There's No Name to a Tragedy

That Christmas, he bled himself dry. They say they'll never know why. But he told them. He did them better, he showed them. But they pushed him aside, one of their own. They put him at the end of the list. That damn list. He burned it before he turned to ashes himself. There was no one for him. School hated him. Friends abandoned him. Betrayed him. His moments were inexplicable. He couldn't help the way he was born. It wasn't voluntary. Who the hell would WANT to move like THAT? Randomly. So while they were singing false carols and wishing lies to each other, he locked himself in the bathroom. He wasn't alone, his trusty razorblade was by his side. The only thing that never lied to him. Never trusted him. It just did what he wanted it to do. No questions asked. Just action. While they were giving out presents, he was giving up his blood to the drain in the bathtub. He had enough time to stare out the tiny square window. It was a half moon that night. He smirked. That other half, the light, he wondered what it would have been light. If he wasn't born with this, this, this curse. His life had been out of his hands, but now he could hold it firm and choke it to death with his own bloody hands.

He Said Goodbye

He dialed 9-1-1 on his cell phone. You could hear the air in the background.

"911 what's your emergency?"

"If I died, would you miss me?"

"What?"

He hung up. He called the police. Before the receptionist could speak.

"I'm about to jump."

"What?"

He cut her off. Closed his cell phone. Stared it down. Thought of her. He dialed the house number.

"Hello?"

"Emily."

"Hang on a minute, I'll go get her."

He heard her cover the phone and call "Emily! Phone!"

But he didn't wait for her.

"I loved you."

He hung up.

He watched a cloud float by. Last one. He called his "home".

Ringing. Ringing. Answering machine.

"Leave a message after the beep."

He knew it. That man wouldn't answer, probably suffering another hangover.

But he left his message.

"Your son is dead."

That was it. There was no one left to call. No one left. He threw his phone over the edge, and watched it shatter into tiny pieces on the pavement. The people looked up at him, high enough to rival the sky. Just a spot in the sun. But they watched him, ignorant.

He falls. Arms open for broken wings. He won't fly. But he'll land.

He didn't know what it all meant. No one ever explained it to him. But it could all mean nothing. He could be nothing. He would be nothing. No, just another one, to them. He'd see his mother soon enough. Maybe she could tell him.

Absurd?

he held her in his arms. She was homeless. She was bleeding. She was dying.

She painted the sidewalk a dark shade of red.

He called for help. He tasted his tears. He cried for help. Somebody. Anybody.

Nobody.

She died in his arms, and all he could do was cry for her.

They just walked by. Some turned to look. Some even said something. But they all walked away. No one wants to be a hero.

The sirens never came.

He buried her, all by himself. No one helped. No one wanted to. No one cared.

They asked what was wrong with him. He slammed his door shut, and locked himself away from the world. They were concerned, but called it a phase.

He emerged from his self-imprisonment, with red eyes and sight set on something. He never spoke a word to them. He left that place, never coming back.

In a field of dry grass on the outskirts of the city, he found his fury. Let it burn inside him, and finally burst into a great blaze. The match was only an instrument of his wrath. If they thought him helpless, powerless, he would prove them wrong. If nobody cared, then he didn't care either.

She was dying! Yet all they can do is watch!

The blaze kept him company. It embraced him, holding him in its arms. Then finally consuming him. He left with a sadistic smile. The flames matched his eyes.

He could only bring pain to those that had only given him pain...

Author's note: Read something in the newspaper. Forgot what it was thought :( But no this did not really happen, at least to my knowledge...

Teenage Today

"I might be pregnant," she mumbled over the phone.

"Oh shit," I said without thinking.

She hung up. I hung up. We both needed some time to think. Turns out one night can ruin your whole life. There was no way we could keep this a secret. We couldn't raise a baby on our own, not while in high school. It just wasn't possible. There were options though. We could put the baby up for adoption. She could get an abortion. We could struggle to raise it on our own, the most troublesome of the three.

Her parents found out. They told my parents. My parents freaked out. They were yelling so loud that I thought one of the neighbors would call the cops on us. But there were no sirens, only yelling.

I called her again.

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

There was a pause.

"I want to keep it," she said.

Just Living

My sister is spoiled. Rotten to the core. It's not as hard as you might think to say. My sister is spoiled. It's easy, you see? She's shown me nothing to deter my decision. She is spoiled. She is the youngest. I am the middle child.

My older sister is the perfect daughter. Perfect until it's sickening. She's organized to pencils and pens, polite to everyone, and moderate to wearing just plain old clothes out in public.

I am the middle child. I've said that before huh? There's nothing special about me. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing to write home to mom about. I played sports, or at least, I tried. I was just another guy passing through schools. I wasn't at the top, but I wasn't at the bottom either. I don't dress fancy. I don't dress raggy. I just...dress...casually.

My little brat of a sister is spoiled for sure. She'll make a mess and leave it for you to pick up. When you don't, suddenly it's your fault. She locks herself in her imaginary tower of a castle of a room. She won't tell what she's doing. She walks into a room and suddenly everything belongs to her. You want to slap some sense into her, but you can't. She's too little. But she's so spoiled.

Dad's always working, "providing" for the family. Yeah, sure, whatever. Tell that to my three step families. The flirt, I don't know why I had to be his son. I wish I had a different father, a better father, a decent father.

Mom is always drinking, attempting to drown her sorrow with herself in her elixir of alcohol. She does nothing all day but lay in bed, recovering from a hangover, only to drink again late into the night and early morning. She flaunts his money, maybe for revenge. But I think it's damaging. She's in the hospital now. It's not the first time, but I bet it won't be the last time.

Anyway, this is my life, my suffering for a sin unknown to me. I don't what I did to deserve it, but I'm doing my time. I'm just trying to make a life out of this.

Bye

Why does no one say "bye" or "goodbye" at the end of phone calls anymore? They just hand up when they feel the conversation is over, while i'm left speaking to no one. did i miss something? I hate it when they don't speak during the conversation too, I don't know if they hang up already or what. I'm left to wait on the phone like an idiot until I ask "hello? you there?". I don't know, the whole thing pisses me off. It's like we're so short on time that we can't waste our breath to say a "goodbye" or something like that. It's like we can't afford the time, can't afford the minutes.

Future

I hate it when they ask me who I want to be. Can't I just be me? Can't I just live in the present? Why does it always have to be about what I will do? Why can't it be about what I am doing? Is the future so damn important that it takes priority over the present?

One can get so lost in the future that they lose sight of the present. She could be calling him, but he wouldn't notice because he's already planning the marriage. There's no love there, no substance, nothing. I'd hate to live like that.

And what will they do when their plans crumble? When everything just falls apart, can they deal with the pain? The reality? If you live in the present, you still have time, to change the future, to change your future...

How Far?

I stalked her home. All the way from school. Every single step of the twenty blocks she walked. She never saw me. She never noticed me stepping in step with her, breathing in breath with her. She was mine, and mine alone. No one else would have her. I will never let that happen. She will be mine, she will die mine. She always opened her window rather than turn on the AC or a fan. Something about saving money. I climbed in through there. I thought she had heard me, I fell in pretty loud. But I heard the water running. She was in the shower, singing. It was hard to make out from downstairs. Creeping up the stairs step by step, it seemed her voice got quieter and quieter. Maybe she knew I was here. Maybe not. I got to the door, and put my ear against it. I listened. The water was running, but no singing. Then the water stopped, and I could hear her slide the shower curtain open. My heart never beat faster. I opened the door...

The Problems With Inspiration: What To Do?

No one realizes inspiration, the struggle to get it, the indecisiveness when you get it, what to do with it. Do you know how hard it is? You're falling asleep, but inspiration comes to you, and you're wide awake, pounding away on the keyboard, rushing to get it on the screen before it fades. Or how about when you're trying to get your work done, and guess what comes? You put everything on hold, and scribble away on a piece of paper, just to get it recorded, just to get it out. Before you know it you're behind on schedule.

Why would you do these things you ask? Because when you don't, the inspiration just drifts away, and you're left with nothing but half a memory of the art that could have been born. You end up regretting you never did write it down while it was fresh in your mind, inspired. You might try to force it out, but it never turns out right, not the way it would have been had you written it down while it was there. Or maybe you just don't care for inspiration. You write whenever you feel like it. But don't you need inspiration to feel like writing? Maybe you just write when you have time, the time when inspiration refuses to come. You end up sitting in your chair, staring at a blank screen and a blinking cursor that just pisses you off in the end.

It's hard to write stories with nothing to write about. Same goes for painting and drawing and poetry. Even music. Art is the same all around. It spawns from inspiration, creativity, and a little bit of talent or ability. Perhaps inspiration chooses who it wants to inspire, maybe at random, maybe at the most inconvinient times for the person...

No Reason for Killing

The first victim was pure coincidence. She had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her name was Elena Moore, or at least that's what her ID said. She was going on a walk, she only had twenty bucks with her. She wasn't dressed for anything either. Just jeans, T-shirt, and a jacket. Some boots for the snow covered sidewalk. He didn't mean to kill her. She just died.

He was dumped. After five years of kisses, a text message ends it all. It happened on that same street too. Elena seemed naive enough. He took her to a coffee shop. They made out in the alley. His pocketknife came out of his jean pocket. He left her cut up when he was done with her. The snow buried her body. Some guy tripped over it taking out the trash.

The second victim was intentional. The bitch clerk wouldn't take his credit card. He had to pull out some cash. So inconvienent. Her name tage read Racheal Peterson. He decided to take her somewhere. It took longer than the first. He wanted to kill her with the motor running, to drown out the screaming. For a week they had a fling, then he flung her over the cliff and into the gorge. They did it to metal. Screaming mixed with screaming, plus the motor. They never found her body.

The third victim was an opportunity he took. She had just gotten dumped in public. In a library actually. Such an odd place. Crying over a guy who just didn't care anymore. Called her a hassle. She told him her name was Cindy Crawford. He had this one last a month. He felt sorry for her. But he was getting back at the world. He found out he had AIDS. Dumb bitch left him a damning surprise. It was that same day he killed Cindy in her house. Just beat the shit out of her. Bloody mess. He wiped himself off on her sheets and left. Arrested at the front door. Turns out some neighbor had heard her scream. There was still traces of blood on his knuckles. He couldn't clean all of it.

He told the police he just wanted to kill somebody. He almost strangled the detective. He had nothing else to confess. They were sure he killed the women for some other reason. He just wanted to kill somebody. The trial came, and his attorney got him life imprisonment rather than execution by lethal injection. But he took suicide. Found a sharp piece of metal. Stabbed himself. He made sure to make a bloody mess.

Last Night

Last night was the coldest in my life. Nothing else compares. The wind blew the hardest. It didn't bother to whisper in my ear. Last night was the darkest in my life. The stars didn't bother to shine. The moon had died. The streetlights refused to light the sidewalk. Silence haunted my every step. No one dared to walk beside me. No one was there to walk beside me. The clouds drifted closer and closer. An omen of blood promised in their rain. I could have sworn the blood in my veins was frozen. I couldn't feel my arm. Something like numb, but not quite. No feeling, but it's there. No passion, but I'm here. Last night was the slowest night in my life. The day took it's time coming. The sun lingered in the other half of the world. Even the sky has rejected me. Thunder roaring in the distance. Last night was the saddest in my life. Last night she died. And I wandered alone, blood dripping in place of sweat. Sirens ringing in my ear. Barely alive, my life changed forever.

Twisted Arsonist

I'm glad she's dead. She was no mother. I don't even know my father. All I know are the scars he left me, the blood he stole from me with a his pocketknife. Yeah, I'll admit it. I'll even say it with pride. I killed her. Are you surprised? There was nothing to it. She always came home drunk, passed out on the couch. She'd have a migraine when she woke up, and then go out and party some more. School was no concern to me. Hell, it didn't matter anymore. I can't afford books, and we barely make rent. Actually, I barely make rent. She doesn't bother to hide her booze money, but she'll notice if I took all of it. But you should've been there. It felt so good lighting that fire. It was so simple, so easy. She probably didn't notice a thing. She probably never woke up. I wish I could've been there, to see her burn to ash. I wish she had screamed. Maybe I should've done more. Yeah, I probably should've have done more. Maybe torture her a bit. Cut her up, shot her in the legs or something. But left her alive to burn. Now if only he had been there, I would've have killed two birds with one stone, one fire. I swear if I ever find him, payback.

I would stop struggling if I were you. If the ropes are too tight I'm sorry, but I can't let you live after hearing all of that. If you're wondering why, I thought you might want to know who to blame for your death. Do you have family? Guess you can't answer huh? I wanted to use something else as a gag but that sock was all I could find right now. You're crying. Yeah I wish I could cry, but I can't. I can smile though. There's something about a blaze that just makes me smile. I can't wait to see how big this fire gets. I wonder if I'll be on the news. But that would probably be a bad thing. Can't have the cops catching me when I'm still looking for him. Maybe after I'll go, but not now.

This is goodbye. Yeah, I'm taking your money. I can't carry anything valuable, too much of a hassle. I'll even start the fire away from you, so you can have time to say goodbye. Or do you want it closer? I didn't think so. I guess I'll see you later, oh wait, no I won't.