Works of Art

[afro`puppy]

"You sick fuck!" Art screams at the figure standing before him. The figure just stands there glaring back at him with clenched fists. It's deep brown eyes piercing right through his own.

Art turns away and bangs his head repeatedly off a wall in the lonely apartment, unable to shake the thoughts of what had transpired on this hot summer night. He turns back to the figure which continues to glare at him. A thin crimson stream beginning to run down the side of its face. Art stands there, face to face with the evil figure. Tears begin to run down his cheeks and the figure cries with him.

"Why did you do it?" he whispers to the figure. The figure doesn't answer him, because the figure doesn't know. "Tell me, you twisted fuck!" Art screams. Still no answer. There couldn't be. Not for something like this.

The quiet apartment suddenly fills with the sound of advancing sirens. Art knows they are for him. They must be. He closes his eyes and listens to the sirens. To his surprise, and even more surprising dismay, the sirens pass and continue into the dark night. Rushing to someplace to meet someone. Someone more important than him or the wicked figure that awaits him on the other side of his eyelids. The sirens disappear and the apartment returns to the silent hellhole it always was.

He leans on the wall his head became intimate with a few short moments ago. He leans there with his tears seeping out of his closed eyes and running down his dark cheeks as if to escape the haunting memory of what had happened. A memory which plays itself over and over again in his head. A head he can't escape, no matter how intimate it becomes with the wall.

Art opens his eyes to find the figure still staring at him, its face glistening from its own tears. He can't look at it anymore. He steps from the wall and swings violently at the figure and watches it shatter into countless sharp fragments over the washroom sink. A familiar feeling washes over him. It was envy. He envied that figure that once stood before him. He envied it because it got to disappear.

[italian99]

Definitely caught my eye here. Keep going please. :)

[afro`puppy]

Art stands alone in the washroom. No figure to scold or sirens to pray for. He just stands alone, with the ongoing replay of the night's events running through his head. Each time it replays itself he sees new details. Almost as if he is constantly living that moment. A moment he would never forget.

He looks down at the sink containing the fragments of the evil figure responsible for all of this. That "sick fuck" as he had called it those short moments ago. He looks down at the jagged remains jutting up from the sink, as if they are daring him to touch. He still sees pieces of the figure among the fragments. Still sees that ebony face with the crimson stream running down its side. He carefully gathers the haunting remains and dumps them into the waste basket before shutting the lights and exiting that God forsaken washroom.

The rest of the apartment isn't much better. The haunting replays still follow him, and the evil figure still looms on the dark walls as he passes by. It's darker now, no features to speak of, and no crimson stream. It follows him, mimicking his every move as he wanders through the silent apartment.

Art ignores the "sick fuck", trying to concentrate on getting the replays out of his head. He grabs the large Whiskey bottle that sits on the kitchen counter, the only real friend he's ever known, and settles down in the balcony. The balcony is on the sixth floor looking over the heart of the medium sized town. No cars or people are about which probably means it is really late, or early. He lost track of time ever since that “moment”. He quickly downs a quarter of the bottle in a desperate attempt to drown his thoughts. It works.

He sits there with a silly grin spreading over his tear-soaked face. The feelings of guilt and despair make way for new feelings. Feelings he is not much accustomed to. Feelings of pride, and strangely enough: satisfaction. His miserable life will never be the same again, he had power now.

A short sequence of knocks interrupts his thoughts. Maybe it is them. It must be them. They must have come without their commanding sirens because he is not that important.

“No need for the lights and all.” the officer must have said to the other.

“Yeah, he’s just some helpless loser.” the other would have responded.

The knocks get louder, growing more impatient. Art slowly walks to the door, accompanied by the "sick fuck", and opens it without looking through the peephole as he so often did. He looks to find a smiling young woman standing before him. She isn't a cop.

“You must be Art.” she says, sticking out a dainty hand.

[afro`puppy]

It's been so long since I've been on here, and I apologize profusely to anyone that was following this story. It is just getting started and I am happy to say that I will be working on continuing it or trying to at the very least.

[davykamikazi]

hmmm, this is very confusing, but regardless, i like. much different than the regular stories where "girl/guy-X becomes slave for man/woman-Y, and person-X is in for a life of bdsm and pain"

much more creative than the normal shit that gets pumped out on a regular basis

i can't wait to see more of this and see how this story unfolds

[molten man]

confusing start!! would like to see where this leads to!