The Beast Within Us
Chapter One
June 28, 2000
"I did not kill those people," Rodney stated without emotion once again.
"Where did you hide Becky Thompson's body?" a faceless voice continued the investigation.
With the name of his mother, Rodney knew he was beginning to lose control again. In desperation to remain focused, he again answered "I did not kill those people."
Again, the speaker blared an emotionless question, "How many in total have you killed?"
He had thought that with time, and with persistence, the questions would no longer bring his stomach to turn. As if robotic, he reechoed himself once more, "I did not kill those people."
"How could you destroy your own mother, Becky Thompson?"
Five months. This had been his routine for five long months. By now at least, he thought the rage would have faded. But as the questions awoke his inner eye, countless images of the woman who had raised him broke his calm disposition.
As always, when the images subsided he found himself curled up on the ground. Stroking his now throbbing elbow, he silently stopped the tape. It was time. He knew that he was losing control. More and more days he awoke in a cold sweat with no memory of how he'd gotten there and what had happened. Brushing his rich brown locks from his eyes, he caught his reflection in the window looking out to the city. His dull grey eyes were bloodshot, and an inch long gash stretched over his forehead. Irritated, he wiped the warm blood streaming from the cut from his brow with his sleeve. Noticing the tape player that had caused this tantrum, it became clear. Switching the tape player to record, he took a deep breath and began the unbelievable confession.
* * * * * * *
The people, I hear them. I hear the whispers about the disappearances. I hear them claim that it is a person living among them. But the beast loathes such things to be said. The beast will have no more foolish claims: that a mere human could live at that sort of magnitude. No–a mere human could not do such wicked acts. It is past due to tell you of the beast that lives within me.
You might scorn such talk. But I attest it was never my acts which caused this beast to fall upon us. It was not my hands, which destroyed them. It was the beast. Such strength could not be held within these feeble arms. Such anger could not be confined to these veins. I come to warn you of it, for I have lost all control over it.
This beast–this darkness–surges through my veins. Not as part of me, rather, the prisoner I confine. It feeds upon my nightmares. It feeds upon my fears. I've done my best to control it, to protect you all. I once went 28 days without sleep in hopes of defeating it. I tried to starve it, but somehow it remained alive and overtook me in my weaker moments. Each day, I awake with fresh blood smeared on my skin and dripping from my hands. Thus, more nightmares are created.
I remember–when I was young–my mother could see the evil within me before I could even feel it inside of me. She would–in a set rhythm–strike me until I no longer had the strength to give voice to the pain. She would then smile, as if reveling in her actions, and leave me to the comforts of sleep, leaving my mind spinning with the terrible stories of evil and pain. Each time she approached me to remove the evil, I warned her–I pleaded with her. I could feel the beast grow within me and feared for her own safety. Oh, how I pleaded. That night–I dread to speak of it–has played within my head constantly. For when she did unleash the beast, she did it to her own demise. All was going as normal, but as I watched her turn her back, I felt the beast rise up. It took control. That face–that image scorched in my mind–is before me even now; that face of pure fear. Within these eight years since my mother was destroyed, I never once became accustomed to it, for she stared into the face of pure evil. Such fear–fed on by the beast–it nearly destroyed me as well.
* * * * * * *
April 7, 1978
Rod's parents had been lucky enough to discover true happiness. They had been inseparable. Had things been different, Rod would have been blessed with the ideal American family. Something had changed, though, during Becky's pregnancy. Joseph had changed.
"I should never have married you."
His words echoed in Becky's mind. It wasn't the words that shocked her. During her first five months of pregnancy, she had accustomed herself to cold words from the mouth of the man she loved. This time, it was his eyes that told her. Her heart ached to cry, allow the pain to flow out of her. But she knew all too well the results of such an action.
She had been trying. Practicing while he was out drinking. Thinking of how to survive once his rage returned once more. With practiced hopeful eyes, she pled, "Please, Joseph, just give it more time. Think of our child."
For a brief moment, he appeared to have softened. Those gray eyes that had told her of the hate returned once more to the bright and loving eyes she had fallen in love with. A flash – one moment she was gazing into his caring eyes, the next she was sprawled out on the floor. Berating herself, she knew she should not have believed in that hope. A subtle throbbing of her left cheek told her where she had been struck.
* * * *
July 20, 1978
"Mom, I'm fine. Nothing is wrong," holding back the tears, Becky once more went through the routine she had become accustomed to each time her mother called.
She could almost feel the spray coming from her mother's mouth and suppressed a nervous chuckle as the lecture came once more. Typically, it lasted just under twelve minutes. Laying the receiver down gently, she went to retrieve an ice pack to tender her newly swollen jaw. She avoided gazing out the window out of fear of seeing her reflection. It was all routine. That was her life now. But a false hope clung to her battered mind that once the baby was born, Joseph's rage would die out. Returning to the phone with two minutes spare, she heard the end of the lecture nearing. Deep down, she knew in fact her mother was correct. Joseph had changed, and it was foolish to believe he may begin loving her again. She was afraid, though. Afraid of what Joseph would do if she tried to leave. Afraid that by some miraculous chance Joseph would change just as she went out the door. Most of all, though, she still loved him. She seldom admitted it, and she felt foolish for feeling this way, but those moments when he softened were so wonderful. Thus, the memories sustained her.
The rude bellows of her mother shook her from her thoughts. "Becky, Becky, Becky, for crying out loud, would you answer your mother?"
"Sorry, mom," Becky lied, feeling a twinge of hatred at being forced to apologize, "I'm here. I think I hear Joseph coming, I'm supposed to be resting because of the baby, I need to go." Without waiting for a reply, she quickly hung up the phone. This time it was true, though, she had heard Joseph coming. He couldn't catch her on the phone while she was supposed to be cleaning. She could not endanger her child's life so close to it's birth. She was expecting her firstborn son to arrive any day now. Maybe then, things would be different. These days, she lived by hope.
Creative Writing project from a couple months ago.
June 28, 2000
"I did not kill those people," Rodney stated without emotion once again.
"Where did you hide Becky Thompson's body?" a faceless voice continued the investigation.
With the name of his mother, Rodney knew he was beginning to lose control again. In desperation to remain focused, he again answered "I did not kill those people."
Again, the speaker blared an emotionless question, "How many in total have you killed?"
He had thought that with time, and with persistence, the questions would no longer bring his stomach to turn. As if robotic, he reechoed himself once more, "I did not kill those people."
"How could you destroy your own mother, Becky Thompson?"
Five months. This had been his routine for five long months. By now at least, he thought the rage would have faded. But as the questions awoke his inner eye, countless images of the woman who had raised him broke his calm disposition.
As always, when the images subsided he found himself curled up on the ground. Stroking his now throbbing elbow, he silently stopped the tape. It was time. He knew that he was losing control. More and more days he awoke in a cold sweat with no memory of how he'd gotten there and what had happened. Brushing his rich brown locks from his eyes, he caught his reflection in the window looking out to the city. His dull grey eyes were bloodshot, and an inch long gash stretched over his forehead. Irritated, he wiped the warm blood streaming from the cut from his brow with his sleeve. Noticing the tape player that had caused this tantrum, it became clear. Switching the tape player to record, he took a deep breath and began the unbelievable confession.
* * * * * * *
The people, I hear them. I hear the whispers about the disappearances. I hear them claim that it is a person living among them. But the beast loathes such things to be said. The beast will have no more foolish claims: that a mere human could live at that sort of magnitude. No–a mere human could not do such wicked acts. It is past due to tell you of the beast that lives within me.
You might scorn such talk. But I attest it was never my acts which caused this beast to fall upon us. It was not my hands, which destroyed them. It was the beast. Such strength could not be held within these feeble arms. Such anger could not be confined to these veins. I come to warn you of it, for I have lost all control over it.
This beast–this darkness–surges through my veins. Not as part of me, rather, the prisoner I confine. It feeds upon my nightmares. It feeds upon my fears. I've done my best to control it, to protect you all. I once went 28 days without sleep in hopes of defeating it. I tried to starve it, but somehow it remained alive and overtook me in my weaker moments. Each day, I awake with fresh blood smeared on my skin and dripping from my hands. Thus, more nightmares are created.
I remember–when I was young–my mother could see the evil within me before I could even feel it inside of me. She would–in a set rhythm–strike me until I no longer had the strength to give voice to the pain. She would then smile, as if reveling in her actions, and leave me to the comforts of sleep, leaving my mind spinning with the terrible stories of evil and pain. Each time she approached me to remove the evil, I warned her–I pleaded with her. I could feel the beast grow within me and feared for her own safety. Oh, how I pleaded. That night–I dread to speak of it–has played within my head constantly. For when she did unleash the beast, she did it to her own demise. All was going as normal, but as I watched her turn her back, I felt the beast rise up. It took control. That face–that image scorched in my mind–is before me even now; that face of pure fear. Within these eight years since my mother was destroyed, I never once became accustomed to it, for she stared into the face of pure evil. Such fear–fed on by the beast–it nearly destroyed me as well.
* * * * * * *
April 7, 1978
Rod's parents had been lucky enough to discover true happiness. They had been inseparable. Had things been different, Rod would have been blessed with the ideal American family. Something had changed, though, during Becky's pregnancy. Joseph had changed.
"I should never have married you."
His words echoed in Becky's mind. It wasn't the words that shocked her. During her first five months of pregnancy, she had accustomed herself to cold words from the mouth of the man she loved. This time, it was his eyes that told her. Her heart ached to cry, allow the pain to flow out of her. But she knew all too well the results of such an action.
She had been trying. Practicing while he was out drinking. Thinking of how to survive once his rage returned once more. With practiced hopeful eyes, she pled, "Please, Joseph, just give it more time. Think of our child."
For a brief moment, he appeared to have softened. Those gray eyes that had told her of the hate returned once more to the bright and loving eyes she had fallen in love with. A flash – one moment she was gazing into his caring eyes, the next she was sprawled out on the floor. Berating herself, she knew she should not have believed in that hope. A subtle throbbing of her left cheek told her where she had been struck.
* * * *
July 20, 1978
"Mom, I'm fine. Nothing is wrong," holding back the tears, Becky once more went through the routine she had become accustomed to each time her mother called.
She could almost feel the spray coming from her mother's mouth and suppressed a nervous chuckle as the lecture came once more. Typically, it lasted just under twelve minutes. Laying the receiver down gently, she went to retrieve an ice pack to tender her newly swollen jaw. She avoided gazing out the window out of fear of seeing her reflection. It was all routine. That was her life now. But a false hope clung to her battered mind that once the baby was born, Joseph's rage would die out. Returning to the phone with two minutes spare, she heard the end of the lecture nearing. Deep down, she knew in fact her mother was correct. Joseph had changed, and it was foolish to believe he may begin loving her again. She was afraid, though. Afraid of what Joseph would do if she tried to leave. Afraid that by some miraculous chance Joseph would change just as she went out the door. Most of all, though, she still loved him. She seldom admitted it, and she felt foolish for feeling this way, but those moments when he softened were so wonderful. Thus, the memories sustained her.
The rude bellows of her mother shook her from her thoughts. "Becky, Becky, Becky, for crying out loud, would you answer your mother?"
"Sorry, mom," Becky lied, feeling a twinge of hatred at being forced to apologize, "I'm here. I think I hear Joseph coming, I'm supposed to be resting because of the baby, I need to go." Without waiting for a reply, she quickly hung up the phone. This time it was true, though, she had heard Joseph coming. He couldn't catch her on the phone while she was supposed to be cleaning. She could not endanger her child's life so close to it's birth. She was expecting her firstborn son to arrive any day now. Maybe then, things would be different. These days, she lived by hope.
Creative Writing project from a couple months ago.
posted by Cynic at 9:29 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home