Stabby Violence, Yay!

I don't concentrate in philosophy lectures. Last semester I drew a lot of pictures - they’re in an album on my facebook if you're interested, but I'm not a great artist (not even mediocre), so don't feel that you're missing out if you haven't seen them. This semester though I've mostly been writing when I'm not listening to the lecture, which is good because it's much more productive. Also, I don't know if you've noticed this but lately I've been very violent, and I think this is coming through in my writing because on Thursday in philosophy I wrote the draft of this story.

Anyway, enough introduction, here's the story:

The alley is dark; there’s no moon tonight; I can just see my surroundings from the dim glow of the street light outside the alley. It’s dark and dank and dingy. What’s worse is the smell. It’s a combination of dead things and the odour of the stale water that’s dripping from the skewed lid of a garbage can. The sound of footsteps reaches my ears, starts to fill me with the confident rhythm of his walk; he’s right on schedule. I guess it’s him from the sound of the footsteps, but even with that clue I know it’s him before his dark figure enters my line of sight. It’s the smell of cologne that does it. I always hated his cologne. Right now I can’t remember a time when I was more nauseous. Hiding’s easy in the alley. There’s no shortage of old crates, of trash cans, and a stinking blue dumpster behind which I’m crouched. The metal staircase is at the back of the alley. There’s no way he can get there without passing right by my hiding spot, and right by me. It wouldn’t be the first time. If he discovers me? I’m not worried about that. I’ve waited here like this before. Twice before, in fact. That makes this the third time he’ll walk right by me, oblivious to my presence, and go up the stairs. It’s the same every time. He never knocks on the door. I wonder if maybe he used to, when it first began, and they’ve merely abandoned the formalities now. I guess I’ll never know. And anyway, it’s different tonight. Things are about to change. I step out before him and he stops, shocked.

“Hi honey,” he says, his voice an octave high, maybe even two. “What are you doing here?”

I stay silent and concentrate on stopping the shudder of disgust that threatens to shake through me. He sickens me. He’s got his stupidest fake smile on, the sort that he usually reserves for real estate agents, used car salesmen and, of course, me. But there’s fear behind those eyes. My lips twitch into the tiniest of smiles. What I have planned is going to feel fantastic. “Honey?” he says again.

He holds out his hands for mine. I ignore them. I bring my own hands out from behind my back. It takes him too long to realise what I’m holding. What is it? A wedding present from an unimaginative friend. A huge, sharp, butcher’s knife. It glints menacingly in the gloom for a moment. And then I can’t see it anymore; I can hardly see anything. He attempts to defend himself, to push away the knife. He tries to grab me and hold me still. All his attempts fail. For once I am powerful and he is powerless; he’s powerless to stop my movement, my motion, my momentum as I lunge forward and plunge the knife into him. It’s difficult - I didn’t expect it to be so hard. He falls to the ground and I collapse there with him, over him, pushing the blade further into his abdomen. His flesh seems to slice easily but it’s the other parts, the inside parts, that resist. And despite that resistance I push and push and push and the blood starts to splash out, pouring over my hands and wrists and dripping everywhere. That red, red liquid; it’s flowing so fast, spraying over me. I lick my lips and I can taste it, that hot, metallic taste. It’s his life in liquid, and I’m tasting it and taking it and trying so hard to hurt him more and more and more. I need all my strength to pull out the knife and all of it again to push it back in; I’m wreaking havoc on his body. I stab him again and again, fully aware that it’s useless now, that the extra blows won’t make a difference, but revelling in the activity, the motion, the sight of all his blood escaping everywhere. And I stop. I’m stained and dripping with his blood and streaked with my own sweat. I let go of the knife, still stuck in him. I clamber up from the ground. I leave.

And that's it. The end. La fine.

At the time I titled it "Infidelity" in case anyone could be stupid enough that they didn't get the theme just by reading it. However, if I ever decide to become a playwright I have a fantastic idea for a play which I am going to title "Infidelity" so I won't use that for a title now. If you can think of an appropriate title for this story, comment with your suggestions.

In case you're interested (and if not, skip this paragraph) my aim in this story was to work on writing a quality piece of writing in first person. Another aim was to use some more poetic techniques, so you might notice a lot of repetition and alliteration. I don't know if you can feel the tone that I was going for in this piece; if you can then feel free to comment and tell me.

As always I appreciate any feedback, and if you read my blog can you at least put a comment saying you've read it? I like to know who my audience is.

Thanks for reading! xoxo

♥Nancy♫