he whispered, dragging me up.
I kneed him hard in the balls. "Sorry Papa Bear but this Goldilocks is a very bad girl."
I drove the knife into his
stomach as he doubled over. He screamed in pain as his girlfriend thundered
down the stairs. She wrenched my hair back, screeching at me. I turned and bit
her hard on the wrist whilst pulling the knife free. I sliced her arm. She let
go, cradling it and reached for me again. I ducked, grabbed her and threw her
into the wall. She smacked her face and stumbled backwards. He collapsed,
bleeding heavily. Jazz wrestled the door open, knife raised.
" Georgie !
Run!"
The man grabbed my ankle. Jazz
stamped on his wrist then plunged his knife into his heart.
The girlfriend whimpered as she
dropped to her knees beside her boyfriend, blocking the door.
"You killed him!"
"He's not dead yet," I
retorted. "It'll take him a few minutes to bleed out."
"You bitch!"
She screamed and lunged for me. I
rammed the knife into her stomach and twisted it before yanking it out. She
dropped on top of her boyfriend, twitching and gasping as they died together.
"They're like Romeo and
Juliet," I said. "An obsessive love that results in the deaths of
everyone around them."
Jazz stared at the bodies.
"Hardly a fairytale ending."
I smiled. " Fairytales are twisted."
Master of Puppets
The blood red rose struck the
coffin. Rain drummed on it, as though feeble knocking echoed from inside. I
hoped he was still alive, listening to the dull thuds of the earth hitting the
lid as he desperately scratched the polished wood, realising the Reaper had
come for him and would make him suffer every second of his terrifying death.
I hoped he died screaming.
I couldn't stand to be around the
mourners, watching them cry for a man they never really knew. At least, they
cried for the side of him they knew.
That side was just a glossy political poster advertising something that didn't
exist.
I joined my brothers by the
hearse. Rob was twenty five and our father's favourite. He was the handsome
rugby player. The sun didn't just shine out his arse, but out of every orifice,
like a halo trapped in a cheese grater. It wasn't his fault he couldn't stay faithful when so many girls threw
themselves at him. It wasn't his fault he'd get drunk every Saturday night and end up in A and E or the cells -
he trained hard, he deserved some fun. It wasn't his fault he constantly borrowed money off our father and never
paid it back – celebrities had a lifestyle to maintain.
That's why our father left him
the house.
Pierre was twenty three and
ridiculously intelligent. He had three degrees, all in stuff that fried my
brain. It didn't matter he was a prick. Our father said intelligent people
often had social problems and I didn't know what a burden it was being that
brilliant. It didn't matter he never visited or phoned after he'd left. He had
an important job, he couldn't help being too busy to care about the ones he
left behind.
He got the sports car.
At nineteen, I was the youngest.
The disappointment. Our father said there was absolutely no excuse for my
faults. I got nothing. Except broken bones and mental scars to remember him by.
And the metal plate in my head that made airport trips embarrassing.
"I'm selling the
house," Rob told me. "I don't need it. Can you move out in the next
few weeks?"
"And go where? They don't
sell flats in Lidl's ."
"I'll sell it quicker if
it's empty. Go stay with a friend."
"I don't have friends."
"Dad was right. You are a loser."
I kicked him in the shin and
returned to the grave. I put my MP3 Player earphones in and blasted Green Day's
'Ha Ha You're Dead'. I dangled one earphone into
Dad's grave. It was a fitting tribute.
" Psst !"
I looked around. Forsaken graves
stared back. Wilting or dead flowers lay scattered over the sunken grass, some
still in their supermarket shrouds.
" Psst !
Aidan!"
I rose and peered around a
headstone. A tortoiseshell cat glared at me.
"Hey
I kneed him hard in the balls. "Sorry Papa Bear but this Goldilocks is a very bad girl."
I drove the knife into his
stomach as he doubled over. He screamed in pain as his girlfriend thundered
down the stairs. She wrenched my hair back, screeching at me. I turned and bit
her hard on the wrist whilst pulling the knife free. I sliced her arm. She let
go, cradling it and reached for me again. I ducked, grabbed her and threw her
into the wall. She smacked her face and stumbled backwards. He collapsed,
bleeding heavily. Jazz wrestled the door open, knife raised.
" Georgie !
Run!"
The man grabbed my ankle. Jazz
stamped on his wrist then plunged his knife into his heart.
The girlfriend whimpered as she
dropped to her knees beside her boyfriend, blocking the door.
"You killed him!"
"He's not dead yet," I
retorted. "It'll take him a few minutes to bleed out."
"You bitch!"
She screamed and lunged for me. I
rammed the knife into her stomach and twisted it before yanking it out. She
dropped on top of her boyfriend, twitching and gasping as they died together.
"They're like Romeo and
Juliet," I said. "An obsessive love that results in the deaths of
everyone around them."
Jazz stared at the bodies.
"Hardly a fairytale ending."
I smiled. " Fairytales are twisted."
Master of Puppets
The blood red rose struck the
coffin. Rain drummed on it, as though feeble knocking echoed from inside. I
hoped he was still alive, listening to the dull thuds of the earth hitting the
lid as he desperately scratched the polished wood, realising the Reaper had
come for him and would make him suffer every second of his terrifying death.
I hoped he died screaming.
I couldn't stand to be around the
mourners, watching them cry for a man they never really knew. At least, they
cried for the side of him they knew.
That side was just a glossy political poster advertising something that didn't
exist.
I joined my brothers by the
hearse. Rob was twenty five and our father's favourite. He was the handsome
rugby player. The sun didn't just shine out his arse, but out of every orifice,
like a halo trapped in a cheese grater. It wasn't his fault he couldn't stay faithful when so many girls threw
themselves at him. It wasn't his fault he'd get drunk every Saturday night and end up in A and E or the cells -
he trained hard, he deserved some fun. It wasn't his fault he constantly borrowed money off our father and never
paid it back – celebrities had a lifestyle to maintain.
That's why our father left him
the house.
Pierre was twenty three and
ridiculously intelligent. He had three degrees, all in stuff that fried my
brain. It didn't matter he was a prick. Our father said intelligent people
often had social problems and I didn't know what a burden it was being that
brilliant. It didn't matter he never visited or phoned after he'd left. He had
an important job, he couldn't help being too busy to care about the ones he
left behind.
He got the sports car.
At nineteen, I was the youngest.
The disappointment. Our father said there was absolutely no excuse for my
faults. I got nothing. Except broken bones and mental scars to remember him by.
And the metal plate in my head that made airport trips embarrassing.
"I'm selling the
house," Rob told me. "I don't need it. Can you move out in the next
few weeks?"
"And go where? They don't
sell flats in Lidl's ."
"I'll sell it quicker if
it's empty. Go stay with a friend."
"I don't have friends."
"Dad was right. You are a loser."
I kicked him in the shin and
returned to the grave. I put my MP3 Player earphones in and blasted Green Day's
'Ha Ha You're Dead'. I dangled one earphone into
Dad's grave. It was a fitting tribute.
" Psst !"
I looked around. Forsaken graves
stared back. Wilting or dead flowers lay scattered over the sunken grass, some
still in their supermarket shrouds.
" Psst !
Aidan!"
I rose and peered around a
headstone. A tortoiseshell cat glared at me.
"Hey
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