|Batter Up (standard:horror, 911 words)|
|Author: Cloud Strife||Added: Feb 16 2004||Views/Reads: 1989/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Is this a story about a baseball player during an important game or something much more sinister?|
Batter Up By Christopher McCarthy Simon was holding his breath just as he had been for the entire match so far. He loved playing baseball more than anything in the world and hated times like these when he was stuck sitting on the bench in the dugout feeling useless and having to wait what appeared to be an eternity to get into the game and show how good he was. But he knew he wouldn't be on the bench for much longer today. George Johnson had just gone up to bat, which meant that Simon was the next batter. He watched George walk calmly up to the plate seemingly unfazed by the pressure upon his shoulders. George take a few practise swings with his trusty bat which his teammates had nicknamed Homer before preparing to receive the pitch. Simon knew what a good batter George was and so he was not in the least bit surprised when George hit a superb home run out of the park on the second pitch. Simon should have been happy at this because now the scores were tied and he was the last batter up. He had the chance to win the game for his team but secretly he had an intense hatred of George Johnson who was considered by one and all to be the star of the team. Simon considered himself to be the star of the team and was envious at the attention and praise that George received constantly from the coach and the other players. Simon watched with barely concealed loathing as George dropped his bat and trotted around the bases to the cheers and claps of the small crowd who had braved the chilly weather, waving as he went with a horribly arrogant smile pasted on his handsome face. Simon quickly had to snap himself out of a fantasy where George was run over by a bus because someone was shaking him vigorously and barking instructions in his ear. The person had terrible breath so Simon knew immediately that it was his coach Brett Henderson. “OK son you better get your shit together and don't let us down now”, bellowed the coach as Simon slowly looked up at the gnarled and worn, old face which had skin that strangely resembled the bark of a tree. “I hope I don't have to tell you how important this game is to us son. Now get your skinny ass out there and hit me a fucking homer you got it boy?” In your dreams thought Simon. He only nodded as he picked up his bat that had been last year's Christmas present from his sister. A smile slowly spread across his face. His coach was still shouting orders into his ear but Simon didn't or couldn't hear it anymore. Something about the way the bat felt in his hands was different. Something had changed. He couldn't put his finger on it but it just felt right. He was invincible for the first time in his life and the sense of power that was all the time growing inside him was becoming simply intoxicating. The next thing he knew he was gripping the bat fiercely with both hands facing the pitcher for the other team. The world appeared to be moving in slow motion for Simon as the pitcher launched the ball at him. Simon knew it was a home run even before he heard the glorious sound of his bat connecting with the ball and firing it over the heads of all the players into the distance even further than George's strike of a few minutes earlier. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. It was glorious. In that instant he was a God with more power that he could ever have dreamed of. But then strangely he heard the sound again and then a third time. “Oh no”, he whispered as the fog cleared instantly in his mind leaving him with a sickening feeling of guilt that would never leave him for as long as he lived. “What the hell have I done?” He was inside an unfamiliar bedroom in the dead of night. It was a girl's bedroom and he had just struck her on the head savagely three times as she slept with his baseball bat that had been last year's Christmas present. He looked at her ruined face that had probably been pretty less than a minute ago. She couldn't have been more than six years old. Her head had been cracked open like an egg from the sheer force of the blows inflicted upon her. Blood was dripping from the numerous gashes in her head as well as flowing out of her mouth, nose and most distressingly of all from her eyes onto her soft lilac pillow and her Barbie bedclothes. It was beginning to form an obscene, thick pool on the cream carpet below. It had also covered the brown fluffy teddy bear that she still clutched tightly in her arms and the poster of a unicorn standing proudly on a hill in the moonlight on the wall behind the bed. The killer put a trembling hand to his mouth to stop the scream that was desperately trying to burst free from his lungs. Tears began to pour uncontrollably down his face as he made his way slowly and quietly out of the house through the dining room window where he had broken in. Tweet
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