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Saturday, 30 July 2011

An Introduction.

This is the beginning to a story I am currently working on. The story in its entirety is going to be devoid of specificities, such as names and locations. The idea is that we as reader know nothing for sure throughout, we only know what the narrator tells us. This will become apparent later, as we discover that the narrator isn't as innocent as we'd expect (despite the fact that he/she has just gunned down a man).
Without giving too much away, here is the beginning:


It starts with a gunshot. A bullet, straight into the killer’s spine. I grin from ear to ear as I watch the blood spout forth from the wound, the wound that I’ve created. The body spasmed momentarily before contorting into its cold and lifeless form. I hadn’t even cared for an explanation as to why he did what he did. There is no justifying the murder of the only person I’ve ever really loved.
He had tortured him. When the body was found it was evinced that he had been starved, severely beaten and stabbed. His eyelids had been cut off. One of the eyes had been removed from its socket and left to hang from its sinewy cord, unable to shut out the surrounding world of horror and pain from its foreign angle. He had been fed substances to make him hurl, only for his vomit to be forced back down his throat to burn his insides through. Stab wounds covered his body from head to toe, burns ravaged his flesh.
To this day, this is the only image I can recall of the one I held so dear. The boy who grew up to be a man in my company is no more. The violence of his death and the suddenness of his being taken from me has supplanted any memories that may have given me consolation and reprieve. He was my brother, the only person I have ever truly loved. Now he’s nothing. Now I’m nothing.
             I stood over the killer, the killer now lifeless, with my gun held limply by my side. I hadn’t felt the need to torture him. I just needed to see him dead. I just needed to see his body, once so lithe and strong, made to curl in on itself and become the physical manifestation of his weak and heartless self. I live for this image. All the memories he had taken away from me, all the future that he prevented myself and my brother from sharing are times that I can never relive or experience, but this one image, this one memory, will replace everything that I once held dear. This was humanity laid before me. It is only through death that the truth is revealed. There is no good in anyone, no-one but my brother, but even that has gone. There is no good in this world. This, now, is what I hold close to my heart.
I turned my back on the killer, the killer’s corpse, and started to walk away. Yet, something fired up inside me, and turning back, I shot the remainder of my clip into his head and groin. The bullets exploded through into his skull and pelvis, the bones shattered. It was left faceless, sexless. Nothing.

I would say that; of recent, I have mostly been inspired by the T.V. series The Sopranos. If you haven't watched it, I'd like to recommend it now: It's nothing short of brilliant.

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