Ballistic

Ballistic


The mental have a way with dealing with things; they deal with them. They deal with impossible figures such as speech (for some) and for others, death. John is mental. He deals with death, he deals with life...

Prologue
Biography
Two years ago was one of the most devastating massacres in the history of mankind… what happened I cannot explain; for I am the one. I am the only one. Nobody shall be left living except for those of the dead… So who am I?

It is the year 1998, and I am a heavy alcoholic, slowly but surely quitting. I have been to jail only once… I’d rather not talk about it. It was a small outbreak; let’s just leave it at that. I was devastated at what I did afterwards too, and tried to commit suicide by jumping off a bridge. That was when I was a heavier alcoholic. I am much better than I was before, no more (not so much more…) outbreaks, not so much more (only a lot more you lying little punk…) alcohol, and I haven’t hit anyone (not just anyone…) since my last outbreak (not too long ago…) or since my last time being heavily drunk (I think…) or being very angry.
-I’m not crazy (And yet he still ponders the truth…).

Part 1: Confinement

<<CHAPTER 1>>
The bitter taste of flesh

“The last time I went crazy was long ago,” John said to the doctor, with deep regret. “I haven’t since that; about two years ago now.”
“Good, then; I say from the report I have here that you are well again, and tell your wife I said you are perfectly safe.” The doctor had told him.
John did not like that such of an idea of him being “safe”. It sounded so horrible, like finding a poisonous snake in long grass: “Run away! It’s not safe!” and they would run. The snake wouldn’t have bitten anyone, unless provoked. Running is a sign of prey, and prey is something to bite into, satisfying its share of provocation.
“Honey, I’m home.” John said quietly. His wife (Tracy) turned around, a terrified look was on her face.
“Why the hell are you in my house?!?” she yelled. She must’ve thought he was still dangerous.
“Honey, clam down. I’m ok, they said I wont need treatment. I just need to have medicine regularly. Calm down.” (So you don’t scream when I kill you…)
“Sorry, I didn’t… realize,” she said. “Realize what, that I wasn’t dangerous?”
“I’m really sorry…” (You little bitch; you’ll wish you’d been sorry when I make you eat your own heart out…).
“I better get some sleep, I have a bad headache…” John said as his face turned crimson red.




<<CHAPTER 2>>
Night Walk

John, oh JOHN! Come and hug your Daddy! Give me a hug and I promise Daddy wont hurt you, I mean I might not hurt you, ok- I’ll only maybe cut you. Fine, GIVE DADDY A HUG OR I’LL RIP YOUR SHIT BRAIN OUT YOUR EYES-
John awoke. His head was hurting; more than ever before. He got a glass of water, and then stared at the knife rack. His eyes fixed on the blades. Mesmerized, he reached for the biggest one…

******

The convenient store is open 24 hours. It sells beer and wine, and other alcoholic beverages. John got in his car, turned it on, and drove away. He was thirsty. Not for the booze, but blood. He was hungry, not for fast food, but flesh.
The sign read 60km. John was at 60, 60 miles. The car dinged; it was out of fuel.
John, now dazed and confused, got out of the car and walked to one of the houses nearby, one with a car.
*DING DONG*
He rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang again; still no answer. He waited a minute, and then rang it again. Finally tall chubby a man answered the door.
“What the hell do you want?” he asked.
“Your car keys.” John said in a slow deep voice.
“You kidding me?” The man snapped back. John wasn’t kidding.
“No, I’m not.” He thrusted the knife through his pocked and in front of the man’s face.
“I’m calling the cops, you goddamn freak!” He yelled. He ran inside, slamming the door into John’s face. (Running away would only provoke a snake to bite. Prey will run; Prey is something to bite into…)
The door was not locked; John opened it and walked toward the man, not yet dialling on the phone.
John grabbed the man’s arm, cut the phone wire, and held the knife up to the man’s throat.
“GIVE ME THE GODDAMN KEYS.” John snared at him, pressing harder on the handle of the knife.
“OR I’LL KILL YOU IN A SECOND.” He threatened. The man passed him the keys. He let him go, but he saw another phone the man was slowly headed for.
“You think I’m playing some kind of game?!” John yelled at him. The man stopped in his tracks. John, being left with no other choice than to stop him from reaching the phone, did what was necessary.
“I warned you.” John said. The man gurgled, and fell to his knees. John had slashed him across the throat. He took the keys, and left him to die.





<<CHAPTER 3>>
Inconvenience

It was a relaxing drive to the convenient store. He was riding an old 69 Dodge Dart swinger.
(John had owned one once, when he turned 18; it was a gift from his older brother. John’s father had just died the previous month from a nervous breakdown: His father had been drinking since he was 15, drunk probably every single day in his life. He died at 40, still an alcoholic. One day he was with his buddies and decided to have a couple of drinks and some smokes [acid]. Bad combination. He went totally crazy, brutally murdering his 2 friends with a wine corkscrew. One friend was stabbed in the eye with the corkscrew, and then suffocated having his eye lodged in his throat. The other was too high to even tell what the hell was going on. He was stabbed in the ear, and his skull had been cracked from multiple strikes. He later went home and murdered his wife, taking a butter knife and stuffing it into her eye, and into the brain. He then reached for the china cabinet, took a gun hidden behind some cups, and shot himself in the head.)
John had his eyes fixed on the store, ignoring his surroundings. Bad idea. Going through a forested road at night and not paying attention is a very bad idea.
It just so happens that a deer leapt across the road; John hit it, head on. His car spun around, and flew into the ditch. After the car had stopped, he stepped out, dazed.
He looked at the lifeless carcass of the deer he had hit. Its eyes twinkled in the moonlight.
It wasn’t far to the convenient store, and he knew what he wanted there.

******

He opened the door to the convenient store…
“Can I help you sir?” the man at the front desk asked.
John replied “No.” and walked into the “employees only” lounge. He heard the man at the front desk coming towards him.
“Sir, I-” the man paused.
John turned around and slashed him across his belly, slitting deeply through his chest.
The man was shaking at the sight of seeing his own flesh and blood pouring out of his belly, along with his stomach, fat and full. He squeezed his belly tightly, trying to hold everything in when John held his throat and stabbed him in the forehead. It was a gruesome sight, seeing blood hose down like a waterfall through his ears. He was now dead for sure.
But that was not the only employee, there were more, probably coming in about now for the night shift…







<<CHAPTER 4>>
Night shift

John saw a car pull into the parking lot in front of the store. The first man entered the store, looking around for the man at the front desk. The corpse had been moved to the “employees only” lounge. John was behind the door to the “EO” room (employees only room) standing behind the door, his hands raised, ready to thrust down.
One of the employees put his hand on the knob. John was ready. The door opened. John hurtled the knife down at the employee’s head. He had one chance at it, and he missed. The employee, aware of the danger he was in, took the knife and stabbed John in the stomach.
John gurgled. He spat red on the floor. He could feel the downpour of blood beneath his shirt. The frightened employee, not knowing John was still conscious, looked away; his back was to John.
John had to be quiet so the employee wouldn’t stab again. He slowly pulled the knife from his chest, wincing as he held in the excruciating pain. His back was still to John’s face. The knife was in is hand now. He stood up quick and stabbed as hard as he could down his spine and ripped through the joints. He could see his spinal cord, along with the rack of ribs along side of it.
The employee, now either permanently paralysed or dead, was pushed aside as John looked out the window. A customer.
John dashed to behind the counter.
“Hello? Anybody here?” said the customer.
“Oh, fuck…” John said to himself. He forgot to hide the corpse.
Come on John, just one more won’t hurt, one loss of life out of all the world won’t matter…(will it?)
John did what he had to do. He crept behind the man. He was ready to stab him when the customer spotted the corpse.
“WHAT THE F-” He cut him off by holding the customer tightly by the throat.
“Don’t say a word or-” He paused and saw the man’s face. It was his older brother, Kevin. He released his grip from his throat.
“Jesus John, is this what you’ve become?” said Kevin.
John regained focus; he was now fully conscious of what he had done.
“Don’t even think of calling the cops Kevin, I’m letting this one go, it’s the last outbreak, I swear! Please!” John begged.
“I swear to God John, I will not call the cops on you, however, -”
“However what?” John interrupted.
“However I’m still making a call. Come look, you can make sure I don’t do anything.” Kevin negotiated.
“Ok…” John agreed.
He dialled as John kept a close eye on the numbers. He dialled 1-888-555-2654. John had no idea what number he as calling.
He kept a steady grip to Kevin’s neck with the knife, but was he really going to kill him? It was his brother, he gave him his first car, protected him from his father, stole for the sake of living.

But John was determined to do what had to be done.
John could hear a dialling tone coming from the receiver, which he turned onto speakerphone. Kevin was aware of danger. He knew would get killed as soon as he said so much as “Hi”. This time Kevin did what was necessary.
Kevin turned around fast and threw a fast uppercut under Johns chin; his head was slumped down to his chest at the time, and Kevin had just fractured his brother’s neck by hitting it sideways, hard. John’s nerves were still tightened, keeping his grip on the knife.
The knife slit deeply into Kevin’s shoulder, and was stuck deeply into the joint.
“Shit!” Kevin yelled from the excruciating pain that ran through his body.
The phone was still ringing; he was on hold. Kevin used his left arm and picked up the phone.
“Hello, this is the Quickton Mental hospital of Canada. How may we be of your assistance?” the voice said, it wasn’t automated; obviously because of the lack of calls they probably get.
“You can tell one of your fucking employees to get his ass over to the West-Silverton Convenient store, that’s what!” Kevin snapped at them, mainly because of the pain in his shoulder.
“What exactly is your situation that you seem to need to have assistance with?” the voice said, this time it was automated. Kevin knew there were people listening in though.
“My situation? The situation seems to be fucking murder you stupid dumb ass!” Kevin snapped; again, probably from the pain.
Someone picked up.
“Were is the murder? And why did you call us?” said the voice.
“I already told you, dumb ass! It’s at the West-Silverton Convenient Store! The guy is fucking mental!” Kevin yelled for probably the last time. He lost his cool, but he found it again.
“What do you expect us to do? Come and pick him up? Is he holding you hostage? Is that why you didn’t call the police?” the voice said.
“No, I haven’t been taken hostage. And I didn’t call the police because he doesn’t need jail; he needs solitary confinement! And please come and pick him up, he isn’t even up, he unconscious on the fucking floor!” Kevin said, he was beginning to lose his cool again, and John was gaining consciousness again.
“Oh, fine. We’ll be there in about 10 minutes. Make sure he doesn’t regain consciousness. Stay there,” he said
“Why?” Kevin asked.
“Because for all we know you might be making this whole thing up. We’re coming with the police, and if you weren’t lying you would stay. If not, well, that’s the job of the police. For all we know you could need solitary confinement.” Said the voice, and it hung up.






<<CHAPTER 5>>
Migration

If this wasn’t hell, John didn’t know what was. He regained consciousness completely and saw Kevin; he was standing at the door looking out the window.
John started to get up when a sharp pain rose in his neck and upper spine. He mumbled: “What the hell happened…”
Kevin did not hear his mumble; he was busy looking out the window watching for a big black van.
John stood up. He walked slowly to Kevin, but lost covertness when he stepped on a puddle of blood on the ground and made a splashing noise.
Probably from that bastard’s shoulder…
Kevin turned around, thinking John was behind him. He smashed his hand right through the glass on the door with the knife. Shards of glass covered his focus. (It was a big window).
One of the shards stuck deep into the open wound on Kevin’s shoulder.
Now is your chance John…
“FUCK!” Kevin yelled at the pain running through his arm.
John spotted something that might help him escape: A hammer. He won’t kill his brother; only give him a temporary concussion.
Don’t you just give a concussion, fucking rip his little shitty brain off!

Temporary…
John thought as he picked up the hammer.
The hammer had a brass head with a wooden handle. It was lightweight, so he held it with one hand.
Do what your told John…
John lifted the hammer. Then he projected down on the hammer… Then he cleaned off the hammer…
Good John, do what your told…
“Kevin…” John whispered. “If only you were on my good side,”
“I’m not… dead… yet;” Kevin said slowly, gurgling from a downpour of blood into his throat. “But you’ve… killed me already…” Kevin said faintly, then rolled his eyes and closed them.
…already?

There was light outside the store. “Cops,” John said to himself.

Don’t worry John; they were not arresting you, they were arresting that crazy Kevin Kid you call your brother…

“Come out of the front door with your hands up!” the police yelled through a microphone. John stood there.
“We said get the fuck out with your hands up!” the police yelled again.
John thought for a moment: Resistance, or give up?
Resistance John; use resistance…
His mind was like a yoyo, winding up and down, good or bad, resist or give up…
Resist…
John picked up the knife from his brother’s corpse.
He wasn’t an argumentative type with the police, but if he had to be…
He stepped out of the store, his hands behind his head. The knife firmly grasped in his hands. The police didn’t suspect a thing.
One of the police officers snuck up from behind him and tackled him onto the front of a police car.
“Don’t,” John said. “OR I’LL KILL YOU IN A SECOND!”
The officer ignored him and tried to cuff him, when his hand…
John slashed the knife around his head and down the wrists of the police officer. His hands were sliced off in a smooth clean cut, followed by a bubble of clotted blood from his veins and split arteries.
“Backup! Get off your lazy Asses and give me some fucking backup!” the handless police officer yelled.
The “Backup” was far away with only pistols, the handless cop tried to run, but John dug the knife deeply into his spine and pushed downward on the rest of the man’s back. He heard a loud crack, then was sprayed with blood, and pulled the knife out. Again, his victim was either permanently paralysed or dead.
The backup got closer and saw the dead (or paralysed) comrade lying on the asphalt. With no risk of a police officer casualty, the backup began to fire, getting closer every shot.
The handless officer had a gun, and John had picked it up and began shooting back.
“Hold your fire! Everyone!” the police officer said through the microphone. John ignored it.
“Hold your fire and we promise we won’t hurt you! Remain calm!” the police were desperate, and probably surprised that after a shooting like that and John still hasn’t been hit.
John saw a policeman coming from behind him; he turned around and was whacked in the face by a stop sign, scalping his cheek.
“Damn it…” John said quietly. The policeman was close behind him and he could get a good shot at him.
John, only having one side of his face to look from, tried to get a good target on the officer. His face burned with pain as his jawbone was hit with dust and debris as the opposing officer shot at him.
John shot, and it hit the officer: The bullet hit a telephone poll, bounced off it, and hit the officer right in the temple. His brains and arteries poured out like a fountain.
He turned around. The officers were right behind him, and began to fire at him.
He was shot 7 times: Once in the shoulder, in the hand, in the shin, in the chin, in the knee, in the foot, and once in the forehead. He was unconscious, and he lay on the ground.
They migrated him to two hospitals: One for healing, the other for confining.
His migration destination is the first mental hospital he ever went to, and the last hellhole he’ll ever live in.


PART 2: Hunting

<<CHAPER 6>>
Hell

How could you of been so stupid John…

Straightjackets. Bars. Guards. Cameras. Jackasses.
John was kept watch with a close eye. Nobody would be escaping from the true hell…

*****
It has been a week in ‘hell’, and John was allowed to make one call. He made the call to his friend, who would do anything to help him, no matter what situation or state he was in.
He dialled on the phone. His friend’s name was George. John calls him George the giant, as he is seven foot two weighing 253 pounds. John was pretty thankful to be on his good side all his life, because this was when he needed him most.
The phone rang several times, until someone picked up.
“Hello?” George picked up.
“George! Hi! This is John; remember me? I’ve only been gone a week, but what the hell,” John looked. The guards were down by the other side of the hall.
“Listen George, here’s the deal. I really need your help; it’s not my fault I swear. I need you…” John whispered, but he paused as a guard passed by.
“…I need you to get me out of this hell hole. I swear; I will do anything. ANYTHING.” John pleaded.
“Anything for you, pal. Where are you?” George said.
John paused. He took a deep breath and blurted it out.
“I’m at the fucking mental hospital. That’s were I’ve been all week, ok? It was an accident, I swear, and I would never do it again…” John begged some more.
“You swear on our friendship?” George compromised, without asking what had happened.
“On our friendship. Be here at ten o’clock sharp, ok? That’s when they take up by the fenced courtyard for fresh air.” John said.
“Got it. See you at ten.” He hung up.












<<CHAPTER 7>>
Escape

It was fresh-air time. John took a deep breath in. But then he sighed.

What if George won’t come, John? Then what will you do? WHAT YOU’RE TOLD TO DO, THAT’S WHAT!

John’s mind was playing tricks on him again. It was going to make him think that George would not come, and John would be left alone. What should he turn to then?
John replied to his mind:
HE WILL COME

*****

Ten o’clock sharp… The time was ticking. Ten-o’-one…two…three…
Finally.
He had arrived just in time. But there was a problem: What would George do? Shoot the guards? Would he just flex and scare everyone off?
John only had one thing left in his cold black mind: ESCAPE

*****

John was now back inside. He heard gunshots, screams, shooting back, footsteps; he heard it all.

George was here…

He heard a loud knock on his door. John got up and answered it, but it was locked from the outside.
It was George. He smashed the metal door down in one obliterating kick. He walked in with blood splattered on both his cheeks and his forehead.
“Lets get the fuck out of here!” George exclaimed. “Here, take this.” He passed a shotgun and a sharp hunting knife to John.
“Thanks.” John replied.

Its time to get the fuck out of hell…

A guard passed by John; and he didn’t hesitate. The guard ran towards John with a crowbar. John didn’t hesitate either. He pulled the trigger right in front of the guards face. His former head was no longer. There was a loud cracking sound as the buck-shot pierced the skull and sprayed out the other end.
John started to wipe blood off his face, but he didn’t bother. It was not what he was worried about most. But what was coming, in fact, was.
John stood behind the front door.
“Come on, John!” George yelled to him.
There was a noise coming from a microphone. It sounded: “OPEN FIRE!”
George ran as fast as he could, John followed. One shot fired into the face of a SWAT team member. Blood sprayed out of a chunked piece from his face.
John fired a buck shot, and it hit a police officer in the shoulder blade, blowing his whole arm off. The bullet then went through the soft tissue of an officer’s neck, decapitating him. Blood pooled out of the arteries of his vocal cords and bone marrow of his spine.
John looked over at George. At that exact second George was shot in the chin with a sniper bullet. His face collapsed inward towards the impact, and the shot continued on through the back on his neck. He was decapitated.
“GEORGE!” John yelled. “I’LL KILL YOU MOTHER FUCKERS!” John was extremely angry; his adrenaline was pumping.
He took Georges gun, making him have one in each hand. He fired both at the same time. He hit one officer in the chest and the ribs, the other in the stomach, and the buckshot pierced the bullet-proof chest on the one, slicing through his stomach. The other did not get pierced by the bullet, but it sure looked like it broke every single bone in his rib cage, and he was throwing up excessive amounts of blood.
Other police officers were now hesitant, and that made an opportunity for a reload. So, after John reloaded he aimed carefully. Then he realized something: The streetlights were shining directly on him. He fired at those, the glass shattered, and created another distraction for another reload opportunity.
John was tense, and he decided to run to the front of a police car, he kicked the glass down, and was followed by a brief wave of consecutive shots.
He was on front passenger seat of the car; and beside him, there was a brand new 12 gauge to replace his old one, and about 500 rounds for it in a duffel bag. John stood up. He shot out all the windows, then at the engine of a running police car (thinking it would explode). No dice. That was a bad mistake he made. A SWAT troop shot him below the back of his ribs with a rifle. John, now in excruciating pain, did not hesitate.
He turned around and fired two times (once with each shotgun).
The first shot broke the center of his rib cage, making a loud crack and a spray of bone marrow and blood attached by arteries and veins. The second shot was in the head. It smashed through his forehead and imploded his skull. He was decapitated.
“Holy shit.” Said John; he was bleeding very badly. He had his sharpened hunting knife George had given him, and he had a belt strap from the police. The cut’s span was about 20 centimetres by 10 centimetres. It was deep, too. It needed medical attention- that’s for sure-but John had an idea: He would slit the top and bottom of the wound and but the strap in- between them. The he would pull on each end and tie it.
He started cutting the first slit, blood spraying each millimetre extra he cut.
“O-OH SH-SH-IT!” John cried to himself. Eventually, the first slit was done.
Second.
“FUCK ME YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!” He was halfway there.
“Mother fucker…” he was finally finished, the slits.
The strap slipped through, no pain. He still had to pull. So, he pulled. Then he pulled harder. The wound was closing. Finally, he made one last pull…
The wound broke through. Both slits ripped in half. Blood sprayed everywhere in the car.
“…I want to go home now…”
The FBI was here. They had a little surprise. They brought out some big lights on stands. These were being pointed at John, right at his car, blocking all visuals of around him.
John was thinking about giving up, when he realised there was some 12 gauge shells on the floor of the car in a box. Two boxes, to be exact.
After loading up both shotguns, he stood up and shot at the lights, but missed and hit an agent in the skull. No fret, he had plenty of ammo.
He shot again, this time hitting the light and shattering it.
He hear a voice by the lights: “Screw this, give us the fucking car!”.
It was a SWAT trooper getting into a bullet-proof car.
John, still dazed from the pain, reached for his shotgun and tried to shoot the window of the car, but it merely reflected off. The car was still not moving though, and John had no idea what they were going to do.
The car started to rev up; then put into drive.
“You got to be fucking kidding me.” John sighed under his breath.
The car was now full throttle, heading straight for the car John was in. He reached for the keys in an attempt to move, but they were gone. His only hope would be to get out of the car and try to crawl away. So, he grabbed the box of ammunition and reached for the door handle. It opened, he threw his shotgun out, then his ammo, then he jumped out. From the wound on his chest he could barley move, but he could move enough. John just got out as the car smashed through the side of the rim; but unluckily had left the second box of ammunition.
The car turned around. He could hear the voices from outside the car window: “YOUR GOING DOWN BITCH!”
Then John got an idea…
The vehicle was headed straight for him; his ammo and shotgun in his hands. Just as the car was about to hit, he dashed to the side and through the box of ammo through the opened window they were yelling through.
Just as the car was about to pass, he shot through the window, hitting the box of ammunition that was sitting on a troopers lap.

Bright light.

Dark noise.

He could hear the quick screams of the law enforcers as the inside of the car exploded.
An officer from far away put up the microphone again: “Who the fuck do you think you are? And what the hell do you want? Just to kill people?!?”
John said:
“No, I want you to let me off the hook. That’s all. No money, no nothing.”
The police sighed, but agreed. All officers and law enforcers were forced off of the scene, only the ambulance could come through.
John; who was hurt badly; unfortunately was not able to get medical attention. The police said if they or any other 911 or law enforcement officials saw him, to take him in, and he would be put behind bars forever.
That’s ok John, your not going to kill any more bastards tonight…
<<CHAPTER 8>>
Tomorrow

Last night John had walked around the highway, then fell unconscious on the road. A drunk pair, who were driving so slow, must of spotted him. Being drunk, they thought-what the hell-; And now the next day, he is fully conscious and awake, have being greeted by his new found ‘friends’.
“Well ‘ow do ye’ like tha’? He’s awake!” A voice made it’s was through John’s eardrums. But something was wrong with him. He had been high the whole night before and didn’t remember a thing… all that sticks with him is the pain from his wounds so badly repaired at the hospital.
“Fuck…” John moaned. He fell forward, collapsed like a helpless tree chopped down in a forest.
*****

Inside the hospital, there seemed no hope for John. His wife was present; weeping at the site of her husband lying on the bed. Beside his resting bench, there was a small screen of which a horizontal line was displayed. No heart beat. No life…
The funeral was to be scheduled for the following Tuesday (2 days from present). When that day came, nobody was there to join the silence. All was vanquished; all was finished.
So they thought…

The news was soon to be released to the public. Of course, the Government was the first immediate concern of the incident at hand, which was a hell of a large one. The governor, a female, whose name was Cheryl Gibbons, was the one to pass this incident on as a 'relative accident'; but the public knew that was bullshit.
The week after the murder of John, Cheryl decided there shall be no further public announcement of this. After the first day of recognition to the citizens of the city, (Washington) large and homicidal group of protestors appeared in front of the white house demanding an explanation. The rioters, seeking knowledge, did not get what they came for, and were rather tarnished with bullets and then disposed of. But it didn't stop there. Any public broadcasters from the local and federal areas were shot on site. These were mainly live broadcasts.
"What is the meaning of all of this?" says an anonymous citizen of Washington.
"All we want is the answer to a question, and murder is not the answer". Later in that interview (live) the man was taken aside (but not off camera) and sliced in the throat; families watching television stared with horror as the man struggled to breath, but only to choke on this own blood and cough it up again. Then finally, lie still; Dead.

*****
Jason lie still in his bed. Asleep, no; he was much more awake than he was tired.
He turned his head to the clock: 7:00 am. He fell back into relaxation for 10 more minutes before convincing himself it was time to get up. He sat up straight and checked his alarm. It was set for exactly 10:30 am. Why was he awake? He would of slept in past seven any day he could; why not today?
He stood up and got dressed, then walked down the stairs when he stopped dead in his tracks. He observed the couch. Stained with...ketchup perhaps? No; it was much more likely to be something a lot worse; with the riots and government-to-public assassination present all the time, it was only obvious. It was blood.
As well as shit happens, there will always be some way to clean it up. But not this. His mother lay beside the couch. Her face, pale and sightless in an on-going stare. Terrified, Jason ran for the phone. His first idea was to call the police, but what if they were the ones responsible? What if they were also intending to kill him also?
He put down the phone.
"Fuck it..." he said in a low malicious voice. "FUCK IT!!" Jason yelled and tore at his hair. He then smashed his head against the wall, intending to knock himself unconscious; but tripped over something. It was his sister, he face mutilated, no skin left on her once fragile and beautiful face. Her throat was also split, the tenants running from her collar and drooping over her breasts.
"Kill me now you son-of-a-bitch!" Jason said between the pants of shock, pointing to the ceiling. He then lowered three of his fingers and swore again.
"FUCK YOU COCK-SUCKING BASTARD!". He then fell to his knees and wept. He would later regret insulting the God he once couldn't live without. His black hair was now sheeted with a coat of sweat that ran from his head to his hips. He thought to himself, could I live to stand this? I mean, where is Dad?
He suddenly felt his heart drop (if it were possible to lower further than it was).
"Oh, shit; I'm fucked... I'm fucked..." He stared without focus; then started to pace, his mind racing wildly. He then looked straight ahead at the door, paced to it, and walked out.
Jason didn't have a license on his, so he would need to play it cool.



*More to come soon!