Gothic Story (Untitled)

Hello, I wrote this when I was about 14 for a piece of English coursework. I don't really like writing, but my friend told me that I should put it online for review. I can't really remember much about it other than that it was supposed to be a short story (1200 words or so) based on the style of "The Black Cat" by Edgar Allan Poe. I don't plan to continue this story as I have no interest in writing fiction. Personally, I think this is a rather poor emulation of a gothic story.

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I HAD SOUGHT to address my misconduct through my own idled reflection. Dullness in its entirety, as it were; I pen my ideas of life in which I dwell in such a boorish and unmotivated manner. It is perhaps this very moment that I may cherish, so to speak, as I am, regrettably, a man of reflection. In spite of my debatable mindset as a functional sadist, I do feel the concepts of emotion, though this simply complements my apathy for the will of the body, devoid of the typical commitment that perhaps defines what we call a human trait; perhaps not. I refer not to any quietus in particular, I hasten to add; I, of course, speak of the acts of sadism I practice – and how that has fed on me.

The transition from my infancy to present was conspicuous, viable for assessment by any remotely sagacious being. I am a married man; I have vowed, without question, to the extent of my whims, to deny my brimmed malevolence, and to engulf the world’s benignity; to prosper.

I assure you that I am not impartial to being kind. I would hardly argue that my sadistic acts are a mere frivolity, though. I did, at one unorthodox period of my time, obtain and experience the pleasure of possessing my very own bird. Our friendship developed – not short-lived, as is common assumption – due to its unselfish and somewhat asinine actions. Such anacreontic festivity I procured with glee – and how I benefitted was destined to amaze me.

Oh, how I despised it.

Its very existence had begun to anger me, exasperating my conscience wholly. I seized it; I clutched every fibre of the creature, tearing patches of its delightfully coloured feathers from the now soulless wretch. I grasped a piece of a glass lens (which, regrettably, I had caused innumerable damage to in my wretched temperament) and carved a somewhat large, elongated mark, making the alteration of its visage rather severe. I performed this vile act, knowing that the fate of my soul would be jeopardized; for I did it with the knowledge that I had committed a sin. I felt the energy surge rapidly through my body, forcing it to be bloated and exhausted. Oh! The damnable atrocity!

I had been thrown by the momentum, taken aback by my own unbalanced will. My spirit, the composition of mine own character, succumbed to the intoxication of my mentality. The declination of day simply led to the decay of my philosophical ideologies, the result of which presented me with an attentive peculiarity. The manner of all instigations I paid no attention to, though I realise that, in the contradictory sense of the occurrence I have just described, I regrettably succumbed to an overshadowing of guilt.

It was my misfortune that, despite my earlier attentiveness, I had failed to notice the returned desolation in the pet I had formerly admired. Its now isolated persona merely attracted me further, as it was to my surprise that it now bore an uncanny resemblance to me. It was perhaps more deranged than I, shrouded by its individuality of extremity.

At this point the marks of territory from my affliction upon the vile creature had proceeded to catch my eye in their pulsation. Such was the heart of its prolonged vexation, the physical manifestation, wrought of man, having passive purpose through its silent anguish.

Oh, how I loved it.

My admiration and compassion I thought not to be irrational. Perverse in every sense of sensual pleasure, and I state this with the intention of negating the wider interpretation of the word. I had synthesized myself with an extemporaneous cycle through the aforementioned events. As I had gazed into this reflection, I had noticed that the feathered creature was perched upon my desk, perhaps only a few inches away from my grasp.

It spoke.

This occurrence I thought to be an indication of my lack of well-being; I had not perceived such words of sagacity through my constantly intemperate state of alcoholism – which, admittedly, I am the product of – as I had visualised nightmares of phantasms and of ghouls, yet, such supernaturalism was almost... frightening, I daresay. I had been unable to completely comprehend my inability to remain a man of great self-esteem through my decaying narcissism, yet, this creature devoured my soul, controlling me to such an extent that I could only look on further at it. I had felt that it possessed the intent to obfuscate its true intent, deceiving me from the truth of its existence. Its shadow gloomed enormously, its eyes changing to the colour of deep sanguine almost instantaneously.

It took flight.

The wind that had been carried on the underside of its eagle-spread wings had flooded me with a deep, sullen fear. I had been transformed from a man of curiosity to one with a life of regret, with a benumbed heart and a tragically possessed soul. It flew around me with a vengeance, sensing my fear from deep within, thriving on all upon which it could feed. The tips of my nerves stood still, my tongue drenched in my own acrid blood. It would not give me a restful moment of silence! Yet, I sat, resilient, fearful of the bird’s sword of retaliation. It was doing its best to exacerbate me, raising my pulse, forcing it to climb, climb, climb… climb higher than my once restful heart could bear. Still, it continued to circle around me, darting from enclosed space to boarded window, faster than my own eyes could perceive, despite their bluntness as a result of my prior deliria. I had been left broken and mournful, rendered wholly unfixable.

This spontaneous whirlwind continued; I sank, dizzy, evident from my own frazzled complexion. I pleaded for this monstrosity to go away, to depart from my home, to bother another individual that shared my inconsideration for societal values. To my misfortune, it continued, clawing at my visage, eager to seek revenge, lashing out in its afflicted state. It had reached the point where I could suffer no more punishment from the beak of this creature. I had been tortured, brought to the edge of what I could withstand, my deteriorated mentality rushed into a frenzied state of insomnia… I had to submit.

It spoke once more.

It spoke with a deceitful, silver tongue, with the intention of forcefully inveigling me to my own demise. It spoke of a path, one that split into two. It spoke of a choice that I had to make, both paths demanding sacrifice and redemption, and seemingly indifferent from each other. It was the realisation of what this fearless apparition desired that forced me to feast on the pit of nothingness in my stomach.

It sought to help me.

My guardian, my pet whom I had coldly, mercilessly beaten, sought not to coax me, but to enlighten me to the optimistic behaviour I should be aware of. The momentum of the crow’s relentlessness to persecute, to deliver justice, to push my mind advertently to the point of no return had crushed me.

A glistening white light poured through my eyes, forcing my eyelids shut. I reached towards it, physically blinded, and gulped the warm air that forced itself into the creases of my lungs. I had been resolved!