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A Really, Really Bad Story (standard:other, 831 words)
Author: Jack HenryAdded: Sep 27 2002Views/Reads: 1995/1Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This is a really, really bad story that I wrote for my creative writing class, which also earned me an A (I have no shame). This is also really, really short as well.
 



A Really, Really Bad Story. 

By Jack Henry. 

BANG!  BANG! 

“JOHN EDWARD CORNELIUS, OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR RIGHT NOW OR I'LL BREAK IT
DOWN!” 

John stood in front of the door as his mother attacked from behind it;
banging and screaming away as her anger rose.  John knew how high her 
anger could rise and most of the time knew how to control it, but he 
didn't want to know if there was another level to her madness. . .nor 
did he want to be around long enough for that. 

But that really didn't matter, because if his mother were to break down
that near unbreakable door, then she would probably find one of the 
most horrific scenes ever witnessed by a mother.  She would find her 
son covered with blood; pieces of brain matted his hair, spilling blood 
and water down his back.  They weren't his brains, of course, and nor 
was the small head that he held clutched by its hair in his right hand 
as a bloody machete was held by the other. 

Across the room sat his girlfriend, who smiled at him as he stood by the
door, holding it back.  She made a kind of snicker and moved toward 
him.  She then went to the floor and crawled to him like a snake, then 
wrapped herself around his legs. 

“Ohhh. . .I love you Johnny!” she said, digging her nose into his calf.
The decapitated head's jugular brushed across the top of her head, 
covering her own with more blood.  (Ohhh. . .I hate you with all of my 
guts!) 

“Uh. . .yeah, I love you too babe.” He said, looking down to her crimson
tainted head.  (You don't know what love is!) 

“You did it again. . .yes, that's right. . .you did, didn't you?” she
asked him, looking up with her innocent eyes, looking into his killer 
eyes.  (Uhhh. . .just another minute and I will scream!) 

He dropped the machete and bent down to stroke her soft, wet hair.  She
purred with delight (disgust) and wrapped herself tighter around his 
leg.  He then got to his knees, rolling the head gently near the bed, 
and looked into her eyes with all of the love (hate) in the world. 

“You know I did this for you right?” he spoke softly, ignoring the
banging that still went on outside his room.  (Goddamnit, why do I keep 
doing these things for you. . .I wish I could. . .I could. . .) 

“Yeah, I know.  Would you do it again for me?” she asked him.  (Hmmm. .
.total control.) 

“Y. . .Yes.” he answered, bending even lower to kiss her face.  She
licked his lower lip in response, rather feline-like.  Her glowing 
green eyes looked even deeper into his own, probably searching for the 
truth.  (Oh my God, she's doing it again. . .I want to skin her. . 
.right now, yeah.. . .) 

The screaming and ranting still went on as the two sat huddled together
beneath the door.  Then she motioned to the bed and he followed her as 
she crawled again.  He got on the bed with her and sat, looking at her. 
And then the door finally broke down. 

John Cornelius' mother broke down the door with all her might and flew
into the bedroom to find a scene of absolute horror.  She screamed and 
screamed even louder, looking at her son and the thing on the floor. 
Then she looked to who he was sitting with. 

A single bloody cat sat on the bed, looking up at John with wondering
eyes.  He looked back down at her with both love and hate filling his 
eyes.  His mother looked back to what was on the floor and knew what it 
was.  It was a severed cat's head.  Thoughts of sending John back to 
the Institution filled her head immediately. 

“What in the HELL is going on!” she shouted.  “You know you're not
supposed to be here, John!  Why'd you have to leave, you were getting 
better!” 

She was referring, of course, to his stay at the Harlowe Mental
Institution where he was supposed to be, but had apparently escaped 
earlier that night.  The white band was still around his wrist. 

He paid no attention to her, and continued to stare at the one thing
that controlled and loved him: his pet cat Lolita.  John's mother put a 
hand to her forehead and used the other to steady herself; she felt 
like fainting.  John looked to his mother. 

“Felix had to die, Mom.” John said solemnly, looking over to the feline
head that rested against the foot of the bed.  “I caught him one night, 
with her.”  (Oh, how I hate them both.) 

And then a comet, which had been hurtling through the atmosphere and
towards the house, crashed through the roof, blowing everything to tiny 
bits and leaving a crater where a really, really bad story had just 
been told. 

The End. 


   


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