Prologue

 

Francis Gerald lived in a small to medium sized duplex, next to Wendy and Donald Trenton, a husband and wife that spent more time bloodying one another then most professional boxers. The thing about a duplex’s is that no one really likes them, but its two thirds the price for half the house, how could any working-class survivor pass up such a bargain. So, because of this small savings Francis made by putting a mortgage on half a house for two thirds the price, Francis witnessed his first murder. Its uncommon for the common folk of the middle class to see many dead bodies. The scarcity of such matters is why an event like that can become so traumatic. Now I’m not saying its not traumatic for people from other walks of life, but when a middle-class man, the one who lives vicariously through television, books and video games, the one who works, eats, sleeps and dies in a quick flash, a shutter in the moment of time, witnesses a murder, it tends to degrade his bones and break down his essence, until there is little left, but a broken husk. Francis was no different.

 

***

                It started with a usual argument behind doors, one in which we can only guess the subject, but ultimately does not matter. Quite frankly Wendy and Donald fought about everything. Could have been something as simple as eating the last piece of bread, or not letting the seat down. Either way Wendy and Donald found themselves in a quarrel, a quarrel that should have remained between a miserably married couple.

                “Donald, I can’t take you no more. You smug, self-intitled, ill-intentioned, sewer rat!” Wendy stormed outside slamming the door behind her, rattling the four paneled single pane window that out looked the front street and in looked upon the poorly decorated living room. If you were to look through that very window at that very time you would see Donald unlocking his gun cabinet, you would see the steam boiling and hissing from his ears, face a frantic red. You would see a man so consumed by anger, that he was willing to take the final actions in life.

                Before Wendy was hardly off the lawn the door swung open behind her, “Hey, Wendy wait up.” Donald moved down the lawn, his pistol behind his back. Wendy stopped and turned.

                It was at this moment Francis decided to peek outside the window and watch some neighbourly entertainment occur, as much as he hated the fighting, there is a natural level of enjoyment everybody gets from chaos. It was at this moment Francis wish he had looked away.

                Before Wendy could process the situation from sight to action, Donald revealed the pistol from behind his back, raised his arm with cold precision and shot his wife in the face. She didn’t fly back like in the movies, her head didn’t explode like you might think, but some chunks of matter still found itself on display among street. Donald went back inside, Francis threw up, a faint scream echoed from the house across the street, Mrs. Pertworthy most like.

Francis has never been the same.

 

***

                Donald shot himself before the police arrived. When Francis got a hold of himself, he got a hold of a realtor. Selling a house before a murder is a good decision, selling it right after, maybe less of an idea, but murder happens everywhere and people like cheap housing. Either way he was done, Francis already had Trent an alien cyborg who lived off turnips and beets, living in his brain, he didn’t need any ghosts setting up camp. But Donald was weak, and Donald was scared, and those ghosts he was ever so scared of had already made home. No matter how quiet they may think they’ve been, they will always find a way to haunt this poor b*****d.

 

 

                 

Reviews

[pentopapertosouls]

Frankly, this piece of "writing" is embarrassing. Hopefully you're just a kid and the 96 in your username stands for the number of pages you've read in your life. This site isn't here for wannabe Hunter S. Thompsons.