Random Plot

a plot

The sky was no brighter than a flickering light bulb in a dark room. My hands shook as I brought them up to my vision, shaky breaths coming out of my mouth in visible puffs from the cold air. The cool winds caused me to shiver, my skin littering with goosebumps as I stared down at my mistake beneath me.

I tried to ignore the voices that told me so shamelessly that I wanted nothing but death. I would shoo them away, but then they'd abruptly come back to haunt me with newfound words and phrases that thought my mere depression to a jolting stop in time.

Every day I fought with my mood swings, refusing to let another split me come out and wreak havoc that I couldn't even explain. I wanted to blame all of the destruction on my, but my ghastly version of Mr. Hyde was much worse than he was in the classic telltale I knew as a kid.

What were these voices' purposes? Why did they spend so much valuable time trying to convince me to do it? I knew I hated her, and I knew she did horrible, cruel things to me, but deep down, she's as human as I.

But, as I stood over her limp body, I knew there was no going back; she'd already bled out and my hands were already enough scene that I needed. So, wiping off my tools heavily in disinfectant, almost hoping it would magically wipe the cameras' memories of seeing me earlier in the night, I leaned down to get a glance at her face.

My step mother's once hazel eyes gazed lifelessly into mine, her pleading expression still faint on her face. My weapon of choice, my father's jagged blade, stood like a lighthouse on the plains of her back like he'd been there before-- my father's done some truly backstabbing things to my mother, but just like this incident, she was utterly clueless.

It took me about another two minutes to finally realize what predicament I was in; I just killed my own step mother, and the blood was still present on my hands while I dumbfoundedly stood over the victim's body. And, as expected, the cameras in her fancy house were rolling what would soon to be the police department's favorite movie to watch until they had the main actress behind bars for her splendid acting.

So, I ran, not turning back to see the body that lied there; not turning back to find that she had come back alive to consume my soul.

So I ran, and I would never come back--
At least, not while I was alive.

I brushed past the greens of the woods, my bare feet crashing to the forest floor as I huffed on my way down an unfamiliar path. I stepped on various rocks, sticks, and leaves, but none of the pain came to me. As my feet continuously slammed to the ground at the quick pace of my breathless sprinting, I soon began to experience the physical pain that came with the cuts and bruises I had accumulated as I went. Soon enough, all of my senses came back and I reached the other side of town. I groaned, growing limp and falling to the concrete as I struggled to collect my thoughts and address the pain in every inch of my body.
My feet were cut open in various areas from jagged rocks, my legs littered with bruises from fallen trees and large stones; I couldn't imagine how bad the rest of my body looked. A loud, agonizing ringing became present in my ears, prompting me to cover my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. I whimpered quietly, trying to steady it but to no avail. When I opened my eyes, the gloomy town ahead of me was spinning uncontrollably, making me nauseous and exhausted.
"Hey, are you alright?" A voice in the distance asked, his words quiet and muffled as my blurry vision struggled to make out anything but a tall, human-like blur before my eyes shut and I lost all consciousness.

“Timothy Warren?”
I almost didn’t recognize my boss’s voice as my fingers tapped away at my computer, most of the excitement from my career draining from my conscience.  After getting a job at a newspaper company, my journalist dreams were mutilated once I became the office coffee boy.  I was just a simple teenager who needed a job besides school, and all I received was a boring place to prepare coffee and do my leftover homework.  All of the journalists in that place pitied me, and the ones who didn’t would always find the best ways to humiliate me.  But something about this particular morning packed with sesame bagels and regret gave me something to look forward to.

“Yes, sir?” I responded, looking away from my screen to meet his eyes.  His eyelids were droopy, sleep deprivation evident in every inch of his face; to be frank, everybody looked like that in this place.  Nothing exciting was happening in Narrowside, and the company had the townspeople rapidly losing interest. 
“Care to run to Jazzy Juice and grab me a cup of coffee?”  The man requested, clearly having asked me way too many times that morning.  He’d asked me to fetch him his usual black coffee once already, and a second time when I was grabbing an order for a few of the other employees.  I wanted to suggest he take a break from caffeine for the day, but I’d rather not boss him around.

“Yes, sir.  Black as usual?”
“That’ll never change, coffee boy, and nor will your position if you ask me any more questions,” he replied gruffly, earning a chuckle from the open door beside my little cubicle.  Rick Johnson, the man holding the biggest ego, cocked an eyebrow as I shot my eyes at his.  I was only seventeen, and that drama starter-of-a-man was about thirty, and he still thought picking on a teenager was funny. 
“I’ve got the article of the month, guys.  Why doesn’t the coffee boy make a little story on what coffee Desmond drinks?” the man said, smirking with his drink in hand.  His posse of employees laughed with him.

“Get back to work, Johnson,” the boss shot, pointing a big finger at him. 
I scoffed, picking up my papers and aligning them neatly before grabbing my car keys.  As I turned around to leave the building, Rick stood in my way.  “Out of my way, Johnson.  I’m getting coffee,” I demanded blandly, blinking as we held eye contact.
“Why don’t you get some for me, too?”
“You already got your drink, Johnson.  Grab yourself another if you wish.”  I attempted to push past him, but he blocked me again.
“What drink?”  He said, turning the cup in his hand to allow the hot liquid to spill to the floor. 
I watched with my eyes wide, flickering them back up to his teasing expression with his twisted smile. 
“Fetch me a new one, will ya?  And clean that up for me,” he said, moving his face close to mine; I could smell the rancid coffee, Listerine, and cigarettes on his tongue.  “I’ve got work to do.”

“He’s such a drag!”
    I paced back and forth in the small coffee shop, fighting the urge to knock over any chairs in my path. My best friend, Kayla, was making a drink behind the counter, listening to my fifth rant of the week.
    “I get it, Tim, but you have to relax.  This job has been your dream for years– you can’t just give up because your boss doesn’t take care of the asshole.” She set a drink down and turned to me; her ponytail followed suit in a rhythmic wave.  “You have to be able to just deal with him.”
    “I know, but he pushes me around like I’m some ragdoll,” I complained, throwing my hands up.  “I still have to go back and clean up the coffee stain.”
“Just get used to him, Tim.  It’s not gonna be to long until your boss notices your potential and the old hag promotes you.”
I sighed, sitting down in one of the cold, metal chairs at a small round table.  “You expect me to have potential when I can’t even prove anything– he doesn’t let me go out and get news!  Ever!”
     Kayla brought me my tray of drinks, including my favorite vanilla chai tea.  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you.  Maybe a story will pop up or whatever.”