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Batter Up (standard:horror, 911 words)
Author: Cloud StrifeAdded: Feb 16 2004Views/Reads: 3569/0Story 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. 


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