Life becomes scarier when you realize all those shadows under your bed were never shadows. It gets even worse when you realize the monsters never needed to hide.
Life becomes scarier when you realize all those shadows under your bed were never shadows. It gets even worse when you realize the monsters never needed to hide.
That clay-mold doll,
Strung up on our wall,
Stare out to the night,
An insomniacs call,
Red eyes stare me back,
Coarsened with fright.
That clay-mold doll,
You strung on my wall,
A pale moon flight,
Three hallows prior,
Mom found him at sin,
Before stealing his light.
That old clay doll,
Strung up on my wall,
Bending and breaking,
Clacking and creaking,
Of potters good wake.
That clay-mold doll,
Strung me up on the wall,
And started to sin for the old days sake.
The way I am with you,
No excuse could do,
For why I never left.
That time you caved my nose in,
_______________________________ Like a babe screaming murder,
_______________________________________________________________ ‘Bout a thing I never did.
The way you beat our kid,
Should have broke my lid,
If that didn’t, well nothing ever did.
Just tear me asunder,
Call me your bitch,
Let your friends know I’m worthless,
A stone-cold witch,
So you can feel something,
Let ignorance be bliss?
I could have run home,
Brought Martin there too,
I chose to stay here,
And let you do me,
The backstroke was vicious,
The words; they were cruel,
I should have saw it coming,
That day in our zoo.
A broken dormant wolf,
Snarling over the years,
My mom saw it coming,
So you cut off my ears.
Whispering a sweet poison,
I only ever believed,
Because I was too broken,
To just fucking see.
So rape me again,
__________________Please kill me this time,
_________________________________________I’m too afraid to do it,
_________________________________________________________________And leave Martin behind.
Okay, I have a hard time calling this a chapter as well, it’s not just you. Especially in contrast to the previous two chapters pulling around three condensed pages each. I’ve come back to this snapshot, time after time, only to find it adequately expresses what it needs to. It’s placement is necessary, but brief, and I value concision in my writing.
Start at the beginning, if you’re so inclined: https://bluebeard-art.com/prologue-2/
Nessa felt hot. It was dark, but she could feel the sweat and grime saturating her pores. An unrelenting pressure bore down on her, making it difficult to breath, to move. Not that she could anyway, her senses were numbed, her extremities frayed. What happened? Where the fuck am I? Suddenly, as realization hit, Nessa panicked. I’m in a body bag, shit, the knife, where’s the knife!? She struggled against her bodies unresponsiveness, pronating in a vain effort to make room so she could reach her back pocket. How come, every fucking time I need my knife, it’s just out of reach? What is this weight on top of me? Okay, Nessa, stay calm. Don’t scream, you can get out of this, but not if you alert those fucks that you’re still breathing.
As some of the feeling started to return to Nessa’s extremities, she tried hard to remember what the man had said. He said he’d find me, unless he couldn’t make it out. What if he didn’t make it out? Finally, she managed to roll onto her right shoulder. The bag must be engulfed in something, its being compressed in different areas when I move. With difficulty, she forced her left hand behind her, feeling for the small knife the man had given her. There it is, okay, carefully now, I don’t want it to stab me. The liquid panic, adrenaline, was creeping in, despite her best efforts to keep calm. Pulling the knife from her pocket, she pronated her left-hand outwards, attempting to pierce the bag. Her breathing started to quicken as the bags plastic held strong against the small surgical blade.
Breathing heavily, her lips started to quiver as she frantically dug the blade back and forth against the body bag, as the crushing weight smothered her remaining vitality. A moment later, the small knife pierced the thick plastic body bag. Nessa’s quick sigh of relief was soon replaced with renewed horror and fear as she felt dirt fall onto her small hand, through the bags new hole. They’ve fucking buried me! Unable to contain herself, she screamed in terror. Bladder releasing, she began to struggle violently against the, stoic, prevailing earth, before inadvertently cutting her arm on the scalpel. “Not like this!” She screamed.
Ignorance is a bliss that most fail to appreciate. Truly, sometimes not knowing, forgetting, is the purest mercy life can deal you. How knowledge can taint an otherwise euphoric reality.
Start at the beginning, if that’s your thing: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/09/13/third-degree-part-1/
Casey had regained control of her emotions by the time her mom pulled up, twenty or so minutes later. I still can’t get up…The pains only grown sharper. Her mother nearly tripped as she raced out of the car. Her hand covered her mouth, tears flowing, as she flew to her daughter’s aid. “Baby, what happened to you? Oh God! Sweetie, you’re bleeding. Can you stand up? We need to take you to the hospital!” Bleeding?
Apologetically, Casey muttered, “I can’t walk…my stomach feels like it has a hole in it.” Pale and distraught, her mom wrapped her arm under her daughter’s knees and back, lifting her with a wordless grunt. “I’m really sorry, mommy. I went to a party last night. I know I was drinking, but I don’t know what happened. The last thing I remember is being in the hot tub with…” Best to leave that out.
“With who sweetie? With who?”
Lying, Casey said, “I…I don’t remember.” Straining, her mom managed to open the old VW’s passenger door.
“Don’t worry about it sweetie. Everything’s okay now. I’m not mad, don’t worry baby.” She said as she lowered Casey into the VW’s shabby and torn faux-leather seat. She’s always mad when I do bad things, why not now? I almost like it better when she just yells at me.
Casey pulled out her phone to check the rest of the messages as her mother started the engine. She tabbed to Matt and read:
‘Hey, Casey! I got the drinks and came back to the tub, where’d you go?” Where did I go, anyway? I just remember waiting and thinking how he was taking forever. ‘Hey, kinda worried, these parties can get pretty crazy, hope you’re okay <3’ Damnit. Now I feel even worse. I probably ruined his night, too. ‘Hey I’ve been looking around down here for like thirty minutes. If you headed home or something, I just wanna say how great a time I had with you. I know you think I’m a bit of player or something, but I’ve never really had a real girlfriend. Like I’ve gone on a few dates but I’ve never really connected the way I did with you there. Oh goodness, look at me getting all cringey. Sorry about that, but I mean it!’ He’s so sweet. I felt that too, though. ‘Alright I’m heading back with Jacob now, he drank wayy too much lol, I’m good to drive though, so don’t worry!’ I hope he was… ‘Hey, I made it home safe, hope alls good on your end <3’
Casey jumped, yanked from her reverie as her mom said, “Just a few more miles to the hospital, Casey. Hang in there!”
Casey looked back down at her phone as it vibrated twice, indicating a new message. It’s from that same unknown number…It read ‘You get my msgg, bitch?’ Furrowing her brow in confusion, she tapped the new message notification and looked at the previous message, an ill-lit still frame with a play-symbol in the center. What the fuck? An ominous wave of anxiety surged up and down Casey’s sore limbs as she tapped play.
The video was black and void of detail, aside from two guys laughing softly. Is one of them carrying something? It’s so hard to tell with the piss-poor quality. Where does this dick get off calling me a bitch anyway? Wait…Is that someone? It looks like a body…The camera moved erratically and she heard someone whisper, “Take the camera so I can fuck the bitch.” What the hell is this? “Turn the flash on, dumbass.” Casey’s eye’s widened as a light illuminated what looked like a corpse on the bed. She’s not moving, what the fuck is wrong with these people!? No…The man who’d handed off the camera got on top of the girl and started to touch her.
Casey’s hands started to quiver, silent realization paralyzing her, as if she’d kissed a train that had somewhere to be. The man–the coward–pulled his large frame off of Casey’s limp body and started to undo her shorts. Broken, she held the power button, letting her phone die. Her entire body started to shudder, in shock, as the excessive vasoconstriction stole her viscera’s light, their liquid life. Again, the tears fell, but no sound left her gaping mouth. As the pain started to ravage her fast-fading willpower, she shut her eyes tight, let out a quiet choke, and leaned her fore-head against the back of the raggedy front-seat. In a vain attempt at stealth, she bit down hard on her tongue, and tasted crimson-iron. Why?
Noticing, Casey’s mom screeched, “What’s wrong, are you okay?! Casey!” Casey couldn’t respond as naked and utter despair washed over her sense of self. Failing at suppressing the pain, she let out an agonized, blood-tinged, wail.
The continuation of chapter 16, and Simon’s decent into revenge and anger, a shadow of his former self. A disheartening chapter, as it really illustrates how far he’s fallen from the kind and altruistic nature he displayed in Act 1, before the accident, before the suicide.
Start at the beginning: https://bluebeard-art.com/prologue-2/
May 25th, 2017-Simon
As Simon finished compressing his largest syringe, he looked to Clifton. The man’s face was sullen, empty, resigned to his fate. His sweat and feces had fused into one, with a hint of red introduced by the tears of blood streaming from his left eye. He smells about right. Simon approached Clifton, smiling, and asked, “You look strong, Clifton. Do you work in construction?”
Confused, Clifton replied, “I’m a personal trainer. I work in a gym thirty hours a week.”
Simon made a show of nodding, feigning interest, before saying, “Well, you did work in a gym thirty hours a week. You might find moving difficult after this next one.” A shadow of fear fell over the man’s face. “You see, the problem with large muscles, is that they become stronger than the supportive organs and tissues surrounding them.” Clifton’s working eye opened wide and his lips began to quiver. Simon got onto his knees, leaned forward, and brought the syringe to his victim’s right quadricep. Clifton frantically struggled away from the needle, only managing to gain an inch. Pausing, Simon whispered “Relax while you can, Clifton, you’re about to get a workout.” He cut a small hole into Clifton’s pants using a large hunting knife.
Whimpering, Clifton rasped in response, “Please, don’t, man! Just please, I get it man, I get it!” Simon forced the large and unwieldy syringe deep into the muscular tissue of the man’s middle thigh. After forcefully injecting about half of the neuro-muscular toxin, he withdrew the needle. Clifton’s leg began to slowly spasm as Simon rapidly injected the rest of the solution into Clifton’s right glut.
Simon stood, stepped back, and watched as the muscles in Clifton’s legs started to spasm. Like tectonic plates shifting, the defined muscular tissue bagan contracting, pronating, and extending randomly. Clifton was screaming again, but little sound left his frayed vocal chords. A large crack filled the quiet air, as Clifton’s own quadricep broke his knee against the restraints. Impressive, Tibia’s aren’t soft bones. No longer held back by skeletal restraints, his legs movements grew more erratic, and tore skin from bone. A moment later, a small pop radiated through the quiet barn, as Clifton’s upper quadricep tore, shooting violently towards his patella. Unfortunately for Clifton, his hamstrings, antagonistic to the quadricep, remained intact, and kept firing. Disgusted, Simon spat, and said, “You really should have stretched more, looks like your hamstrings are a little more flexible than the other parts of your leg. Stretching really is important for body building, you know.”
Clifton’s head fell backwards, eye closing, mouth gaping, as his Hamstring dislocated the proximal end of his Femur, where it met the hip. Well shit, he’s going into shock. I suppose he’s losing a little bit of blood with the bone sticking out like that. Simon stood there a moment, letting a wave of sick euphoria crash down his spine blackening his sweltering heart, and allowing the twisted ice to spread, erasing the pain. Regretfully, Simon left the perverted reverie, and said, “Okay buddy, I know it hurts. Don’t die on me now, Dr. Sheffield has exactly what you need to keep that heart ticking.” He doesn’t appear responsive. Simon rushed to his briefcase and pulled out a small solution comprised of adrenaline and type-two vasoconstrictors. The solution would keep Clifton alive while reducing bleeding and increasing pain. Carefully, he drew a generous dose into a small syringe before compressing it. He moved towards the listless man, and said, “This might sting, just a little.” He brought the small syringe to Clifton’s neck with his right hand, using his left to palpate the common carotid artery. Finding the weak pulse, he released the solution into the major artery.
Simon stepped back and waited for the disheveled man’s consciousness to return. After about ten seconds, Clifton gasped for air, breathing harshly, and his hands began to quiver; good eye darting back and forth in confusion. Delirious and crying, Clifton asked, “Dad, is that you? Where am I, why does my leg hurt so much.” That’s right, Clifton, experience the confusion, the pain, she felt. “You…You’re not my dad, help, my…my leg. It hurts so bad.”
Cruelly, Simon sneered, and responded, “No, I’m not your father. I’m your god, and your soul is mine. You did a bad thing Clifton, this is divine penance.”
A haggard shadow of his former self, he murmured, “I’m innocent, you’ve got the wrong person. I haven’t done anything!”
“Shh… it’s almost over, Clifton.” said Simon, walking to his briefcase, and taking a surgical scalpel in hand. “You’re close to peace now, just a little bit more, and you can rest, forever. Would you like that?”
Crying, again, Clifton responded “I…I don’t want to die.”
“But you don’t want to live, not like this? Do you?” he countered, moving towards Clifton with the scalpel.
“Not like this…no.” Clifton whispered, choking.
“Then let the good doctor set you free, just a few swipes, and it’ll be over.” responded Simon, tears welling. Simon pinned Clifton’s right arm, making a quick and clean horizontal cut at the base of his wrist, beneath his palm. Clifton cried out, voice cracking, and Simon moved to the left arm, repeating the cut. Silent now, the bleeding man hung his head, giving up.
As Simon moved back to Clifton’s right arm, Clifton whispered, “I’m so sorry about your son, and about your wife.” Simon paused, jaw tightening, suddenly numb as he cut about seven inches vertically along the radial artery. Across the woods, then down the river. To hell and back we roam.
Coolly, Simon responded, “Not…good enough.” Simon moved to the left arm, repeating the cut. Feeling empty, he dropped the scalpel, backed away, and watched his wife’s murderer die.
As Clifton grew still, the bearded man, still standing near the barn’s entrance, called out, “Well that was something, wasn’t it?”
This is technically the fourth chapter due to the three prologue chapters before this, and I’d recommend reading them before jumping in.
Start at the beginning here: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/09/13/third-degree-part-1/
I should start off by noting that this novel is about recovery, overcoming a horrible and unfair situation. There are heavy mystery, drama, and horror elements throughout. This chapters is one of the reasons I’ve waited so long to start posting “Finding Happy” sections. I really wanted to make sure I understood every bit of what I wrote, and that I did it in a way that accurately reflected this terrible thing that real people go through every day in America.
This is an extremely dark chapter that introduces one of the primary conflicts of the novel. It is uncomfortable and is intended for a mature audience. This was very hard to write as an author who cares deeply for the character they have created. It made me feel sick. I used an allegorical method here where Casey fades in and out of consciousness due to the drugs. The scenes in the dream are analogies for the hell she endures. In this regard much of the graphic nature inherent to “date-rape” is not explicitly described, but there are waking bits that can only be described as cruel. It’s a bit of an extreme contrast to the happy and hopeful tones of the first few sections, and is well within the veins of the psychological terror/horror genre.
*Trigger warning: Contains implied and actual depictions of physical and sexual abuse as well as victimization. Contains extreme and demeaning language.
Casey faded in and out of a half-reality. Who’s moving me…It’s so cold–
Casey stood on her grandmother’s porch, looking out over the dead cornfield, shivering. A storm was approaching, uncanny for a Colorado winter, to see so much lightning against snow. Thinking aloud, Casey said, “I always thought that you needed rain for lightening. Snow is so dry, in comparison.”
–The rug…It burns. I can’t move. Why is it so dark. Where is everyone. She tried to scream, only managing to part her fragile jaw an inch before fading into oblivion–
Turning, she unzipped her heavy jacket, simultaneously opening the withered old door. “This place was never the same after Nana passed. Gramps stopped tending the field, too. Stopped caring. Stopped tending to the life of the farm-stead. Stopped tending to his own life. As withered as the door.”
–Ugh. I’m floating…No someone’s carrying me. Casey felt a dull and winded pain as she was dropped onto a soft surface. Too dark to see–
Thunder roared as the storm converged on the farm-house from all directions. “How is that possible? It’s just a storm. A break from the bitter and dry winter-air. That’s all it was supposed to be, just something new, I didn’t ask for this!”
–Don’t touch me…no! Casey was paralyzed as the darkness was interrupted by the light of a smartphone. Whoever was there waved it back forth, as if to mock Casey’s listless form. What do you want? What did you do to me? Her eye’s silently streamed tears as the stranger began to touch her. This is a nightmare…Wake up! Casey made a small grunt in a pointless attempt to scream. The stranger laughed, stood back, and fiddled with the phone. Suddenly, he arced the phone behind his head, allowing the screen to illuminate his masked face, showcasing Casey’s vulnerability. He’s taking a selfie…
The man turned and muttered something inaudible. There are more? The man held out the phone, and a tendril from the darkness accepted it, held it up, and laughed cruelly. A few seconds later, the phones flash illuminated Casey’s pale and limp body. Please don’t film it…What did I do to deserve this…I…I can’t–
Casey ran upstairs, calling out, “Mom! Where are you!?” At the top of the stairs she hung right and crashed through the first door. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to lie! Please, mom help me! Where are you?” The room was empty, decrepitate and decomposed. Her old bed, the one she’d always slept in while visiting her grandparents was cracked, desecrated with something…something evil. The sill where her Nana would lean, reading her Mr. Toad stories. That warmth was gone, shattered, like a black mirror seeking a comfort it will never reclaim–
–The man was on top of her, his considerable weight suffocating her in silence. He sloppily kissed her lifeless lips while violating her chest with his disgusting intentions. Dead tears rolled down her chemically-frozen cheeks. Stop. Matt, where are you? I need you, Matt. He rolled off her, snickering, and said, “This will teach you to be an uppity bitch and embarrass me in front of my friends, whore.” He grabbed her still-damp track shorts and pulled them off, exposing her panties. “Man, it’s like you weren’t even trying to get Matt to fuck you! Worst. Lingerie. I’ve seen. Better fix that.” Coward. Gutless coward. I’ll kill you if I ever find out who you are. I will kill you. Callously, he tore her panties off and began to roughly finger her. Casey’s anger ignited as the sharp pain radiated from her groin to her intestine. I promise, I will kil–
Before Casey could reach the second room, the storm blew a hole in the roof. The now-red tempest solidified into a necrotic hand, fingered lesions splicing in and out of its dynamic skin. Casey backed away, consumed by anxiety, terror, and regret.
–Just think of the good times. Dissociate. Focus on your friends, Mom, that time you won the science fair, anything besides this. The masked man had started to rape her, she didn’t know when or how long it had been. What she did know, is that it hurt. He panted with a disgusting vigor as he penetrated her, stole from her with each passing second, blood acting as the only lubricant. “Take it whore, this it what you get for being a cunt! That’s all you are, trash, a sperm-dumpster. Better that you learn that now. You ain’t going nowhere, you jus’ act all smart and shit. You ain’t nothing but a filthy cunt.” The man recording with the smartphone laughed at his compatriot’s cruelty. You too, I’ll find you. You think you’re strong, but you’re wea–
The hand emit a thundering wave of force, tearing Casey’s childhood home, her life, to shreds. Disparaged everything she’d been taught to believe. Consumed her purity, her freedom, her choice. With an electrical explosion, Casey was flung through the window’s glass and out near the long-dead cornfield. An icy-pain spread as her broken and shattered bones sent SOS to her brain. She tried to move, but couldn’t, and the world she knew, ended.
Had a few hours to tinker around with the balance of some of these. I also finished a drawing I started a few years back. As always just click the blue links for a PDF version of each poem with the superior formatting. Drawing is at the bottom.
Fractured Memories (Click for PDF version):
The pain that’s easiest to hide,
The one hurt I can’t abide.
The times I want to die,
Are when I stop feeling alive,
But you threw the die,
Told me to try,
You didn’t laugh when I’d start to cry,
Or when I told you to help me fly,
Away from here.
I wanted was to be free,
Can you be my key,
The one and only who’ll let me be,
I don’t know where I’m going,
Or how long-away I’ll be,
But you’ll live on forever,
In these fractured memories.
Born of Frost
Born of frost,
Splicing winter’s cross,
with summer’s burning moss.
They laughed and jeered,
Twelve foot tall,
A thousand thrall,
Skin; an ice-plate wall.
Now they cry in fear.
A cruel-dawn’s slaver,
Beware my dear,
The towering eolith,
No man or myth,
Fear our moiré; the WinterSmith.
Call me Faceless
Who am I to speak to what’s wrong or right?
One who’s closer to oppressor than victim,
I try on a long and stormy night,
To decipher this dictum,
Oblong and gritty plight.
How can I complain,
When I rest on the laurels of another’s fortune,
Screaming a phantom pain.
Who am I to say what you should do?
When I’m a short step away from weak,
Despite being one of the lucky few,
Who has money enough to speak?
A fallacy tainting the fabric of my minds misfortune,
Learned condition renders me lame.
Do I really care,
About blood-soaked policies of an empire built on the backs,
Of those with actual despair?
Why can’t I just relax,
Cut out the fancy fucking syntax,
Abuse our militaristic axe,
Deny the horrendous acts,
Against children who couldn’t afford a simple tax.
But it’s not easy for me to lie,
When I walk outside and watch the homeless die,
Call me weak,
Because I cry,
Because I try,
You tell me money isn’t happiness,
Then tell me not to worry; because I have enough to eat?
As if the relative suffering of others is supposed to placate my crimson-soul.
The only thing worse than trying but failing,
Is giving up entirely
Media: 6b pencil + a bic pen.
Paper: 6×9 inch cut watercolor paper.
A major tonal shift from the first two chapters serves to mirror the alcohol’s progression. A lot of the prior details come into play in this, and the next chapter. Foreshadow’s Chapter one’s malicious and disassociated style.
Start at the beginning: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/09/13/third-degree-part-1/
Sighing, Casey stood, nearly falling as a head a rush blackened her already-distorted vision. It’s been like four minutes or something stupid, how long does it take to get drinks? Guess I’ll have to go find him. Lethargically, Casey walked up the hot-tub steps and headed towards the towel rack. Better to not track water on those expensive carpets. Reaching the rack, she took one of the course, white, towels and dried herself from the legs up. She wrapped the towel around her waist to help the shorts dry faster, before walking towards the now-open sliding door. What time is it? I swear, there were not these many people when we got here. Okay, made it inside. Where are the drinks, anyway?
Casey tried to squeeze past the coagulated party-goers, but stumbled, accidentally knocking the drink out of some guy’s hand. “Damnit! I just waited five minutes to pour that shit.” She ignored him, pushing through the crowd as an unwarranted anxiety gripped her chest. I don’t feel so great, another drink will help take the edge off. Where are you Matt? I can’t handle these many people. As her eyes started to ache, she blushed in embarrassment. Come on Casey, this is supposed to be an awesome night. First big date, first big party, don’t go and start crying, please. I’m enough of a nerd as it is.
She couldn’t help it though, as the crowds overwhelmed her, so did the alcohol-corrupted tears. I don’t know these people…Spotting an empty part of the wall, she pressed her back against it, breathing deeply in a vain attempt to quiet the burning tears smearing her dramatic eye-liner.
“Yo! Casey, you alright?” asked a voice she recognized but couldn’t place. Frantically, she looked around, wiping her eyes. Casey’s throat fell into her stomach as she spotted the source. Just my luck. Jacob pushed through the crowd before continuing, “Don’t cry! What’s wrong? Where’s Matt? He seemed real self-important about lookin’ after you tonight.”
Voice cracking weakly, Casey answered, “He went to get drinks. He was taking a while so I came to find him. Was a mistake, obviously. I hadn’t realized how many people were here.”
“Uh yeah, that wasn’t the best idea. These parties get real packed. Glad I found you though!” He smiled, obnoxiously. Is it a scientific fact that polo-shirts make you look like a fucking douchebag? “How about you go wait for him near the top of the stairs, I’ll do my best to find him for you and tell him where you are. Here, take my drink, you…you need it more right now I think.” Okay, maybe he isn’t as bad as I thought.
Casey took his drink and smiled, slightly, before replying, “Thanks, Jacob. Sorry for what I said in the car, I guess I wasn’t being fair.”
“Ah no worries ‘bout that! I figured you were just joshing around. Besides I like a little fight in my girls.” Nope. I was right. Just grin and bear it so he finds Matt for you, Casey. Feigning a laugh, Casey thanked him for his help and started towards the crowded steps. She took a sip of her liquid courage before tackling the masses again. She managed through the crowd without pissing anyone off this time around. Alcohol really does fix everything, I guess. Christ, I’m not looking forward to discovering what a hangover feels like, though. She turned right and climbed up the stairs, noting the ‘Do Not Enter’ rope at the top. What’s the worst that could happen? I’ll just sit at the top and wait, that way no one will bother me.
Casey nearly tripped on the penultimate step of her booze-soaked journey. She sat down and took another gulp as her vision started to swim. Is that normal? I didn’t realize alcohol made you so dizzy. Ugh, my stomach doesn’t feel good all the sudden…I don’t want to barf on the carpet. There’s gotta be a bathroom around here. She finished the drink and struggled to her feet, grabbing the wall as her towel fell to the floor. Shit. Oh shit, I can’t see right. What’s happening? I feel tired. Turning the corner, Casey headed for what appeared to be a bathroom. It’s hard to tell though, my vision is swimming. What’s wrong with my legs?! It’s like walking through deep water. About ten feet from the white-tiled restroom, Casey’s legs buckled, and she hit her face against the carpet. She painstakingly managed to push herself onto her knees before she noticed the bright red stain on the white carpet. Slow and steady. It’s just alcohol, you’re young, you’ll be fine.
Crawling now, she worked her way to the toilet, cold tile harassing the frayed nerves of her knees and hands. The nausea passed, but I can barely move. Somethings wrong with me, what was in the drink? Her arms failed her and she crumpled. She tried to call for help, but her throat was as useless as her muscles. Stay…Awake…Plea…
An interesting chapter, I had fun re-working some of the subtler mechanics here. It introduces some of the first adventure elements in the story, something that’s more salient in Act 3. I think the chapter would be very dark without the elements of comic relief. It has a bi-polar structure in a lot of ways, and it experimental in that regard.
Start at the beginning: https://bluebeard-art.com/prologue-2/
Silgan locked the apartment behind him, anxiety high, as his thoughts raced for a solution. Where do I go now? The Governor and the Police are going to be on my trail once they find out about Harold. Silgan had forced Harold’s limp body into the industrial-sized freezer near the back of his room, neglecting the blood-stains in the kitchen. He’d also grabbed Harold’s house key, which he now used to open Harold’s apartment. The room was huge, and disgusting. Old clothes, pizza boxes, soda cans, and ambiguously stained porno-mags littered the floor. I need to find the phone he was using to communicate with Haskell. If they used a text-based channel, I can throw Haskell off my trail. Silgan only had forty minutes to meet Alex, and an hour and twenty minutes until Nessa would, hopefully, awaken.
Hurrying forward, he examined his surroundings, scanning for loose electronics. Harold’s bed was a luxurious looking king-size, disheveled and blood-stained. I don’t want to know whose blood that is. There was a ladder in the back corner of the room, leading to a small loft. Silgan set his briefcase and duffle down before climbing the ladder. Reaching the top, he found a small desk with an intense looking desktop PC. Probably has crazy specs. Approaching, Silgan noticed that Harold was still logged in. Hurrying, he sat at the computer and looked for any open communications services. All that was open on the desktop was an amazon shopping cart, filled with differently colored knives and an unsavory looking pornographic film from the nineties, entitled, ‘Rubber Ropes’. The fuck, Harold. Using the dark web to buy porn? Disgusted, Silgan closed the tor browser, navigating to the “advanced search bar” where he unchecked all of file types aside from the common note taking extensions. Then, he typed “Password”. The first result popped up as a notepad file labeled ‘Passwords and sht’. Harold, you always were a dumbass. Silgan clicked the file and reopened dot onion browser. Choosing the “maximum mirroring” option, Silgan opened his personal email server, before clicking back to the file. There were eight different passwords:
“RobertEL33reborn” No surprise there, I knew he was a supremacist scum-bag.
“HaggardHaroldDomYourSub” You wish, Harold.
Amused, Silgan drafted an email to himself, and clicked ‘browse for files’. He searched “Passwords and sht” and attached the file before pressing send. Closing the email server, he shut down the computer. Getting to his knees, Silgan crawled behind the desktop and under the desk. Shame, it really is a nice computer. Silgan reached into the open system and unplugged the hard-drive before removing it entirely. He secured it in his pants pocket for the time being. I’ll destroy it later.
Crawling back, Silgan stood, and turned to the ladder. Carefully, he lowered himself onto the small, wooden ladder, before climbing down. Next, Silgan walked towards a small night-sill to the right of Harold’s ominously stained bed. A green Digitex alarm read 8:20 AM, but the rest of the sill was empty. Silgan reached down, opening the sill’s drawer. Oh, come on, man…fuck. The drawer was filled with various sex toys, male and female, two of which had dark-black blood-stains. Silgan backed two steps away, kicking the drawer closed. Looking to the bathroom, Silgan thought of places where he’d hide an important phone. Do I really need to see what Harold has in his bathroom? Nobody deserves that kind of exposure. Maybe later. Decidedly, Silgan moved around the foot of the bed towards Harold’s three-drawer-dresser. Opening the first drawer, Silgan ruffled the clothes around, searching for any solid objects. Nothing. Silgan closed the drawer before opening the middle. Rummaging, Silgan paused, suddenly grateful for his latex gloves.
There were sticky pictures of a young woman Silgan didn’t recognize. Could this be the woman he mentioned? Turning through the photos, Silgan started to feel sick. The photos, clearly amateur, clearly predatory, and clearly taken without permission. The first was a shot of the small, brunette, woman through what was presumably the window to her kitchen. The second, pictured the woman, smiling, surrounded by other people in an outdoor hot tub. The point of view of the photo was disconcerting, as there were trees creeping into the side of the frame. He was stalking her. The next three photos were like the first two. The sixth, however, showed the poor woman sedated, retrained in an upright cross-like position. The seventh, from the same scene, pictured her awake, clothes torn, tears streaming, and blood gushing from several small wounds. Silgan had to put the pictures down after the eighth, in which the woman, still on the cross, was screaming as a small blow torch was being held to her breast.
Silgan tore the sick, darkroom style, photos to shreds before throwing them into the nearby trash, where they belonged. You sick and perverted bastard. You really did deserve to die, no regrets there. Moving back to the wardrobe, he opened the final drawer. Ruffling the clothes, he found nothing besides a few boxes of cigarettes. Turning, Silgan headed to the bathroom, directly across from the wardrobe. As Silgan approached, he noticed the lights were on. Interesting, all the other lights were off. Why leave the bathroom lights on? Apprehensive, Silgan pushed the door, letting it swing open. Christ be spared the cross…There were towels covering the entire bathroom floor. The showers curtain was drawn, a pale hand protruding from out behind it. Silgan noticed a phone on the bathrooms sink. Moving forward, he grabbed it, and stashed it in his left suit-pocket. Do I even want to know what’s behind that curtain? No. Creeping forward, Silgan grasped the curtain, and pulled it aside.
The blaze returned. How could he do this to a person? In the tub, rested the remnants of the woman from the photos. Her midsection and legs had mostly dissolved in the corrosive acid. Probably a mix of hydrofluoric and fluorosulfuric acid. The bubbling gives it away. Her face had a permanent expression of fear and disdain on it, as her upper body sank lower and lower, dissolving. The right-hand Silgan had seen, was detached from the body. The acid had eaten through the bone of her forearm before she had sunk low enough to pull the rest of the hand into the tub. A large, diamond, ring remained on her slight, young hand. Poor girl.
Crestfallen. Silgan left the bathroom and opened the burner-phone. It was locked. Quickly, remembering the password list, Silgan pulled out his smartphone before opening his email app. The smartphone quickly downloaded the notepad file. Glancing over the list, only one password could be entered, because the burners animated keyboard had no alphabetical input. Holding his breath, he typed: ‘569142’. He smiled as the phone played a small unlock animation, leading to the home screen. He navigated to the phones history, which contained texts to a lone number.
Interestingly, any reply from the number was either deleted, or nonexistent. Well, that makes things simple, doesn’t it? The most recent sent message read, “He’s just left the room” dated today, and sent at four thirty AM. Silgan typed out a quick message, similar in style to the previous messages “It sounds like he’s gone to sleep.”