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The Head

     The gold-plated watch on your wrist reads 7:40 or so in the evening when you push open the door to your apartment.  The apartment, where you'd lived for three years, is still sparsely furnished.  A card table serves as your dining room, with a cheap, metal, fold-up chair that doubles as your recliner.  The twenty inch TV sits upon two milk crates you had snagged from the dumpster one day a few years ago.  Curtains cordon off your cramped kitchenette and bedroom.  The only room to get a proper door is the bathroom, which sorely needed one.  Dropping your coat on the table, you move to your bedroom to change out of your stuffy, grey, work suit.  Your head buzzes from the heat of the day and work.


The Hand

     Barely a step into your dark room, you flip the switch to the forty-watt bulb overhead.  The dull light stretches out and touches the closet in the far corner, a wooden dresser next to it.  The light falls across your milkcrate nightstand, making it hard to read the red 7:46 on your alarm clock.  The light falls across the mattress in the center of the room, illuminating the red sheets and blankets, crumpled at the foot.  On the bed is another form, a man, laying naked and stained with the same red that stained the sheets.  Trembling, you stumble over to the bed and place a hand upon the body.  The blood is still tacky.  A large, ashen handprint shows in the red streaked skin, next to a long, deep gash from shoulder to hip.  Your hand is a perfect match.


The Heart

     That had been where your hand had been the night before, on his side, just below the ribcage.  Your nails gripped the man, you never knew his name, digging into his flesh each time you thrust forward, inside him.  Yes, he cried as you drew a hunting knife from between the mattresses where you kept it.  Yes, he hissed, as you poised the knife above his shoulder.  Yes, he said, a scream, as you plunged the knife into his flesh, raking it again and again down the length of his back.  The man writhed beneath you, as his crimson spilled down across your hand and thighs, screaming onto the sheets.  You kept at it, long after the man fell limp against the bed and his blood subsided to a slow churn.  The after faded from your memory like a lost dream.  Hoisting the broken man over your shoulder, you make your way to the bathroom to wash the man down and disguise the bruising from your hand.  Your head feels calm.  Your heart beats slow and strong, resonating with the actions that feel familiar.  Each beat of your heart tells you that you've done this cleaning before.
I went back and forth about putting this in Horror or putting this in Transgressive. I think that this pushes the limits of what is socially acceptable literature. I also consider the images in this story not socially acceptable. However, when reading the definition of transgressive I get the feeling that they are talking about portraying socially objectionable images in a positive light (as socially acceptable). My story really only touches on that. I have decided to put it in transgressive, but if anyone thinks it belongs more in horror, feel free to tell me so.

This story is rated R for adult themes, violence and suggestive themes. Be forewarned that this is not a story for the immature (and thus has mature content labeling applied).

© April 21-22, 2007 me. This is my work, don't claim that it's yours.
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April 22, 2007
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