Peter Barker

Untitled #1

They looked at me in disgust. Why didnít I join them, They had asked. But it was all fake. They knew as well as I did that They did not want me there. So I left. Once I was swallowed by the darkness, out of sight, but still capable of eavesdropping on Them, I stopped. Turned back, hid within the night. Heís such an idiot, They said. If only They knew. They turned around; their backs were facing me. The perfect time to strike. I reached into my jacket pocket and extracted my dart gun. It made three hisses as I pulled the trigger three times. All three of Them fell down. I woke up the girl first. She thought I was there saving her, and a combined look of happiness and disgust crossed her face. She looked at her companions, and saw them lying there, unconscious. Once she saw the knife in my hand, a look of horror came on her face. She stumbled up, but it was too late. Her first step put her right foot on the blade of my knife. She gave a shrill scream. An animal, I thought. Thatís what it sounded like. Violently, I yanked my knife out of her foot, and brought it down upon her face, taunting her, making her cringe in fear. Once she realized who I really was, and what had just happened, she stayed motionless, too scared to put up a fight. So I gouged her left eye out. She screamed, to no avail, and then I dug my knife into the juicy flesh of her neck. A pool of blood enshrouded her while she took her last breaths. The boy came second. Merely a toddler, he was. Ten? Eleven? Doesnít matter now. I hid my knife, and punched him in the face. He woke up sweating, like he had a bad dream. I, of course, played along. Itís only a dream, I said. He seemed terrified, but in his eyes there was the everlasting glint of superiority. I can control the dream, he said. I punched him in the nose, breaking it, covering it in the girlís blood. Then he saw her, and screamed. It was time. I uncovered the knife and removed his tongue. Tears were streaming down his face. So was blood. I scarred his cheeks lightly, then slit his ! wrists. The boy trembled. It reminded me of a fish, dying without water. Then he fell limp. I looked over at the other boy, about 14 years old. The light in his pocket gave it away. He was conscious, and using his phone. He turned into a statue once he saw my cold glance, trying to hide it. It was futile. I chopped his head off in one fell swoop, taking no pleasure, then took his phone and saw what he was doing, even though I already knew. Sirens were wailing in the distance, approaching rapidly. There was nothing left to do, but to give in.


All rights belong to its author. It was published on by demand of Peter Barker.
Published on on 01/28/2011.


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