3 A.M. # 94 - Life Story

I had no idea where to start. Her icy eyes pierced through me and it made me nervous. I’m a guy; I shouldn’t be nervous, but there it was. She just kept staring and I couldn’t help wishing to be elsewhere.

So, I opened my lips and lied.

“We were poor—couldn’t afford much when I was young. I’m an only child and my parents were working all the time.” That wasn’t exactly a lie, they did work all the time but we certainly weren’t poor. I was on the verge of poor now, but hey, that’s the cost of fucking up in life. Maybe she knew it was a lie? Those blue eyes masked everything or anything going on in her head.

“Anyway, we couldn’t afford much so I had to suffer the bullying of kids. Kids are ruthless. Once, I remember, a group of us—or them circling me. Two of them had baseball bats and the rest of them just stood there, arms crossed and glaring.

“Horror writers just don’t know horror. They don’t write about that, and if they knew horror that’s what they would write about. Anyway, that was my childhood. Just like everyone else’s: fucked up.” Did she catch my slip? Did she know that I had been one of the ones with a baseball bat?

It does not really matter because I kept lying. I kept digging myself in further. She just sat there, smugly silent and observant. Bitch.

“I survived it all, of course. Worked my ass off in school. I was loved by every teacher.” More lies. Some pitied me though, foolishly. “I made it into college only the money or scholarships wouldn’t cover everything. I dropped out, started dealing drugs.”

“And now here I am, sitting on a shrink’s couch.”

3 A.M. # 130 - Monotony

Pressed against the wall, Andrew closed his eyes. They swarmed over the wood chips, the monkey bars, and the swings like tiny, barbaric apes. One bellowed then charged him.

Andrew opened his eyes because of the cry. The brute pumped its small arms forward and back, accelerating toward terminal velocity with surprising ease. Lips parted around feral teeth.

Chip Brewster, that one’s name is, Andrew thought. Chip was six years old, already failing class and known as the meanest red-headed bully around. Chip’s sharp teeth glimmered hungrily.

Chip screeched; Andrew's heart leapt within his chest. The brute closed in and Andrew fell to his knees, curling up into a fetal position. The beast slammed the wall.

Layout

Yay. New Layout. This is my first (finished) layout. Woo.

3 A.M. #96 - One Moment

Water pelted the metal sink. He stared out the window into a world bright and young. Hot water scalded his left hand but he ignored it. If the bright world looked in, it would see his nasty grimace.

The phone in his right hand flashed. The ringing repeated ceaselessly. The click, click, clicking of the over-sized wall clock was louder. Minutes passed. Still no answer. His hand blossomed red.

Trembling, he shut the phone off and set it down on the tiled counter. The black clashed with the grainy white of the 1950’s tile.

Click, click, click.

The scent of lemons and cleansing agents danced around his dark mood. His face blossomed red. He lifted the phone from the tile, clicked it on.

Beep. He hit redial and the same malevolent, seven tones played for the eleventh—no twelfth time.

Sore tenderness crept along the heat in his left hand. He withdrew it and the plate from the burning water. The phone rang and rang and rang. Mocking.

He pressed the end button.

His left hand shot out. The plate sailed across the 1950’s kitchen to smash in the living room, above the fireplace. Its white ceramic bits splashed against the stone mantle, chiming like a chorus of windchimes.

The front door creaked open. Her heels clattered against the hardwood floors, slowly.

His left hand reached again into the hot water. Against his battered flesh he felt the solid curve of the kitchen tile.

Her heels tapped impatiently first on the hardwood, then on the checkerboard linoleum. He turned to her, breathing in her scent. Perfume, stale smoke, lingering alcohol, sex and death.