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What hath he done.



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Mon Jan 23, 2012 9:51 am
mattimias says...



21 September (Entry 217)


It was a dark and stormy night. Marge and I were looking for Patches, our faithful mongrel for five years. He had run off as soon as the thunder and lightning got to him, yelping for God Almighty and we had to chase him into the forest nearby. It was cold and wet and damp and freezing out there, and I cussed at him a good deal and he ran away; I had to run for more than 10 minutes in the rain and oh God it was so damn bleeding wet. I slipped and fell right into the pond nearby where the ducks were and they scattered good thing patches saw them and went for them and i caught him and gave him a good whipping and then he scratched me and forced me into the lake and it was so wet and water was all around and i was screaming and cussing and waving my hands and arms around and oh god it was so cold so much water so much darkness too much to take it was gloom shit shit shit GOD shit shit shit


Edmund sneezed, breaking the rhythm of his typing on the old typewriter he used to type notes for lectures for his college classes, ruining his diary entry for that day and his train of thought. He stared at that piece of paper for a moment, then crumpled it up and flung it carelessly towards the wastepaper bin near his desk. His large hands, still shivering from that incident an hour or two ago, picked up another piece of flimsy tissue paper and wiped his nose of the green mucus that had been expelled. Reaching for that special bottle of fine red rum, he flinched as a small wooden stick, sharp and rough, tapped his arm, pushing it away from that old, reliable source of comfort and oblivion.
“But Marge…” He whined.

“No. You’ve been drinking too much, Edmund. You’ll get even sicker if you drink now.” Marge asserting her continuing dominance over the weakened, snivelling man draped in towels with these few simple words, tapping his arm gently but firmly with the stick she held in her calloused hand.

“But I want to relax…”Edmund continued in the same tone, holding his hands in front of him in a seemingly supplicating posture.

Marge held firm for a few moments before wavering, her shoulders that had been clenched up rather tightly relaxing, and she moved the stick to one side. “Alright then.” Edmund eagerly snatched up the bottle, pulling off the cork with a loud, satisfying sound, and brought it up to his lips. Before he could even taste that ambrosia, that nectar of the gods, the stick tapped his arm again, stopping him.

She held up a small tea cup that had been placed near the bottle of rum. “Only one cup, dear. You promised little Timmy and I.”

Edmund sighed, taking the cup from her firm grasp and poured a generous portion into that flower-patterned tea cup, a gift from his nanny. “Oh, and I’ll be working late today, honey, I’ve got to work on that novel of mine. You know…”

Marge sighed, her features momentarily displaying an expression of worry, and turned to go. Before doing so though, she pecked him lightly on his cheek.

“Love you too, honey.” His voice floated up to her as she climbed the creaky stairs to their bedroom, where little Timmy slept, undisturbed by the bad weather outdoors. The lights flickered for a moment, turning slightly dimmer, the shadows in the corners lengthening slowly.

He placed the chipped cup to his parched lips, and with a subtle motion, gently tipped the cup and took a sip of the red rum, his tongue eagerly awaiting that amazing experience that would follow. He sighed as he let the rum roll over his tongue, tasting the caramel undertones, enjoying the strong and pungent taste of molasses, allowing the subtle tones of spices that tasted of the East Indies (As he thought) to caress his taste buds as if it was a lover. Swallowing the rest of the nectar of the Immortals, he turned to his unfinished work, the novel that would introduce the world to Edmund Matthian and place him in the annals of literature alongside the likes of Stephen King and Tolstoy.

(Now, to the task at hand!)


As Torecen struggled with his alcoholism, there appeared before him a heavenly vision: It was Gwendolyn! She gently picked up the bottle of finely-aged Johnny Walker whisky and flung it to one side, as if throwing away the iron chains of the drink that had plagued him for years. The reckless wastage of an expensive vintage did not aggravate him as he thought it would do so; Gwendolyn had returned. From the dead, it seemed. What-


His lips suddenly felt quite dry. That little cup of rum had done nothing to sate his sudden thirst. Groping about in the dim light for the vacuum flask that held his favourite Earl Grey tea, a remainder of his younger days at Oxford, he muttered a few choice curse words as it was nowhere to be found. Grumbling under his breath, he turned to the ostensibly innocuous bottle of rum and stared at it for a few moments, before shuddering and turned away.

“Remember.” He spoke partly to himself, partly to him.

Getting up from the comfy chair (‘Mein Kampf’y chair, so it would seem, He thought wryly), he staggered to a nearby table, his poor legs numbed by his inactivity, and grasped the handle of a cylindrical container, and poured a refreshing dose of sweet, thirst-quenching fluid down his throat, wetting his parched lips. Letting off a small sigh of relief, he stalked back to his chair and, with an almost imperceptible motion, pulled the piece of paper that held Chapter 21’s climax off the typewriter and placed it to one side.

(I’d better complete the lecture on Poe’s Red Death first. I’ve held it off for far too long.)

He closed his eyes, recalling the parts he had yet to cover with his students. A few minutes passed, and he started typing.


The ebony clock of Prince Prospero’s only exemplifies the passage of time that is obvious in Poe’s tale. With every hour, with each sound it makes, all revellers, whether enraptured or drunken, stop all motion and wait for the sound of the chimes to fade before starting the revels again. This then, shows the vulnerability in the Prince’s company, in that they still fear, deep down, the threat of the Red Death, and each passing hour only increases-


It was already midnight. He gradually grew drowsier and drowsier, his eyelids slowly descending to blanket his eyes in darkness. Images flew through his mind, which were reminiscent of the many books he had perused both recent and old.

(Little Tiny Tim Christmas blesses everyone… Christmas? Maybe fire and the logs, fire and the boiler… Boiler is overheating, boiler steam air gas hot crushed skull… Crushed skull and head no longer father father is that you? Father father danny danny tony and tony again red rum mmmm… delicious and satisfying red rum red rum red rum redrum redrum redrum MURDER)

Edmund sat up with a jolt. Where had that thought come from? Edmund frowned, his mind focused on discovering the provenance of that… word. Murder… He started doodling on some spare paper, his hand wandering over the piece of paper, creating designs and words and imagery unconsciously. And everything soon became crystal-clear.

(The Shining. That’s where it’s from. But why?)

He shook his head. No point thinking about it. Got to finish the lecture notes.
And so Edmund continued, poring over texts and analyses of Poe’s work. But gradually, ever so slightly, he turned his head towards that unfinished bottle, the half-empty (Or was it half-full?) container that began to hold his attention for longer and longer periods of time. But each and every time, he remembered his promise to Marge and little Timmy, and so he forced his eyes off the devilish drink, attempting to focus on the task at hand.

But the desire, the growing attraction, the gradual intensification of that magnetic pull started to make him waver. Many a time he had to restrain himself from reaching for the rum mere inches away from his trembling fingers.

(God… I promised Marge! I promised her I wouldn’t drink that much again. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t. Remember that, Edmund Matthian. You always keep promises, and you’ll keep this one just like all the others.)

Eventually, his tongue started to taste that distinct flavour of that single, solitary cup of red rum he had drunk earlier. The bouquet, the aroma of that rum began to fill his nose, bathing it in the fragrance and spices of his once-beloved drink. And it soon worsened. He had a nagging headache, and it only got worse as he tried to reject the rum, the centre of attraction of his mind. And his wiry fingers started creeping across the textured mahogany table, the thin shadows only growing darker as the lights dimmed again.

Closer and closer did the fingers move towards the translucent bottle. With a motion of his hand, Edmund grasped the neck of the bottle, inadvertently releasing a small hiss of relief and anticipation.

(Well, one sip won’t hurt me. It’s not as if I’ll get drunk again…)

And so he drank. And drank. And drank. The rose-red liquid, the slightly dark-ruby fluid in the bottle drained into his gaping maw, the abyss of the red rum. And the room did dim till the shadows grew and shrouded most of the area, save for the lone lamp at his desk, that did nothing to light up the room. Finally, with a gasp, as if he was drowning in that rum, that liquor to fill the emptiness in his alimentary canal, he slammed it down on the table, spilling quite a few stray drops that scattered over his papers.

(HEE HAW goes the donkey.)

“Man, that was one good rum. Wish my cabinet’s full of it. Well, Edmund, do your thing.” He mumbled, the odour of alcohol emerging from his mouth, filling the air about him with an unpleasant aroma. However, it only brought back memories of his numerous drinking binges, the nights he had spent in the bars around town and teaching nameless faces in a daze the mornings after. And it only served to intoxicate him even more, with the memories rushing in.


“Marge… I’m HOME.”

He struggled through the front door, keys forgotten, dropping to the floor as he grasped for any support, anything to help him keep his balance. Sadly though, he fell to the wooden floor with a thump, and illustrated his discomfort with quite a few choice words to describe his predicament.

Marge looked upon the sight of her husband sprawled on the floor, semi-conscious with an expression of despondency and weariness, as if she had experienced this many time before. “Edmund… You’re drunk. Come, let’s go to sleep.” She pleaded in a soft and gentle tone.

“NO. I have work to do…”He slurred, saliva escaping from his partially-open mouth.

With an immense effort, he pushed himself upright and staggered to his workroom. Walking unsteadily, Edmund collided with several objects, including the wall, on his way to his workroom. With an oath, he threw them to one side and ignored the loud sounds of something breaking and his wife’s crying.

Slamming the door open, he gazed upon a horrifying sight, one that made him sober momentarily before his mind was clouded by an insane anger and madness, barely repressed. Little Timmy was ripping up his papers; the sum of two weeks’ work ruined by that… that little brat. He grabbed little Timmy by the arm, meaning to scare him badly, to tell him not to mess with Daddy’s work, disregarding his cries of “Daddy, you’re hurting me!”

Edmund lifted his free hand, too enraged by little Timmy’s handiwork, and smacked him once. Little Timmy was sent into a paroxysm of crying as the beating continued, that was forcibly repressed as Edmund held little Timmy by the neck. And at that fateful moment, Edmund threw him to the floor, his violent actions done for now, and little Timmy fell on his left arm.

Crack.

It resounded through the entire Matthian residence. And Marge stared at that dreadful sight, frozen, paralysed by the actions her husband had committed against their only child. Edmund staggered back, the impact of what he had done slamming into him like an express train, making him sober and forcing him to realise the immensity of his act, the Brobdingnagian monstrosity becoming apparent to his mind.



“That Lilliputian brat… He never really got what was coming to him…” Edmund mumbled almost incoherently, his hands sweeping everything off the table in a swift motion, in the process disconnecting the lamp from the power socket, which shrouded the already gloomy room in near-complete darkness, only interrupted by the occasional flash of lightning, which seemed like it was occurring more often.

“I’ll give him his medicine tonight…”

(Give him medicine… Give him medicine… How ‘bout a mallet, guv’nor?)

Edmund grinned, his almost-gargantuan frame rising from the seat, and strode to the equipment shed in the backyard.

In the pouring rain, he trudged through the mud that felt like it was trying to stop him. He was drenched to the bone, but it did not dampen his spirits. Tonight would be the night he finally got rid of that impudent child. It would be… his ‘predestined termination’.
He struggled with the wet and slippery lock, finally opening it and throwing it to one side. Inside the shed, he picked an innocent-looking polo mallet, brought back from England during the winter break. Smiling malevolently, he stepped outside, almost dancing in the chilling rain that fell on his soaked body, as he contemplated that which was to come.

Slamming the back door open, he dragged the oddly heavy mallet behind him, roaring out, his voice accompanied by the thunder of the storm.

“Come here Timmy! It’s time for you to get your medicine!”

The mallet grated against the wooden floor, its blunt end making an awfully loud sound every time it met a crack. And that alone was what made Marge walk out of her bedroom to the top of the stairs, her befuddled eyes clearing once she realised it was Edmund.

“Edmund! What are you doing with that mallet? Put it back this instant, you’re going to wake little Timmy….” She told Edmund off firmly at first, then wavering as she stared at the baleful expression on his face, full of animosity and vindictiveness, his eyes glowing slightly in the gloom of the living room, in the Cimmerian abyss that was his house.

“I’m going to give Timmy what he deserves.” He snarled, slowly stepping forward, each step on the stairs only raising Marge’s apprehension and amplifying her fear of that monster she had only seen once, a brute with a cold purpose and a relentless heart. The lightless room only served to heighten her terror, the aphotic room creating the impression of something dark, something stygian, something from elsewhere standing behind Edmund, urging him on.

She held up her hands, attempting to sooth Edmund with all she had. “Edmund…” she pleaded. “You’re sick, you’re drunk. Do put that down, dear, you’re going to hurt someone with it. Let’s go to sleep, we’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay?”

“NO.”

She barely had time to turn and run away as the mallet slammed down on the wooden planks where she was standing. The mallet whistled through the air and broke the planks, little splinters flying everywhere, Edmund running after her with the mallet raised up high, ready to end her.

“Come here Marge! I have your medicine ready for you! HAHAHA!” He growled maniacally with another swipe of the mallet, this time bringing her down to the knees with the force of that mallet that had fractured beyond recovery her left knee, causing her to cry out in pain. Yet that too was silenced, as Edmund brought the mallet down on her face, rendering her nose and jawbones broken. He could now hear the whimpers emerging from her ruined mouth, the blood flowing as freely as a stream, and the white fragments of bone poking through her reddened visage.

GOTCHA.” Edmund crowed in triumph, lifting the now bloodied mallet in the air, sending Marge’s blood flying through the air, dotting the once-pristine white walls. Unnoticed, Marge crept away to Timmy’s room, blood draining from her face, and, with all her strength, slammed the door shut and bolted it, alerting Edmund to her escape.
“Oh no you don’t.” He took up his mallet once again, and brought it down on the door, causing fragments of the flimsy wooden door to fall off, vibrating the door.

“STRIKE ONE.”

He smirked demonically, raising his weapon for another strike.
This time, it caused a sizeable hole in the door, and he placed his face to the hole, watching Marge hide little Timmy behind her. As they both gazed upon his physiognomy, his expression of utmost hatred made them falter, and they crept into a foetal position, awaiting the inevitable.

“STRIKE TWO!!”

He laughed in a berserk manner, almost delighting in the violence that had and would be occurring this night, the night for fools.

(And the Red Death held sway over all, for it was DULL AND BORING.

“STRIKE THREE, YOU’RE OUT!! HERE COMES JOHNNY!!!”

Simultaneously, he struck at the door, which yielded to the mallet and broke down, its hinges torn from the walls. And at that moment, time seemed to be frozen, as he gazed down on his wife and child, who would be struck by the lightning, by the juggernaut that he was.

“LET’S DO IT!!!!”

And he raised the mallet for the seventh time, bringing it down on both people who were lying prone in a small, darkened corner, as if it would protect them all.


“RING A RING O’ ROSES, A POCKET FULL OF POSIES!”


“GET YOUR MEDICINE, HOT N’SPICY AND BLOODY ALL OVER, BRATS!”



After what seemed like hours, he found himself on the floor, surrounded by the gruesome remains of what was his wife and child, the bone fragments lying everywhere, some even stuck in the wall, the organs and flesh reduced to something of the consistency of mashed potatoes, the blood on the walls, dripping from the windows, every place and every where.
He looked around for a moment, and woke up.


Oh god, oh god, oh god…"

What… what have I done?"





Well, that's it. Not one of my better works, I think, but it should do for now. It is... an experiment for me, so please do comment and review. Thanks.
I am... RealmStrike. Fear me.
  








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