Cynical

© Apr. 30, 2014. All Rights Reserved.

Warning: “The following scenes depicted are partly based off my nightmarish ideas, desires, and opinions. I don’t condone any cruel activities. If offensive to some, it’s only the realism of my creation. This story is for anyone with so-called eccentric lives. … Arguable enough, if I’m labeled as an eccentric individual, maybe I do condone excessive violence.”

Only one television that he owns is sitting in the living room. As dusty as it is, the old television sits on a black, smooth, wooden dresser. A newscast reporter appears on the screen with a solemn face. The paranoid reporter is talking, but the owner of the house cannot clearly hear the first, few sentences due to the television being on mute. Thus, Melvin turns the volume up with the remote control from the kitchen counter, and he hears the forewarning of the end of world.

“This is Pam Padlock speaking. It has been long predicted by the worlds youngest, controversial scientist, Melvin Shaden, that the world will end by the force of a black hole. The once cynical philosopher, Melvin Shaden, is famous for his discovery of the “Kangaroo Frog” under the Black Sea. he discovered it by the time he was only seventeen-years-old. I am here, live to forewarn everybody watching that Melvin is correct with his apocalyptic prediction. In just two days, the world is going to end by a freezing temperature or a relentless heat from the consuming mystery.”

“They are bloody germs on concerns of many worms, so how can I learn? Do you not fucking despise most bewildered entities for being vacillating thugs, for they are irrelevant to the purpose of living. When these dingbats can kill their enemies, why waste half of a life being in school, learning unnecessary, punitive information? What are they doing to help me live a different life besides being fallible, scornful, pathetic, traditional, suspicious, ungodly loudmouths, killing the people I love? Like a half-dead moron, I somewhat question love, but because of my “skin color,” I am automatically labeled as a cheater. I can be labeled many untrue things, but a cheater, I will not accept. Just like hate has flaws, there are more vacant houses than homeless people. Love is definitely whole, and if I break up, my only love could be where I did not search. Sanctimonious pricks are involved in thuggery too, and I despise the harm they caused me by just being born. Proving that I love my theory, I do not discriminate by the laughable, disposable entities I want to kill,” he talks to himself with a slew of facial expressions.

A portrait of Sadie in the mist, he carefully paints with watercolors. She is twenty-four-years-old with a grey tank top inside a black, hooded jacket. The tank top is made out of lace material while the short sleeves are black leather. Below is a cotton, plaid, black and white belt, appearing like a scarf. Draping down to a zipper on her blue skirt, the belt does. The ruffles on her skirt is made out of lace material while the other section is silk. And further below are dark, blue jeans hanging from the inside of the skirt, leading down the direction of black, leather, high heels.

“I looked askance at weakness for a candid reply. I hate superheroes, for they remind me of old-believers of a fable. If I have theories, why cannot I let them be known without feeling the need to keep them? I have these theories about dying prior to the thought of entities. If I die, I move only in my mind, but my body feels the pain. I am motionless while in an unconscious state, attempting to move. If God is on your shoulders, I’m shooting your head,” Melvin says with the red cell phone to his left ear.

In a melodious voice, his girlfriend says, “All this dying talk is driving me crazy. You’re not going to die, sweetheart. You’re genuine. You’re my hero. My all and forever everything. The black hole will not occur. A sample of my love stays in our heart, but I am residue compared to your soul. Must I feel equal if the simple thought of your name makes me smile? If your breathing keeps me alive, must I feel inferior? You’re the most supportive person I know, and don’t ever let anybody tell you differently.”

“Oh, my living organism. You’re a humdinger of a person. In these unbaptized thoughts, I’d love to believe that we won’t die. I’m tired of being in this demoralizing world full of people not showing me realism. I’m not a bloody conformist. Be honest. Help me after they say they’re supportive, but all they do is just yap. My heart is engulfed in my sweat, fooling my tears, when my genetic blood says no. Love cannot wash away from any scene of what I picture, but somehow, I find no love in you. Sadie, we’re through.”

“Why are you acting so strange? Have you been drinking again?”

“Skedaddle.”

“Suck my twat, dweeb! I put up with too much of your cock juice. I hope the world does end because I know where you’re sure as hell ain’t going. Fuck off!”

Melvin picks up a glass bottle from the wooden countertop, then throws it. The bottle lands directly on the masterpiece of a portrait he recently finished. Red liquid mixes with the shadings of various colors of paint. The liquid then leaks from Sadie’s innocent face down to her clothing. Sadly, in the reflection of the painting, Melvin sees his own face, crying.

Bliss is unreal without her, but not anymore does he think. Love, he has an obsession to receive. To feel an undying love so powerful that trust, loyalty, understanding, and support is a second nature, would indeed be perfect. Although he feels that the miracle is far from reach, he temporarily begs for mercy on his knees. No more is he determined to search for his future soul mate.

Like the epitome of profound laziness, he is mocked by his own heartbreak. He feels like he did not commit to Sadie in the relationship, but he certainly did. All that is left with his silent words are collectible knives in the top drawer of the kitchen. The kitchen has a shocking voice erupting in a windy whisper, but Melvin fails to hear his name. He is too busy crying in intense pain to recognize the sound of a stranger.

“Melvin,” the motherly voice calls.

Knowing that he is the only person in the house, he gets severely frightened. While panicking, to the front door, he runs. A Hawaiian passion of love enters as a dark, breathing figure comes by.
He manages to open the front door, and slams it shut on his way out. Down the somber road, he locks his eyes, running until he can hardly breathe. Evidently, the miasmic neighborhood of gangs causes him to panic more. It is as if though he is running in the same place suffering from the aftereffect of dehydration. The reality is a daunting time, for he bellows at the sight of the neighborhood.

When he darts his head around, the door to his house widens. He screams, but unfortunately, nobody hears him. The unnerving event puts him in great wonder, for the name of his enters his ears. It cannot be his mother communicating with him after death, but he is eventually convinced. Seemingly, the voice piques his curiosity. His only option of entering the house, he takes, groping to the center of the living room. Then, the wooden door slams shut.

“Melvin. She’s a liar. Grab the knife.”

The sharp edge of the knife are like seductive, hazel eyes. As he feels the metal, he attempts to have a tight grip on the knife, but his cold hands pause to linger on. To his right palm, he accidentally cuts himself. Pride feels hollow, so he sucks on his own blood, feeling like he is slowly killing himself. Time loses the touch of his thoughts, so he grabs the object to walk outside.

To a wealthy the prostitute around the corner of his house, he makes an impetuous action, slitting her fragile throat. She cannot cry, but loses more oxygen as she turns around to see his corporeal body from her peripheral vision. Along a clear glimpse, her vanity is dead. From the sight of her blood running down her blue blouse, he forms a malicious smile. He proceeds walking as if nothing occurred, and hears an eldritch laugh, mocking his entire life.

Whispering, the motherly voice enters his ears, “What forms can break. Glass frowns don’t hide. No smiles can slide. On what’s wide, fake. To what died, lied. At the side, cried. What dried, spied.”

Unbeknown to herself, the words gets him flustered. He returns to the scene of the heinous crime. While lunging the useful knife continuously to her innocent face, three hundred and twenty-two times, he repeats the sentences, “Do you hear me? Are you listening?” Several police cars speed past the scene down another street, to chase another vehicle. Fear does not once strike him nor does guilt. He strokes between the sordid details of her soft bosoms, which jiggles with ease.

His engagement ring clinks against her nose piercing after making several, thunderous blows to her face. Her face is so bloody that he is surprised her spirit did not haunt him down in the process. Below breasts, he then lunges the knife into the area of her bellybutton. If she was somehow still living, she is no longer, for he breathes over her nose. Two strangers walking down the street spots him sitting over the female, and they run away.

“The sky is the highway. A parking place to wait. An unseen license plate. A cloudy sign of hate. But, a road-trip to pay. Soon, cars come crashing down. Like the sun, they will burn. The steering wheels will turn. From windows, try to learn. But, parts are in ghost town,” the motherly voice says.

Making a discombobulated facial expression, Melvin then fiercely kisses his victim as a form of his personal apology. A tear then runs down his face. He forms a hangdog look and runs from the diabolical murder scene, but feels like gravity lost its proof. By every movement he makes, he feels like he is not stepping on the ground, falling in an unknown darkness. Only he wishes that his denial is limited by the storm of salvation.

Stopping in a grocery store, he says to himself, “She made me feel like I could replace her liver with a distant kiss. Her liver would be healthy, but it was the same as her heart.”

People are gawking at his presence. He walks down a separate food aisle to avoid seeing their faces. The faces build with laughter as they nosily, swiftly peek around the corners. After recently killing a victim, how is possible that he is not in control of his life, he thinks. They rudely approach his timid face with confidence.

The many people say various things at the same time, “He doesn’t know witchcraft. Satanism. What a loser. He’s ugly! Black people. He thinks he’s so tough. Looks like you’re in the wrong part of the neighborhood. We have a celebrity around. Look at this idiot. I saw him first.”

Melvin could gild the strangers’ cheeks with a paintbrush if they were sweet, but they were cruel. Oddly, he feels like he is partly in lonesome when he mostly has no privacy. He is an introvert with no friends, and without the thought of school, he is isolated from the touch of outside, ever since he was six-years-old. The pressure on how to speak to bullies, let alone regular people is disturbingly complicated. When thinking about the awkward words he may use, it makes him question his life of belonging. It was not until he was twenty-five-years-old that he escaped from his nosy parent’s house.

The strangers make him question moral aesthetics. He feels like a poor, hypocritical advocate of every sign of justice. They attack him in the scariest possible way he can imagine by all running at him at once. During the process of being kicked and punched, he feels overestimated by how he can defend himself. Bruises show around his flesh, which hides under his torn, black T-shirt. He spews out blood, which tastes like a distinct metal object, covered in disgusting vomit. Soon, his own blood tastes like a slaughtered fetus. Every muscle in his body refuses to properly move, and he is certain that he has a fractured pelvis.

After scowling at him, a female kicks him in the cranium, thus he suffers a concussion. By the time he awakes, he makes an instinctive attempt to gingerly catch his equilibrium. The first things he notices are people robbing the store to steal food products. His vision is blurry, but he knows that people are living the lives they always wanted to. There is no government control over the world, thus, Melvin thinks about all the crimes he is allowed to do without punishment. Finally Sadie can die for kissing another female during their past relationship, and other people can witness his wrath.

Every voice screaming different messages forms one in Melvin’s ears, “Looming from layers of prayers, lives are lured into love.”

In his tortured mind, the brouhaha from the strangers and the whole shebang aggravates him to an ineffable extent. He attempts to glance at the white and black, tiled floor, but the distraction of the moving people regains his utter attention. Eventually, as he focuses on his thoughts, the noise subsides. Mollifying his concerns, he remembers that Sadie’s mother is over her house. In front of his eyes are pupils prepared to contort. He then sees the door to his exit while managing to limp away in pain.

He can remember the first time he saw Sadie as he walks down the sidewalk. The fleck of sunshine caught her gorgeous eyes, and as his heart skipped multiple beats, he shivered, uncontrollably. Perspiration fell from his forehead by the merest tangible desires, however, his swift reactions to removing all of the perspiration was arguable. After the arduous task of thinking about greeting her and taking action, he felt comfortable with an insuppressible smile. She blushed from his nervousness to his confidence as the smalltalk proceeded.

His demented mind speaks to himself, “For a homework assignment in Geometry, I walked in the kitchen to ask my dad an innocuous question out of instinct, but I did not want to. As soon as I uttered the first few words, he yelled at me, saying, ‘Don’t you see I’m on the damn phone!’ For an unemployed geezer loudly yapping from dusk till dawn, I suffer insomnia. Two things are wrong with his statement about his aggressive conversation on the phone. One, I am guilty of interrupting his conversation, but two, he is guilty for always yelling at me. He was furious beforehand, and now, he will make certain I forget not this hectic event. He always would demand me to exit my room to do anything he says, and my utterance telling him that I did not see the phone he had were not reaching his two ears.”

Time makes Melvin wish Sadie is an unfuckable lass, refraining from sodomy. All of the disgusting things he can imagine Sadie doing without him causes him to panic. Clearly, he foresees the salacious details of another person using a body brush to meet her hard-to-reach places. The person, he imagines exfoliating her skin, then penetrating her until she reaches an orgasm. It is the impenetrable labyrinth to making Sadie emotionally fulfilled, which frustrates him.

Regardless of his negative, reprehensible, verbal acts, he cannot fathom why he ended the relationship. His theory of the world ending haunts his troubled mind, again. The imagination of her smile with the awful sound of her sexual voice screaming is severely bothersome. Her carnal desires gives him feeble limbs with a frail heart. Odd enough, he can feel the passionate flow of his blood racing through his heart while his arteries fool him. The world seems like an endless piece of moving art while he is being blackened out of the frame.

Alcohol being poured on nearby train tracks is done by a group dressed all in dark attire. When the train speeds by, one person throws a lit, blue lighter on the alcohol. Thus, the train is a speeding fire display. Some suicidal people jump in front of the train frightened to see the end of the world. Pass the train station, Melvin walks, wondering about hijacking a red motorcycle.

A butterfly hovers over him, and his mind has wicked intentions. Swiftly, he captures the butterfly with his right hand, firmly holding her. Then, with a bent, yellow paper clip, he punctures a hole through the midst of her existence. Her wings flap slower, then no longer as he crushes her with his left palm. Only he wonders if the unnamed creature worried about all the scenarios before death. He then wonders if the creature was really a she, and if not, he was a flying hombre.

“I deflect reflection of direction to the heart,” he says.

A rotund, bald, Italian male speaks in a rude manner to him, “Ciao! What are you looking at?”

Nodding his head horizontally, with no logical response, he sneers, saying, “I’m sick of dwelling in a world of marital dissolution.”

Stephen, the intoxicated stranger gives Melvin a negligent push. The touch of the stranger is discipline that Melvin fails to mentally accept. He wants to veer away from the abusive argument, but gets yelled at. His words are defenseless as his only protection from not harming anyone, so he leers at his enemy. Beside Stephen is (Reverie) his supportive girlfriend, whose beauty is skin-deep. Ogling at her muscular boyfriend’s body, she blushes from his masculinity, and does not bother to cease the argument. Melvin’s sensitive heart races with deep, trembling fear, but he uncontrollably reacts out of utter rage, nearly fooling himself with a grin.

While Melvin makes a melodramatic act of bellowing at the invisible wind, he swiftly strikes Stephen in his intimidating face. He is a devil incarnate ready to unleash all of his wrath. Moving so swiftly, the wind blinds his eyes, for he mostly imagines the annoying image of crimson. Thus, his nostrils are engulfed in the repugnance of the awful smell, while he tackles his victimized prey. The impact to the concrete sidewalk leaves the victim airless to scream after several thunderous blows to the cranium. Melvin’s impregnable fists are too quick for Stephen to scream in agony. As he exercises on the face and body, he imagines his attractiveness changing to deformity.

His crying girlfriend gets involved trying to separate Melvin. Why must she get involved if she wanted to see toughness? Is it not tough if Melvin kills or torture, but tough if he is bullied? He eagerly pushes his precious girlfriend into a parked car on the street, thus, she smacks her head on the tinted, side-door window. Feeling no sense of dignity, she screams for help, but he laughs with rage, running her direction. After leaving the boyfriend unconscious, he hijacks the grey convertible. In the car, he places Reverie, and drives off in the direction of Stephen’s body.

Crushing Stephen’s legs, he drives over, with no remorse. He then immediately stops the car to give Reverie a perverted look, which is demanding her to doff her expensive, green dress. She attempts to escape out the side-door, but he aggressively chokes her. Along his peculiar, hoarse laughter are his unavoidable breaths touching her soft lips. As tears trickle down her kissable cheeks, his fingers become loose, lowering down her voluptuous body. Again, she screams in horror, then he takes great delight in nuzzling against her nose. Stopping her angelic call for help, he again chokes her sore neck while adding the disgust of a fierce kiss. After smacking her, her strength is overpowered, and her dress loosens from her shoulders.

From the arch of her black eyebrows, he carefully stares at every strand of hair, which perfectly moves from the air. The frizzy, red hair on her scalp moves like his heartbeats, for he is shaking her. When he searches for the hair follicles below her face, he discovers no evidence. Between her fingernails, her cuticles has not the slightest sight of germs, until he takes action. As a desperate man for exhilaration, he ridiculously forces her right index finger in his foul-smelling mouth like a pacifier. She begs him not to kill her. His actions shout once he bites her fragile finger.

Abject confusion is engulfed in ignorance, and he could care less about causing her to suffer. Oh, the pain intensifies once he bites deeper in the skin, touching the bloody bone. The cry from Reverie reaches the highest volume as he cherishes the moment to hear the cracking of her index finger. Splendid enough, her distinctive blood drips from his mouth and squirts across the side-window, to her expensive, green dress. Her dress now has blood on parts of the blue, petal designs, as he squeezes her haunches with his naked palms. All that is temporarily on his demented mind is penetrating her as if he would his distraught ex-girlfriend, Sadie.

As Melvin repeatedly drives the car backwards and forwards over Stephen’s body, he has a stress-free flashback. In the memory, he swings a grey sledgehammer at the midst of his landlord’s spinal cord, twice. The victim shrieks while writhing in excruciating pain. In five places, the man he hates has his spinal cord dislocated, but that does not satisfy him. Being in control, Melvin heads to the kitchen coming out with a keen knife. With the weapon, he slowly cuts around his detestable victim’s lips, removing them. Lance, his terrified victim cries louder than the disturbing sound of his leaking, pregnant, irrefutable blood evidence.

The irksome expression on his exhausted face causes her to recoil. It even gives her a false imagination that she is crouching, but she is groaning with her eyes shut. Tendons in her body feels like they are contorting at the thought of his despicable desires. With lucid tears, she cries louder, but her boyfriend is deceased. Nobody can hear her, and she is in grave danger.

Again, Reverie has the audacity to scream. Melvin cannot rectify his actions, but instead embraces his hate. His peace is the justification of a relentless illusion of heat for no remorse. Somewhat like a witch-hunt mentality, in his view, all women of the same color as frost deserves to serve men. Whether a nonblack woman bequests her heart to the man or not, he temporarily believes that they are sexual objects.

He is a cold-hearted person traumatizing Reverie to the point of being inconsolable. The event solidifies his desperation for sexual pleasure, thus, he finally penetrates her in public. Regardless of how many people witness the scene, nobody attempts to stop the wild act. She is in utter despair in the duration of and ending of the rape assault. Making matters worse, he rests in the driver’s seat, ejaculating in her mouth, but the result is deplorable. Cherishing the gratifying moment, he keeps her lowered head in natural position for approximately seven minutes.

As a female apparition cries in front of a separate train track, a train speeds pass. The event devastates Melvin, so he turns around to see Reverie’s saddening tears, but has no regrets. Chills run down his spine, and perspiration drips from his forehead. As if she is Sadie, he eagerly wraps his arms around her neck, kissing her irresistible cheeks. Eventually, he gives Reverie a hickey on the right side of the neck.

A motherly voice speaks to him, “These isolated wounds even get no privacy from the guffaws in my blood. The closest layer of blood just stares, but if I hurt myself uncontrollably, they’ll mock again. They say they care and listen, but not entirely. They have their selfish jobs as well as opinions. Just because they may seem supportive does not mean they are doing what is considered the right thing. Bring me multiple wounds to kiss, for I want enough as an excuse to not speak.”

He quizzically looks at her heart as he thrusts his left hand between her shaking legs. To the hollow-headed vagina, he smirks. Choking her again, he does, and she shows no sign of self-defense. Her face is seemingly half-read with a willingness to die, but he is an avid reader. Her life-long dream of getting old with her irascible partner is rejected by the bully of despair.

The motherly voice communicates to him again, “How many hectic times must I be brutally mocked into fights I fail not to start? And when these so-called tough people pose in front of their friends and cameras, I could do much more damage. When they weep at the sight of natural terrorism, before they claim it never bothered them, my face remained the same. Before they think they’re tough killers, I could and will torture to death. Their evidence will perish as I return like the sun and moon, stalking my next victim of guiltiness.”

Down the road Melvin Shaden drives as Reverie has a deathlike face. After being raped, still she begs to be left alone, but he could swoon from her lovely voice. He has shameful desires, but remains calm, laughing. The laughter alleviates the pain of no longer being with Sadie until Reverie makes another attempt to escape from the grey car. Once he yanks her wet hair, she screams, pushing the steering-wheel to the right. At a thick tree trunk, the car crashes, leaving Reverie with a lacerated forehead. She gasps for necessary air, but gets stabbed twenty times in the jugular.

Reverie was only nineteen-years-old, and Melvin feels like she had an ephemeral lifespan. Every call for help she attempted to make was opaque, and he recognizes his paranoia as a lucid predicament. It is a dilemma; if he murders, he feels the state of nirvana, but if he does not, he is being tortured. Being angry makes him accountable for pain. Regardless if it is non-perishable, without happiness, he is willing to abstain from edible foods. Currently, he has no specific target for race, sexual orientation, gender, and religious beliefs.

Parallel to the car is a conversation unlikely to have a positive conclusion.
“I’m on a higher plane than you,” the twelve-year-old shouts at his father for years of battering him. The weeping father feels a sense of regret with the riddance of numbness. He begs for forgiveness and even forgives his son for pulling out the gun. The father is temporarily petrified. When the father attempts to move forward at his nervous son, he shoots at his victim’s left kneecap, then cries. Melvin runs to the scene as the furious son aims at his father’s face of disbelief, thus, the gun is removed from the boy’s hands.

Melvin makes a sardonic frown at the distraught kid, and yells at him to flee the scene. Knowing that the world will end soon, the kid remains in the same position. “You have a name,” Melvin asks the kid. Responding to the question, he says, “Fuck yeah. My dog even has a nickname.” A livid Melvin silently stares at the kid until he gets creeped out. Attempting to reach for the gun, the kid anxiously does. He is unsuccessful at reaching for the weapon and pouts.

“The name’s Corey, ok? What do you want? The world is going to end, so what does it matter if I kill anyway? Hey, you’re that philosopher guy. Why aren’t you on Mars by now if you’re so intelligent? If you’re so intelligent, you’d give me back my gun!”

“Not if it was for my paycheck. Go home. Don’t believe everything you hear. The world can end any day.”

“Are you telling me you lied about the apocalypse?”

“Be gone! Go away! You heard me! Skedaddle!”

Repeating the same echoing word, the disembodied motherly voice enters his sensitive ears, “Skedaddle! Skedaddle! Skedaddle…”

Skedaddle, the painful, last word he said to Sadie haunts him. Sadly, he is so furious that he questions her nihility. The shrewd atmosphere causes him to shiver, but his scorching hot mind never decreases. In an unerring rage for killing, he refrains from embarrassingly expressing his sadness. Frightening him is how vulnerably sensitive he would appear if he cries immediately. Nihility should be himself, but rather or not he believes in souls, even by suicide, he would have logical evidence of his past existence.

Catching his attention is a pregnant woman breastfeeding an infant in the public. While she exhaustedly walks the somber road, the infant sucks on her right nipple for the nutrients of the breast milk. Her daughter gulps down the liquid in utter sedation until the mother keels over from the sight of the firmament, swiftly shifting black. The mother has enough energy to catch her infant’s fall before roughly landing on the hard ground.

Every seven seconds, a vivid, white light flashes from the sky, but it seemingly has nothing to do with electricity. A flabbergasted Melvin panics at the gigantic, angelic hands soaring through the murky clouds. Then, a beautiful face of a female angel appears with a wicked smile along with other angelic creatures. Melvin knows he is trapped on Earth, and the ghastly event makes him question the sad afterlife. His past reverence for the angels changes into a shocking fear.

The angels’ presence clarify their true, disturbing meaning.They are intellectual creatures disobeying God with morbid activities. These angels that Melvin sees have no sign of describable flesh, but demonic-like wings. They have a powerful odor and are boisterous creatures. All of the questions he ever wanted to ask anyone in heaven causes him to personally question his questions.

Only two more days until the world ends is his biggest error. The clouds appear in the form of spiderwebs, then the angels sarcastically laugh, changing in human form. It rains and hails at the same moment a gust of wind reaches Corey’s surprised expression. The terrible sound of people crying gives him a dreamlike depression. Running away from the hellacious scene would be a ridiculous action. A vivid, white light flashes down, and the ineffable voice claims to be the creator of all. Many people succumb to despair while Melvin has an aversion to angels.

An ethereal voice whispers in Melvin’s ears, “Kill him.”

Reality hits him. There are no visible angels, and the apocalypse is not yet here. The sentimental moment of imagination betrays him with Corey’s thuggish face. Immediately, the delinquent thrusts his right hand in his pocket to take out a keen knife. Corey points the knife at Melvin’s direction.

“Boy, if I were you I’d put that damn knife away. I have a gun, and I will use it. I shouldn’t have to worry about you. Let me tell you a little, bedtime story.”

Melvin’s cruel mind rudely interrupts his important conversation. The painful thought that Sadie was involved in infidelity makes him an irate man. With ease, Melvin fires the gun at the poor youngster without properly thinking. From the left clavicle, to the right index finger, and occipital lobe, he ruthlessly shoots. By the time he is aware of his sad actions, he sees the youngsters unworthy father still breathing. Blood is on his twisted mind as he fires the gun at the father, three times in the chest area.

Somehow, it is as if the father is begging for his life, but he is already dead. Melvin’s deceiving moment causes him to once again aim the gun at the father. With the gun, he shakes, wondering if he should repeat his actions. From begging for his mortal life, the father harangues about an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent God. Rage sets in Melvin again, thus, he jumps after firing all twelve bullets. Melvin stares at the blood covering the bullets lodged in his forehead, then, he walks away from the disturbing scene.

Many people run pass Melvin’s presence with bad intentions. He punches one person directly in the chin, causing the victim’s neck to jerk violently, driving the brain against the skull. The victim is unconscious, and could wake up paralyzed if Melvin shoots him in the spinal cord. In Melvin’s imagination, he is gouging the victim’s eyes, but when he comes to reality, he runs. A furious family attempting to defend their injured relative chases him down the street.

While running away from danger, he thinks about the beautiful, exotic Sadie. Knowing that she had an affair, he does not savvy why he remained with her for two, deplorable weeks. He thinks about the pusillanimity to approach his ex-girlfriend, then getting in a relationship with her. His eyes turn watery by the remembrance of her naturally ethereal voice. How she had an affair with an anonymous person occurs to him. He desires to brutally kill them with no remorse. His escape from the traumatizing heartbreak seems curable by taking away innocent and guilty lives.

“Droopy fail in hell. Kooky spell for sale. Loopy male for trade. Spooky pale maid,” the motherly voice says to him.

Obviously, his mother makes no sense to him. Successful enough for the day, he escapes the mad family, just to see Sadie walking alone. She is on the sidewalk, and he peers in the darkness, following her light footsteps. By every step he makes, his ruthless intentions increase. When she instinctively turns around, she screams in horror at the sight of his devilish face. Abnormally, he aims a gun at her, but runs away from the scene.

Seconds later, she runs for the hope of survival. From the area of the creepy woods, she clearly hears a single gunshot being fired. In a depressing denial that he would commit suicide before killing her, she proceeds exhaustedly running away. To her boyfriend’s house, she runs, after calling the police on her grey cell phone. She breathlessly makes her way in the house immediately closing the door on her way in.

Sadie’s boyfriend, Robert is an off-duty police officer. She cries in his welcoming arms as he questions her paranoid face. Thus, she informs Robert about the disturbing event, and he attempts to defend his manhood. Although he has never killed anyone before, he heads to his closet for his gun. Even in her boyfriend’s house, she fails to feel the slightest bit of comfort.

Thirty minutes pass by, and company arrives. Zigana and Thea, Robert’s police friends give Sadie comfort. On the living-room couch, they discuss what recently occurred, and the past events that led to it. Only to find out that a nervous Sadie says she cheated on Melvin, Thea shamefully nods her head. Zigana attempts to calm her nerves, but Robert does so by affectionately wrapping his arms around her.

Twenty-year old Thea shares a shocked look at Sadie. She comprehends that Sadie is in grave danger of a madman, but does not want to risk dying over a predicament Sadie is guilty of emotionally starting. What other choice does she have, she thinks. If she voices her opinion, her friends will be no longer. With a false face of caring, Thea shreds a lucid tear. From last year, her one semester in a private college, drama class benefits her today.

“He looked as if though he was demon-possessed. His eyes were black,” Sadie says.

Thea ruins her perfect acting performance by making an outburst, “It is kind of dark outside! I’d be seeing things too if I was busy running, waiting for the slightest moment to catch my attention!”

“I think you made your point,” Zigana says, “Just shut up.”

“I’m tired of the half-truths. You cheated on Melvin. Me and Melvin were best friends in high school. He would never harm anyone innocent.”

Sadie’s sensitive, innocent voice overshadows Thea’s, “You don’t know Melvin like I know him! The things he’d do. The things he’d say. He choked me in my sleep. He once pushed me down the stairs, and I suffered a dislocated, right ankle for it. Sometimes, he’d yell at me about basic conversations. When he’s not around me, he has his fame to improve. He married his fame long before me, but I was too stupid to realize it.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

Dramatically, Zigana says with a high-toned voice, “You should be!”

A redbrick shatters the front window of Robert’s home. The irksome, unexpected sound startles everyone. Sadie panics as the police officers grab their guns for protection. Attached to the object is a letter typed in black ink. On the letter, drops of blood evidence is seen. Nobody is quick to approach the object in fear that Melvin is still stalking them.

A green-eyed Zigana rips the letter from the brick, and reads it aloud, “I never laid one wrongful hand on you, but you laid numerous hands on me. I’m no rogue, but it’s a relief that we never got married. The sexual things you did with this anonymous person affects my heart. You are not sober. I will leave you alone. What is important, crazy, but stupid? You.”

“Let me see that,” Robert says, grabbing the letter and reads it out of curiosity.

While Zigana turns away to walk in the kitchen, she gets shot in the back of the head. Sadie screams at the sight of blood erupting from Robert’s friend. Thea turns shocked with disbelief that her friend is dead. She does not hesitate to hide behind the kitchen wall. Many gunshots are fired at Thea’s direction. One bullet successfully gets lodged in the left side of her neck. Instantly, Thea unconsciously falls to the tiled floor while Robert and Sadie runs upstairs.

Robert can hear Melvin cautiously moving in the house downstairs. Missing Sadie, random bullets fly through the second, wooden floor. It gets so quiet that it appears that Melvin fled the house. A second bullet flies from the area of the stairway hitting Sadie on the left side of the ribcage. Sadly, she gasps for decreasing air after landing on her falling right shoulder. Seemingly, her final breaths could convey her soul to the killer.

While panicking, Robert is at the scene, hoping his girlfriend is not destined to die. Immediately, from the guest-room, he shoots downstairs, twice. Melvin gets shot in the midst of the chest, once. He crawls up the stairs to shoot Robert’s left knee through a plaster wall, twice. Robert groans with intense pain challenging his every movement for survival. Blood, the only thing wrapped across Melvin’s sadistic mind, but he gets shot in the chest, again. They try to remain silent in order to keep their presence somewhat of a mystery.

Melvin realizes that if he is caught dead and there is no apocalypse, his reputation is ruined. Everything he ever lived to conquer in life is a waste of time if he does not die himself. Because he already feels dead, he questions why he does not kill himself. Pain is the answer, for he questions the possibilities of living unconsciously through a coma. What if he awakes, but is paralyzed, he thinks. What if Sadie was sincere with her countless apologies in the past? Thus, he aggressively yells at his deteriorating goals.

His mother again speaks to him, but berates him for his low self-esteem, “Get up and kill him. You do nothing right. Everybody laughs at what you call success.”

He feels like a trampled honeysuckle in Satan’s garden. Then, he loses a lot of blood to the point where he suffers lightheadedness. The desire to sleep brings him a flashback of when he was six-years old. He would watch the anthropoid of (Almeta) a venomous snake on television, and try imitating her through his creative drawings. He faces reality again, seeing the vistas of ubiquitous bliss never shown. His qualms increases, and he does not fathom how to eliminate them.

In a terrible way, he feels like he recently imbibed gallons of contaminated beer. Like a buffoon, he continues to crawl up the stairs. The lights flicker on and off, but it could solely be his possible imagination. Laughter reaches his ears, but it is just his mother. He stretches his arms with the limited goals to conquer his profound qualms.

Limping toward the stairs, Thea aims a gun from behind Melvin. He darts his head around to shoot her in the forehead. No heroic conclusions are on Melvin’s mind. He begs the stairs to lift him up, but uses his strength to balance on the floor. Robert fires his gun at Melvin, but he misses the target. Thus, while Robert reloads his weapon with a bullet, Melvin attempts to fire his unloaded weapon as he runs at his victim.

As he runs, Robert swiftly moves sideways, with an aggressive push, tripping him. He twists his body in an unbalanced fashion, pulling the trigger to the gun on more than five occasions. Thus, on the seventh attempt to pull the trigger, a bullet erupts from his gun to hit Robert in the jugular. Karma occurs, and he crashes through a clear window, falling from the second floor. The shattering glass follows his fall as he lands in a prone position. Melvin Shaden loses oxygen, and his future reputation is doomed.

Know How to Feel

I’ll wipe those clear tears from the boughs of baby leaves.
I’ll face the trees, but more breathes until my heart grieves.
Weeping in the shadows puts the roots asunder.
Evaporation among a hopeless wonder.

Forsaken place keeping me here; your heart can flow.
Your presence can undergo an ocean’s gusto.
If apart, I’ll use seashells to voice my heart.
I’ll give the last ounce of water, so don’t depart.

My need for hope is watching you.
My stare won’t turn away a clue.
You’re all I need to see that’s real.
My reason to know how to feel.

You’re my maybe–my chance to live in nirvana.
Lurking in the sand, I beg of mañana.
I long your angelic voice, but you’re more untold.
Behold, I accept you if your secrets unfold.

When pregnant tides reveal, my observation’s still,
But when they flow, my pumping heart delivers a shrill.
I chase the tides shadows to impress your goodness.
My heart ages, but will you confess for a kiss?

My need for hope is watching you.
My stare won’t turn away a clue.
You’re all I need to see that’s real.
My reason to know how to feel.
Make This Butterfly Hurt

Your promise is skin-deep.
Your kiss awakes my sleep.
You’re trauma-inducing,
But my heart’s accepting.

Make this butterfly hurt.
Don’t give me your dessert.

Coma for heart attacks.
Moments don’t relax.
When breathing’s itching.
Then, my love’s bewitching.
Run for Satan

Satan on my mind, and a life to find.
The ritual abuse; everyday’s loose.
Secluded from my memories of use.
I’m confused; inferno to every noose.
In all that I see, nobody combined.
Recollect times–the oddities behind.
Give me a sign to kill for an excuse.
Forever comprehend entities blind.
Hexes destroying kind; life’s outlined.
Time, I rewind, and wish luck intertwined.

(Occultist) Run for Satan.
They’ll never comprehend the wounds open.
Walking in skin cells of a spinning sin.
Try to control a supposed souls’ then.
Grant me death if I foresee a schools twin.

Comprehending the oozing pain depends.
Family wants me for their traditions.
Symbolic ways questioning all the guns.
Paranoia for me with suspicions.
Insomnia from bullying extends.
Even in nightmares, the pain recommends.
Humiliation, but trapped with the nuns.
Expectations high then low at all ends.
My goals hanging from the outside offends.
Everything I do, the magic attends.

(Occultist) Run for Satan.
They’ll never comprehend the wounds open.
Walking in skin cells of a spinning sin.
Trying to control a supposed souls’ then.
Grant me death if I foresee a schools twin.

No privacy, but I’m in solitude.
Life of poverty unlike the support.
Living for defense to attend a court.
Close-minded ones bullying when life’s short.
When lacking confidence, there’s fortitude.
Be anything, but nothing’s pursued.
In a selfish world, I want to abort.
I summon immortal daemons for food.
For my purpose, they preplanned a dark feud.
When my every purpose is misconstrued.

(Occultist) Run for Satan.
They’ll never comprehend the wounds open.
Walking in skin cells of a spinning sin.
Trying to control a supposed souls’ then.
Grant me death if I foresee a schools twin.

Goth’s a Persona

Goth’s a persona.
If I’m not Goth, why?
My appearance, huh?
Well, I hope you die.

Silent vacancy.
I prefer my way.
Happy destiny.
If judged, I’m astray.

Traditional more.
Open-minded me.
Hopeless metaphor.
Bring the misery.

I’m myself, dimwit.
No desire for wealth.
You’re focused on shit.
I’m focused on health.

Afford the black seen.
May there be a judge?
Don’t want to be mean.
I do hold a grudge.

Not ordinary,
But bringing the pain.
Don’t regret lonely.
I help the insane.

If I Wasn’t Isolated

That Pagan girl makes me me.
Pagan girl from memory.
Pagan girl, but what’s her name?
Pagan girl, but not the same.
Everyone knows her name’s true.
I have not the slightest clue.
That Pagan girl makes me smile.
But Pagan girl has more style.

If I wasn’t isolated,
May I have the courage to tell?
If I didn’t hesitated,
May this magic still be to fail?

My Pagan girl, but she’s not.
That Pagan girl sure is hot.
She’s my Pagan girl for me.
She’s my Pagan destiny.
She’s my only realism.
My nightmare’s terrorism.
My Pagan healer correct.
But she’s my Pagan suspect.

If I wasn’t isolated,
May I have the courage to tell?
If I didn’t hesitated,
May this magic still be to fail?

Lulling the Angel

When virgin beauty yields until dusk.
Dawn hits, and the the cry is never brusque.
The unaided wind searches the sky.
Flustered afar, the wind’s shrinking cry.
To the unbaptized wind, the aim is shy.
Atmosphere of a jinx aglow by.
Caressing strategy; no reply.

Reverie was her name in the sky.
Hypnotic want, but not thick for why?
Looming through the clouds, her ghost-like wings.
Lulling the angel, the wind that sings.
Whispering at clouds, but no sign brings.
Flecks of sunshine brings summer mornings.
Dwelling in a hush for no warnings.
Don’t want a Funeral

Disfigure polite concern.
Take these tendencies to burn.
In my chemical return.
I’m the ashes in an urn.

Though my solemn vow can lie,
Higher than the cloudy sky,
I foresee no lullaby.
Even in heaven, I die.

I don’t want a funeral.
People pretend like they care.
Know I utter no fable.
May tears even pause to stare?

They said they’d be in heaven.
Who am I to judge the fin?
Being like hell’s how they’ve been.
I’m going to sin, but when?

When judgement calls, I’m falling.
The drastic promise calling.
Knowing this is appalling.
Before I’m down, I’m stalling.

I don’t want a funeral.
People pretend like they care.
Know I utter no fable.
May tears even pause to stare?