Author Topic: Paul's Death Scene  (Read 2030 times)

Offline "lorraineofkeli"

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Paul's Death Scene
« on: August 07, 2006, 08:07:47 AM »
It was a little while back when I submiitted the previous part, so I've coloured the bits I've already posted in red.  The latest section is printed blue in the middle.  The feedback I received last time suggested that I elaborate on a character's death.  I've done that and it brought about a lot more detail as to where I plan to go with the main 'killer' character.  I hope I haven't gone off on a tangent though. I'm thinking the next chapter will focus on another character, a female policewoman who is summoned to the case of Darren's first murder as an adult. 
Thank you if you read and I would appreciate ANY feedback, good or bad. I realise it may not be the most comfortable read, but I'm hoping there are some of you as strange as me to find it somewhat intriguing  :-\ One thing I realised I've forgotten to do is re-write the final part with his mother. This will be done at another time to make it clearer what's happening.

WARNING: Mild swearing is used

In the midst of the crying wolves, he sat there, calm and beguiled.  He noticed the fallen leaves turning a shade of grey under the moonlight.   No place was safer than this now. He had seen all he needed to see the day before. That woman was more than he could handle.  Forget her nails - those brittle, lifeless, dirty pieces of unnourished bones. Today he was a martyr to his cause. Her children had been seen to; he smiled. The knowledge that he had taken the only things precious to her made him beam with utter satisfaction.  All three small and equally under-nourished children were deep within his land's fortress. 

The foggy smell of the night air soothed his excitement. It was time to kill again. For what cause? For his enjoyment of course. The previous night's woman had been a fighter.  He peered down at his scratched and blood stained arms - "what's this," he thought.  Picking at it with his blunt fingers, he unpeeled its hold from his skin - the woman's fingernail! In disgust he threw it to the ground amid the grey leaves.  That was all the reason for killing more tonight.  The damage he suffered taught him a lesson - go in stronger, go in deeper, take them all down. Find a woman just like that one. Spoiled, dirty, a disease to the touch - make her pay.  So the night was set. His plan was devised....

As a boy, Darren Brayhorn was not unlike others his age.  He was a troublemaker of course, just as all of the youngsters on his block were.  He and his two closest friends lived in what became known as 'Dumps Town' - as opposed to its official name of Dunston Hill.  With an 80% unemployment figure, a massive drug abuse problem, and prostitution rife - this clearly was the most rundown area of the Midlands - of Britain even.
When he was ten, Darren became fixated on a teenage girl living directly across the street from him and his mother. Jess was small and pretty, yet slow - and so nobody gave a thought to her group of friends being as much as ten years her junior.
Darren was fascinated by the way she moved, the look of her mousy hair blowing in the wind, the white open-toe sandals she wore allowing view of her red nail polish.  She spoke with a lisp; somehow making her even more special to the young tear-away.

One Saturday night, Darren waited for his mother to leave for her regular 'vodka romper' as she called it.  Already halfway 'romped' on her home stock of vodka, she giggled her way out with latest boyfriend before shouting "there's money for chips in the kitchen, Daz."

At Jess's front door, Darren held his breath and knocked. She was the only one who ever answered so Darren felt at ease immediately.  She appeared in a filthy denim skirt and an unusually gleaming white shirt.
   "Can I come in?" Darren asked, eyes wide.
   "No, Mom's not well and Dad's sleeping. I'll come to yours though," she responded eagerly.  It was nine o'clock and Darren knew her parents were so called 'junkies' really.  He had previously thought junkies were a type of social club or religion, but after witnessing the death of Christopher Connell’s brother, Paul three months ago, he had learned the real meaning of the term.
[/color] He never let on, but Darren was quietly relieved that Paul was dead.  The three months that passed, did so without event – and the Connells' moved to the next town never to be seen again.

On the day of his death, Paul’s front door was ajar when his young brother, Chris arrived with Darren.  The boys were elated at the prospect of hunting ‘Dumpstown rats’ at the old ‘rec – it had become a tradition they shared with Paul since the day his mother very vocally threw his bin bagged clothes out into the street.
Darren never liked Chris and Paul’s mother.  Her thick lips were painted shocking pink in a dripping gloss finish, perfectly complimenting her spider legs eyes.  She was also known locally for her foul mouth and temper which she had no intention of hiding.

Screaming profanities at her gawky legged son, arms waving manically in the air while one hand held a menthol cigarette, she pushed him farther from the house.  Paul put up no fight; his fixed eyes and emancipated appearance were typical of a boy flying on his ill-gotten supply of pills.  As he picked up the bags containing mostly unwashed clothes, he started down the street oblivious to the yells of Chris.
   “What ya’ done?” he called, with an Irish twang to his voice.  He yelled out five times before Paul turned to look.
   “Oh, alright kid,” he smiled, patting the youngster’s shaven head.  Darren was standing with him catching his breath from the run.  Paul acknowledged him with a nod.  “So where youse off to?”
   “We were gonna catch some rats at the ‘rec,” Darren piped up, his blue eyes gleaming with a lust for the hunt.
   “Nice one! I’ve got nowhere to go.  I’ll come with you and show you a thing or two,” Paul replied, tapping the side of his sharp, bony nose as he spoke.

Amid the chaos of the rat race pursued by the three of them by the brook, Paul proceeded to show them his tactics to catch the ‘juicy fat ones.’  He stopped every so often to ‘skin up’ a joint and marveled at the sight of the boys copying his demonstration.

Darren already had a personal supply of matches.  He lit one at the end of a sewage pipe as Chris waited at the other side. As a well-fed council estate rat emerged, Chris pelted it with huge, wet rocks.  The fire emitted from Darren’s end, now engulfing a cluster of paper and dry leaves. 
   Once the rat mustered up the courage to escape, Darren was first at the scene to take Chris’s place, rock in hand.  With a fierce determination, he struck mightily at the head – thus the rat was no more but a bloody well-fed mess.
The boys moved on from that point hoping to find other items of interest at the grounds, being careful of course to avoid deep levels of litter, some of it containing used needles.
On their third rat hunt expedition, Chris and Paul were off searching for pine cones and chestnuts amongst the fallen autumn leaves, leaving Darren to investigate.  His latest victim lay blood spattered at the usual spot next to the pipe, its fur matted and wet.  Darren unveiled his trusty pen-knife and steadily set about cutting deep into the rat’s skull.  His morbid curiosity was roused further at the sight of more blood and soft tissue.  His licked his lips in indulgence and began to cut with precision as they did on hospital TV dramas.  Now with his finger lodged inside the rat’s hollowed head, he was alerted by Paul’s voice:
   “You’re a sick bastard, Daz!” he said in disgust.  He pursed his lips and contorted his skinny face.  “Fuckin ‘ell.  That’s over the hill fuckin’ barmy!”

He always felt uncomfortable in front of Paul after that day; as though he had trespassed on his secrets.  So, with his final visit to Paul’s damp and foil littered house, the view that awaited him relieved his anxiety.
   The skinny, grey and purple skinned nineteen-year old was lying on his green fabric sofa with a strap still clinging to his right arm.  The needle had fallen to the floor, and Paul had fallen into an eternal sleep.
   Chris became manic, shaking his brother and tearing away at the strap.  Crying on his chest, the boy failed to notice that Darren was privy to his moment of suffering.  Darren was unsure of what to feel – his first thought was relief of course, followed by curiosity.  To share his thoughts now, he knew would bewilder others, for he began envisaging what Paul’s drug polluted brain must look like now, and oh how he wished he’d seen him at his final intake of breath, at the exact second his heart stopped beating.

It was funny, he thought, how Jess's house smelled the same as Paul's - like toilets and old dusty newspapers. At his home that night, he was destined only to remember her bloodshot eyes and her strangled cries.  To this day, he still kept her white sandals - his head was more than clear enough to secure them.

The grown-up Darren became more and more frustrated that he never met a girl quite like Jess again.  His first love, his first encounter with the path he chose to lead in life.  He loved them all, yet despised them intensely at the same time - so he set about 'cleaning' them.
   "Dirty little bitch, dirty rotten cow!" came the voice of his mother. Spitting her words and scratching every inch of her skin in the bath tub, she forgot she had a son until he came in to join her.  He learned not to disturb her at these times after she proceeded to scratch into his skin and sit him alongside her in the tub.

His Aunt visited two weeks later only to find remnants of dead skin, fingernails and urine stained into the bath - a sight possible since his mother's violent rantings frightened the boy into whizzing his pants.
« Last Edit: August 07, 2006, 05:13:22 PM by lorraineofkeli »

Offline Sasha6

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Re: Paul's Death Scene
« Reply #1 on: August 07, 2006, 05:06:45 PM »
I enjoyed reading this. It seemed to flow smoothly. I liked how you used more interesting words and still you were able to keep the text moving without a problem. Something I admire in writers is when they can use such descriptive words that aren't used in everyday conversation and still make it seem natural. A lot of people who try to write have hard time with that and either stumble over the words or just use very common 'boreing' words. I liked it. Keep up the good job.

~Sasha :D
My significant other is myself, which is what happens when you suffer from self-obsession and multiple personalities.

Offline "lorraineofkeli"

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Re: Paul's Death Scene
« Reply #2 on: August 08, 2006, 07:11:30 AM »
Thank you for your kind comments, Sasha, and I appreciate it was quite a lot to read so I'm really happy you did.  :)

Offline andrea

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Re: Paul's Death Scene
« Reply #3 on: August 08, 2006, 07:17:52 AM »
I actually read this last night and then came back to it today. you did a really good job.
agree with sasha6 about your description. it all flows nicely. makes me wonder where you will go next. kinda scary to read, only because you're so good at describing the uncomfortable bits  :o ;D