AVAVA
( Author's Note )
VAVAV
Welcome to what lies in the darkest recesses of my mind. Rather, welcome to the beginning of the dark. They gray recesses, maybe? It's not the darkest by far, but it's still dark. Still cold, and unforgiving. Someone told me one of my stories, 'Broken Reality' was, and I quote, 'A pathetic attempt at a dark situation.'
Samuel Sadi sighs softly, as he gazes into his computer screen, remembering how much he tried to tone down things in that particular fiction. He wondered, did these fools actually forget? Have they forgotten what Sadi means? What it stands for? He smiles maliciously, and clasps his hands together.
"What follows is not for the faint of heart, and while some will call this dark. Not me. I don't call it dark..." he pauses a moment, as if trying to think of the right word, or maybe for dramatic effect. He moistens his lips, the corner of his mouth curving into a sinister looking smile. "I call it, 'The Sadist's warm embrace'. A simple darkness. Just the beginning? Read on, and tell me what you think."
AVAVA
( Timmy Turner )
VAVAV
A foul smell filled his nostrils as he entered the house that was supposed to protect the house of one of his best friends. The smell of rotting flesh? No. Not quite. It hadn't been long enough for the body to start to decay. Maybe it was the smell of someone that had soiled themselves shortly after taking their last breath of air. Before the mind and body had given way to death. He walked through the carnage that had been left in someone's wake. Someone that seemed like pure evil. That didn't fear anything it seemed.
The same could almost be said about the thirteen year old boy, who walked into the house willing.
"Mister Turner?" A voice called, so faint, so quiet, that he could barely hear it.
His tossed a glance at his friends father. The man... or rather, the remains of what the man had once been in life, seemed to be sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. It would almost look like he was just tired and leaning against the wall, before sliding down for a rest. Just a simple rest. If it hadn't been for the bloody gray-matter that was splattered on the wall, a few feet above where he sat. This man... had offered to play catch with him, since his father didn't bother to even attempt. This man had been more of a father than his had ever been. And he was gone.
At least it was quick, Timmy thought sadly as he continued though the living room, taking what ever solace that he could take from that thought. He followed a blood trail down the hallway. Was someone dragged, bleeding?
The first bedroom. Even though the blood trail didn't lead to that bedroom, he didn't even want to look in. But he didn't have a choice. His body was reacting on it's own.
"Mister Turner?" That faint voice again... He couldn't... wouldn't, focus on the voice.
The bedroom was empty of anyone living, and dead. He felt relief. But where was the person that belonged to that room? Was she somewhere in the house?
Was she alive?
Was she dead?
Was she somewhere in between?
He continued along the hallway.
He didn't want to follow the blood anymore.
But he couldn't stop.
Why was he here?
Where were the police?
That's right, he thought. He had been woken up by gunshots. Something that was foreign in his neighborhood. He had gotten up to look out his window, when another gunshot sounded out in the night, and a bright flash came from the window of his best friends house. He had called the police, and ran to the house, against the advice the lady on the phone.
"Mister Turner!" The faint voice finally made sense now, and it sounded desperate. He still held the cell phone in his hand, still connected with the police dispatcher.
"Sorry I..." A noise upstairs interrupted him. Something dropped. His voice dropped low. "Someone's here."
"Mister Turner, leave the house, officers will be there soon. Please wait outside for the..." He dropped the phone.
How could he wait?
They might still be alive. They might need help.
It might be the killer.
But it could equally be his friend or her sister alive... trying to get help.
Could be dying.
Fighting to live.
He refused.
He slipped on the blood on the hardwood floor of the hallway.
A quick flash. An imagined image of the future. How the blood would stain the wood for as long as the wood remained. How nothing could ever hide what had happened. Not without removing the flooring. Walls and floors hold the truth.
He stopped at another room.
The older sister's room.
The blood trail lead to it. Inside the room, he felt his stomach turn. A dark haired women laid on the bed... if you could call it laying. She was sprawled on the bed, mostly naked.
He just stared.
Just that morning this women had offered him muffins fresh out of the oven. Like the man, this women had been more of a parent to him than his own mother had. She actually even had told him that she loved him, like a mother would. And now... she was gone. Not only had they taken her life, but they had taken her dignity. These were not people... not even murderers...
No!
They were...
Were...
Animals.
"I can't find those little bitches." A voice called out from behind him. Not close... but close enough he could hear him.
No.
He could hear 'It'.
"Keep looking. They can't be far." Another voice.
He waited.
No more voices.
So it was just two. He grabbed a wooden bat from the corner of the older teens room. He turned back to the older female on the bed. He walked over to her, pulling a blanket over her. It was all he could do for her. And he wondered.
Did she know about the bat in the corner of her daughter's room?
Would it even had made a difference?
Did she beg for mercy?
Did she beg for her daughters safeties?
Did she scream while the neighbors slumbered?
Did anyone else hear the gunshots?
Did they ignore it and go back to sleep?
Rage filled the young teen. As he gripped the handle of the bat. A bat... He had to be a fool to think that he could take these animals with something as simple as a bat. But he wasn't thinking. He wanted to hear them beg. He wanted to hear them cry! He wanted to feel them bleed.
He stood near the open door, looking across the hall at the other open door. He watched the shadow get closer. He ran out of the room swing the bat towards the shadow. Felt the bat make contact, and heard a sickening crack. Felt the bat make contact with something hard, then felt that 'hardness' give way as he ran into the room across the hall.
Moments after he entered the room, he heard a thud. No screaming... no begging. Had he missed? No... He had felt the contact, he heard the crack, felt the vibration. Blood dripped from the end of his bat. Bits of hair, and it looked like a tooth was embedded in the wooden bat.
"James? James!?" The other voice seemed to reverberated though the house. The voice was close, he didn't know if the same trick would work twice. He doubted it so much, that he didn't plan on attempting to try again. "You little bitches are gonna die!"
So they were alive... hiding, and afraid. He looked around the room. An office of some sort. He focused on the door, but heard muffled sobbing behind him. He turned.
"Timmy!" A faint whisper. He knew that voice anywhere. It was his best friend. She was here. His hand gripped the bat tighter. He waited.
And waited.
Bat verses gun.
He didn't bother looking behind him for the source of the voice. He didn't want to find them, and have that animal come in, and find them too. If he didn't see them, he couldn't give them away. The other died too fast. This one... oh this one was going to beg.
He stood next to the door, with his back against the wall. He then pulled a book off the shelf, then threw it across the room. He heard the foot steps getting closer to the room. He readied the bat, waited until the shadow filled the door way... he waited. As soon as he saw the leg of the person, he swing.
He heard a similar crack as the bat connected with the knee of the intruding leg. Heard something hard hit the floor. Then watched as the rest of the body fell forward onto the floor. The animal was where he belonged. On it's hand and knees. He lifted the bat, and brought it down hard on the animal's back. Listened to the scream.
Did the mother scream like this?
"D-Don't... k-ki-kill me." Had she begged? Had their father begged before he was shot in the head?
He brought the bat up, and swung it down.
"Bastard!" Timmy screamed, "Did she beg for mercy?"
"Y-Yes..." The animal coughed, and it sounded wet.
"I'll repay the favor." He felt something inside of him break. Some thin barrier... something so thin, that he had never known of it's existence, until that moment. He tossed the bat behind him with enough force it embedded itself into the wall behind him. His eyes fell on the fist object that had fallen.
The Gun.
He watched the pathetic attempt, as the guy reached for the object of destruction. Timmy placed his foot on the hand, ground his foot against the hand. Feeling a little disappointed that he didn't get to hear the bones breaking. Disappointed that the soles of his shoes insulated him from being able to feel the bones breaking.
"I loved them like parents." He heard himself growl. He was scaring himself.
"I-I-I'm S-Sorry!" It pleaded.
"Sorry? SORRY!?" Timmy swung his foot, connecting it with the guys face. "This... you didn't... Sorry fixes nothing!"
He was crying.
Timmy hadn't even realized that he had started crying.
Why was he crying?
He was in control, so why was he sad?
Maybe he was crying for the loss of the only people that acted like parents.
Maybe he was crying for his friend, and her sister, who had lost their actual parents.
Maybe he was crying because his innocence was gone.
That he would never again be able to look in the mirror without seeing shadows of who he had become this night.
He kicked the guy in the side...
Again...
And Again...
And Again...
It was his fault! His fault that his innocence was gone. His fault that his friend and sister had to see... He stopped. From this room...
They had to watch their own mother be...
He turned and puked on the floor.
One moment he was kneeling there after he had puked, and the next...
"Son... Son! It's over!" A soft, but strong and stern voice said. He hadn't even been aware of the arms that now held him. There was a third! There was a third person... No! NO!
"You can't have them! I refuse!" He was referring to Tootie and Vicki. He wouldn't allow it. Then he noticed the other men... police uniforms.
"It's okay son... it's okay. They didn't get the girls, they are alright." The voice said. "If you can calm down, I can take you out to them."
"Th-they're okay?" The flood gates opened, and his body felt like it turned to liquid. The officer stood near by, though didn't say anything about how he was now kneeling sobbing after, again, puking on the floor. The memory of the bat connecting with the first person... he realized that the bat had broken the assailant's skull. And the second... He couldn't remember...
Was that bad?
Was what he had done so bad, that his mind had blocked it out. That it refused to remember what he had done?
Numbly he accepted the hand of the officer... or at least he was sure it was the same officer that he had been speaking too. He didn't know how long he had knelt there. Didn't know how much time had passed.
He walked with the officer out of the room. He stopped, looked at the sheet covering Mrs Summer's body. A shuttered breath escaped him, as he continued through the living room. The sheet covered Mr Summers, but not the blood and brains on the wall. Was guided out of the house. Neighbors, friends, even his parents, they all stood outside, on the outer side of the police tape. He stopped and looked down at himself. Splattered with blood.
Did they think he did this?
Did they actually thing he could have done...
His thoughts were interrupted by something plowing into him, he would have fallen over, if it hadn't been for the officer behind him. He focused on the object... not an object. Two people. Tootie, his friend, and Vicki, her older sister.
"If you didn't..."
"We would be..."
Neither sister finished. They didn't need to finish. He didn't want them to finish. He didn't want to think about what would have happened to them, if he hadn't have woken up. If he hadn't looked out the window. He didn't want to know what would have happened if he had of assumed it was just a car backfiring.