? Check. He never dressed himself so quickly in his lifetime. Was there time to eat the honey oatmeal? “Fuck the oatmeal, I’m out of here!” he said to himself.
He grabbed his backpack and bolted toward the door, but stopped midway knowing Cami’s judging eyes would be zeroed in on him throughout the morning. His hand trembled on the doorknob at the thought of being scrutinized by her. He’d probably never get an erection again, nor would he want one. Maybe his balls would be cut off with an olive fork. Maybe his dick would be broken with a meat tenderizer. Maybe his face would be slashed open with a butcher knife.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god…” Owen murmured while trying to think of a better escape route. Of course! The window! He snapped his fingers at the idea and made a beeline for the fresh air outside. He didn’t care if it was a tall drop to the outside; he jumped anyways. A sore ankle was better than being castrated by his own stepmother and it was the former he got. He hobbled and limped towards the bus stop looking like hell.
The whole school day was nothing but a numbed out blur. Math homework? What math homework? Gym class? Who needs that? US history? The revolutionary war actually happened? No shit! Owen almost got in trouble in class several times for his incessant shaking. The laughter from his various classmates made him tremble that much harder. But when asked about his quirky behavior, he kept giving false answers and otherwise remained tightlipped. He kept looking down at his own crotch to make sure he didn’t get an erection in the middle of a lecture.
By the time the school bus dropped him back off at his house, Owen took his sweet time getting to the front door. The front door? He couldn’t go there. Cami was probably waiting for him with a pair of surgical scissors. These thoughts brought a weakness to his stomach and jitteriness to his legs. Where was the goddamn ladder when he needed it? He snapped his fingers once again as he remembered it was in the tool shed.
He heaved the clumsy metal object towards his bedroom window and became winded after the anaerobic exercise for the day. Owen’s heavy breathing was for more reasons than that. He tried so hard to calm his stomach down and shake the feeling back in his rolled ankle. By the time he actually started climbing, the ankle pain flared up like a burning building, almost to where he fell off several times. He hurried as fast as he could up the metal device and successfully made it through the window.
Owen’s energy was completely sapped from his body and all he wanted to do was lie in bed and sleep it off. If he never woke up again, it would mean never having to talk to Cami. Mission accomplished. Not one awkward conversation was had. Not one genital was snipped. Not one more look of anger from the object of misplaced affection. Or at least so he thought.
“We need to talk,” was the quote the snapped him awake. Sure enough, Cami was standing right there in his doorway with her arms folded and her face emboldened. Now Owen really started to sweat. His eyebrows shot up to the ceiling while his eyeballs moistened and trembled. This was it. He was a dead man. He crawled backwards toward the window only to have Cami yell, “Hey!” at him several times and drag him back inside by his ankles.
“Let me go, damn it! Let me the fuck go!” shouted Owen, but nobody could hear him and he wasn’t going anywhere with Cami pinning his legs together on the bed. He tried screaming some more. “I’m sorry! I’m fucking sorry! Now please let me go!” It was no use. Cami held her hand over Owen’s mouth and the only other screams that came were capital M’s. He could thrash around all he wanted, but there was no escape from what he perceived to be a trip to the gallows. Owen couldn’t help but let a few soggy tears out.
And then Cami’s demeanor changed when she removed her hand from Owen’s mouth and instead petted his puffy black hair. She whispered, “It’s okay” to him over and over again until the stepson stopped shaking. His tears wouldn’t stop coming, but he was at least calm enough to sit on the bed and have a real conversation with the new family member he masturbated to this morning. He couldn’t even look her in the eyes. He kept his head down and allowed his tears to stain his jeans.
“Owen? Look at me,” she said, finally getting his semi-relaxed attention. “I’m not mad at you.”
“You’re not?”
“Not at all. I was more worried about you than I was angry. You left this morning without eating your breakfast. Come here,” she said while hugging her crying stepson around the shoulders. “You don’t need to be afraid to talk to me. I may not have given birth to you myself, but I’m still your mother. Nothing will ever change that, do you understand?”
Owen wiped the tears away with his wrist and sobbed, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Look, I know you don’t take kindly to being embarrassed and that’s okay. You’re a sensitive guy and I respect that. But we need to talk about what happened this morning. I saw what you did and I saw who you were doing it to. Can we please just talk about this and not avoid each other anymore?”
Snorting snot up his nose, Owen said, “Fine. Let’s talk.”
Cami hugged her stepson some more and rocked him back and forth while she talked. “There’s nothing wrong with masturbating, Owen. It’s perfectly normal. Everybody does it whether they like to admit it or not. I bet there’re some preachers in our neighborhood who do it too even though they don’t say anything. I’m sorry I walked in on you like that. I’ll knock next time, okay?”
She kissed him on top of his head and rocked him some more. “But here’s the part I want you to understand. You and I can never be together that way. You know that, right? It would tear our family apart. Your dad would divorce me and he’d never forgive either of us. On top of that, you’re only fourteen years old, Owen. You’re way too young to have sex, let alone with someone my age. I’ll still be your mother and you’ll still be my son. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Owen’s cheeks burned a bright red as he whispered, “I’m sorry, Cami. I really am. I feel stupid right now…”
“Hey,” said Cami while pointing her stepsons chin up with her delicate fingers. “You’re not stupid. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. You’re a teenager. This is what teenagers do. You’re just figuring out the world around you. And that’s okay. Besides, it’s not my place to tell you what you can and can’t fantasize about.” She pointed at his head and said, “What goes in on here is nobody else’s business but your own. Your mind is the last sanctuary you have.”
Owen’s jaw stopped convulsing and he could actually get words out this time. “I don’t know, Cami. I’m taking this sex ed class, right? And I don’t even want to ask anything in front of everybody because they’re a bunch of giggly assholes. Besides, the teacher won’t stop talking about abstinence and STD’s and shit. Yeah, like that’s going to do a lot of good. I’m already fucked up as it is!” Owen’s last sentence was punctuated by him kicking his own backpack and Cami holding him even tighter to calm him down.
“Sounds to me like you’re not getting a real education out of that class. I want you to listen to me, Owen. Forget everything that teacher taught you. There’s more to sex than just getting green stuff on your penis. There’s more to romance than waiting until you’re married. That’s all bullshit and it doesn’t work. If you see a girl at school that you like, don’t be afraid to introduce yourself to her. Treat her like an equal and she’ll treat you the same way. I should probably have a talk with the principal at your school.”
“No, Cami, you can’t do that! If the rest of the school finds out you…”
Cami shushed her stepson three times and petted his hair some more. “Nobody else has to know that I talked with him. It’ll just be a one on one conversation. They shouldn’t be teaching that abstinence crap anyways. It’s not realistic. There’s a lot they’re not talking about that they should. Do you even know how to use a condom?”
Owen shook his head and Cami sighed in disgust. “Yeah,” she said. “I should definitely have a talk with that principal. In the meantime, you’ve got homework to do. I’ll leave you alone and let you do that. And remember, if you have any questions that you don’t want to share in front of the class, you can share them with me. Okay? I love you.” She kissed him on the head again and proceeded towards the bedroom door. “Good talk tonight, son. Let’s do it again sometime.”
“Uh, Cami?”
“Yes?”
“C….could you not tell dad about what happened this morning?”
Cami smiled and made a lip-zipping motion to solidify her silence. She then waved at him and closed the bedroom door behind her. Owen plopped backwards on his bed and breathed heavy sighs of relief. Embarrassment still clung to him tightly and the tears still hadn’t dried up. But at least now he knew what he needed to do. He slowly picked his exhausted body off the bed and proceeded to delete all of Cami’s pictures from his computer. “I need this family. I love her too much for this bullshit,” Owen said to himself.
April 25, 2018
Beautiful Monster, Chapter 5
(PRESENT DAY)
The wool blanket around his shoulders along with the warmth of the campfire kept Windham Xavier in a calm stasis…for now. He gazed deeply into the bowel of the flame, as if it was more beautiful than the castle he burned to the ground only days before. Not a fly buzzing around his ear could have distracted him from his relaxing entertainment. Even the horses neighing here and there couldn’t awaken the living zombie. All life had left his wild drooling eyes. His posture was hunched over and he completely ignored the discomfort in his spine and ribs.
But the magical voice of Tarja Rikkinen…and that soft, comforting hand on his shoulder…he could pull his eyes away from the fire long enough for that. She rubbed her hand up and down his shoulder and arm while talking to him with sensitive sincerity. “Truth is, Windham, there’s a reason this feels good to you. You’re not completely anxious about being touched. You’ve been unbound for hours now and not once have you tried to run away, even when the opportunity was ripe for the picking.
“Seduction is a specialty of mine and I use it to my full advantage. I’ve used it to glean information from criminals. I’ve used it to talk hostile people down from perilous situations. I’ve used it for a lot of things. Is it a cheap tactic that makes me feel ashamed afterwards? Indeed it is. But is it effective? Absolutely. I don’t want you to feel like I’ve taken advantage of you, though. You’re different from the others. I care a lot about you in only the short time I’ve known you. I want to see you get some semblance of sanity back.
“I know you find that hard to believe considering what my mission is. There’s no question that retelling your story to Commander Rinehart will bring back some awful memories. But it’s something you and I both have to be a part of. I’ve said this before: I refuse to go back to poverty. And quite frankly, I don’t want you to go down that road either.
“It’s a lonely life. It makes mercenary work seem like nothing in comparison. You know how I earned money for me and my mom? I gave back massages out on the streets. I was good at it. But it didn’t matter, because I desperately wanted out of that life. I’ve been attacked far too many times for my comfort. But none of it compares to what you went through under Shelly’s watch, whatever happened.”
After a while of gazing into the pyrocosmic abyss before him, Windham rifled through Tarja’s satchel in search of…something. She asked, “Uh, can I help you find something?” He didn’t need much help at all. The object he pulled out was a hair brush with ball points at the end of every bristle. Without even giving her proper eye contact, he handed the brush to her and nodded.
Tarja smiled and said, “Let me guess: you want me to use this on you?” Without saying a word, Windham’s silence gave an affirmative answer. “If I brush your hair, will you tell me everything I need to know about Shelly and Torger? I hate to keep asking, but it’s got to get to that point eventually.” Windham shrugged his shoulders in an half-assed attempt at a positive answer.
“Fair enough,” said Tarja. “But if this is going to work, I’m going to need you to take that blanket off.” Windham finally met his charge’s gaze with a look of wide-eyed anxiety. “Windham, it’s okay. I just want to be able to run the bristles across your back and shoulders. That’s probably the best part of what I’m about to do to you. So go ahead, take your blanket off.”
Windham reluctantly agreed to Tarja’s request, exposing some bumps and bruises on his torso, front and back. “My god,” she said. “What the hell hap…I mean…Look, I’ll be careful about your wounds. I promise. Don’t worry about the bruises. Just close your eyes and relax. I’ll make this feel good.”
The elf did as he was told, little droplets escaping from his lids. Tarja chose not to press him any further about that. Instead she gently played with Windham’s long hair before running the brush across his scalp, the bristles grazing him and sending tingles throughout his body. The brush strokes were slow and light, allowing a few groans of happiness to escape from Windam’s mouth.
“You really do have lovely hair,” said Tarja, causing the elf’s cheeks to glow a bright red. She giggled at that while continuing to run the brush through his scalp. And then she moved down the back of his neck and sent even more tingles through his body. And just like she promised, she moved with ease and care across the back and shoulder bruises inflicted by Torger. Windham never once flinched in pain; he just sat there and allowed the relaxation to take over once more.
For a brief period of time, Windham’s imagination was quiet. Being touched in this way didn’t send him scurrying into the river again. Being grazed with a hairbrush didn’t make him rock back and forth with his hands over his ears. There was just temporary serenity and a peeling back of his insanity. No Shelly. No Torger. No table. No intubation. Nothing but tingles and waves of true pleasure.
He was about to fall asleep right there, but then Tarja parted his hair down the middle and put down the brush so that she could give him a shoulder squeeze. Pressing her thumbs into his back made even more moans come out of Windham’s mouth. For the first time in a while, he actually spoke up, “Feels good.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Tarja with a smile. “It’s actually nice to hear you talk again even if it was only two words.”
“It’s not just the Shelly thing that’s making me do this. It’s who I am,” confessed Windham. “I’m not somebody who opens up to people that easily. I don’t put myself out there even though my job requires it sometimes. I guess I’ve always been a shy little boy. Most of the time, I just like to live in my own head, though it’s not always that good of a place to be.”
“I know the feeling,” said Tarja, still working Windam’s back and shoulders with her thumbs. “Maybe not to the extent that you do, but my mind isn’t much of a place to be either. Too many shitty memories. They get in the way of my best thinking. Maybe I too should have jumped in a river a long time ago.”
“If this is another seduction tactic of yours, then…”
“It’s not, Windham. I assure you it isn’t. When I gave backrubs on the street, most of my clients didn’t know how to separate a therapeutic touch from sexual fantasy. They always wanted something from me that I could never give them. I was only a teenager. None of them were worthy of taking that from me.”
“Yeah, you think that’s bad, you should listen to…” Windham covered his own mouth with his hand before anymore precious information could be leaked.
“I should listen to what?” asked Tarja, stopping the massage.
“Uh…it’s nothing…it’s really nothing. I’m sorry I startled you.”
Tarja sighed, “No, it’s alright. I shouldn’t have burdened you with my problems. You’ve got enough of your own to deal with. We really should get to sleep. We’ve got a long day of traveling ahead of us.” She unfurled a bedroll next to the campfire and took off pieces of her armor until she was comfortable in her sleeping position. “Goodnight, Windham.”
“Hey, Tarja.” She turned around to face him. “Thank you for the massage. It really did help.”
“Sure thing,” she said while smiling sadly at him. She rolled over and drifted off into the dream world, leaving Windham to wonder what exactly ended the massage so quickly. Was talking about his ordeal really that important to her? How could it be? She could have just as easily listened in on the debriefing with Commander Rinehart? What good could come from talking about it here and now?
Windham wrapped the wool blanket around himself once more and rolled himself up into an elven burrito. After receiving a massage that wonderful, he desperately needed to sleep it off and let the dream world do all the talking. But deep down in his heart, he knew he was going to have to spill his guts eventually. That made him shiver despite being next to a comfortable campfire.
Then again, he lived that nightmare every day whether he talked about it or not. What’s reliving it one more time going to mean to him? Then again, how could this woman possibly help him with his emotional scars? Yes, she was delicate. Yes, she was sensitive. Yes, her massages felt fantastic.
But what magical powers did she have that could take away somebody’s trauma so easily? Did she even know how to take away her own trauma from her life of being assaulted on the streets? Was there some kind of magic in sharing these stories with friends? So many questions swirled around Windham’s brain, many of which were more traumatic to think about than the actual captivity. The relaxation gave way to an uneasy feeling in his stomach. It truly was do or die for him.
The wool blanket around his shoulders along with the warmth of the campfire kept Windham Xavier in a calm stasis…for now. He gazed deeply into the bowel of the flame, as if it was more beautiful than the castle he burned to the ground only days before. Not a fly buzzing around his ear could have distracted him from his relaxing entertainment. Even the horses neighing here and there couldn’t awaken the living zombie. All life had left his wild drooling eyes. His posture was hunched over and he completely ignored the discomfort in his spine and ribs.
But the magical voice of Tarja Rikkinen…and that soft, comforting hand on his shoulder…he could pull his eyes away from the fire long enough for that. She rubbed her hand up and down his shoulder and arm while talking to him with sensitive sincerity. “Truth is, Windham, there’s a reason this feels good to you. You’re not completely anxious about being touched. You’ve been unbound for hours now and not once have you tried to run away, even when the opportunity was ripe for the picking.
“Seduction is a specialty of mine and I use it to my full advantage. I’ve used it to glean information from criminals. I’ve used it to talk hostile people down from perilous situations. I’ve used it for a lot of things. Is it a cheap tactic that makes me feel ashamed afterwards? Indeed it is. But is it effective? Absolutely. I don’t want you to feel like I’ve taken advantage of you, though. You’re different from the others. I care a lot about you in only the short time I’ve known you. I want to see you get some semblance of sanity back.
“I know you find that hard to believe considering what my mission is. There’s no question that retelling your story to Commander Rinehart will bring back some awful memories. But it’s something you and I both have to be a part of. I’ve said this before: I refuse to go back to poverty. And quite frankly, I don’t want you to go down that road either.
“It’s a lonely life. It makes mercenary work seem like nothing in comparison. You know how I earned money for me and my mom? I gave back massages out on the streets. I was good at it. But it didn’t matter, because I desperately wanted out of that life. I’ve been attacked far too many times for my comfort. But none of it compares to what you went through under Shelly’s watch, whatever happened.”
After a while of gazing into the pyrocosmic abyss before him, Windham rifled through Tarja’s satchel in search of…something. She asked, “Uh, can I help you find something?” He didn’t need much help at all. The object he pulled out was a hair brush with ball points at the end of every bristle. Without even giving her proper eye contact, he handed the brush to her and nodded.
Tarja smiled and said, “Let me guess: you want me to use this on you?” Without saying a word, Windham’s silence gave an affirmative answer. “If I brush your hair, will you tell me everything I need to know about Shelly and Torger? I hate to keep asking, but it’s got to get to that point eventually.” Windham shrugged his shoulders in an half-assed attempt at a positive answer.
“Fair enough,” said Tarja. “But if this is going to work, I’m going to need you to take that blanket off.” Windham finally met his charge’s gaze with a look of wide-eyed anxiety. “Windham, it’s okay. I just want to be able to run the bristles across your back and shoulders. That’s probably the best part of what I’m about to do to you. So go ahead, take your blanket off.”
Windham reluctantly agreed to Tarja’s request, exposing some bumps and bruises on his torso, front and back. “My god,” she said. “What the hell hap…I mean…Look, I’ll be careful about your wounds. I promise. Don’t worry about the bruises. Just close your eyes and relax. I’ll make this feel good.”
The elf did as he was told, little droplets escaping from his lids. Tarja chose not to press him any further about that. Instead she gently played with Windham’s long hair before running the brush across his scalp, the bristles grazing him and sending tingles throughout his body. The brush strokes were slow and light, allowing a few groans of happiness to escape from Windam’s mouth.
“You really do have lovely hair,” said Tarja, causing the elf’s cheeks to glow a bright red. She giggled at that while continuing to run the brush through his scalp. And then she moved down the back of his neck and sent even more tingles through his body. And just like she promised, she moved with ease and care across the back and shoulder bruises inflicted by Torger. Windham never once flinched in pain; he just sat there and allowed the relaxation to take over once more.
For a brief period of time, Windham’s imagination was quiet. Being touched in this way didn’t send him scurrying into the river again. Being grazed with a hairbrush didn’t make him rock back and forth with his hands over his ears. There was just temporary serenity and a peeling back of his insanity. No Shelly. No Torger. No table. No intubation. Nothing but tingles and waves of true pleasure.
He was about to fall asleep right there, but then Tarja parted his hair down the middle and put down the brush so that she could give him a shoulder squeeze. Pressing her thumbs into his back made even more moans come out of Windham’s mouth. For the first time in a while, he actually spoke up, “Feels good.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Tarja with a smile. “It’s actually nice to hear you talk again even if it was only two words.”
“It’s not just the Shelly thing that’s making me do this. It’s who I am,” confessed Windham. “I’m not somebody who opens up to people that easily. I don’t put myself out there even though my job requires it sometimes. I guess I’ve always been a shy little boy. Most of the time, I just like to live in my own head, though it’s not always that good of a place to be.”
“I know the feeling,” said Tarja, still working Windam’s back and shoulders with her thumbs. “Maybe not to the extent that you do, but my mind isn’t much of a place to be either. Too many shitty memories. They get in the way of my best thinking. Maybe I too should have jumped in a river a long time ago.”
“If this is another seduction tactic of yours, then…”
“It’s not, Windham. I assure you it isn’t. When I gave backrubs on the street, most of my clients didn’t know how to separate a therapeutic touch from sexual fantasy. They always wanted something from me that I could never give them. I was only a teenager. None of them were worthy of taking that from me.”
“Yeah, you think that’s bad, you should listen to…” Windham covered his own mouth with his hand before anymore precious information could be leaked.
“I should listen to what?” asked Tarja, stopping the massage.
“Uh…it’s nothing…it’s really nothing. I’m sorry I startled you.”
Tarja sighed, “No, it’s alright. I shouldn’t have burdened you with my problems. You’ve got enough of your own to deal with. We really should get to sleep. We’ve got a long day of traveling ahead of us.” She unfurled a bedroll next to the campfire and took off pieces of her armor until she was comfortable in her sleeping position. “Goodnight, Windham.”
“Hey, Tarja.” She turned around to face him. “Thank you for the massage. It really did help.”
“Sure thing,” she said while smiling sadly at him. She rolled over and drifted off into the dream world, leaving Windham to wonder what exactly ended the massage so quickly. Was talking about his ordeal really that important to her? How could it be? She could have just as easily listened in on the debriefing with Commander Rinehart? What good could come from talking about it here and now?
Windham wrapped the wool blanket around himself once more and rolled himself up into an elven burrito. After receiving a massage that wonderful, he desperately needed to sleep it off and let the dream world do all the talking. But deep down in his heart, he knew he was going to have to spill his guts eventually. That made him shiver despite being next to a comfortable campfire.
Then again, he lived that nightmare every day whether he talked about it or not. What’s reliving it one more time going to mean to him? Then again, how could this woman possibly help him with his emotional scars? Yes, she was delicate. Yes, she was sensitive. Yes, her massages felt fantastic.
But what magical powers did she have that could take away somebody’s trauma so easily? Did she even know how to take away her own trauma from her life of being assaulted on the streets? Was there some kind of magic in sharing these stories with friends? So many questions swirled around Windham’s brain, many of which were more traumatic to think about than the actual captivity. The relaxation gave way to an uneasy feeling in his stomach. It truly was do or die for him.
Incel Terrorism
***INCEL TERRORISM***
….Guys…we need to talk…we need to talk right fucking now…
I don’t know if anybody has told you this before, but murder, sexism, and rape are all bad things. Well, not just bad things. They’re awful things. They’re horrible things. If you’re an “involuntary celibate” or incel for short, you’re not going to attract women by committing acts of terrorism. In fact, by the time the “revolution against the Chads and Stacies” is over, you will have absolutely nothing you want. You will either be in prison or dead and you still won’t have a girlfriend.
Don’t get me wrong. If anybody gets the frustration of being single, it’s me. Loneliness sucks sometimes. But do you know what sucks even more than that? Being a murderer. Being an online troll. Being an all around negative human being. If you kill somebody else over sexual frustration, there’s no coming back from that. If you post hateful rhetoric online, you lose opportunities and you lose respect. Imagine that! Women actually enjoy being with men who treat them as equals! Wow! What a concept!
And if you think I’m writing all of this just to get laid, well, as Johnny Carson once said, “You’re wrong, ozone killer breath!” I’m writing these words because I don’t like watching murder stories on the evening news. I’m writing these words because every time an incel murder happens, it makes people who actually struggle with shyness look like fools. Murderers aren’t doing a service to anybody. I mean, seriously, are you fighting for love or hate? Do you hate love? Do you love hate? What is it you want?
Do you want to know what I do when I feel lonely? I create art. I draw pictures even though they’re crappy as fuck. I write first draft novels even though by their very definition are also crappy as fuck. I write poetry. I write songs. Loneliness can be a huge motivator for someone who wants to put their psychic energy to good use. Just ask Ricky Nelson, the guy who sang “Lonesome Town”. Just ask the Statler Brothers, who performed “Flowers On the Wall”. Ask Pink Floyd, who wrote such classics as “Hey You” and “Don’t Leave Me Now”, which are both about, you guessed it, loneliness, shyness, and isolation. And don’t give me this weak crap about how you’re not good at creating art, therefore you won’t do it. Everybody starts somewhere! Stephen King didn’t come out of the womb writing bestsellers. He worked at it! If you work at your craft, you might be surprised by how therapeutic it is.
If you need something a little more immediate than art, then I’ve got two words for you: Porn Hub. If you can dream it up, you’ll find it on Porn Hub, guaranteed. For instance, if you want to find a video of two lesbians scissoring each other while wearing diapers, it’s there. Wow! If you want to find a video of Tifa Lockhart from Final Fantasy VII giving an unknown man a blowjob, it’s right fucking there. Holy shit! If you want to watch a chick give her stepbrother a foot job, by all means, go for it. It’s right fucking there! All you need is a computer and some privacy. Make sure your door is locked and your shade is drawn. Hell, you can do what Billy Connolly does and pile furniture against the door. But believe it or not, visiting Porn Hub for a night of fun is actually an option! While it doesn’t provide the same intimate feeling as a full-on relationship, it’ll tide you over until then. Don’t believe me? Ask The Who, a band that performed a song about jerking off called “Pictures of Lily”. Wow!
And speaking of music, did you know that listening to it can provide a channel for your raw emotions? Holy shit! Where did this factoid come from?! If you’re angry, you can listen to “Fucking Hostile” by Pantera, a band fronted by a guy named Phil who’s pissed off at EVERYTHING! Or maybe you’re feeling a little more romantic and you want something lighter. No problem, just look up a song by Spandau Ballet called “True”. Or you just want to relax and forget about it all. May I suggest “Inamorata” by David Arkenstone and Charlee Brooks. Music is a drug more powerful than cocaine and more philosophical than weed. Try it!
My point is, there are lots of channels for your broken heart and violence sure as shit isn’t one of them. Be nice to the women in your life and they’ll be nice to you. Treat them like shit and you’ll be treated like shit as well. This is not the Middle Ages anymore. You actually have to treat the world with the same respect you want to be treated with. Progressive change is a function of time. The more we learn, the more we put those lessons into action. You want to be loved? Then show some love yourself.
And when you show that love, don’t do it with the end game of getting laid. Do it because you’re a good human being and you’re better than the murderers and rapists of the world. I assure you that there are more important things in life than getting your junk greased, and this is coming from a guy who openly admits to being a 32-year-old virgin. Yes, loneliness sucks from time to time, but it doesn’t have to dominate your thoughts like a schizophrenic ghost. And on the day that you’re told “no” by a beautiful woman, listen to her and walk the fuck away. I’m Garrison fucking Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
….Guys…we need to talk…we need to talk right fucking now…
I don’t know if anybody has told you this before, but murder, sexism, and rape are all bad things. Well, not just bad things. They’re awful things. They’re horrible things. If you’re an “involuntary celibate” or incel for short, you’re not going to attract women by committing acts of terrorism. In fact, by the time the “revolution against the Chads and Stacies” is over, you will have absolutely nothing you want. You will either be in prison or dead and you still won’t have a girlfriend.
Don’t get me wrong. If anybody gets the frustration of being single, it’s me. Loneliness sucks sometimes. But do you know what sucks even more than that? Being a murderer. Being an online troll. Being an all around negative human being. If you kill somebody else over sexual frustration, there’s no coming back from that. If you post hateful rhetoric online, you lose opportunities and you lose respect. Imagine that! Women actually enjoy being with men who treat them as equals! Wow! What a concept!
And if you think I’m writing all of this just to get laid, well, as Johnny Carson once said, “You’re wrong, ozone killer breath!” I’m writing these words because I don’t like watching murder stories on the evening news. I’m writing these words because every time an incel murder happens, it makes people who actually struggle with shyness look like fools. Murderers aren’t doing a service to anybody. I mean, seriously, are you fighting for love or hate? Do you hate love? Do you love hate? What is it you want?
Do you want to know what I do when I feel lonely? I create art. I draw pictures even though they’re crappy as fuck. I write first draft novels even though by their very definition are also crappy as fuck. I write poetry. I write songs. Loneliness can be a huge motivator for someone who wants to put their psychic energy to good use. Just ask Ricky Nelson, the guy who sang “Lonesome Town”. Just ask the Statler Brothers, who performed “Flowers On the Wall”. Ask Pink Floyd, who wrote such classics as “Hey You” and “Don’t Leave Me Now”, which are both about, you guessed it, loneliness, shyness, and isolation. And don’t give me this weak crap about how you’re not good at creating art, therefore you won’t do it. Everybody starts somewhere! Stephen King didn’t come out of the womb writing bestsellers. He worked at it! If you work at your craft, you might be surprised by how therapeutic it is.
If you need something a little more immediate than art, then I’ve got two words for you: Porn Hub. If you can dream it up, you’ll find it on Porn Hub, guaranteed. For instance, if you want to find a video of two lesbians scissoring each other while wearing diapers, it’s there. Wow! If you want to find a video of Tifa Lockhart from Final Fantasy VII giving an unknown man a blowjob, it’s right fucking there. Holy shit! If you want to watch a chick give her stepbrother a foot job, by all means, go for it. It’s right fucking there! All you need is a computer and some privacy. Make sure your door is locked and your shade is drawn. Hell, you can do what Billy Connolly does and pile furniture against the door. But believe it or not, visiting Porn Hub for a night of fun is actually an option! While it doesn’t provide the same intimate feeling as a full-on relationship, it’ll tide you over until then. Don’t believe me? Ask The Who, a band that performed a song about jerking off called “Pictures of Lily”. Wow!
And speaking of music, did you know that listening to it can provide a channel for your raw emotions? Holy shit! Where did this factoid come from?! If you’re angry, you can listen to “Fucking Hostile” by Pantera, a band fronted by a guy named Phil who’s pissed off at EVERYTHING! Or maybe you’re feeling a little more romantic and you want something lighter. No problem, just look up a song by Spandau Ballet called “True”. Or you just want to relax and forget about it all. May I suggest “Inamorata” by David Arkenstone and Charlee Brooks. Music is a drug more powerful than cocaine and more philosophical than weed. Try it!
My point is, there are lots of channels for your broken heart and violence sure as shit isn’t one of them. Be nice to the women in your life and they’ll be nice to you. Treat them like shit and you’ll be treated like shit as well. This is not the Middle Ages anymore. You actually have to treat the world with the same respect you want to be treated with. Progressive change is a function of time. The more we learn, the more we put those lessons into action. You want to be loved? Then show some love yourself.
And when you show that love, don’t do it with the end game of getting laid. Do it because you’re a good human being and you’re better than the murderers and rapists of the world. I assure you that there are more important things in life than getting your junk greased, and this is coming from a guy who openly admits to being a 32-year-old virgin. Yes, loneliness sucks from time to time, but it doesn’t have to dominate your thoughts like a schizophrenic ghost. And on the day that you’re told “no” by a beautiful woman, listen to her and walk the fuck away. I’m Garrison fucking Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
April 22, 2018
Everybody's Rock
The corny commercials on TV rotted Clark Hall’s brain into mush and froze his heart into an arctic glacier. The sounds of his girlfriend Sydney Farrow sobbing only a few feet away from him did nothing to bring him out of his trance. Even when Sydney took a few seconds to blow her nose or sob even louder, she couldn’t get her boyfriend’s undivided attention. She wiped away her tears with a napkin and finally asked, “Are we going to talk about this?”
“Nope,” said Clark without even thinking about his answer. Instead he just flipped through channels in a vain attempt to find something that will rejuvenate his porridge mind.
“Say something!” shrieked Sydney.
“Something.”
After one last wipe of her drenched face and smeared makeup, the pajama pants and tank top-wearing Sydney ripped the remote control out of Clark’s hand and turned the TV off. All he could do was stare her down with a frosty expression, not even a little burst of energy. With her hands animated, Sydney freaked out when she said, “Clark, why won’t you talk to me?! Just once I’d like to have a real conversation with you! For god’s sake, do something! Sing! Dance! Anything! Do anything at all!”
“Anything?”
“Yes, anything at all!”
Taking her words literally, Clark moseyed on over to the kitchen table and sprinkled salt n his own head. “There, I did something.”
Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Sydney asked, “What the hell’s wrong with you?! Are you fucking insane?! You knew damn well what I meant! You’re taking a serious situation and ripping the piss!”
“Serious? You want to talk about seriousness? How am I supposed to take you seriously when you keep crying every damn day?! Every fucking day, it’s the same thing! More tears! More drama! More bullshit! You know why I watch so much television? Because it’s the only thing that can take me away from your horseshit!”
Holding Clark’s hand in hers, Sydney wept, “Please, stop talking like that! You’re scaring me!” In typical Clark Hall fashion, the stone cold lover dropped to his knees and rattled off in devilish tongues. Sydney finally snapped, “You’re scaring me!”
Seemingly taking this conversation seriously, Clark stood back up and gazed into his girlfriend’s damp eyes. “You’re scared, huh? That’s okay, baby girl. I’m scared too. I’m scared of where this dramatic diarrhea will take us. I’m scared of never being able to feel happy again. Your sadness is making me sad! The only difference between you and me is that I’m not allowed to cry, seeing as how I’m a man and all.”
“Nobody said you couldn’t cry, Clark!”
“Bullshit! That’s bullshit! I hear people say that shit everyday! I’m always the one who has to be the strong superman for everybody! I’m the one who has to be everybody’s rock! I remember being a kid when I rode my bike and landed on my ass! Did anybody let me cry? No! Not one fucking person! Not my dad! Not my mom! They both wanted me to be a so-called real man! Well, congratulations, fuckers! I’m a real fucking man now!”
Taking her boyfriend’s hands once again, Sydney delicately said, “You can cry in front of me if you want, Clark. I won’t judge you. I’d never judge you for something like that.”
“Yeah right! If I start sobbing, who are you going to have left for comfort? Huh? Who’s going to be there for emotional support? I don’t even know how to fall to pieces! Twenty fucking years of pissed off feelings, Sydney, and I ain’t done a damn thing with all that rage! Now what?!”
Eyebrows furrowed, teeth clenched, skin pink, and muscles tensed, Sydney’s rage boiled over when she whispered, “You want to cry? Go ahead, Clark. Do it. Do it! Cry, damn it! Show some emotion for the first time in your fucking life! Be the man I fell in love with so many years ago! The one who wrote me all that poetry! The one who didn’t give a shit what anybody else thought of him! Come on, damn it, cry! Cry!” Her last few words were punctuated with shoves to Clark’s chest.
He brushed his hand through his thick brown hair and used his Pink Floyd the Wall T-shirt to air himself out, but no tears came. Not one drop. Just clenched teeth and a pointed finger. “You can’t do this to me, Sydney. You’re not going to break me. Not tonight, not ever!”
Sydney brought Clark’s face over and planted a wet kiss on his lips, get a few teardrops on his shoulders in the process. The boyfriend’s eyes widened at the gesture while the girlfriend remained pissed off and intense. “Now cry, damn it. Cry! You have my permission even though you never needed it. Open those floodgates!”
Clark’s breathing intensified while he tried in vain to hide his face from his girlfriend. His muscles tightened, then relaxed, then tightened, then relaxed again. His face was concentrated on his black socks and teal sweatpants. Twenty years of being pissed off. Twenty years of nothingness. Twenty years of emptiness. It all resulted in a primal scream of the F-word followed by several punches to the couch cushions. It didn’t matter how hard he punched, because no amount of toughness could prepare him for what came next.
The first tear dropped on the couch pillow. Then the second. Then the third. And then they swarmed and multiplied until the emotional dam finally exploded. For the first time in Clark’s life, he felt absolution from being “everybody’s rock”. He tried hard to suck back his tears, but it was too late: the floodgates had permanently opened. “This isn’t fair,” he muttered. “This isn’t fair!”
As Clark sobbed some more, he felt Sydney’s fingernails gently scraping down his back while the softness of her other hand petted his hair like a kitty. She whispered in his ear, “Of course it’s fair, honey. Don’t fight it. Let them come.”
“How? How could I let this happen?”
“It’s okay, Clark. I love you. I always will. Scoot over, I want to lay next to you.” The two of them snuggled together on the couch sobbing silently into each other’s arms. It was as Clark prophesized: more drama. More tears. More bullshit. More awkwardness. But it felt right. It felt as though this was where the conversation was meant to go all along. Twenty years of bitterness could never have become twenty-one no matter how hard Clark tried. He didn’t remember much from that night, but only because he fell asleep on the couch shortly after, taking Sydney’s cherry kisses with him into dreamland.
By the time the butt crack of dawn came shining through the apartment window, Clark Hall was so drained that he didn’t even have the energy to open his eyes, which were still damp, salty, and fiery from the night before. The only difference was that Sydney wasn’t in his arms anymore. Clark slowly picked his head up off the pillow and saw that she was drinking coffee at the kitchen table, still in her tank top and pajama pants.
The psychologically emancipated boyfriend peeled his body off of the leather couch and stumbled towards the table to join his equally drained girlfriend. A cup of coffee was already there waiting for him. He took several sips of the sugar and cream-drenched stimulant, but still couldn’t wake up. If he spent eternity on that couch, it would be alright with him.
Breaking the awkward silence, Clark asked, “Did you want to talk about last night?”
“Did you?”
“No, not really,” said Clark as he stretched his arms out. “I have to be at work in an hour. All that crying drained me the fuck out.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“I don’t even want to go today, but it is what it is. Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow?”
“…Yeah…tomorrow…”
The two of them absentmindedly sipped their coffee while the lessons of the previous night struggled to sink in. Would tomorrow be another dramatic spell? Would Clark spend more time in front of the TV? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep and maybe take a sick day. But just like with all things in life, it was back to the grind again. Just another day, just another lousy paycheck. “Tomorrow…tomorrow…I love you…tomorrow…” Clark sang in his head.
“Nope,” said Clark without even thinking about his answer. Instead he just flipped through channels in a vain attempt to find something that will rejuvenate his porridge mind.
“Say something!” shrieked Sydney.
“Something.”
After one last wipe of her drenched face and smeared makeup, the pajama pants and tank top-wearing Sydney ripped the remote control out of Clark’s hand and turned the TV off. All he could do was stare her down with a frosty expression, not even a little burst of energy. With her hands animated, Sydney freaked out when she said, “Clark, why won’t you talk to me?! Just once I’d like to have a real conversation with you! For god’s sake, do something! Sing! Dance! Anything! Do anything at all!”
“Anything?”
“Yes, anything at all!”
Taking her words literally, Clark moseyed on over to the kitchen table and sprinkled salt n his own head. “There, I did something.”
Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Sydney asked, “What the hell’s wrong with you?! Are you fucking insane?! You knew damn well what I meant! You’re taking a serious situation and ripping the piss!”
“Serious? You want to talk about seriousness? How am I supposed to take you seriously when you keep crying every damn day?! Every fucking day, it’s the same thing! More tears! More drama! More bullshit! You know why I watch so much television? Because it’s the only thing that can take me away from your horseshit!”
Holding Clark’s hand in hers, Sydney wept, “Please, stop talking like that! You’re scaring me!” In typical Clark Hall fashion, the stone cold lover dropped to his knees and rattled off in devilish tongues. Sydney finally snapped, “You’re scaring me!”
Seemingly taking this conversation seriously, Clark stood back up and gazed into his girlfriend’s damp eyes. “You’re scared, huh? That’s okay, baby girl. I’m scared too. I’m scared of where this dramatic diarrhea will take us. I’m scared of never being able to feel happy again. Your sadness is making me sad! The only difference between you and me is that I’m not allowed to cry, seeing as how I’m a man and all.”
“Nobody said you couldn’t cry, Clark!”
“Bullshit! That’s bullshit! I hear people say that shit everyday! I’m always the one who has to be the strong superman for everybody! I’m the one who has to be everybody’s rock! I remember being a kid when I rode my bike and landed on my ass! Did anybody let me cry? No! Not one fucking person! Not my dad! Not my mom! They both wanted me to be a so-called real man! Well, congratulations, fuckers! I’m a real fucking man now!”
Taking her boyfriend’s hands once again, Sydney delicately said, “You can cry in front of me if you want, Clark. I won’t judge you. I’d never judge you for something like that.”
“Yeah right! If I start sobbing, who are you going to have left for comfort? Huh? Who’s going to be there for emotional support? I don’t even know how to fall to pieces! Twenty fucking years of pissed off feelings, Sydney, and I ain’t done a damn thing with all that rage! Now what?!”
Eyebrows furrowed, teeth clenched, skin pink, and muscles tensed, Sydney’s rage boiled over when she whispered, “You want to cry? Go ahead, Clark. Do it. Do it! Cry, damn it! Show some emotion for the first time in your fucking life! Be the man I fell in love with so many years ago! The one who wrote me all that poetry! The one who didn’t give a shit what anybody else thought of him! Come on, damn it, cry! Cry!” Her last few words were punctuated with shoves to Clark’s chest.
He brushed his hand through his thick brown hair and used his Pink Floyd the Wall T-shirt to air himself out, but no tears came. Not one drop. Just clenched teeth and a pointed finger. “You can’t do this to me, Sydney. You’re not going to break me. Not tonight, not ever!”
Sydney brought Clark’s face over and planted a wet kiss on his lips, get a few teardrops on his shoulders in the process. The boyfriend’s eyes widened at the gesture while the girlfriend remained pissed off and intense. “Now cry, damn it. Cry! You have my permission even though you never needed it. Open those floodgates!”
Clark’s breathing intensified while he tried in vain to hide his face from his girlfriend. His muscles tightened, then relaxed, then tightened, then relaxed again. His face was concentrated on his black socks and teal sweatpants. Twenty years of being pissed off. Twenty years of nothingness. Twenty years of emptiness. It all resulted in a primal scream of the F-word followed by several punches to the couch cushions. It didn’t matter how hard he punched, because no amount of toughness could prepare him for what came next.
The first tear dropped on the couch pillow. Then the second. Then the third. And then they swarmed and multiplied until the emotional dam finally exploded. For the first time in Clark’s life, he felt absolution from being “everybody’s rock”. He tried hard to suck back his tears, but it was too late: the floodgates had permanently opened. “This isn’t fair,” he muttered. “This isn’t fair!”
As Clark sobbed some more, he felt Sydney’s fingernails gently scraping down his back while the softness of her other hand petted his hair like a kitty. She whispered in his ear, “Of course it’s fair, honey. Don’t fight it. Let them come.”
“How? How could I let this happen?”
“It’s okay, Clark. I love you. I always will. Scoot over, I want to lay next to you.” The two of them snuggled together on the couch sobbing silently into each other’s arms. It was as Clark prophesized: more drama. More tears. More bullshit. More awkwardness. But it felt right. It felt as though this was where the conversation was meant to go all along. Twenty years of bitterness could never have become twenty-one no matter how hard Clark tried. He didn’t remember much from that night, but only because he fell asleep on the couch shortly after, taking Sydney’s cherry kisses with him into dreamland.
By the time the butt crack of dawn came shining through the apartment window, Clark Hall was so drained that he didn’t even have the energy to open his eyes, which were still damp, salty, and fiery from the night before. The only difference was that Sydney wasn’t in his arms anymore. Clark slowly picked his head up off the pillow and saw that she was drinking coffee at the kitchen table, still in her tank top and pajama pants.
The psychologically emancipated boyfriend peeled his body off of the leather couch and stumbled towards the table to join his equally drained girlfriend. A cup of coffee was already there waiting for him. He took several sips of the sugar and cream-drenched stimulant, but still couldn’t wake up. If he spent eternity on that couch, it would be alright with him.
Breaking the awkward silence, Clark asked, “Did you want to talk about last night?”
“Did you?”
“No, not really,” said Clark as he stretched his arms out. “I have to be at work in an hour. All that crying drained me the fuck out.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“I don’t even want to go today, but it is what it is. Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow?”
“…Yeah…tomorrow…”
The two of them absentmindedly sipped their coffee while the lessons of the previous night struggled to sink in. Would tomorrow be another dramatic spell? Would Clark spend more time in front of the TV? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep and maybe take a sick day. But just like with all things in life, it was back to the grind again. Just another day, just another lousy paycheck. “Tomorrow…tomorrow…I love you…tomorrow…” Clark sang in his head.
April 21, 2018
Beautiful Monster, Chapter 4
(FLASHBACK)
Not even a spring of energetic thrashing could cut Windham Xavier free from his bondage. His naked body laid spread eagle across a wooden table with leather straps clamping down his wrists and ankles. His jaw ached and pulsated as his speech was obstructed by a large rubber ball. Every resisting movement drained his energy to where he just wanted to close his eyes and dream his captivity away. But what kinds of dreams would await him in the dungeon of his mind? More torture? More devils? More fire? His eyeballs scorched and throbbed every time his lids became too heavy.
And then he was snapped awake by the thud of the dungeon door slamming against the adjacent stone wall. Windham’s heart pounded in his chest and would have escaped his mouth had it not been for the rubber sex toy. Standing in the doorway was the saccharine sweetness of Shelly Atwood and the towering intimidation of Torger Manson, both of them donning leather outfits. Torger twirled his stepsister by the hand and allowed her spinning skirt to reveal a red thong underneath. Windham laid there unimpressed by this kinky display.
Though uncaring he might have been, his coldness didn’t stop his thumping heart from elevating to explosive heights as the vampire stepsiblings drew closer. While Torger scowled at the prone elf with fury in his eyes and fists clenched into little weapons, Shelly was all smiles as she traced Windham’s torso muscles with the tip of her finger. Windham clamped his eyes shut and tried desperately to fight his involuntary arousal.
“What’s wrong, my love?” asked Shelly, her voice barely a whisper. “You don’t look very happy. Do you not like your new home? Have you not learned to love me yet?” She reached down and started massaging the elf’s inner thighs, making temptation harder to refuse. “Don’t worry, lover boy. In due time, you will learn it all. Your body and your soul belong to me now. We will get married in a week’s time. You will be my king.” She pulled the ball out of Windham’s mouth and allowed him to gasp and fight for air.
As soon as his lungs were inflated to satisfaction and his throat was damp enough, Windham spit on the ground and sneered, “I’ll never marry you, you foot-faced motherfucker!”
“Don’t you talk to her like that, you little puke!” belted Torger while wrapping one large hand around the elf’s throat. Shelly begged her stepbrother to show mercy while trying to pry the muscular arm off of her “lover boy”. Torger would only release his grip when Windham’s eyes rolled back in his head. Now the elf’s breathing was raspy and hoarse, almost like he was getting over the black plague.
Shelly slapped her stepbrother across the face and shrieked, “What did I tell you about hurting him like that?! I can’t have you keep on killing my husbands, Torger! Just this one time can you show some fucking restraint?!” Torger shied his face away in embarrassment while Shelly reverted back to her lovey-dovey smile. “He didn’t mean to say that, Torger. He’s just a little hungry from his long adventure.” The brute chuckled evilly at that last sentence. “Are you hungry, my love? Do you want something to eat? Let’s get some nutrition in you. You’re just skin and bones. Torger…stabilize his head for me!”
The hulking vampire’s hands clamped down hard on Windham’s jaw and scalp, making the elf feel as though his head would explode like a grenade. It didn’t matter how hard Windham fought, because the grip seemed to get tighter with every thrash. He could feel his brains turn to mush while his vision grew blurry and damp. He could barely see Shelly holding an IV tube of some kind, still with that saccharine grin on her face.
“I want you to hold nice and still for me, sweetie pie,” giggled Shelly. “This might hurt a little bit, but it’s a good kind of hurt. Think of this as another form of penetrative sex. If you’re lucky, you might get off on it.” Despite the tightness on his jaw, Windham managed to scream and grunt in pain while Shelly intubated his left nostril.
The pressure in Windham’s nose made his brains feel worse than when Torger was holding him. He choked a little bit when the tube went down his throat, but that didn’t stop Shelly from her little medical procedure. Once the tube was far enough down Windham’s throat, Shelly nodded at Torger, which prompted him to let go. The elf hacked and wheezed in yet another attempt to get a whirlwind of air into his lungs. His skull was still pounding and throbbing even after Torger let go.
“Tonight for dinner, you’re having a personal favorite flavor of mine: cherry vanilla!” Shelly cackled evilly as she flipped a switch and watched the light pink fluid flow through the IV straw. Windham writhed in agony some more, but all his sympathy ploy got him was smiles and chuckles from the vampire stepsiblings. “The liquid is self-dissolving, so you won’t have to worry about your bladder needs. Such primitive functions are unbecoming of a handsome king like you.”
Once the fluid had finished draining into Windham’s body, Torger ripped out the tube in one solid jerk and the elf coughed violently. He could feel some of the fluid running down his upper lip and couldn’t tell if it was the “nutrition” or his own blood. It was thick enough to be either one. Maybe both.
“There you go,” said Shelly with her chin leaning on her folded hands. “That should keep you fed for a while.”
“Bullshit!” retorted Windham, whose voice was still rough from the choking and the IV tube. “If I have to have that thing shoved in my nose one more time, I’ll fucking kill both of you! I am not your king! I am not your lover boy! I am not your bitch!”
Ever the hothead, Torger grabbed Windham by his hair and yanked his head so far backwards that his neck popped a few times. “You just don’t know when to shut the hell up, do you?!” the brute shouted, all over Shelly pleading with him to stop. “You’re marrying my stepsister, so you better get used to the idea really fucking fast! And if I have to tell you one more time not to fucking disrespect her, I’ll slap you so fucking hard that your skin will fall off! You understand me, horse face?!”
The torment ended when Shelly grabbed her stepbrother’s groin and squeezed hard enough to make him let go of Windham’s hair. Torger trembled while she whispered angrily in his ear, “If you screw this up for me, I will never forgive you. I’m tired of your rage. I’m tired of your attitude. I’m tired of your hate!” The last word was punctuated with one final squeeze before she released her grip and watched Torger stumble out of the dungeon.
Shelly fixed her flowing hair and smiled prettily once again to her audience of one. “You don’t realize this yet, but we’re going to have a lot of fun together. Neither one of us will be alone ever again. We won’t have to face rejection anymore. No unrequited feelings. You can deny it all you want…but deep down, my love…this is what you’ve always wanted.” She kissed her fingertips and patted Windham on his chiseled chest. She then waved goodbye and said, “Pleasant dreams” before vacating the dungeon and locking the door behind her.
Windham could finally get all the oxygen he wanted without an IV tube or a ball gag obstructing his breathing. His throat pulsated with pain while he could feel his liquefied brains sloshing around in his head. His eyes were damp and drippy, but now that his mouth was free, he could say over and over to himself that he wasn’t going to cry for Shelly.
“She doesn’t deserve my tears…she doesn’t deserve me…she doesn’t deserve love…” The more Windham said this to himself, the more it became a schizophrenic mantra that kept him company in his room with no view. Low and behold, he didn’t burst into a full-blown crying session. He could blink his eyes and the dampness would be gone in seconds.
He believed nobody was worth crying for, not even his rescuers (if he had any coming for him). Paladin Cross taught him how to keep an arctic heart and Windham was determined to take those lessons to the grave with him. Defiant until the end despite Torger’s aggression. Coldhearted until the apocalypse despite Shelly’s seduction. Emotions were for chumps. Despite being naked on a table to be a vampire’s plaything, Windham refused to label himself a chump.
Not even a spring of energetic thrashing could cut Windham Xavier free from his bondage. His naked body laid spread eagle across a wooden table with leather straps clamping down his wrists and ankles. His jaw ached and pulsated as his speech was obstructed by a large rubber ball. Every resisting movement drained his energy to where he just wanted to close his eyes and dream his captivity away. But what kinds of dreams would await him in the dungeon of his mind? More torture? More devils? More fire? His eyeballs scorched and throbbed every time his lids became too heavy.
And then he was snapped awake by the thud of the dungeon door slamming against the adjacent stone wall. Windham’s heart pounded in his chest and would have escaped his mouth had it not been for the rubber sex toy. Standing in the doorway was the saccharine sweetness of Shelly Atwood and the towering intimidation of Torger Manson, both of them donning leather outfits. Torger twirled his stepsister by the hand and allowed her spinning skirt to reveal a red thong underneath. Windham laid there unimpressed by this kinky display.
Though uncaring he might have been, his coldness didn’t stop his thumping heart from elevating to explosive heights as the vampire stepsiblings drew closer. While Torger scowled at the prone elf with fury in his eyes and fists clenched into little weapons, Shelly was all smiles as she traced Windham’s torso muscles with the tip of her finger. Windham clamped his eyes shut and tried desperately to fight his involuntary arousal.
“What’s wrong, my love?” asked Shelly, her voice barely a whisper. “You don’t look very happy. Do you not like your new home? Have you not learned to love me yet?” She reached down and started massaging the elf’s inner thighs, making temptation harder to refuse. “Don’t worry, lover boy. In due time, you will learn it all. Your body and your soul belong to me now. We will get married in a week’s time. You will be my king.” She pulled the ball out of Windham’s mouth and allowed him to gasp and fight for air.
As soon as his lungs were inflated to satisfaction and his throat was damp enough, Windham spit on the ground and sneered, “I’ll never marry you, you foot-faced motherfucker!”
“Don’t you talk to her like that, you little puke!” belted Torger while wrapping one large hand around the elf’s throat. Shelly begged her stepbrother to show mercy while trying to pry the muscular arm off of her “lover boy”. Torger would only release his grip when Windham’s eyes rolled back in his head. Now the elf’s breathing was raspy and hoarse, almost like he was getting over the black plague.
Shelly slapped her stepbrother across the face and shrieked, “What did I tell you about hurting him like that?! I can’t have you keep on killing my husbands, Torger! Just this one time can you show some fucking restraint?!” Torger shied his face away in embarrassment while Shelly reverted back to her lovey-dovey smile. “He didn’t mean to say that, Torger. He’s just a little hungry from his long adventure.” The brute chuckled evilly at that last sentence. “Are you hungry, my love? Do you want something to eat? Let’s get some nutrition in you. You’re just skin and bones. Torger…stabilize his head for me!”
The hulking vampire’s hands clamped down hard on Windham’s jaw and scalp, making the elf feel as though his head would explode like a grenade. It didn’t matter how hard Windham fought, because the grip seemed to get tighter with every thrash. He could feel his brains turn to mush while his vision grew blurry and damp. He could barely see Shelly holding an IV tube of some kind, still with that saccharine grin on her face.
“I want you to hold nice and still for me, sweetie pie,” giggled Shelly. “This might hurt a little bit, but it’s a good kind of hurt. Think of this as another form of penetrative sex. If you’re lucky, you might get off on it.” Despite the tightness on his jaw, Windham managed to scream and grunt in pain while Shelly intubated his left nostril.
The pressure in Windham’s nose made his brains feel worse than when Torger was holding him. He choked a little bit when the tube went down his throat, but that didn’t stop Shelly from her little medical procedure. Once the tube was far enough down Windham’s throat, Shelly nodded at Torger, which prompted him to let go. The elf hacked and wheezed in yet another attempt to get a whirlwind of air into his lungs. His skull was still pounding and throbbing even after Torger let go.
“Tonight for dinner, you’re having a personal favorite flavor of mine: cherry vanilla!” Shelly cackled evilly as she flipped a switch and watched the light pink fluid flow through the IV straw. Windham writhed in agony some more, but all his sympathy ploy got him was smiles and chuckles from the vampire stepsiblings. “The liquid is self-dissolving, so you won’t have to worry about your bladder needs. Such primitive functions are unbecoming of a handsome king like you.”
Once the fluid had finished draining into Windham’s body, Torger ripped out the tube in one solid jerk and the elf coughed violently. He could feel some of the fluid running down his upper lip and couldn’t tell if it was the “nutrition” or his own blood. It was thick enough to be either one. Maybe both.
“There you go,” said Shelly with her chin leaning on her folded hands. “That should keep you fed for a while.”
“Bullshit!” retorted Windham, whose voice was still rough from the choking and the IV tube. “If I have to have that thing shoved in my nose one more time, I’ll fucking kill both of you! I am not your king! I am not your lover boy! I am not your bitch!”
Ever the hothead, Torger grabbed Windham by his hair and yanked his head so far backwards that his neck popped a few times. “You just don’t know when to shut the hell up, do you?!” the brute shouted, all over Shelly pleading with him to stop. “You’re marrying my stepsister, so you better get used to the idea really fucking fast! And if I have to tell you one more time not to fucking disrespect her, I’ll slap you so fucking hard that your skin will fall off! You understand me, horse face?!”
The torment ended when Shelly grabbed her stepbrother’s groin and squeezed hard enough to make him let go of Windham’s hair. Torger trembled while she whispered angrily in his ear, “If you screw this up for me, I will never forgive you. I’m tired of your rage. I’m tired of your attitude. I’m tired of your hate!” The last word was punctuated with one final squeeze before she released her grip and watched Torger stumble out of the dungeon.
Shelly fixed her flowing hair and smiled prettily once again to her audience of one. “You don’t realize this yet, but we’re going to have a lot of fun together. Neither one of us will be alone ever again. We won’t have to face rejection anymore. No unrequited feelings. You can deny it all you want…but deep down, my love…this is what you’ve always wanted.” She kissed her fingertips and patted Windham on his chiseled chest. She then waved goodbye and said, “Pleasant dreams” before vacating the dungeon and locking the door behind her.
Windham could finally get all the oxygen he wanted without an IV tube or a ball gag obstructing his breathing. His throat pulsated with pain while he could feel his liquefied brains sloshing around in his head. His eyes were damp and drippy, but now that his mouth was free, he could say over and over to himself that he wasn’t going to cry for Shelly.
“She doesn’t deserve my tears…she doesn’t deserve me…she doesn’t deserve love…” The more Windham said this to himself, the more it became a schizophrenic mantra that kept him company in his room with no view. Low and behold, he didn’t burst into a full-blown crying session. He could blink his eyes and the dampness would be gone in seconds.
He believed nobody was worth crying for, not even his rescuers (if he had any coming for him). Paladin Cross taught him how to keep an arctic heart and Windham was determined to take those lessons to the grave with him. Defiant until the end despite Torger’s aggression. Coldhearted until the apocalypse despite Shelly’s seduction. Emotions were for chumps. Despite being naked on a table to be a vampire’s plaything, Windham refused to label himself a chump.
April 19, 2018
I Didn't Know It Was Wrong
***I DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS WRONG***
In addition to being a cardboard sign in Seether’s music video for “Fine Again”, you can also say the title of this journal whenever you create a piece of art that was unintentionally offensive. I can’t stress the word unintentionally enough. Sometimes all you want is to create a loving romance between two people and their relationship becomes hypersexual. Sometimes you want to show off the fighting abilities of a barbarian tribe from another culture, but they end up looking like stereotypes. Surely, you weren’t trying to be offensive, but that’s how it came across anyways, through no fault of your own. All together now…
I didn’t know it was wrong!
Yes, this is a reasonable defense against charges of unintentional bigotry, but there will always be that one smart ass who smashes you over the head with a hardcover book and then says…
Sorry, I didn’t know it was wrong!
You’re damn right it’s wrong! That’s assault, you moron! It carries a prison term of at least seven years! How about we save the phrase for people who actually need it? Wes Anderson, the writer and director of Isle of Dogs, could easily use this phrase and get away with it. As a white guy from Texas, his depiction of Japanese culture was frowned upon even though it didn’t deserve to be. There was nothing inherently offensive about it, at least not compared to Dick Tracy cartoons from the 1960’s where Joe Jitsu comes across as ultra-stereotypical (in case his name wasn’t obvious enough). Hey, Wes! Say it with me!
I didn’t know it was wrong!
I wish I knew this phrase when I was writing offensive shit back in the day. It could have helped me when I wrote a pornographic parody of “Stole” by Kelly Rowland. It could have helped me when I was swashbuckling with teenagers after they read “Class of ‘13”. It might have even helped me when I was writing the super-violent Zeromancer for my second multi-genre writing class in college. None of these scenarios would have been a cheap escape if I used that phrase, because I legitimately didn’t know they were offensive reads. I don’t know if I chalk it all up to being young and immature, growing up in Chehalis, watching TV-MA rated shows and not processing them correctly, but say it with me…
I didn’t know it was wrong!
You know what else I didn’t know was wrong? Incorporating a trope called the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. It’s a literary pejorative for any supporting female character whose main role in the story is to boost the self-esteem of the brooding male protagonist. Adrienne Simpson from “Silent Warrior” reeks of this trope, and in some ways, Tarja Rikkinen from my current WIP “Beautiful Monster” qualifies too. It was never my intention to make them this way, but you have to understand…
I didn’t know it was wrong!
I think I’ve given you guys enough examples that you’re adequately educated. Luckily, there is help for anybody who needs it. When you’ve finished writing your manuscript, you can send it to somebody called a “sensitivity editor”. This person will comb through your work and make sure nothing sticks out when it comes to potential offensiveness. Because they’re sensitivity editors and get this kind of work all the time, you can bet your ass that they won’t judge you even if your manuscript is glowing like a nuclear rod with offensive material. I didn’t even know these people existed until I started watching Jenna Moreci’s You Tube videos. Perhaps I should hire the services of one when I’m ready to get cracking on editing Silent Warrior. Hell, there’s probably more wrong with it than I thought and that extends beyond Adrienne Simpson being a Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
If you think for some reason I’m just bending to the will of the Social Justice Warriors and ignoring my own individuality, you’re wrong. There used to be a time in my life when being offensive was my bread and butter. I was young, immature, and had the sense of humor of an alt-righter despite being a hard leftist. Well, some things have to change because a bigot is not who I am nor would I be proud of being one. I want to represent the positive side of humanity, not the worst. I want to be on the right side of history and be a good role model for readers who look up to me. If that makes me an SJW, then fine, I’m an SJW. Fuck it, I don’t care. In fact, you can go ahead and call me the Social Justice Barbarian if you want. Barbarians appeal to me more than regular warriors since the former has the ability to rage out of control at a moment’s notice. Plus, I get to eat raw meat, howl at the moon, and swing a bloody battleaxe. How much fun is that?!
Sorry, guys! I didn’t know it was wrong! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***
In the interest of bouncing back and forth between the past and present of this novel, chapter four will feature a look into Windham Xavier’s captivity, where he’s strapped naked to a table and felt up by Shelly and Torger. Don’t worry, you won’t have to go all the way to Wattpad to read this, because no sex will take place (yet). Lord knows Deviant Art has enough nudity as it is, so a chapter of Beautiful Monster with a naked male elf won’t hurt the status quo too much. Look forward to it! And before you ask, no, I’m not gay and even if I was it wouldn’t be the reason why I write about naked male elves. Grow up!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“The world is precious, a gift to you and me. I suggest we treat her right, with love and dignity. Everybody’s looking for some peace of mind. If you seek the truth, then you will surely find. Everybody wants to have global peace, whilst the press of a button can shake the world to its knees. Some say might is right. I beg to disagree. I say we all unite and redirect our destiny. Everybody’s looking for a quick solution. Our lungs are choking from breathing in air pollution. I say put down the guns and stop the revolution. I say it’s time to make a restitution. Can you hear what I’m saying? There’s so much starvation, so much untruth, so much prejudice, so much liquidation. Oh, how long? How long?”
-Toto singing “Can You Hear What I’m Saying?”-
In addition to being a cardboard sign in Seether’s music video for “Fine Again”, you can also say the title of this journal whenever you create a piece of art that was unintentionally offensive. I can’t stress the word unintentionally enough. Sometimes all you want is to create a loving romance between two people and their relationship becomes hypersexual. Sometimes you want to show off the fighting abilities of a barbarian tribe from another culture, but they end up looking like stereotypes. Surely, you weren’t trying to be offensive, but that’s how it came across anyways, through no fault of your own. All together now…
I didn’t know it was wrong!
Yes, this is a reasonable defense against charges of unintentional bigotry, but there will always be that one smart ass who smashes you over the head with a hardcover book and then says…
Sorry, I didn’t know it was wrong!
You’re damn right it’s wrong! That’s assault, you moron! It carries a prison term of at least seven years! How about we save the phrase for people who actually need it? Wes Anderson, the writer and director of Isle of Dogs, could easily use this phrase and get away with it. As a white guy from Texas, his depiction of Japanese culture was frowned upon even though it didn’t deserve to be. There was nothing inherently offensive about it, at least not compared to Dick Tracy cartoons from the 1960’s where Joe Jitsu comes across as ultra-stereotypical (in case his name wasn’t obvious enough). Hey, Wes! Say it with me!
I didn’t know it was wrong!
I wish I knew this phrase when I was writing offensive shit back in the day. It could have helped me when I wrote a pornographic parody of “Stole” by Kelly Rowland. It could have helped me when I was swashbuckling with teenagers after they read “Class of ‘13”. It might have even helped me when I was writing the super-violent Zeromancer for my second multi-genre writing class in college. None of these scenarios would have been a cheap escape if I used that phrase, because I legitimately didn’t know they were offensive reads. I don’t know if I chalk it all up to being young and immature, growing up in Chehalis, watching TV-MA rated shows and not processing them correctly, but say it with me…
I didn’t know it was wrong!
You know what else I didn’t know was wrong? Incorporating a trope called the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. It’s a literary pejorative for any supporting female character whose main role in the story is to boost the self-esteem of the brooding male protagonist. Adrienne Simpson from “Silent Warrior” reeks of this trope, and in some ways, Tarja Rikkinen from my current WIP “Beautiful Monster” qualifies too. It was never my intention to make them this way, but you have to understand…
I didn’t know it was wrong!
I think I’ve given you guys enough examples that you’re adequately educated. Luckily, there is help for anybody who needs it. When you’ve finished writing your manuscript, you can send it to somebody called a “sensitivity editor”. This person will comb through your work and make sure nothing sticks out when it comes to potential offensiveness. Because they’re sensitivity editors and get this kind of work all the time, you can bet your ass that they won’t judge you even if your manuscript is glowing like a nuclear rod with offensive material. I didn’t even know these people existed until I started watching Jenna Moreci’s You Tube videos. Perhaps I should hire the services of one when I’m ready to get cracking on editing Silent Warrior. Hell, there’s probably more wrong with it than I thought and that extends beyond Adrienne Simpson being a Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
If you think for some reason I’m just bending to the will of the Social Justice Warriors and ignoring my own individuality, you’re wrong. There used to be a time in my life when being offensive was my bread and butter. I was young, immature, and had the sense of humor of an alt-righter despite being a hard leftist. Well, some things have to change because a bigot is not who I am nor would I be proud of being one. I want to represent the positive side of humanity, not the worst. I want to be on the right side of history and be a good role model for readers who look up to me. If that makes me an SJW, then fine, I’m an SJW. Fuck it, I don’t care. In fact, you can go ahead and call me the Social Justice Barbarian if you want. Barbarians appeal to me more than regular warriors since the former has the ability to rage out of control at a moment’s notice. Plus, I get to eat raw meat, howl at the moon, and swing a bloody battleaxe. How much fun is that?!
Sorry, guys! I didn’t know it was wrong! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!
***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***
In the interest of bouncing back and forth between the past and present of this novel, chapter four will feature a look into Windham Xavier’s captivity, where he’s strapped naked to a table and felt up by Shelly and Torger. Don’t worry, you won’t have to go all the way to Wattpad to read this, because no sex will take place (yet). Lord knows Deviant Art has enough nudity as it is, so a chapter of Beautiful Monster with a naked male elf won’t hurt the status quo too much. Look forward to it! And before you ask, no, I’m not gay and even if I was it wouldn’t be the reason why I write about naked male elves. Grow up!
***LYRICS OF THE DAY***
“The world is precious, a gift to you and me. I suggest we treat her right, with love and dignity. Everybody’s looking for some peace of mind. If you seek the truth, then you will surely find. Everybody wants to have global peace, whilst the press of a button can shake the world to its knees. Some say might is right. I beg to disagree. I say we all unite and redirect our destiny. Everybody’s looking for a quick solution. Our lungs are choking from breathing in air pollution. I say put down the guns and stop the revolution. I say it’s time to make a restitution. Can you hear what I’m saying? There’s so much starvation, so much untruth, so much prejudice, so much liquidation. Oh, how long? How long?”
-Toto singing “Can You Hear What I’m Saying?”-
April 18, 2018
Beautiful Monster, Chapter 3
(PRESENT DAY)
“Just so there’s no confusion, I don’t live in a mansion on a privately owned island,” said Tarja Rikkinen in a firm, yet soothing tone. “I live in the Paladin Cross dormitories like everyone else. I’m pretty sure you live there too, so don’t even try me. As a matter of fact, Windham, what were you planning on doing if I hadn’t found you? Were you just going to live in seclusion for the rest of your days and not own up to your responsibilities?”
Windham didn’t know if it was the gentle clapping of horse hooves on the dirt road, the lulling waves rolling in the adjacent river, or Tarja’s naturally beautiful voice. Maybe instead of calmness, it was emotional numbness that gave him a relaxed balance on his horse and glassy eyes. When it became clear that he wasn’t paying too much attention to Tarja’s speech, she waved her hand and snapped her fingers in front of him. “Is there anybody in there?” she playfully asked.
The elf still didn’t answer. He kept absentmindedly riding his horse alongside Tarja and her horse. He didn’t keep too firm of a grip on the reins and his feet were sliding in and out of the stirrups. Falling off of his horse and getting his head stomped on with iron feet would have been a welcome relief for Windham and his many wrestling matches going on in his brain.
“You don’t want to talk to me? That’s fine,” said Tarja. “You can stay tightlipped all you want, but that’s not going to be an option once we get back to base. You really do want to keep your job, right? You can’t imagine doing anything else for a living? If you’re going to go out in a blaze of non-glory, you should at least have a backup plan of some kind. Do you even know where you’re going to live once Commander Rinehart kicks you out of your dorm?”
“I don’t need a lecture!” snapped Windham, causing Tarja to lean backwards a little bit. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. You don’t deserve that.”
“I’ll tell you what I do deserve: answers. Obviously something happened to you in Shelly Atwood’s castle. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be acting as strangely as you are. Can you at least tell me so that I don’t have to worry about you freaking out again?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t.”
“That’s not a reason you can’t, you just don’t want to,” said Tarja, which got a groaning response from Windham. The female knight shook her head and tucked her chin to her chest, contemplating her next move. Windham had other things to brood about, all of which were competing for space in his brain like a savage war between two armies. All of the trauma. All of the stress. All of the pain. They wouldn’t leave him alone. They wouldn’t give him room to think clearly.
Windham felt Tarja’s smooth hand in his and the traumatic thoughts really started battling it out, spraying a combination of blood and semen throughout his psychocosm. Chills ran through his limbs. Sweat poured out of his glands. His mouth dried out to desert levels. A glass of water would have been nice, but would it be enough to wash the taste of violence and sex out of his mouth?
“Listen,” his female companion gently said. “Whatever happened in that castle, I won’t laugh about it if you tell me. I’ve only met you for a short period of time, but I still care a lot about you and what you’re feeling. Maybe it’s empathy. Maybe it’s a woman’s intuition.” Tarja leaned in closer and allowed her voice to shrink to a whisper. “Maybe it’s something more.”
Windham jerked his hand out of Tarja’s and held both of his hands to his ears while screaming savagely and rocking back and forth. His sudden outburst caused his horse to bounce and spin around while neighing in as much fear as its rider. The elf eventually fell off his horse, but not roughly enough to do any serious damage. Instead the green warrior took off running and jumped into the icy river.
He didn’t give a damn that the waves were pulling him underneath the surface. In fact, the water cushioned his throat to where he could unleash as much verbal fire as he wanted. As the water bounced him around, he screamed every swear word he could think of. He hurled every insult that applied to Shelly Atwood and Torger Manson, all without coming up for air. His vengeful throat produced more bubbles and heat than a boiling cauldron. His face burned a bright red while his lungs filled with enough water to sink a Viking ship. If death was going to take him, this would be his “blaze of non-glory”.
But no matter how hard he thrashed and screamed, he couldn’t resist the feel of two hands grabbing him underneath his armpits and dragging him to the dirt road, albeit with grunts, groans, and more muscle power than the human body allowed. Windham coughed so powerfully that he could have expelled the entire river from his lungs. His breaths afterwards were raspy and rough, his chest and stomach rising and falling with quickness and explosiveness. Once he wiped the salty river water from his eyes, all that remained was Tarja Rikkinen standing over him with clenched fists and an angry demeanor.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she murmured. “Are you trying to kill yourself before you even have the chance to sort shit out? Do you want to die that badly?” No answer, just powerful breathing. “Answer me, damn it!” she shouted.
Windham slowly rolled over on his hands and knees and used a nearby tree stump to pull himself to his aching, wobbly feet. He spit out the last of his river water and stared into Tarja’s eyes with redness and swelling in his own. “You’re damn right I wanted to die! Who the hell do you think you are touching me like that?! Don’t you know that…uh…”
“Don’t I know what?” asked Tarja. No answer, just more uhs and ums. “That’s what I thought. I can’t take any more chances with you. Put your hands behind your back.” Windham responded by spitting on the ground in defiance. Against his wishes, Tarja spun him around and slapped the handcuffs on his wrists once again. Windham was too weak to resist as evidenced by more snot blowing and coughing.
She put him in a headlock (without squeezing his neck) and mounted him back on his horse, who had calmed down significantly without Windham going nuts on its back. She then strapped his arms and chest to the reins and took control of both horses before riding off once again. Windham tried wiggling around, but the reins were too tight and he was too out of breath for any true resistance.
“Are you done making an ass of yourself?” asked Tarja. No answer, just coughing and wheezing. “Normal people don’t react the way you did to having their hand held. Maybe a little nervousness is in order, but jumping in a river? That’s fucking insane. Obviously something happened to you in that castle and you’re not talking about it. I’m trying to help you and you’re pushing me away!”
Windham’s winded breathing turned to fits of gentle laughter. “Help? I’m beyond help, Tarja. Help is not going to make my memories fly away like little birdies. Help is not going to give me my sanity back. Help is not going to make me the warrior I used to be. Mercenaries aren’t supposed to fall apart like this!” Windham couldn’t tell if the dampness in his eyes was from the river or his own emotions, but he did his best to hide them despite not having access to free hands.
Tarja chanced it and placed a hand on her elf companion’s shoulder. Bondage aside, there was no running this time, just glaze-eyed attention. “Not that you need it, but you have my permission to cry. That whole thing about men not being allowed to cry is bullshit. I wish the guys back at base would show a little emotion more often. Instead all we have is this macho military crap where shedding one tear means you’re a so-called pussy and a faggot.”
“Now you see my dilemma,” said Windham. “If I tell Commander Rinehart my story, I’m not going to keep it together. And if I can’t cry in front of him…what makes you think I can cry in front of you? Huh? Being a woman doesn’t mean shit when you’ve got all the combat skills in the world. You’re as cold as them. You’re as cold as the river I jumped into just now. All you soldiers are the same to me.”
“You don’t want to cry in front of me? That’s fine. But you’ve shown me a few seconds ago that I can’t give you privacy because you’re just going to run off again. You’re doing a terrible job of holding back your tears, so you might as well let them all out while you still have the chance.” No answer. “Cry, damn it! Come on!”
“No…I can’t do it…I won’t…” Tears burned his eyes like flaming coals. Snot bubbled down his nose from too much river water. Just when it looked like he would fall to pieces, he maintained a scowl on his face that defeated the last of his numbed out emotions.
Tarja shook her head and said, “You can’t be the macho man forever, Windham. If you keep all that shit on the inside, you’re going to break eventually. The harder you push it down, the more powerful it becomes. And then it’ll bubble to the surface and you’ll have nothing you can do about it.”
Windham chuckled, “Bullshit.”
“Just so there’s no confusion, I don’t live in a mansion on a privately owned island,” said Tarja Rikkinen in a firm, yet soothing tone. “I live in the Paladin Cross dormitories like everyone else. I’m pretty sure you live there too, so don’t even try me. As a matter of fact, Windham, what were you planning on doing if I hadn’t found you? Were you just going to live in seclusion for the rest of your days and not own up to your responsibilities?”
Windham didn’t know if it was the gentle clapping of horse hooves on the dirt road, the lulling waves rolling in the adjacent river, or Tarja’s naturally beautiful voice. Maybe instead of calmness, it was emotional numbness that gave him a relaxed balance on his horse and glassy eyes. When it became clear that he wasn’t paying too much attention to Tarja’s speech, she waved her hand and snapped her fingers in front of him. “Is there anybody in there?” she playfully asked.
The elf still didn’t answer. He kept absentmindedly riding his horse alongside Tarja and her horse. He didn’t keep too firm of a grip on the reins and his feet were sliding in and out of the stirrups. Falling off of his horse and getting his head stomped on with iron feet would have been a welcome relief for Windham and his many wrestling matches going on in his brain.
“You don’t want to talk to me? That’s fine,” said Tarja. “You can stay tightlipped all you want, but that’s not going to be an option once we get back to base. You really do want to keep your job, right? You can’t imagine doing anything else for a living? If you’re going to go out in a blaze of non-glory, you should at least have a backup plan of some kind. Do you even know where you’re going to live once Commander Rinehart kicks you out of your dorm?”
“I don’t need a lecture!” snapped Windham, causing Tarja to lean backwards a little bit. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. You don’t deserve that.”
“I’ll tell you what I do deserve: answers. Obviously something happened to you in Shelly Atwood’s castle. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be acting as strangely as you are. Can you at least tell me so that I don’t have to worry about you freaking out again?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t.”
“That’s not a reason you can’t, you just don’t want to,” said Tarja, which got a groaning response from Windham. The female knight shook her head and tucked her chin to her chest, contemplating her next move. Windham had other things to brood about, all of which were competing for space in his brain like a savage war between two armies. All of the trauma. All of the stress. All of the pain. They wouldn’t leave him alone. They wouldn’t give him room to think clearly.
Windham felt Tarja’s smooth hand in his and the traumatic thoughts really started battling it out, spraying a combination of blood and semen throughout his psychocosm. Chills ran through his limbs. Sweat poured out of his glands. His mouth dried out to desert levels. A glass of water would have been nice, but would it be enough to wash the taste of violence and sex out of his mouth?
“Listen,” his female companion gently said. “Whatever happened in that castle, I won’t laugh about it if you tell me. I’ve only met you for a short period of time, but I still care a lot about you and what you’re feeling. Maybe it’s empathy. Maybe it’s a woman’s intuition.” Tarja leaned in closer and allowed her voice to shrink to a whisper. “Maybe it’s something more.”
Windham jerked his hand out of Tarja’s and held both of his hands to his ears while screaming savagely and rocking back and forth. His sudden outburst caused his horse to bounce and spin around while neighing in as much fear as its rider. The elf eventually fell off his horse, but not roughly enough to do any serious damage. Instead the green warrior took off running and jumped into the icy river.
He didn’t give a damn that the waves were pulling him underneath the surface. In fact, the water cushioned his throat to where he could unleash as much verbal fire as he wanted. As the water bounced him around, he screamed every swear word he could think of. He hurled every insult that applied to Shelly Atwood and Torger Manson, all without coming up for air. His vengeful throat produced more bubbles and heat than a boiling cauldron. His face burned a bright red while his lungs filled with enough water to sink a Viking ship. If death was going to take him, this would be his “blaze of non-glory”.
But no matter how hard he thrashed and screamed, he couldn’t resist the feel of two hands grabbing him underneath his armpits and dragging him to the dirt road, albeit with grunts, groans, and more muscle power than the human body allowed. Windham coughed so powerfully that he could have expelled the entire river from his lungs. His breaths afterwards were raspy and rough, his chest and stomach rising and falling with quickness and explosiveness. Once he wiped the salty river water from his eyes, all that remained was Tarja Rikkinen standing over him with clenched fists and an angry demeanor.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she murmured. “Are you trying to kill yourself before you even have the chance to sort shit out? Do you want to die that badly?” No answer, just powerful breathing. “Answer me, damn it!” she shouted.
Windham slowly rolled over on his hands and knees and used a nearby tree stump to pull himself to his aching, wobbly feet. He spit out the last of his river water and stared into Tarja’s eyes with redness and swelling in his own. “You’re damn right I wanted to die! Who the hell do you think you are touching me like that?! Don’t you know that…uh…”
“Don’t I know what?” asked Tarja. No answer, just more uhs and ums. “That’s what I thought. I can’t take any more chances with you. Put your hands behind your back.” Windham responded by spitting on the ground in defiance. Against his wishes, Tarja spun him around and slapped the handcuffs on his wrists once again. Windham was too weak to resist as evidenced by more snot blowing and coughing.
She put him in a headlock (without squeezing his neck) and mounted him back on his horse, who had calmed down significantly without Windham going nuts on its back. She then strapped his arms and chest to the reins and took control of both horses before riding off once again. Windham tried wiggling around, but the reins were too tight and he was too out of breath for any true resistance.
“Are you done making an ass of yourself?” asked Tarja. No answer, just coughing and wheezing. “Normal people don’t react the way you did to having their hand held. Maybe a little nervousness is in order, but jumping in a river? That’s fucking insane. Obviously something happened to you in that castle and you’re not talking about it. I’m trying to help you and you’re pushing me away!”
Windham’s winded breathing turned to fits of gentle laughter. “Help? I’m beyond help, Tarja. Help is not going to make my memories fly away like little birdies. Help is not going to give me my sanity back. Help is not going to make me the warrior I used to be. Mercenaries aren’t supposed to fall apart like this!” Windham couldn’t tell if the dampness in his eyes was from the river or his own emotions, but he did his best to hide them despite not having access to free hands.
Tarja chanced it and placed a hand on her elf companion’s shoulder. Bondage aside, there was no running this time, just glaze-eyed attention. “Not that you need it, but you have my permission to cry. That whole thing about men not being allowed to cry is bullshit. I wish the guys back at base would show a little emotion more often. Instead all we have is this macho military crap where shedding one tear means you’re a so-called pussy and a faggot.”
“Now you see my dilemma,” said Windham. “If I tell Commander Rinehart my story, I’m not going to keep it together. And if I can’t cry in front of him…what makes you think I can cry in front of you? Huh? Being a woman doesn’t mean shit when you’ve got all the combat skills in the world. You’re as cold as them. You’re as cold as the river I jumped into just now. All you soldiers are the same to me.”
“You don’t want to cry in front of me? That’s fine. But you’ve shown me a few seconds ago that I can’t give you privacy because you’re just going to run off again. You’re doing a terrible job of holding back your tears, so you might as well let them all out while you still have the chance.” No answer. “Cry, damn it! Come on!”
“No…I can’t do it…I won’t…” Tears burned his eyes like flaming coals. Snot bubbled down his nose from too much river water. Just when it looked like he would fall to pieces, he maintained a scowl on his face that defeated the last of his numbed out emotions.
Tarja shook her head and said, “You can’t be the macho man forever, Windham. If you keep all that shit on the inside, you’re going to break eventually. The harder you push it down, the more powerful it becomes. And then it’ll bubble to the surface and you’ll have nothing you can do about it.”
Windham chuckled, “Bullshit.”
