Monday, October 4, 2010
Ok! I spent a little while writing and then editing the piece. Here is the excerpt from tonight's writing. It is 1030 words (1730/30,000)
Kill Something by JL Denman Gothno novel entry )ct. 4, 2010
I want to kill something. I don't know what. The thing inside grows. It hungers for something sweet and bloody. It claws at my insides when I am not thinking about controlling it.
It. What is it? I've never felt this insatiable need or hunger to devour and destroy. It never leaves. I think it goes but it lurks under the surface waiting. It waits. It waits. It continues to wait until I have no defenses left. Then it strikes full frontal force. It assaults my eyes first. It blasts red spots against the wet canvas. It splatters red and iron smell of blood behind my eye lids- like paint soaked cats clawing their way across my mind and sockets. This thing grows hungry and paints with scrawling blood and sickening sweet terrifyingly sweet essence of blood. I taste it. I can taste it drip from my eyes to the back of my throat. It slips on the edges of my tongue as it fills my mouth.
What devilry is this? I taste the blood the sweet delicious wonder. It frightens me. What is this? I've never had these desires before.
Before? Was there ever anything before this? Was there ever a time when the creature, didn't thirst for blood and gore?
She rubbed her stomach. The swelling shifted groaning against her caress.
Was there ever a time before this thing took over? It worries me. Maybe I'm imagining it all. Maybe I have nothing to worry about. Perhaps it is the stress, the manner, the people. They are strange here. they look at me with weird eyes. Suspicious. They know something. What? Do they know I hunger? - not I but IT? Do they know and understand? What grows? Do they see something I cannot? I wonder. I spend hours, days, weeks now, searching through he library, but nothing seems real here. It all seems like the wind and the willow blowing in a breeze and then off to some random place.
She crumbled forward over the parchment pages. Pain stomped in her belly. White hot lightening flashed from the pit to her brain. She cough gasping for air. Her fingers clutched the white night gown.
She felt the blood trickle from the tip of her tongue, her own teeth scraping and biting down on the soft pink flesh.
She swallowed breath, air and blood, shallowly. Her eyes tight fists in her head mirrored the grasping action in her belly.
What now? Why? Why won’t it leave me alone? Why does it stir so? What is it that grows.
Somehow they know. I see them looking at me from beneath heavy black lids and brims shielding them from the hot sun. They never look directly at me. They are sly. Sly devils all of them! No. No, not devils. But they know something. I can’t be here in the place and continue. I'll die here. I'll die here or...
I'll die here or kill something.
Yes! Yes. I want to kill something.
Her fingers gripped the pen. White knuckles stretched through brown flesh. Round half moons stabbed into her palm. The writing grew furious, rapid. Scratches and tears pulled the sheets in places. Tension built in her fine chiseled features. Her tawny brown cheeks sucked in and her full lips pursed in concentrated fury.
Kill something! I want to kill something now! Now! I need to destroy something. I can’t stand this! This... this... waiting. I wait and wait. I hide here in the place. Where when will I get out of here. I can't sleep because this thing grows and hungers. It’s like drowning in angry desires to feast on flesh and blood. I want to kill something.
She raised the pen high above the page. White billowy sleeves hung from her upraised arm and pooled at the elbow.
Now, Kill something now! Do it! Do it!
She heard it whisper to her insighting her fury.
Do it!! Kill something. The pen glittered and dropped black ink onto the white-ish pages.
Do it! Kill something! Feed me!
She slammed the pen down. It's tip bit hungrily into the back of her own hand. A scream wretched itself from her mouth. The sudden gust blew out the candle sitting in front of her on the writing desk.
She felt the pain and it relieved her. The hunger stopped. The delight swelled up inside. The thing curled up inside her stomach and rocked contentedly. It felt like it smiled and wriggled itself down into a comfortable ball, shrinking in upon itself with each heartbeat it settled. The blood pump from her wound nourished it. Satisfied it. What is it?
She didn’t care. For a time the thing was satisfied. She was free. She didn’t feel the need to kill something, not so much. Not so intense. She smiled. A pained slice in her gorgeous brown face, the smile would have frightened the planation peasants. They would have known what she was, who she was. There would have been no doubt. There would have been disrespect. There would have been live chickens and offerings laid at her door. The smile would have confirmed what she felt but could not name.
She pushed backed the chair. Its wooden legs scrapped against the cold concrete floor in the slave quarter kitchen. It echoed like the distant cry of a hundred tortured souls. Her ears perked up, the hairs on her arms stood up. As she walked heavily, calmed yet pained her blood dripped to the floor in thick round splotches. She fumbled in the dark towards the old sleeping quarters. As her feet crossed the rough grass burnt from midday sun, she stopped at the old well pump. Creaking hinges cranked as cool water sloshed over her self inflicted wound. Relief.
She sighed. The water gurgled to the basin. She ripped a thin strip of her dressing gown and wound it around the injury.
Her ankle length dressing gown billowing with. each step. Quietly, exhaustedly she stumbled through the low entry way. She closed the wooden door behind her. It sighed shut. She slept. It slept.