This story doesn't really have anything to do with werewolves, so I hope that's alright, I just got this idea, and wanted to write it down. So, as it says at the top, this is going to be a very violent and graphic story, so if you are sensitive or dislike gore or sexual situations, please, do not read this.
Opening Theme: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=clq01TXQR0s
Part 1: Childhood.
His father had been a hero. He had been a surgeon for the Union in the war. He had been at Shiloh and Fredricksburg, Antietam, Chancelorsville and Gettysburg. He had done everyting he could to save as many of the Union's glorious soldiers as possible. He had been a hero. Now he was a preacher. The boy yelped as the belt lashed across his buttocks, tears running, goading his father into more cruelty. "Please Daddy, stop, please..." The boy was 13, and far to meek for his father's liking. "You will never give in to the Devil again, do you understand me, boy?!" His father demanded. He had been trying to tell his parents about something that had happened at school. The his teacher, Mrs. Hennesy, had touched him oddly, but she was a top citizen in town, and his father didn't believe him. Instead, he went into a blind rage, and began to beat the boy, yelling about the Devil the whole time, and how the boy had been "Spewed from the mouth of Hell itself". Later, the boy lay in his room, crying, listening to his mother and father talking. They were sending him away, to a special school, where he could learn to be a man, they were saying, and where the Devil would be beaten out of him.........
Last edited by Kormiak (2011-04-19 02:13:58)
Chapter 1: Punishment.
St. Vincent's School for Boys, Michigan, January, 1872
He had arrived two months ago, and every day since had been hell. The older and bigger boys bullied him, while the teachers beat and berrated him, starved him, and generaly made his life miserable. Now, he set reading the Bible in his cot in the bedrooms. It was the only book there, and it was his only escape. He had filled his nights with the adventures of the Biblical heroes. And the wrath of God metted out to evil men. His dreams were filled with fantasies of escape, or, better, revenge, but he was to weak and small to really do anything.
He was walking through the trees near the creek that ran parralel to the perrimeter wall, his favorite place to go during recess, when he heard a squeeking coming from the bushes. Going to investigate, he found a small water vole laying near the creek bank. It's leg was broken. He was about to call for help, when the little thing twitched and squeeked loudly. He froze at the sound of pain and suffering, and watched the vole with single minded intensity, and growing exitement. He carefully crouched down and picked up a stick, and began to poke at the thing, sending it in to more pained fits of suffering. He suddenly felt a very strange sensation run up his backbone, and jabbed the little thing in the injured leg hard. As it practically screamed, he stiffened, and felt an amazing jolt of pleasure shoot through his loins, and he moaned loudly. "What in the name of God, boy?!" Came a voice from behind him.
It was another half day before he got of the Hole, a tiny little room where those boys who behaved terribly were sent. The other students sneered in disgust as he went by, but he found himself to be strangely calm. He walked into the Abbots office and set down across the desk from the stern old man. "Well, what have you to say for yourself?" The old man asked. "Nothing, sir" the boy replied. "Nothing?" The old man sputtered. "Nothing!? You have nothing to say after you were found torturing a helpless and injured creature!?" The boy stared strangely at the old man, then said "Do you not hunt, sir?" The old man's eyes widened in anger. "That, boy, was not hunting, that was torture!" "Is it not similiar, sir?" The boy asked. "What if you miss with your rifle, and the animal is injured. Is it not torture for the animal, then? When it is in great pain and the threat of death is inevitable? Is that not torture, sir?" The boy was beaten most severly and sent back to the Hole......
Last edited by Kormiak (2011-04-20 05:49:41)
Curious to see where this is going. It definitely has my attention. I enjoy stories about such things, I guess 'cause I'm weird. >.>; But, the unique setting definitely has merit. Although, I'm not sure if he would have gotten reprimanded for torturing such a small creature. A dog or other animal of value to a human community back in those times would probably warrant punishment....Unless this place just has it out for him.
Well, I'm in agreement, now that I think, he probably wouldn't've been punished for it, but, well, it's just the way it got written. Let's let it set at that, shall we?
lol Sure thing. Is this a really new story? Or is it something you've been working on for a while?
Eh, it's been brewing for awhile, but I just now started writing on it.
Chapter 2: Reunion.
The Farm, Michigan, April, 1874
A young man of roughly 16 years of age got off the stage at the end of the drive up to his family's farm place. He was average in appearence. Not ugly, but not handsome, either, just normal. His light, sandy hair was cut short and slicked back, in the fashion of the city. He was perhaps a little taller than average, at 5'9", and his build was slight, at about 145 pounds. The only thing that was really noticeable about him was his eyes, even hidden behind small round spetacles, as they were. They were a shocking, cold blue, like ice water, and showed a certain gleam, like laughter, but somehow more chilling. He walked up the path towards his home, whistling a little tune.
As he approached the house, he saw his mother come out of the door and run towards him. She came up to him and wrapped her arms around him, leaned into him, and broke into tears. He had been judged good enough to be sent home a year ago, but had elected to stay, to aid with the young ones, he had said. When the letter had come though, he could no longer excuse himself not going home, nor should he wish to. His father was dead. He held his mother softly, and muttered sympathetic things, and all the while, inside, he was laughing.
A few weeks later, the funeral was done, and he was in his father's old study, trying to sort things out, when he stumbled across an old chest. It was locked, but he broke the old padlock the kept it closed, and leaned the lid back. Inside was his father's old uniform, his pistol, and something else. A small, mahogany box, a couple of inches thick, about half a foot wide, and a foot long. He undid the clasp on it, lifted the lid, and the candle light glimmered off of steel. His father's old surgical kit, full and complete. He pulled out the Liston knife, the long surgical scalpel named for a British surgeon during the Crimean War. He held it up to the light and marveled at it's keeness and beauty, and, somewhere deep inside, he felt a stirring, like fate was whispering in his ear, and he just couldn't quite make out what she was saying.......
Last edited by Kormiak (2011-04-20 04:11:52)
Aha...and so it begins lol, this is a very nice chapter. I really can't wait to see what happens now that he has a knife in his hand
Yes, now.....He's alive.....He's alive.....He's ALIIIIVEEE!!!
*tranqs Kor and drags him by the feet back to his grove*
Chapter 3: Love.
The Farm, Michigan, November, 1874
Out in the old barn, in the loft, under the glow of a simple oil lamp, the young man leafed through the pages of one of his father's old medical books, and found himself becoming quite aroused at the images within. But he knew better than to attempt to pleasure himself to them, it just wouldn't work. He needed the real thing, or as close to it as he could get. Which was why the dog was there. It was heavily sedated. A female stray, that no one would miss. He put the book down, and picked up the box, watching her the whole time. He slowly, lovingly drew out the Liston, and marvelled again at the beauty of it. Then he sidled over to the dog, and gently carresed her fur down her side. Then he placed the long, gleaming blade lightly against her throat and set there for a long moment. Then, with a single pulling tug, he slit open her throat, and shuddered in pleasure as he was showered in blood.
He had taken up a job helping the local teacher watch the children, and had noticed that one of the girls had been watching him. He had been going to tell the teacher, but the girl had slipped him a note, and he had suddenly felt something it took a long time for him to place. Flattered. He had felt flattered that she liked him, and it wasn't as though they were that far apart in age. She was 14, and he would be turning 17 in another month. He knew of many a marriage that was contracted at an earlier age. So, he began to talk to her, and walk with her, and they began to find things in common, like books. Once he was free of the school, he had become an avid reader, eating up books almost as fast as he could pick them up, and she had been a reader since she was 6. They also had their schooling somewhat in common. Her parents were Catholics, like his own, and had sent her to a very similiar school when she was 11. A month went by in sweet bliss, and he never even thought about his knives and books, out in the barn, all alone.......
Last edited by Kormiak (2011-05-11 04:46:04)
(Please listen to this while reading this chapter: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gcf2rfL_6Sw )
Chapter 4: Epiphany.
Michigan, October, 1875
He was doing something that would've been unimagineable, a year ago. He was going to throw away his knives and the books. He was in love with her, and didn't need them. It was Hallowe'en night, and they were walking down toward the river, and he had the implements of his former life under his coat. He was going to throw them into the river, and never think of them again. When they reached the river, they sat and talked awhile, smiling and laughing. Then he pulled out the box. "My love, I want you to know, this is a symbol of who I was before I met you....A cold, cynical person, who I now would rather not even think about...I brought them here tonight to throw in the river, and cast away forever, for you, my dear." She smiles, and leans forward. "Oh . . . , I love you so much" She said, then kissed him. It was the first time they had done such a thing, and he froze, and suddenly felt a rising tingling coming up his spine. Before he knew it, he was leaning into her, kissing her harder, and fondling her. "What....No . . ., stop....." She said, pushing against him, begging, which made him more fervent. " . . . , stop!" She said, and shoved him, hard, and he hit the ground with blood running from a gash on his cheek, where one of her nails had cut him. He set there, panting, looking at his blood dripping onto the ground, and felt a tremor work it's way up his spine. He slowly raised his head and stared at her, then grinned. She smiled back, nervously. " . . . ?" He slowly raised himself up to a crouch, then sprang forward and wrapped his hands around her throat, cutting off her air before she coud scream. He wringed his hands around her neck, shaking and throttling her, feeling the tremor turn into the tingling that indicated climax. Then she began to go limp, passing out from lack of oxygen, and the tingling began to die down with it. He finaly sat there, straddling her, shaking and watching her slowly come around. Then he looked over and saw his box. He reached over and picked it up, opened it and pulled out the Liston, lovingly stroked it, thinking himself the fool for even cotemplating getting rid of it. He looked down at her, saw her coming around, her eyes opening and inch or so at a time. He reached down and stroked her hair gently, and she stirred, and opened her eyes. She opened he mouth to scream, but all that emerged was a strangled gurgle. He smiled at her, having known that her vocal cords had been cushed. He slowly pressed the blade against her throat, and set that way for a moment, with her frozen in terror, and his blade positioned over her jugular. Then he drew the blade across, and spasmed as her blood sprayed forth and showered over him. He jerked and twitched until she stopped bleeding, then he slowly got up off of her, looked down at her corpse, and licked the blood off of his hands and the blade of his knife. He had had an epiphany. He had always thought that killing a human would feel the same as killing an animal. He had been wrong. It was better, by far......
Last edited by Kormiak (2011-05-11 04:51:31)
Oh dear LORD!!! I don't... I don't think i can keep reading this... but i will anyway because he's an interesting character in an interesting plot ^w^ good work Kor!
Thank you, thank you very much! *Evil grin*
... omg... *keeps reading*
Thank you, I'll take that as a compliment.
1 more sociopath...
Actually, he's a psychopath. The difference is that a sociopath feels nothing. He could care less whether you live or die, and doesn't care how he kills you. A psycho, on the other hand, will often times have a distinct M.O. that he has to fit to, a ritual. And he is typically a sexual sadist, and only finds release from killing.
Last edited by Kormiak (2011-06-16 20:16:36)
Just piping in here to say that, even if it's not Werewolf related, this is a really good story. I hope to read more soon
I'm htinking about continuing this, finally.....It will take a bit for me to get back into the swing of it, though......