Death

This is a short story based on a prompt given to me by a friend. It's been described as reminiscent of Poe, and it's a good demonstration of the darker side of my writing skills.

to Ro


Death is universal. It isn't racist, it isn't sexist, it isn't homophobic. It is the uninvited guest that makes itself welcome without your consent. It knows your future, it knows your past. It knows who you are, what you want to be, and what you never were. It's the best secret keeper, laying out your whole life in front of you, then neatly sweeping it all into a little locked box and swallowing the key.
    For many, death is an escape. They use it as an excuse to run from their problems, or to keep their problems quiet. It is this last, however, that I happened to focus on. The idea of the little locked box, quietly and easily taking care of all of my problems with barely any catch, was what possessed me, consumed me. I became nothing but a thought, a brutal idea masked in darkness: Kill, and end it. No worry, no hassle. No one would ever know.
    No one but myself, and Death.

    I skipped school the day of the occurrence. I let him think I was gone, safely away for six hours under the watchful eye of responsible adults, and not his problem. Instead, I hid in the shed, a slow chill seeping into my fingers from the steel my hand was wrapped around. The chill crept up my arm, through my shoulder and my neck, where it seemed to make a nest for itself in my brain. Cold fog covered my mind, made it numb to emotion, to fear, to regrets.
    I had stepped into the kitchen through the back door before I even realized what was going on. I kept moving, a steady thumb clicking back the hammer on the gun silently. No pain, no regrets. The ending to the fear, the torture, the hatred. Bruises on our backs, my mother and I, and her drinking, drowning her tears in liquor. Gone, all with a soft touch, a gentle pull...
    The television was on, showing some celebrity gossip trash show. Those were his favorites. They matched him, shallow and disgusting.
    The armchair was faced away from me. It was a forest green, faded and worn from years of long use. That used to be my chair, before he moved in. I hadn't touched it since.
    These things barely penetrated the fog that covered my mind. They were minor details, unimportant. What was important was the deed I was about to commit. Soon, it would be all over.
    Suddenly, there was a loud bang, and another. I jerked and screamed, but the gun in my hand had a life of its own. It kept pointing at the armchair, kept pouring tiny bits of metal into the fabric, through the stuffing, into the body of the object of my utmost hatred and misery.
There was a crack; the television stopped playing. There was red liquid on the walls; how had that gotten there? I couldn't remember...
    The gun in my hand was still jerking, clicking, eager to kill. It had no more bullets, so I shushed it gently and patted it, rewarding it for good behavior.
    It was over. No more crying, no more hurting, no more drinking. We were free and I wanted to laugh with relief and suddenly I realized I was sobbing in terror and I sank to the floor, hunched over myself.
    No one knew. No one would ever know.
    "Just me and Death," I sang to myself, stroking the barrel of the gun. "Death and I, me and Death..."   

Author's Note

i'm curious to know what people think of it. it's dark, which is unusual for me.

Reviews

[HermitsUnited]

Niiice Brynnathinia! And I don't mean that because I hate people, either. Never doubt your writing abilities. You put enough details into your stories and stuff, but not too much that it's over done. Everything you write is so amazing! Gotta wonder how you can write such dark things when you haves such a bright life. I really really really wish I could write as well as you! Loves you!

[Gone]

Very suspenseful and also a little mysterious since it was unclear what was going to happen. I like it. You definitely have your own voice which is great.