Swagazine #4

"i killed my god," said the child    by Mordrak

THE SCREEN WAS HAZY, covered by a permanent snow shield. It flashed pictures, slashed pieces of chaos pasted crudely on an Etch-a-sketch. More pictures on a manila background, side shots and police shots, a nice profile, "--played tic tac toe on the victim's stomach with a knife--", a gasp of disbelief followed by a shuffling of papers and the television continued to spew psycho-babble.
     There was nothing more to concentrate on. The sound of teeth on fingernails, repeated twiddling of thumbs, a queer recollection of a forgotten scene. There was blood; there was always blood. It became more of a disjointed memory and a sporadic tension seeped slowly into the room. I anticipated and braced myself for someone to scream and the pixeled mannequins of the media droned on. Nobody was quite sure of what exactly happened. Everyone was confused, but I think it was the television's fault. I'm not ready for this sort of scene.....
     Another morning... or at least the right shade of dawn. Awakening from a nightmare, not quite sure if it was over and most of the time, too afraid to find out. A sick urge asserted itself in my head and my body would not respond, through haze that was red, although red was not the right color for morning. Color isn't supposed to have texture.
     There was nothing anymore to be sure about, seeing as how nothing was what it appeared to be. Another memory resurfaced and it was one of pain. Two sharp cracks reverberated through an empty house and a woman screamed. I was holding her down when the man in the black mask entered the room and started mutilating her with his gloved fists. The woman was already dead, but his own maniacal laughter spread throughout the house and kept him intoxicated in sculpting his meat art.
     Fluid spurted from the body's mouth onto the floor and the sticky sound of drying blood filled the silence as the stranger's lolli-pop steps headed away. I knew I was alone in the house when the dirty growl of his '87 Buick could no longer be heard. Sickly bile rose from my innards and I dropped into unconsciousness. Consciousness was regained, only to find my limbs in a pool of black and blue blood and the screaming started again.
     Reality shifted and a pale film covered my vision, as if someone had switched my emulation into greyscale. The woman's bloated body still laid on the floor, but all the blood looked like metal pudding. I dug a hole in the backyard and threw the body into it, trying the ignore the trickles of blood running down my legs into my socks. Dried blood would occasionally flake off my arms and it reminded me of the cremated remains of my cat.
     The sun was beginning to set the next time I noticed, and the same shade of red passed through my window and tainted the white walls crimson. Another night was about to begin and a sense of dread started building until it spawned into fear. Another night and I knew that the man in the mask would visit me again tonight. I wanted to run, but I knew it wouldn't do me any good. I wouldn't be able to run away this time; I didnt want to.
     Time slowed and the gradual fading of light heralded the coming darkness. The methodical ticking of the clock that only existed inside my head marked each of the passing seconds, and I waited. I stared at the blank ceiling and the television was still on. The constant lifeless monotone of the television reflected the chaotic state of my nerves when it was suddenly time. I stood and I was surprised to find tears streaming down my face as my hand reached for the black mask that waited for me on my bed....


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