How the Freak Sees it

Ok, this wasn’t written by me, but it was written by a close friend. So, without furthur ado, the works of Flounce.

Art is a very vague term. You can be amazing at painting or drawing. That’s always a good one to have. People awe over your skills with a pencil. You can have a nice singing voice. How sweet. Maybe be talented at playing an instrument, at sculpting, at writing stories or poetry, or at preforming in front of crowds, splotlights blazing above you. Those are all, dare I say, common skills to have.

They say everybody has a talent. They haven’t met me. But that’s okay. I specialize in a different kind of art. I sculpt mangled bodies and create a lovely symphony of tortured screams. I paint. But I only use the colour red. My ‘brush’ is more pointed at the tip, with serreted edges and a handle to grip it with. I hum twisted tunes with horrific lyrics and off-note drops. As for writing, I can come up with terrific fake notes about how so-and-so’s son or daughter tragically decided to commit suicide. And acting? Ever heard the saying it’s the quiet and innocent ones you should watch out for. I exist to prove that statement.

Sometimes I feel lethargic. But nothing reminds me more about being alive than setting out on a hunt. My veins fill with excitment, heart racing. Like an animal who can’t wait any longer.

Have they caught me yet? Caught me playing my fiendish little games? Nope. And they won’t anytime soon.

I’m very young. On the outside. In truth I’m actually four-hundred years old. A little girl with long, blond, and slighty wavy pigtails. My dress is old fashioned. Victorian style. Lace, but not too much. It used to be such a pretty white. Now it’s red. Blood stains are so hard to get out. My eyes gleam scarlet with demonic slit pupils. I’m not human. I must continue the game. The one thing that makes me feel happy.

But the hunt is on. No time for stories. I wouldn’t want to keep my friend waiting.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” My voice slithered out in a perfectly smooth hiss.

“I’ve always hated hide-and-go-seek. I’d rather play manhunt.”

It’s dark. Of course it’s dark. No good games can be played outside in broad daylight. My footsteps echo off the walls of this endless hallway. I’m leaning on a folded up parasol, trying not to let my limp show. This plaything has put up quite a fight, leading me on a chase throughout this building. My home. Inside my head, at least. But not really. It’s in my head, yet real at the same time. Make sense? I expect it won’t. Now hush. They’ll hear me coming.

There’s a door open. They always leave the door open. Because they’re too panicked to remember to close it. My face breaks out in a grin, displaying jagged teeth. I saunter over, stepping past the thresh-hold.

The room is empty. All rooms here are empty. One window. One thin beam of light forcing its way through. The moon’s grace illuminated them. Huddled, curled inwards, sobbing and shaking with fear. Her dying body lies in a puddle of crimson. When had that happened? I sigh. Quite a survivor, I must admit. But I was getting bored of this game.

“Want me to sing you a lullaby before you fall asleep?” I ask, cold voice chilling the temperature in the room. They only sob harder. I feel a pang of offense. They should be happy I offered to sing them to sleep. I don’t usually do that for anybody. So I began to softly sing a tune I heard once while wandering the human world. 

“While bullets shower the earth

We turn our heads and cover our faces

Now flames devour the sky

And I hear these words in the back of my Mind

 Here we stand at this fork in the road

We got no time to waste

Oh which way shall we go?

This old world’s spinning out of control

Oh which way shall we go?

Which way shall we go?

I can’t believe this, it makes me sick.”

 Their crying begins to get more quiet. I smile through the song. My focus is suddenly draw towards them. I’ll finish them off. As soon as I finish the song. I image pressure building inside them. Pressure starting to expend their organs and skin, inflating them like party balloons.

 ”Fresh smell of death on your tongue

You bait the hook and here come the children

Another grave stone to sell

While you get rich in the valley of hell.”

 I lifted my parasol, opening it up and holding it over my head. The lacey white is dappled with red along the top.

“The devil’s creeping

He’s got us eating from his dirty hands

We feast on lies

Which makes it hard for us to take a stand

Out in the desert

there’s a forest full of fallen trees

It’s what they want

But it’s not what we need.”

The pressure explodes. They explode too in one final cry. Body-parts fly everywhere. Blood spews like a gyser. It launches into the air, falling around me like rain, staining the floor. I’m protected by my parasol, listening contently to the sound of blood splashing on top of it.

Killing people is an art, too. And I believe it should end raining from the sky.

The house,

Was covered in dust.

 Sheets covered the furniture, a light grey with dust. The electricity had long since been cut off, if it ever existed at all. Melted candles rested in candelabras in every room, curiously with smoke still wafting off of the long since burned out wicks. The fireplace held the ashes of charred wood, and the whole place held the stark coldness of a cemetery on Halloween night.

 The house,

 Was the empty shell of memories long forgotten, which faded from the dingy walls and the musty closets, and then from the tattered sheets and curtains. A horrifying sound, a cross between anguished sobs and gleeful laughter, could still be gently heard echoing off of the walls, with their torn and scratched wallpaper barely clinging to the structure on which they were placed.

The house,

Was far from abandoned.