I've been debating on putting this up or not, mainly because I didn't want the content to get me banned from this site, which I love. But since I've seen an amount of cussing and foul...whatever, this short story won't make a differance.
I wrote this about four months ago, and if you notice it, there are a couple of Guns N' Roses lyrics in it.
Enjoy and tell me what you think, I believe that after reading this, the newbie part won't matter anymore, at least I hope.
THE ANGEL'S DANCE
The reflection of himself underneath the rolling flesh of his love as she pranced before him naked except for the string piece folded into her flower and the black stiletto heels surprised him, because this had not been the first time he had seen this show played before. On some occasions, he would be in the mirror that stood behind her, watching as she swung her ass in and out in a dry humping motion. Other times he would be perched in the closest corner of the ceiling looking down at her arched back and his arched penis. She would usually be dancing to some high-based Nickelback or Hinder cd, because those were the ones that boosted her movements as well as his. While she moved he would carve her out with his eyes, first the luxurious lips, wet from her tongue ceaselessly caressing them, then her sleek, arched back, tanned to perfection, half covered with brown hair. Then her porn star tits that she would occasionally rub against his face while performing a lap dance. Following with his eyes, he trailed down to her legs that they both enjoyed opening on several nights penned up in his Jeep Cherokee. Yet every man knows that a moment like this should not end in a cold sweat. However, for Thomas Durman, that would be how he was awakening every night.
He quickly sat up in bed and turned on the bedside lamp that stood adjacent to him, knocking a half-empty bottle of whiskey into the floor. Due to the shape of the bottle, only a small portion spilt onto the hardwood.
â€œFuck!â€ Thomas jumped over the mess and into the bathroom, ripping miles of toilet paper from the roll and returning to the spill in the bedroom. That was when he noticed that on the white satin sheets lying on the bed were streaks of red. Spots of blood checkering the area he had once been sleeping lazily, unaware, of what lay spreading around him. Instinctively he began to check himself, from head to foot, and then he saw and remembered at the same moment of where the slashes that ran down the length of his arm had come from. Two long, jagged, unskilled razorblade marks followed his veins from the wrist to about four inches from his upper arm. The blood that had previously poured from within was now caked around the wounds, dry against his arms, dry against his sheets. Thomasâ€™s stomach did a belly flop as every meal he had ever eaten threatened to reappear in one unwanted state. He returned to the bathroom and, still examining his wounds, turned on the sink faucet. He placed his right arm in, wrist first, and immediately the blood came to life. Spirals of crimson flowed down, around his fingers, and then circling the white porcelain sink before dropping down into the drain.
The wound was reopening itself, instantly he removed it. At first dread filled him, dread of what he had done, and what he had recreated. Then, further into the tunnel past the signs of pain, words of agony, he thought he saw the light that would lead to his bliss. The light was not strong, but he knew it had been last night. Last night, as he remembered his first attempts at suicide. He had drawn a bath to sink his worries in, to drown his pain. However, he could not hold himself under.
He went to the curtain and jerked it aside, ripping three of the rings out of the cheap plastic. Filled to the faucet full of water, stood a bath drawn of red wine. Full of every ounce of red wine he had ever drank, that only last night had seeped from the ports of every opening. Torn apart and lying at his feet was the five blade Schick hair razor, the plastic handle had been ripped clear off and only three blades remained intact. On the tub side lay one of the two that had been disregarded after use. None of his blood adorned the sharp edge. Not one drop remained on the tubs sides, as they were dry, spotless except for a half used bar of soap off to one corner. He felt the pit of his stomach drop as hard as a hammer. He felt disgust. Yet, at the same time, he wished he had succeeded. Yet, as anyone could easily see, the scars were never meant to drop into the tunnels of his vein; instead, the cuts deliberately ran alongside those. Enough to make a weak man hurl, and a strong man live. And even through his substance abuse, and his non-cooperative appetite, he remained breathing, even if it was just for that second more. He dropped against the wall, slid down onto the bare floor, and cupped his head into his hands. The sinkâ€™ faucet was still running full blast, the whiskey still lay spreading on the floor, the tub was still a dyed red, his sheets still wet, and his arms remained a raped innocence as Thomas Durman began to cry.
The black Firebird took a sharp corner and Carrie Arnold had to grab the side door to reposition herself. Scott shot a look in her direction suggesting that she was finally going to agree with him that his car had horsepower. She smiled, crossed her legs, and tried to take her mind off the destructive part of what she was about to do. It had been only a week since she had finally broken it off with Thomas. It had been emotional for them both, but it had been he who had taken it the hardest. She could remember ever pain stricken tear, and every sentimental word. However, in the end it remained broken. The only hard part for herself in the conflict, besides having to listen to him promise that he could make it right, was knowing that Thomas had always stuck close to other options. The fact that she knew the possibility of him committing suicide was the worst at this point. As she sat there, she could feel her stomach churn to that thought. She wished they would arrive soon; she did not want to have to barf in Scottâ€™s car. Carrie tried to watch him without letting him see it. He was not anything to a close resemblance to Thomas. Scott had almost shoulder length dirty blonde hair, where Thomasâ€™s was curly and brown. Scott had a ruff 5 oâ€™clock shadow that he wore twenty-four seven, deep brown eyes that looked black, a model tan, and the footballerâ€™s six-pack. Thomas on the other hand had a puppy dog face, eyes of the bluest skies, and an eased, relaxed, but firm body that looked as if he was born with it. Both were great, but Thomas and she had had a history of three years. She had become bored, and now Scott would be her new toy. He had been while Thomas and she had been together, a dessert to her until the ball had dropped and Thomas had found out. She had never seen so much rage in her lifetime, yet at the same moment so much passion as he believed it had been his fault that she had been reduced to stealing away in the night with another man. Yes, she had felt guilty, and she still had feelings towards him, but she had lost connection with the click that she needed. After so long with having to deal with the pain of seeing him break down before her, asking her why, she had felt that it was her responsibility to break it then and there. Quickly, as to be a fast repair. However, Thomas would not accept defeat, he had tried to reason, he had tried to beg, and in the end, Carrie had gone to the full length just to end it for the both of them, at least that was what she was going for. Carrie had told him many things that were not true, many things that later she felt she needed to apologize for. She had needed him to hate her, to despise her, then and only then would he begin to see that she was not the love he had thought her out to be. Every night, Carrie still would almost cry herself to sleep with the thought of it.
The car pulled into the driveway that lead to Scottâ€™s house. When he finally came to a stop, he shut off the engine and turned on the interior lights. It was pitch black outside and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust.
â€œArenâ€™t we going to go in?â€ she asked.
He shook his head in a â€˜noâ€™. â€œItâ€™ll be better out here.â€
â€œWhat about the neighbors?â€
â€œWhat neighbors? Itâ€™s twelve oâ€™clock at night.â€
She could see him looking her down as if she were some whore, but thought against saying anything.
â€œCome on, take your skirt off.â€
Thomas drove twenty miles over the usual speed limit of 35, jerking the car around corners in the deserted neighborhood. At this time of night, it would be unlikely to meet with any on coming traffic, yet he kept a hawk eye out for any pigs. He slowed down to 40 to take a hard right. His knuckles were white, and he was sweating profusely. The razorblade cuts had been covered with bandages, the bleeding had completely stopped, but the pain was just on an up rise. The Jeep fought to keep all four tires on the ground as it swung around and tried to straighten itself. A bottle of bourbon jumped out of the holder and fell to the floor on the passenger side. On the seat lay a .45 caliber revolver with only one bullet in the chamber.
Carrie had slipped her skirt off and it now lay in the floor. Scott was in the process of taking off her lingerie, when she grabbed his hands.
â€œI donâ€™t know about this.â€
He looked up at her as if she had just slapped him. â€œWhat do you mean?â€ His tone was defiant; a serious look came across him. Carrie felt herself become extremely uncomfortable in a matter of seconds.
â€œI really donâ€™t think Iâ€™m ready for this.â€ She hoped he would understand.
â€œWhat the fuck! Youâ€™re telling me youâ€™re not in the mood?â€
â€œLook, Iâ€™m sorry. But donâ€™t yell at me! I just think it too soon.â€
â€œYOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH, WHEN DID I GIVE YOU A CHOICE ABOUT IT?â€
â€œWhat the fuck is wrong with you Scott? Where the hell are you getting off on the assumption that you control me? You stupid fucking bastard, you canâ€™t treat me like that!â€
â€œIâ€™LL TREAT YOU HOWEVER I FUCKING WANT YOU FUCKING CUNT!â€ Scott reached out and grabbed her behind the head, jerking on a full head of hair he managed to slam her head backwards into the carâ€™s window making a loud THUD. He then climbed across the seat until he was straddling her. He reached down and pulled her panties to her knees, and began to pull out his penis.
The Jeep ran over a mailbox as it pulled into the driveway, tires shrieking to a halt, the smell of burnt rubber suddenly. He reached over, grabbed the revolver, and jumped out of the car. He ran around a car sitting in the driveway in front of him to the front of the house. When he reached the door, he knocked hard enough to break it down. He looked in the windows, and found that no lights were on. No one appeared to be in the house. He looked back to his own vehicle; the door stood ajar, the lights on, the annoying sound going off and on. Carrie wasnâ€™t home yet. It was twelve at night and she wasnâ€™t home. She was still with that guy. Thoughts filled his mind as to what they could be doing at this hour; he felt a rush of anger. His finger tightened around the trigger, but he did not release the one shot that was meant for him. Instead, he returned to the vehicle, slammed the door shut, and threw the gun back onto the seat. He jerked the Jeep into reverse, and let the smoke roll as he slammed the pedal to the floor.
Carrieâ€™s head felt like it had exploded on impact with the window. She wondered in the back of her mind what it would feel like to have to pull a chunk of glass out of the back of her head. Black spots blurred her vision. She thought she was going to pass out. She could not pass out, that would mean defeat, which would mean that this twisted freak would be able to have his way with her. No, she began to tell herself, try to move something, try to fight. She blinked a few times, a hundred, and began to see the carâ€™s interior. The carâ€™s light was blinding, but it was better than the deep, rapped feeling of the dark. She looked down and saw before it before she felt it. Scott had his dick out and was pushing it inside her, deep inside her. She regained usage of her arms and began to flail out at him, gouging his eyes with her fingernails. He screamed and she felt his fist land on her face, crushing her nose. Air, she was suddenly being deprived of oxygen, her lungs were at idle, oxygen could neither escape nor enter. She felt her whole bodyâ€™s pressure build up as if it was about to blow. She opened her mouth and gasped, taking in as much air as possible. She could taste copper in her mouth, being poured in by the droves. She could not breathe through her nose, but she was going to choke if she kept breathing in through her mouth in this position. She no longer noticed Scott, adrenaline had taken over, and she panicked and reached out for something to grab hold of, anything that could move her. Yet Scott saw this as resistance and quickly put a stop to it. He grabbed both of her arms and held them against her sides, using them as leverage as he fucked her. He pushed himself deep into her, busting her innocence open wide. She fought, struggling to free her hands, but as every second passed, she felt herself going weak. She was no longer strong enough to fight and getting weaker by the second. Scott must have accidentally hit a button with his foot because the lights in the car went out. Her heart ached; it was pounding wildly in its cage. Carrie began to think thoughts of death. She did not want to die; she was too young, too innocent. She had not done anything worth talking about. She had not grown up. She had not had a family and children. She wondered what she had last said to her mother. She wanted to tell Thomas how much she was wrong, how much she loved him. She wanted to go fishing with her dad. She wanted to see New York City. She wasnâ€™t ready to die. She wasnâ€™t ready to let it all go. Her body began to throb. She was going to die while being rapped by a man she thought she could trust. And that was went she went under.
Thomas hit the guyâ€™s car when he pulled into the driveway; he saw movement inside and knew his worst fears had been answered. He didnâ€™t even put the Jeep in park as he jumped out of the vehicle once more, forgetting to grab the gun. He ran over to the passenger side and jerked the door open before the guy inside could lock it. The car was such a piece of shit that the door light didnâ€™t even come on. However, Thomas could easily make out the two figures. The guy was laying on top of Carrie with his dick shoved in her. He could not make out the expression on their faces but he was sure it was surprise. He jerked the dudeâ€™s hair, and easier than Thomas thought, the guy came across Carrie and slid out onto the pavement, his dick still hanging out of his jeans. Thomas drew the guy upright and onto his feet as he threw him against the backside of the car. The guy tried to swing out at him but Thomas ducked it and went for the guyâ€™s waist.
â€œTHIS IS WHAT THE FUCK YOU GET WHEN YOU STICK YOUR SHIT INSIDE MY GIRLFRIEND!â€
Thomas grabbed the guyâ€™s zipper and jerked upward. He could feel something split. The guy screamed loud enough to break Thomasâ€™s eardrums. He backed away from the guy as he grabbed his lower half and doubled over onto the ground. Thomas watched in amazement before returning to his girlfriend. The guy remained screaming. It was too dark to tell, but he could see that Carrie had fallen out of the car and lay on her stomach on the ground. Through breaths from the guy screaming, he could faintly hear her gasping for breath, but she was probably just freaking out over the loss of her new boyfriendâ€™s manly hood.
â€œYOU STUPID FUCKING BASTARD! MY FUCKING DICK! MY FUCKING DICK IS BLEEDING BECAUSE OF YOU! YOU SONUVA BITCH! Iâ€™M GONNA FUCKINâ€™ KILL YOU MOTHERFUCKER!â€
Thomas returned to the guy, who was trying to stand by leaning on the car with one hand as the other held his bleeding penis.
â€œYeah, thatâ€™s right.â€ The guy tried to straighten himself, pass himself off as cocky. Thomas took a swing for the guyâ€™s face, but before fist could meet skin, the guy had taken his hand from his pecker and slammed it against Thomasâ€™s face. Thomas fell onto the car grabbing his bleeding head with his hand. The guy was holding a rock the size of his fist.
â€œYeah, werenâ€™t ready for that, were you?â€ He let out some inhuman cry resembling distress and entertainment. He had staggered away from the car, to the back of Thomas, who stood and removed his hand from his face, revealing the power of the blow to the both of them. It was pitch black out, but you could see the wet cover. They both went at each other at the same time, Thomas being more aware of the rock. They clashed and Thomas was thrown back by the guyâ€™s strength against the car. His back bent and he felt the guy fall on him. He felt very vurniable, unsafe against this lunatic. The guy saw his advantage and through all his weight on Thomas, crushing him against the car.
The freak leaned in low to Thomasâ€™s ear and whispered. â€œYour bitch tasted good, every fucking inch that I throbbed. And you know what? She was still begging for more.â€ Then the guy leaned the rest of the way down and bit a piece of Thomasâ€™s ear clear off. Thomas screamed and heaved the guy off him. The guy staggered backward, lost his footing and fell to the ground, dropping the rock in front of him. Thomas grabbed it and started towards him as the freak spat the piece of flesh in his direction. Thomas threw himself on top of the guy and began to beat the guys face in with the rock. Twenty times, he slammed the rock down. Then he rained more on the guys face with two hands. All the while tears began to stream his face. The freak grew silent and by the thirtieth blow, he had grown completely still. Thomas dropped the rock, fell over off the guy, and onto the ground were he lay exhausted. He began to feel his wounds, and cried harder. The slits in his wrists lurched underneath their bindings. His ear bled, as his tears flowed. After a moment, he began to hear sirens not far away. Sirens coming closer. Sirens that meant the end of his freedom. He had killed a man in cold blood. He no longer was fit to live. They would tie him up and shut him away in a cell to rot his days away without Carrie. Life without Carrie would not be complete, would never be complete. The sirens pierced the night air. He gained what strength he had and crawled to the passenger side of his Jeep. He opened the door and fumbled with the seat until he had grabbed the gun, so he fell back to the ground. His strength had been zapped. He felt like every inch of him weighed a ton. He wanted to lie down, shut his eyes and sleep. Nevertheless, he knew that if he did, he would wake up in hell without Carrie. A hell on Earth. He had to reach his angel, his true love. Only she could keep the demons at bay. He struggled across the concrete. Five yards was like five miles. Blood dripped down his face and went against his neck. His tears would build up potential, and then make the decent down his cheek, slowly, painfully. Thomas reached her. She was still lying on the ground, but she was moving. Her hand was holding her head. She must have hit it when she fell out of the vehicle. The sirens were on the street now, coming closer, he had but less than a minute. He grabbed Carrie and pulled her upright, to were she was now sitting with his help. He noticed that her panties were around her knees. How could she do this to him? How could she destroy both their hearts? Had she no concern? She was beautiful, even in the night. Her face was wet, but he could not tell what it was that covered her face. The sirens echoed his slavery every second. Their shrillness knifed through the air, slicing his last seconds with his love. He looked up into the heavens, and prayed to the stars above, to the angels, to the moon, to Carrie, to their love, to her. He prayed to never be separate from his angel; he wanted nothing more than for her to grow her wings. He wanted nothing more than to see her smile never fade. He prayed to the angels with their halos, to have one waiting for her. To have a set of pearl white wings ready for her, so that she may descend among the other angels as he had always wanted her to. Descending freely, without a care in the world. To never again feel pain, or hurt. All he wanted was for his angel to never have to shed one more tear.
He looked into her eyes, and saw not the night cloaking her beauty, but of them together again. He saw her smile and knew that it would all be better again. He leaned in and kissed his angel as he brought the gun up behind his head. Together again, as he had always wanted it to be. They were in line as he pulled the trigger.
Written By: Kayla Arthurs a.k.a (Clyde and Cranston)