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Greqoh
10-14-2005, 08:54 PM
The Forsaken
by L. Greqoh



Greg closed the door to the small booth.

He bowed his head remorsefully and tried to speak. But the words wouldn't come.

"What troubles you, my son?" a gentle voice spoke from the next booth.

"I have sinned, father," the young man began.
"I have done things...horrible things."

"Yes, go on," the old voice spoke.

Greg began nervously tugging at the bandages wrapped tightly around his left wrist. He had wrapped his wound too tight.

"The devil plays with my mind, father. He puts horrible things in my mind," Greg reluctantly told him.

Greg heard the frail voice answer through the thin walls of the confessional.

"Everyone has evil thoughts sometimes. But the Lord gives us the power to put them away. It is just a matter of faith."

"I'm not strong enough," Greg said, clinching his fists.
His left one began stinging. Greg's anguished voice asked, "Why did he make me the way that I am?"

The aging father reassured him, "God has given everyone the will to choose between good and evil. He loves every one of us and he has a plan for everyone. You must be strong."

"I try. I try so hard, father," Greg replied, "I don't think other people...feel the way that I do sometimes."

The old father sat up uncomfortably in his booth.

He removed his glasses from his face as he stared at the thin wall that separated the two of them. He stared at it as if he could see right through it, at the troubled young man sitting next to him.

"What do you feel now?" he uneasily asked.

There was a heavy silence for several seconds. The only sound was the creaking of the old booths.

"I'd...like to kill you right now, father," Greg shamefully admitted.

The old priest was speechless..

"I'm sorry...You can't help me." Greg said as he got up and opened the booth.

"Greg, wait!" the man called as he watched him leave God's house. The only sound in the empty church was the heavy door shutting as Greg left. And the old priest knew that another soul had been lost this night.

Outside it was raining again.

Greg walked past the lit church sign, with it's optimistic rhetoric about Jesus saving souls. He decided he would never return. There was no longer anything for him there.

Greg's head was throbbing. He could feel the psychotic urges growing stronger, they were pushing their way forward in his mind.

He passed a few people as he walked the four blocks to his small apartment. He tried not to make eye contact with them. He didn't like the way that people looked when the madness came upon him..

Sometimes people reminded him of mannequins or dolls. He would look into their eyes and wonder what kinds of expressions they would make as he took them apart.

He became uncomfortably aware of just how easy it would be to kill someone. No one ever knew what was in your head.

The first thing he did when he got home was to go to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He swallowed a few aspirin, washing them down with a glass of vodka.

He stared into the mirror. His black hair had grown past his shoulders and he needed a shave badly.

As he stared at his himself, he began to see his reflection changing, melting. It took on a more sinister, demonic form. It appeared to be smiling at him.

He examined it with a mix of horror and fascination as it began to speak to him. The voice was very deep and slow, like a record about to come to a stop. It came from the grinning face.

"Pieces...bring me pieces," it told him.

He began to recoil in terror. Suddenly the phantom image lunged out of the mirror and grabbed him by the throat.

Greg struggled to break free but could not; the iron grip was choking him. He tried to yell for help, but could barely make a sound.

He began kicking the wall for help, frantically.
An angry voice came from the next apartment, "What the hell are you doing over there?"

Greg suddenly realized that the hands around his throat were his own.

He looked up at his reflection in the mirror. It was back to normal. Greg began to sob.

Greg probably accumulated around four hours sleep.
He had to get up early today, there were things to do.

Gail's husband had left for work around thirty minutes ago.

She sat at the kitchen table eating her toast and drinking her coffee. She was reading the morning paper and trying to decide which job interview she would go on.

She heard someone knocking at the door. Who could that be at this hour, she wondered?

Her home sat back off of the main road on a long gravel drive. It was very odd for anyone to come unannounced, especially this early in the morning.

She nervously went to the heavy security door. "Who is it?" she asked. There was no reply.

The knock continued.

Gail looked through the peep hole. Her husband had returned. His face looked like he had seen a ghost. He must have fallen ill and decided to come back home.

"Roger, are you all right?" she asked as she undid the chain on the door and unlocked the deadbolt.

As she opened the door her eyes met those of a strange young man dressed in black trench coat. He had been holding her husband's decapitated head up to the peep hole.

As her eyes fell upon the macabre expression of terror on her husband's head, she let out a long shriek of panic. She tried to close the door, but the young man was too fast.

He pried it open, and pushed her to the floor.

"Oh, my God! Help me!" she pleaded.

Greg had been waiting patiently for two weeks. He studied their patterns and habits. He examined their house. Today he would make his move...

Greqoh
10-14-2005, 08:56 PM
He had not come for her husband. No. It was the woman's beautiful eyes that intrigued him. They were such a lovely deep chestnut brown.

He shut the door behind him, confident that no one would hear the woman's cries.

She was in a state of shock and could barely move.
Greg grabbed her short brown hair and slammed her head into the coffee table, knocking her senseless.

He allowed her to fall on the floor as he took out a small jar from his coat. He opened it and put it on the coffee table.

The woman was beginning to regain her senses. Greg pinned her down on the ground. He took out a small pocket knife from his coat and opened it.

The last thing the woman saw in this life was Greg's blade as it popped her eyeballs from their sockets. He put them in the jar. He would put them in front of the mirror when he got home.

Greg soon became tired of the woman's rhythmic shrieks and jerking on the carpet. He grabbed her head and smashed it against the floor, possibly forty times as hard as he could, until it felt like a shattered Easter egg.

The house was quiet now.

Greg sat down at the table and began finishing the woman's breakfast as he watched the morning news.

They were talking about abused children. Greg knew that subject well. His father had beaten him horribly when he was a child. He nearly killed Greg a couple of times from head traumas.

Greg never knew his mother. She died giving birth to him.

He looked at the pictures that hung on the walls of the home. Such happy people!

Greg didn't have any pictures on his walls at home. He had no family and no friends at all. Greg's odd behavior and inappropriate expressions scared people away. His whole life he had been an outcast, from school to whatever shitty jobs he could manage to hold onto.

Greg was feeling uncomfortable. He finished the woman's coffee and left. He had a doctor's appointment to keep.

"Greg, how nice to see you," Dr. Martin told him.
"How have you been this week?"

"All right, I suppose. It could be worse," Greg answered.

Dr. Martin had a very simplified view of the universe, Greg thought. He believes that we are just machines. He thinks you can dope someone up and fix anything with enough drugs. The old grey doctor was so set in his ways that listening to him was like hearing someone read out of a book. Their conversation was filled with cookie cutter responses.

"And the medication I prescribed? Has it helped you?" the doctor asked. He pulled his chair closer to the couch Greg was laying back in.

"Yes...I think it is," Greg lied. He had not been taking those pills. They made him feel sick. They put him in such a stupor that he could never concentrate on anything.

"Good, that is just what I want to hear," the doctor said, pleased.

"Doctor, what made me the way I am?" Greg asked.

"What do you mean?" Dr. Martin asked, pretending to be interested.

"I can't stand to be around people. Everyone rolls their eyes at me like there's something wrong with me. I try to be a good person, but it never matters..." Greg began.

The doctor cut him off. "Greg," he said condescendingly, "there is nothing wrong with you. Everyone has doubts and fears about life. That's normal."

"But everyone has always hated me. Why?" Greg asked.

"No one hates you, Greg. Listen," he said as he began looking at his watch, "We are all products of our environment. You had some bad experiences. Everyone does. But the mind is a very complex machine. Nature gave you everything that you need to overcome the past. You just have to be strong."

"I don't think other people feel like I do." Greg confessed hoping to make some real sort of connection.

The doctor motioned for him to wait as he answered his cell phone. By his hushed tones and the sickening smile on his face, Greg guessed that "Angel" was not his wife.

After a minute or two the good doctor got off the phone.

"I am so sorry. Go on. What do you feel?" he asked, with exaggerated concern plastered across his face.

"I feel...like I 'd like to leave now," Greg said as he got up.

Greg went inside McDonald's. People were looking at his long hair and black attire. They glanced down at his Tool concert shirt, and then up to his nervous face. He could feel their judgmental stares on him. It felt like he was melting inside like a child.

"Can I help you?" some snotty young wench sneered at him from behind the cash register.

Greg felt a lump in his throat."I would like the number one combo with...."

"Speak up!" she barked.

The cashier rolled her eyes at him as she handed him his change. She didn't say a word as she tossed his bag of food in front of him.

"Fuck off!" he snapped at her as he grabbed it up.

Later that night Greg was out again. He walked past the old stone church. It towered pompously into the black sky.

"You made me this way," he said under his breath.
"All of my life everything has gone wrong. I never asked to be born. I am a monster," he said with self-loathing.

He looked to the cross on top of the building and then to the flashing sign with its message of Jesus.

"Where is an angel for me, God?" he asked. "You can't help me. You are not even listening, are you?"

Greg went on his way.

He had been tracking a very pretty blond with much fascination for several weeks. He waited in front of her house.

Greg could feel his hands beginning to shake with excitement as her door opened. His trunk was ready. He would use the stun gun he had brought, and throw her in the trunk.

He watched her checking the locks on her door.
She was so beautiful, probably about five foot three. Her teased hair reminded him of the metal days. She was dressed very Gothic with a short black skirt and black lace top.

As she came down the concrete steps she looked over at Greg and smiled.

He smiled back. He couldn't move. He couldn't say anything. She appeared to him as an angel. He was in awe of her beauty. They stared at one another for several seconds as she passed.

As she started to get into her car a black Firebird pulled alongside of her. A man jumped out and began hitting her as he yelled, "You stupid whore!"

Greg recognized the man. It was her boyfriend. He had not come around much lately. Greg guessed their relationship had ended.

The young woman cried for help as the man grabbed her by the hair and began taunting her.

Before Greg knew what he was doing he had rushed the man and pushed him off of the girl.

"You mind you own God damned business!" the man challenged.

Greg threw a clumsy right hand that missed. The enraged boyfriend knocked him down and got on top of him.

Greg could taste the blood from his nose. The man was pummeling him on the sidewalk while the young woman screamed, "Get off of him! You're killing him!"

Greg felt his head being slammed into the concrete.

Soon everything went black.

Greg had sustained severe injuries to his head resulting in brain damage. He was in a coma for several weeks.
When he woke up he had no memory of who he was.

The young woman, Angel was her name, took pity on him. She found out that he had no family, no one to contact.
He was all alone.

She stayed by his side as he went through therapy.
Greg learned to walk, talk and read all over again, like a child.

And when he was released she suggested that he stay with her for a while, since he had lost his apartment and had no where to go. As weeks turned into months they fell in love and were married.

Greg was a perfect father and the best husband Angel could have imagined.

His memories never returned.


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Happy Halloween to all members from the Qlipothic Abyss http://qlipothica.tripod.com

novakru
10-14-2005, 09:25 PM
I liked this story

scouse mac
10-15-2005, 03:33 AM
Nice

Greqoh
10-26-2005, 06:00 PM
Thanks for reading it and commenting.

I wanted to give this a twist.