REVENGE
26 January 2008, 03:35 AM
Shadow Of The Valley Of Death
By LynZ
Disclaimer: In this first chapter, the gore is extremely mild. After that point, however, I must warn you that in the chapters to come, you will have to read at your own risk. If your stomach is easily set off, I suggest you read no further than the first chapter, or perhaps not read this story at all. For those of you that enjoy a little blood from time to time, however, you'll probably enjoy this story in the chapters to come. I hope you read and enjoy. Thank you.
------------------------------
1
Lightly tracing the moist handprint on the window in front of him with cold fingers, Mark Woods smiled. He smiled, not only to himself, but also to the whole world around him, even though he knew no one was looking. The dog wasn’t looking, he himself wasn’t really looking, and his dead father still lying in the floor wasn’t much up to paying attention either. But the smile was triumphant all the same. Mark had succeeded in his daily trial to prove himself worthy of living. For the last year or so, after his suicide attempt at jumping out of the nearest two-story window, Mark had found that playing little games with himself made life a bit easier to undergo. In the 16 year olds young mind, he hadn’t realized how out of hand his little games had been getting.
First, small spiders and other creepy crawlies he would find squirming in his bedroom or on the front porch. He would take a butter knife and hold them down on his hardwood floor in his room with his index finger, and de-limb them slowly as he imagined their screams. Imagined them being people who cursed at him daily, imagined them being his mother who he’d found at the age of nine in bed with another man shortly before she left Mark and his father – imagined them being people. Insects satisfied the young boy’s lust for killing only six months. After that, he moved on to the bigger and better things. Rats were his next targets, and he spent a large amount of his time in the sewers of Ription, the small city in Arkansas where he and his father resided.
Perhaps his father would’ve noticed his son’s odd behavior before it was too late, had it not been for his constant state of stress and frustration, killing himself day by day trying to pay the bills on the salary of a factory worker. Being an alcoholic didn’t help anything, but in David Wood’s mind, it made his life much easier. In the state of being drunk, one didn’t have to come to terms with the real world, with the bad side of things. With the ‘oh my god how am I going to pay the month’s rent and feed this kid’ side of things.
While David was out in the nearest bar, blowing what money he had on temporary ignorance and happiness, Mark had been smiling as he watched what his hands were capable of. They could twist and contort the forms of rats and stray cats, and with a little help from his pocketknife, they could even find that both had crimson blood flowing within them – not to mention outside them when the young boy was done with the unfortunate animals. The animals lasted him six more months. Six months, until the present. Six months, until Mark wondered if he was capable of stopping his father and his alcohol, capable of putting him from his misery. Capable of killing him.
It had been a calm, undisturbed night, the only sign of the storm to come a light fog that had crept in between the alleyways, and had found itself concealing the ragged apartment complex where the Woods lived. Concealing the heinous crime that had taken place not long after the fog’s arrival. Mark had crept quietly to the kitchen, smiling gently as he stole a steak knife from the small drawer under the sink that was it’s home. He had still been smiling, but there was also a hint of question in his eyes – wondering if this was a mistake. Wondering if he should turn back. Yet his mind urged himself on with a harsh inhuman voice, and he did what was asked of him.
He had crept into his father’s bedroom, where the middle-aged man was dozing in a drunken haze of headache and confusion, and stopped at the edge of his bed. Mark took in the sight of his father sleeping, knowing it would be the last time he would see him like this. Then he had firmly gripped the knife in both hands, pointed the tip down above his father – took a deep breath – then, in swift precision, drove the knife down with as much force as he could bear. David had awoke with the knife still sticking out of his neck, his eyes wide as he put his hands to the flow of blood that was effortlessly running out of his jugular vein. He trembled, screamed, and for the last time, rose to his knees – a look of panic was painted on his expression as he fell to the floor on the other side of the bed, his bloody hand reaching out and hitting the foggy window in a last attempt at help.
Then he had grown silent. Now, as Mark was tracing the crimson handprint on the window with his fingers, there was no doubt in his mind that the tenants around the apartment he lived in had heard the commotion, and had probably called the police. Yet, something stopped him from running away. Even minutes later, as the sirens approached, he did nothing but touch the blood on the window and smile. Smile gently, like a boy who’s done nothing except made an A on his Geometry test. Nothing like a boy who’s just murdered his father.
The worst part was that Mark had loved his father, very much – he had often daydreamed during school about being able to go fishing with him, or some other father-son type thing like he saw on television from time to time. Slowly, but very surely, as policemen and women raced up the stairs to apartment 3B, it began to sink into Mark’s mind that now that his father was lying on the floor with a knife through his throat, none of that would ever happen.
None of that was possible anymore. He crept to his father’s still side, and lightly brushed his cheek. It was different. It was cold. Seeing the knife still protruding from his father’s neck, he gripped it and yanked it out, watching silently as more blood ran from the wound.
Eternity is a concept that the human mind finds extremely hard to grasp – so the idea that Mark would never be able to go fishing with his father “As Seen On TV” now that he was dead, was very hard for him to accept. Why he had never thought of the downsides to stretching his “talent” to his own household, Mark didn’t know. He had only wanted to play his game, his stupid, mind numbing, time-consuming game. That’s what it had been about from the very beginning, really. Using up all his spare time, having something interesting to do while waiting for that day dream to come true, giving his mind something evil to do.
That’s what Mark viewed his mind as – evil. He had been diagnosed with severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and one of the effects of this rather common illness was intrusive thoughts – thoughts that Mark couldn’t control nor wanted to see entered his mind at a rate unheard of. Things that Mark had never even before thought of haunted him daily, images and animations of things out of horror movies from hell.
Severed heads of innocent children, reeking flesh of murdered women, and eyes that had been set aflame in their sockets. One day, the boy had not been able to take it any longer – and he gave his evil mind something to really think about. Something that he actually did. A game to make these horrible things go away, a game to end the pain. But the game had gone too far – and now Mark realized it had been out of his control from the very beginning. Tears streamed down his face as the door burst open, and armed police workers told him to raise his hands in the air and remain where he was.
Now, before I continue, you need to understand something. When a child is lost, they seek refuge. Comfort. They seek help, someone to take everything that hurts them away. Mark, in the realization of losing his father, became a very young child at heart. A child who longed for help. A lost child who wanted a hug, because before his mother had left him, a hug had been the gateway to happiness. A hug made all the difference. Being lost, and feeling very alone, Mark unknowingly made a fatal mistake.
He began crying in that choked, choppy manner that was saw mostly in three-year-olds during a tantrum, and ran at the armed officials in front of him – wanting a hug. Longing for comfort. Unknowingly, he still held the steak knife in his right hand, blood dripping from the metal and drops running down the length of his arm. Unknowingly, he had the knife gripped tightly, in rage and pain. And unknowingly, his hands were up in the air and rushing towards the armed officials, begging for a hug – but what Mark got, was a bullet through his forehead.
By LynZ
Disclaimer: In this first chapter, the gore is extremely mild. After that point, however, I must warn you that in the chapters to come, you will have to read at your own risk. If your stomach is easily set off, I suggest you read no further than the first chapter, or perhaps not read this story at all. For those of you that enjoy a little blood from time to time, however, you'll probably enjoy this story in the chapters to come. I hope you read and enjoy. Thank you.
------------------------------
1
Lightly tracing the moist handprint on the window in front of him with cold fingers, Mark Woods smiled. He smiled, not only to himself, but also to the whole world around him, even though he knew no one was looking. The dog wasn’t looking, he himself wasn’t really looking, and his dead father still lying in the floor wasn’t much up to paying attention either. But the smile was triumphant all the same. Mark had succeeded in his daily trial to prove himself worthy of living. For the last year or so, after his suicide attempt at jumping out of the nearest two-story window, Mark had found that playing little games with himself made life a bit easier to undergo. In the 16 year olds young mind, he hadn’t realized how out of hand his little games had been getting.
First, small spiders and other creepy crawlies he would find squirming in his bedroom or on the front porch. He would take a butter knife and hold them down on his hardwood floor in his room with his index finger, and de-limb them slowly as he imagined their screams. Imagined them being people who cursed at him daily, imagined them being his mother who he’d found at the age of nine in bed with another man shortly before she left Mark and his father – imagined them being people. Insects satisfied the young boy’s lust for killing only six months. After that, he moved on to the bigger and better things. Rats were his next targets, and he spent a large amount of his time in the sewers of Ription, the small city in Arkansas where he and his father resided.
Perhaps his father would’ve noticed his son’s odd behavior before it was too late, had it not been for his constant state of stress and frustration, killing himself day by day trying to pay the bills on the salary of a factory worker. Being an alcoholic didn’t help anything, but in David Wood’s mind, it made his life much easier. In the state of being drunk, one didn’t have to come to terms with the real world, with the bad side of things. With the ‘oh my god how am I going to pay the month’s rent and feed this kid’ side of things.
While David was out in the nearest bar, blowing what money he had on temporary ignorance and happiness, Mark had been smiling as he watched what his hands were capable of. They could twist and contort the forms of rats and stray cats, and with a little help from his pocketknife, they could even find that both had crimson blood flowing within them – not to mention outside them when the young boy was done with the unfortunate animals. The animals lasted him six more months. Six months, until the present. Six months, until Mark wondered if he was capable of stopping his father and his alcohol, capable of putting him from his misery. Capable of killing him.
It had been a calm, undisturbed night, the only sign of the storm to come a light fog that had crept in between the alleyways, and had found itself concealing the ragged apartment complex where the Woods lived. Concealing the heinous crime that had taken place not long after the fog’s arrival. Mark had crept quietly to the kitchen, smiling gently as he stole a steak knife from the small drawer under the sink that was it’s home. He had still been smiling, but there was also a hint of question in his eyes – wondering if this was a mistake. Wondering if he should turn back. Yet his mind urged himself on with a harsh inhuman voice, and he did what was asked of him.
He had crept into his father’s bedroom, where the middle-aged man was dozing in a drunken haze of headache and confusion, and stopped at the edge of his bed. Mark took in the sight of his father sleeping, knowing it would be the last time he would see him like this. Then he had firmly gripped the knife in both hands, pointed the tip down above his father – took a deep breath – then, in swift precision, drove the knife down with as much force as he could bear. David had awoke with the knife still sticking out of his neck, his eyes wide as he put his hands to the flow of blood that was effortlessly running out of his jugular vein. He trembled, screamed, and for the last time, rose to his knees – a look of panic was painted on his expression as he fell to the floor on the other side of the bed, his bloody hand reaching out and hitting the foggy window in a last attempt at help.
Then he had grown silent. Now, as Mark was tracing the crimson handprint on the window with his fingers, there was no doubt in his mind that the tenants around the apartment he lived in had heard the commotion, and had probably called the police. Yet, something stopped him from running away. Even minutes later, as the sirens approached, he did nothing but touch the blood on the window and smile. Smile gently, like a boy who’s done nothing except made an A on his Geometry test. Nothing like a boy who’s just murdered his father.
The worst part was that Mark had loved his father, very much – he had often daydreamed during school about being able to go fishing with him, or some other father-son type thing like he saw on television from time to time. Slowly, but very surely, as policemen and women raced up the stairs to apartment 3B, it began to sink into Mark’s mind that now that his father was lying on the floor with a knife through his throat, none of that would ever happen.
None of that was possible anymore. He crept to his father’s still side, and lightly brushed his cheek. It was different. It was cold. Seeing the knife still protruding from his father’s neck, he gripped it and yanked it out, watching silently as more blood ran from the wound.
Eternity is a concept that the human mind finds extremely hard to grasp – so the idea that Mark would never be able to go fishing with his father “As Seen On TV” now that he was dead, was very hard for him to accept. Why he had never thought of the downsides to stretching his “talent” to his own household, Mark didn’t know. He had only wanted to play his game, his stupid, mind numbing, time-consuming game. That’s what it had been about from the very beginning, really. Using up all his spare time, having something interesting to do while waiting for that day dream to come true, giving his mind something evil to do.
That’s what Mark viewed his mind as – evil. He had been diagnosed with severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and one of the effects of this rather common illness was intrusive thoughts – thoughts that Mark couldn’t control nor wanted to see entered his mind at a rate unheard of. Things that Mark had never even before thought of haunted him daily, images and animations of things out of horror movies from hell.
Severed heads of innocent children, reeking flesh of murdered women, and eyes that had been set aflame in their sockets. One day, the boy had not been able to take it any longer – and he gave his evil mind something to really think about. Something that he actually did. A game to make these horrible things go away, a game to end the pain. But the game had gone too far – and now Mark realized it had been out of his control from the very beginning. Tears streamed down his face as the door burst open, and armed police workers told him to raise his hands in the air and remain where he was.
Now, before I continue, you need to understand something. When a child is lost, they seek refuge. Comfort. They seek help, someone to take everything that hurts them away. Mark, in the realization of losing his father, became a very young child at heart. A child who longed for help. A lost child who wanted a hug, because before his mother had left him, a hug had been the gateway to happiness. A hug made all the difference. Being lost, and feeling very alone, Mark unknowingly made a fatal mistake.
He began crying in that choked, choppy manner that was saw mostly in three-year-olds during a tantrum, and ran at the armed officials in front of him – wanting a hug. Longing for comfort. Unknowingly, he still held the steak knife in his right hand, blood dripping from the metal and drops running down the length of his arm. Unknowingly, he had the knife gripped tightly, in rage and pain. And unknowingly, his hands were up in the air and rushing towards the armed officials, begging for a hug – but what Mark got, was a bullet through his forehead.