Please post a review if you read the story - Is it good? You DON'T have to log on, or sign up to post. Just hit the green button on the center of the bottom.
If you Like this story and wish to see more post a review and/or subscribe to the story.
Don't forget to check the rest of the chapters! (Drop down on the top/bottom - Right side.)
© Cameron Cook
This is the 2nd draft of the first three chapters. It is ALL that will post of the story before it gets published. The story is completed.
If you would like updates about the story, please message me or leave a review on the story with some sort of way to contact you. If you can't do eaither of those shoot me an email, my email is available on my Fiction Press account, also it is Lammalord (at) hotmail (dot) com) and I'll try to put together an email list for future updates on the story. Otherwise, Happy reading, and I can't wait to finish!
Tears dropped from her soft face; her mourning had been going on for what seemed like hours. She clicked open the cylinder of the .38 caliber revolver and spun it around a few times. Once satisfied with the smooth tapping of the moving metal parts, she snapped it shut and sniffled once more.
The heavy smell of cigarettes floated up from the first floor of the two story house and leaked into her once perfect room. The smell was always there, sneaking into her room though even the slightest cracks, lurking. All her belongings reeked of her dad's nasty habit. Her fairly small room was mostly engulfed by the over-sized bed propped up in the far corner, as far away from the door as possible.
She wept over her most recent encounters. Her fluffy blue pillows were now shoved deep within her mirror closet, directly across from the foot of the bed. Her dad had ruined those last week on his drunken investigation for drugs. Her father ruined everything. She inhaled a lungful of air and concluded: her dad was disgusting.
The light blue covers and teal sheets on her bed now had several small drops of blood on them. Her nervous nail biting habit dug so deep into her fingers it made them bleed. The room was, until recently, painted the same blue color as the bedding until her father managed to ruin them too. "That bastard," she cursed under her breath vividly remembering his actions. He had this idea, she recalled, this idea to become a painter. His experiments were forced into her room while she was out late one night. He blew up in her face when she got home well past midnight and said; "This is what you get for staying out too late!" he didn't seem to notice that, at eighteen, she was no longer a child. She was almost done with high school – why couldn't he accept she had grown up?
The walls were now splattered with off colors. Some pink added in with black and reds, along with a few terrible stick figures and several holes. Her dad couldn't paint and his frustration covered the walls.
In front of the door and opposite of the bed was a broken TV and bookshelves filled with her favorites. The TV had gone out years ago. She never bothered to get a new one. The books started with the oldest books on the top shelf and drizzled down, the bottom ones being her most recent reads. As time progressed and her life changed, the colors of the books shifted from excited yellows, whites, and blues to darker blacks and grays. The stories went from those engulfed in love and gossip to those of misfortune and destruction.
A TV could be heard downstairs from her room. The volume had increased and echoed dimly up the staircase; it was some reality show. The announcer's voice picked up a suspenseful tone, "Lisa and Danny, you are out of the game. You can leave now or sacrifice your winnings, the car and forty five thousand, to remain in the game starting off at zero and in last place."
She could hear her father roar at the TV, "Ha! What a nasty twist. Bet they deserved it!!! Get the hell off the game, no one likes you anyway!" he stopped yelling at the TV, most likely to suck in another draft and growled into a different direction, her mother, "Hey, honey, they should take it so they can lose next week and get nothing – those bastards deserve nothing," the response from the other person downstairs was so weak it failed to creep up the stairs.
Tears broke out again as she sank into another sobbing fit. The sound of his voice was sickening. Her makeup ran down her face in uneven streaks. Two light black lines trailed down her face where the tears etched the same path over and over. She couldn't believe it. When she finally got home from her hour long walk, she had found her cell phone – the only thing of value left to her – smashed on the porch. To add to her crushed reality, he decided to give her serious lecture in addition to her smashed personal life. His lectures always ended with her getting thrown into her room for hours on end. Sometimes they included his fists, threats, and hurling sharp objects at her.
Ignoring her part in his attacks, she went over the result of his most recent rampage. The first noticeable thing was her torn shirt. The expensive yellow blouse was ripped at one shoulder and no longer covered the bruises on her arm. Her legs ached from the silverware he violently chucked at her during her flee to her room. Several scratches covered her legs below her white shorts while one larger one leaked blood over the edge of her shorts. They too were now ruined.
She shook her head as she bent over the age old revolver. Her naturally straight, black hair, which currently had off-red streaks from the center down, swung over her face with her abrupt movements, "He should die," she concluded.
With shaking hands, she fumbled around her bed covers until she found the single bullet buried within. After wiping the blood off one of her fingernails she squeezed the bullet in her hand, chanting her own personal prayer to let the torment end. Struggling, she managed to still her shaking fingers just long enough to jam the bullet into one of the five chambers.
She rubbed her hands along the tough brown grip and felt the cool metal barrel. This gun had personal importance to her father, to her family. It was the perfect thing to gamble with. According to the cylinders, it was an one in five chance the gun would go off. She muttered under her breath so that only she could hear, "If God doesn't want me on this world he'll tell me with this bullet. If not, I'll move on, get a better boyfriend, try to move out of the damned house," she calmed her tears and closed her eyes. She thought a few moments about someone she was to afraid to get close to. He was the person that seemed to understand her. But she's too afraid to approach him. His love life was complicated and spread out. She knew he hadn't found the right person just yet, his short relationships and sporadic style shifts explained that.
She spun the cylinder and listened to the soft clicking before she snapped it shut, once again feeling the cool metal in her hands. Once she cocked the hammer, she pointed the barrel at the side of her head. After considering her 'post-suicide-attempt' resolutions, she was ready. In truth, she hoped the chamber would be empty – her brave resolutions actually sounded good. No, she wouldn't chicken out this time; she was going to do it. She was going to pull the trigger.
She squeezed her finger on the trigger and clamped her eyes shut.
The shot reverberated though the entire house. It only took a second before her mom darted up the staircase leaving the blaring TV in the distance. She knew what the shot was – but didn't want to believe it. Her dad strolled up the staircase afterwards, but was not alarmed. By the time he entered the room, his wife was already crying hysterically at the side of the bed, afraid to go any further.
Blood ran down their daughter's head from a point just above the ear while puddles of the red liquid lay soaking into the sheets. The wall was splattered with blood. Large masses of brain and bone splintered the black and red streaks next to her bed. The blood blended in with screwed up paint while the bone stood out like glistening white snow. The exit wound looked as clean as the entrance and a hole dug into the wall beneath the scattered gore. It looked as if her entire skull was plastered on the wall, but her head wound didn't match this assumption.
Her father had already dialed 9-1-1 on his cell phone — some operator was trying to talk to him but the phone lay dangling in his limp hand, the gore was outrageous. He thought she had accidentally fired it. She had recently picked up an obsession with her grandfather's gun. She would study it for hours, ask questions about it, enjoyed taking it apart and struggling to fix it over and over. He didn't know his threats would push her this far. He thought he was prepared for the worst— but this? He was shocked.
"Hello, anyone there? What's your emergency?" the voice from the phone in his hand became clearer during a momentary silence that covered the room during his wife's uncontrollable fit.
He stuck his ear to the phone as the howls once again picked up with new found energy, "My daughter is injured badly, a gunshot wound. I don't know if she is still alive."
He stroked his free hand though his freshly cut hair once and pulled lightly at the ends. He should never have shown her the family heirloom, her grandfather's revolver, when she asked about it. He should never have explained to her how to use it. He had thought it was daughter-father bonding. But it led to this. Maybe if he hadn't been so harsh. Maybe then this wouldn't have happened.
His wife flashed a glance at him. A glance at his unshaven face and large potbelly, his white shirt and jean shorts. And mouthed, "What did you do?"
He looked back at her with a nod of his head and mouthed in response, "I don't know." At this point her thin weak body shut down, blocking everything out. She had just lost her only daughter, all because of the bastard she'd married.
Six minutes passed before the blaring sirens reached their house. Several policemen barged into the house, along with a few medics, followed by equipment and more police. They rushed upstairs, the medical group halted at the scene.
She wasn't injured by a gunshot; she had been shot in the head, dead. A single man carefully walked up to the body noting the gore spread amongst the walls and bedspread. There was no way this girl was still alive. If the room was going to turn into a crime scene, it was best not to contaminate the area. He placed two blue gloved fingers on her neck – nothing. Her wrist – nothing. Eight minutes had already gone by since the incident. The room was silent. She was yet another victim of teen suicide.
Her eyes suddenly snapped open and she sucked in a deep lungful of air. She wildly looked around the room for something to hold, something to escape the nightmare she was in. As she glazed over the crowded room all commotion froze for a second. Her scream quickly followed and rung though the entire building, breaking its solemn remorse. As she lunged at the shocked medic deciding he was the best target, and wrapped her arms around him in a death-hold, her mother broke out into uncontrollable sobs about her dead daughter and a pair of police officers turned to the stunned father with a nasty look. She started weeping uncontrollably. She panted rapidly as tears strung down her face once, wetting the dried blood. She acted just like a terrified kid after her first nightmare. Her mumbled sobs were muffled by the medic's thick gear.
"Lilly?" her mom sniffled; relieved she was still somehow alive.
Lilly removed her face from the medic's chest and pleaded in between her sobs, "Don't… please don't… let him touch me… Don't ever let him touch me again…" she started shaking as she broke out into more heavy sobs driving her face back into the medic's well tuned chest. She muttered a few inaudible phrases into his shirt before pulling her face from the comfort of his body and continuing, "It burns, burns… so much pain…" a dark glaring flame brewed in her brown eyes. She sniffed and glanced over at her arm, still tightly clutching the medic. Her voice dropped to a low hum, "I can still feel him. Don't make me go back, don't make me go… ever."
Lilly looked up into the eyes of the medic as her sobs and tight grip froze. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head leaving only the whites showing as she went limp against his chest. Her eyes slowly shut and her pulse went still. Ten seconds passed. Beat. He felt a light thud against his chest. Slowly she sucked in air and went still again.
"I need assistance NOW!" he roared at his shocked partners.
Within moments Lilly was hooked up to medical a ventilator and carried down the stairs. When they reached the bottom she was lifted onto a stretcher with three more medics surrounding her. Once in the ambulance, they hooked her up to a monitor so they could see the chart of her heartbeat on the white rimmed monitor. On the black screen a single long red line hummed for nine seconds before a quick beep took over and the flat bar shot up for just a moment. Then the hum continued, as if she died and was revived every ten seconds.