Warped - Collection of Short Stories

[fhamersley]

Technically not fan-fiction, but meh. These are some short, twisted stories I've written, some of them a while ago and some just for the thread. So yeah, enjoy!
This one was for English

-Killcount-

I pushed open the bathroom door with my elbow, my nose wrinkled up in disgust. There was mayonnaise and cheese all over my hands, getting under my fingernails and sticking between my fingers. Seeing the gluggy paste as it was, lumpy and smeared, I could barely believe I almost ate a hamburger with both ingredients on it.
I glanced around the bathroom. There was just one girl, carrying an anxious and depressed face, standing by the sink closest to me. Following public bathroom protocol, I waled around her to a sink a little way away.
Using the cleanest part of my hand, I turned the tap-handle and stuck my greasy hands under the spray. My preoccupation with the mess now flowing down the drain, I watched the sad-faced girl. She was a year or two older than me, standing over the bench a few sinks up. I continued to idly wash my hands while sneaking glances at her from the corner of my eye.
I was always fascinated by the real personalities I saw in public - on trains or in concerts, everywhere. It never ceased to amaze me how different every single human was from the next.
This girl was dressed in black jeans and leather jacket, with a grey uniformitarian shirt beneath. Her black, obviously dyed hair hung unwashed and lanky around her shoulders. Her skin had an ugly pallor to it, such as the colour of a person who has spent time in a hospital. Her nose was crooked, and she had a scar breaking her left eyebrow; a trail of pearly white snaking to the corner of her eye.
After completely cleaning my hands, I leaned into the mirror, checking my hair. The sad girl glanced at me, and I threw her a reassuring smile back. She sighed and rolled her shoulders.
'Hello,' I said politely, pulling out a bobby pin.
'Hello,' she replied, shoulders slumped. Her voice was quiet, yet assertive, as if she had spent many hours telling people what to do. Her eyes looked out at me from above dark, heavy bags from sleepless nights.
'I hate public bathrooms, don't you?' I slid the hair pin back in place with practised precision.
The girl shrugged, looking at her hands, and I smiled at her again, nonchalant concern clear upon my face. 'Are you alright?'
The girl looked up, a desperate expression on her face. 'Not really,' she said, her voice filled with need.
I took a step closer, frowning slightly. 'What's wrong?'
'I have a problem. I'm addicted. I c-can't stop,' she said, her voice cracking on the last word.
My heartbeat picked up a notch. 'Stop what?'
'The killing.'
Suddenly the bright, fake lights seemed to dim, and the shadows thrown by the cheap plastic stalls deepened. The door stood behind her, the only way out of the room. The figure of the girl watched me, stood straighter as my hands trembled. The linoleum creaked quietly as the girl took a step closer.
'Everyday,' she said, eyes hard and filling with tears. 'At night. I kill people.'
My breathing started to speed up; there wasn't enough oxygen in the room.
'I can't stop playing with these people a-and their lives...'
She had a wretched look in her eyes, like someone who has already done the worst they could. My heart was beating a tattoo on my chest, my palms sweating. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, past the crooked nose, highlighting the scar. I chanced a glimpse at my reflection - my face was paling, my mouth slightly open in shock. I rearranged my features to resemble a slightly less alarmed expression, but my pulse wouldn't slow.
'So many people,' she whispered, turning to me again. 'My brother...'
My throat closed, air slipping through in short, silent gasps. I took a fleeting glance to the door. It was too far away, if I ran now -
'I'm not in control anymore,' she sobbed, then laughed bitterly. 'Ironic, huh?'
My legs shook. The girl noticed and slid one hand into her pocket. 'I don't know what to do...' She whispered.
'A-are you going to kill me?' I choked out.
'I don't know,' she whimpered, her eyes locked on mine. 'I m-might have already. What's your username?'

 

[fhamersley]

Inspired by my Moral of Gaming post.

-Respawn-

Every single pixel was important, she couldn't miss any of it. Each square was reflected in her eyes as her fingers flew across the keyboard. She pauses hesitantly, hands poised above the keys like ten hunting eagles; suddenly they swoop down as a flock and begin a dance across their blocky, lettered habitat. She hits Enter, pleased with what she wrote.
The large, comfortable headphones encasing her ears protect her from the harsh sounds of the outside world as she eagerly awaits a reply. A new line appears on the chat log, and her greedy eyes pick it bare for information. The other avatar on the screen, a dark-haired, handsome young man, defined in the same perfect squares as everything else in the game, was still: there was more text coming.
I don't know Cinder, comes the silent, typed line of speech. It seems sort of dangerous to me..
The girl did not wait, leaping forward to her keyboard to type her reply.
Ha, of course that's what you'd say! I laugh at danger.
The girl had pale blonde hair, unbrushed since she woke up. The skin surrounding her eyes is slightly puffy and shaded - late nights and early mornings etched into her face. Her thin lips draw into a smile, her breath acrid with the heavy funk of a night without toothpaste. Her arms and legs were devoid of strong muscles, weaker shadows of former greatness. Her skin was dirty and lifeless save for the occasional flashes of light from the screen. She had never seen danger, let alone laughed at it.
But Cinder, her character, had. She was a reckless young woman with thoughts in her head and a blood-covered sword in her hand. She attracted the attention of plenty of men in the streets as she strutted along, dangerous black leather boots treading the ground. She was beautiful, too, the envy of many hearts, all long black hair and high cheekbones.
The girl playing Cinder leaned forward, closer to her monitor, her sunken eyes sucking up the life and success of Cinder and holding it in her hands, hoarding it until she was satisfied.
"You shouldn't be so close to the screen. It's bad for your eyes."
The girls' gaze did not falter and she shrugged nonchalantly. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a ghostly replica of herself sitting on the couch beside the computer desk. The second, faded girl sighed and shook her head slightly.
"You're going to regret it when you're sixty."
"Whatever."
The girl at the computer quickly typed out a response, irritated her reply was slightly late. "Look what you did, now he'll think I was AFK."
"So what?"
Finally she tore her eyes from the screen to glare at the image of herself on the couch. "So what? So he'll think Cinder doesn't care."
There was silence as the girl waited for the scene to continue. Her nose was blocked and her breathing was loud and laboured. Finally:
*Scratches the back of his head* Alright, let's go. But kill anyone who tries to hurt us.
The girl nodded, pleased. She, Cinder, would happily stick her blade through any who dared to block her way. With the other avatar in tow, she started off into the forest, slaying mobs and monsters.
The ghost girl clicked her tongue impatiently as the hours wore on. "Aren't you hungry or something?"
"No. See, my food bar is full."
"Come on, this is boring. How about you go outside?"
The girl at the computer sighed frustratedly as she duelled with another character, typing out her attacks and defences. "I am outside, stupid, this is a street."
"No, as me. Real life."
"Busy."
With a soft sound of agony as a punishing kick to the stomach connected with her, the girl clenched her jaw as the other fighter came at her again. When the fight ended some time later, she smirked, murmuring, "When will you learn? You can't beat me, I'm Cinder."
But a few minutes later Cinder relented: she really had to go to the toilet. She frowned as she tapped the Escape key a few times, the Options menu would come up. She went to stand up but found she couldn't: some invisible pressure was forcing her to remain seated.
"Oi," she frowned, turning her face to look at the paled version of herself, now standing. "Come on, real life time. Let me up, get in."
A hardened scowl was on the ghostly girls face. "I've had enough of waiting for you to come back to be me when you need a break from being her." She jabbed a thumb at the game. "You don't even spend time being me anymore. Well, I'm done with it."
A cruel smirk twisted the shadowy lips upwards as the other girls' eyes widened in horror.
"No!" she pleaded. "I promise I'll be you more! No, please!"
"Too late," the insubstantial girl taunted. "You can be Cinder... and I'll be you."
The other girl clutched the armrests, her breathing quickening with her pulse. She dropped her gaze to her hands, watching in horror as her body faded away.
The spectral girl walked from the room, colour seeping into her clothes and skin as her appearance became solid, a sneer in her eyes. "Game over."

 

[fhamersley]

-Bullied-

The boy sat silently, head bowed and hands clasped in his lap. His lunchbox sat beside him filled with neatly packaged treats and sandwiches his mother had packed for him.
"All by ourselves, Attie?"
The boy looked up as a shadow loomed over him, blocking out the light sunshine and any chance of escape. There was another boy standing above him like a raincloud intent on ruining a picnic. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, cursing his grandfather for insisting on a crusty old name like Atticus.
Atticus held his tongue, watching the other boy through watery blue eyes. His hand crept to the lovingly arranged lunchbox by his side, fingers thin and spider-like, thin as twigs and just as powerless. The bully lurched forward, ripping the plastic container from Atticus' skinny hand with his own bear-like paw.
"I think that's mine," the bully sneered, sniggering as though the was no one more outstandingly witty than he. Slowly the dumb chortles of the rest of his gang joined in. The bully leaned back, small piggy eyes filled with hundreds of insults and another, less identifiable, spark, like a slow-burning fire reduced to smouldering coals. His hand dived into the lunchbox, rifling through the contents and sifting out undesired rubbish. He pocketed the cookie and the Nutella sandwich, throwing the apple at Atticus' feet. The younger boy's eyes were trained on the corner of the cookie poking out from the bully's pocket, filled with desire and regret. Why couldn't he have grabbed the lunchbox faster? Why couldn't he have big strong hands to fend off snarling wolves? His heart sank as the bully pushed the cookie in deeper. That was his biscuit, his mother had baked it for him.
The bully's lip curled in contempt. His hair was slicked back, a few sparse bristles decorating his upper lip like the badges of a General in war. He wore them proudly; clearly, in his eyes, they were a real man's moustache. Beneath his double chin stood a thick, wide body of fat and muscle, gained from punching up younger kids and eating their lunches.
A whole crowd had gathered around to watch the scene. A deep stabbing of the unfairness of the situation drove through Atticus, and he leapt up, making a wild swing for the lunchbox in the bully's hands. "That's mine." His voice sounded thin and pathetic even in his own ears.
The bully easily knocked him back, a yellow Post-It note fluttering from the box as he swung his spare arm. Atticus watched with increasing horror as the older boy leaned down and picked it up.
"Dear Kitten," he read, mimicking a high girly voice. "Special Friday treat of Nutella! Enjoy! Lot's of love and kisses, Mamma." He made some sloppy kissing sounds, earning a chuckle from his gang and even some of the surrounding crowd. "Don't forget your music lesson, Kitten."
A great bark of laughter burst from the bully's lips, and Atticus felt tears of undeserved pain prickle his eyes. The laughter of the gang rang through his ears. He wiped his glasses clean and gazed up at the ring of onlookers. Please help me, he thought, his eyes pleading with those of a blonde-haired girl in his class. His heart sunk when she bit her lip and hurried away.
"Little, helpless Kitten," jeered the bully, jerking Atticus' attention back to his tormentor. "You're in my hands now!" He swung a punishing kick at Atticus' thigh, leather hitting flesh with a dull thud.
As Atticus clutched his leg, he felt a spark burst into life inside his chest, a bright flame that grew and grew and licked at the inside of his eyes, a wild dog clawing at his chest to be released. The bully spat and beckoned to his cronies and they withdrew from the scene, leaving Atticus on the ground, propped up on his elbows, fierce hunger in his eyes.
Atticus' lip curled as the memory resurfaced. The bully had left the school a year or so ago. Since then, Atticus had discarded his glasses and told his mother to shove off with the notes and namecalling. The fire burned within him, fueled by hate and past pains. It was irrepressible.
There was no-one around save the small boy infront of him. "Come on, Jerry. Pass over your wallet."
The boy stayed silent, his lip trembling slightly. Atticus growled and grabbed the collar of the boy, his other hand groping through his pocket. He pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar note.
The boys' shoulders slumped as the note disappeared inside Atticus' fleshy fist. He gulped. "Th-that's for m-my mum's birthday pres-" The argument died on his lips as Atticus lashed out and pushed him down.
"Too bad, twerp!" he sneered, arms crossed and face twisted into a cruel grin. The wild dog growled quietly, content for the while. He stood over the kid, contemplating his next move. The kid stared back, his eyes filled with fear and the beginnings of flames.
A strange sensation on his back told Atticus he was being watched. He spun around to see a young girl standing timidly behind him, clutching a book in her arms. He shot her a nasty-looking glare.
"Leave h-him alone!" she stuttered, casting away the threatening glare, hands shaking slightly. Her voice betrayed a hint of fear, her eyes unsure but concerned.
Her blonde hair swished as she stumbled forward, glancing at Atticus nervously and extending a pale arm to the boy on the ground. The burning flames in his eyes were dampened and he scrambled to his feet. Atticus' breathing started coming short and sharp, blood was pounding in his head, his throat was dry with shame. He stumbled backwards, heart burning with hidden guilt. It washed through his body, drowning the fire and making his body shake with remorse. His fingers found the twenty-dollar note and he let it drift to the ground, wanting to be rid of it as soon as possible.
His brain told his arms to reach out and grab the girl, but the message never got through, blocked by some sickening feeling settling in his stomach like a lead weight. He wouldn't hit her. After all, she was only rescuing a helpless kitten from a dog.

 

[Machy234]

Took me a while to read that (Though I hit like first ) but it's a great story so far. Keep up the good work Fham, also please nobody kill me for necroing... she started it.

 

[fhamersley]

Took me a while to read that (Though I hit like first ) but it's a great story so far. Keep up the good work Fham, also please nobody kill me for necroing... she started it.

:3 No, your writing is awesome~

By the way, they're all different short stories :3

 

[Minty]

Both of these are really good, creative, and original!
Have a like! ^-^

 

[fhamersley]

Both of these are really good, creative, and original!
Have a like! ^-^

Thank you! :3