His secret online gaming partner is actually his high school crush, but is she also a murderer?
Nerdy Caleb thinks he's the luckiest boy on earth when he learns that his online gaming partner was actually the prettiest girl in school all along. Cale...
"Call the damn city, Mr. Clark," the oblivious Mr. Quinn continued to gripe. "This issue should have been fixed long before we got home."
Mrs. Quinn was silent, or rather, could no longer speak. Her windpipe had been clamped shut and crushed inward by Clark's malevolent, mighty vicegrip of a clenching fist. She tried to resist for only a moment; Clark's muscular arm felt like a steel beam bolted to her neck. She stopped opposing him, defiance had evaporated from her ruddy face as his fingernails began to break her skin. She gasped for air, her legs meekly flailing like a floundering fish. The strength of his grip intensified. Her vibrant blue eyes gazed after her inattentive husband, still bumbling on about the electricity. She silently cursed him. Her gasps were replaced by a throaty bubbling. He squeezed harder. Her body was starting to go numb. Her eyes remained centered on the back of her husband's toupee as Clark squeezed harder, they never wavered; studying him, analyzing his behavior like a specimen. He pressed until he lost control and tears rushed down his face, and then he squeezed more. Her eyes rolled back in her head as he finally released her; she hit the ground with a thud that shook Mr. Quinn to turn around and look.
The hulking shadow of Clark stood over him, his grinning white teeth seeped their venom, and his eyes burned with raging hellfire.
He tried to scream. He was swiftly taken by the face and catapulted backwards into the stairway bannister; the wooden poles he hit were smashed and splintered before sending him tumbling back to the floor. There came the thundering of heavy boots marching toward him. In the next moment he was nailed to the hardwood floor, held there by a boxcutter spiked through the back of his hand.
"AHHHHHHH!" he wailed with everything in his lungs. The veins in his temples began to radiate blue as his nostrils flared. His eyes nearly burst with boiling blood rushing from his extremities. He tried to wriggle free, hesitating to pluck the massive thorn from his paw. Such reluctance to free himself would be his undoing. Clark charged on him, yanking him up by the neck like a defenseless cub, and then slamming him into the ground as hard as he could.
"No, please! Don't kill me!" He was screaming and bitching, pawing at the floor as he tried to crawl away on his belly. His wild and frantic eyes met those of his assailant, a dark demon, embodying the blackness, with vengeful eyes, bright as headlights, shining down. He shrieked in horror as he tried to escape. The demon snapped his leg, and let him crawl as he hit the floor. Then it flipped him over and let him yell as he squeezed a couple tears out.
"'Kill you?'" Clark snickered. "Nah, we're gonna have some fun." His hard, flat fists came down on the bridge of his nose like a hammer driving a nail, and soon, everything went black for Mr. Quinn.
He awoke to a soft country ballad gently airing from the radio speakers somewhere in the background. His eyesight kept fading out, his pupils were sprawling all over the room. Finally, he found the old radio sitting on a chair placed by the sliding windows. The aroma of a hot meal pervaded the atmosphere; he felt the steam rising to his nostrils. His head rolled around and around until finally stopping over the center of his clavicle like a basin. He could barely make out a blurry figure sitting opposite to him before the pain quickly resurfaced. He lifted his arms, hoping to use his hands to balance his heavy skull. He felt something stringy and wet between his fingers. He pulled the clumpy strands in front of his face: soggy blond hair. He wasn't blond and he didn't have hair. His toupee wasn't even blonde. He let his fingers slowly move over his face. He stopped over a sticky substance smeared over his mouth: it felt like lipstick. In his growing horror, he let out a moan as he let his dangling chin guide him down, scanning his body for the source of the pain. He found himself in a light, breezy garment. Red. It reminded him of something he had bought his wife— his wife. Suddenly, he wondered where she was. His wife had blond hair. The awful pain in his stomach crushed the passing thought like a bug as he winced in agony. It felt so windy down there. He guessed he wasn't wearing any pants, but could not fathom why everything stung so badly.
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*Sorry! I'm trying my best to save this thing from a Mature rating lol*
