Author has written 14 stories for Life, Love, General, Song, Action, Spiritual, General, and Horror.
-Stuff About Me-
Name- KATY!! (yes a Y!!!) Y PEOPLE Y!!! remember that...I get angry ^_^
Sex- Female (Naw...really?)
School- Middle School (8th grade)
About my writings- Writing just kind of comes to me...I dunno. It's weird. When I have an idea for a story, I have to sit down and write at least the first chapter, Beginning to End, or I lose intrest. (Same thing happens when I leave it alone for too long) Reminds me...I really need to write more for Admist the Trees...Whoops XD
O, and this is the first time i've updated even my profile in a while, because with School and All I've been SO BUSY. I haven't had time for even my writings. Which will always be number 1 on my list. (or at least i try to put them there.) but oo you wait until summer. My goal is at least 1 chapter a week.
I love this site, and i love writing to much to give it up to the stress of school. -_-
So very sad *tear*
Forever On My Hands
It all started with a name. My name. Every time somebody makes fun of my name, it makes me mad--and I guess this time it just made me mad, as in crazy. My name is Leslie Leslie Leslie. No kidding! Wouldn't you go mad with a name like that?
I couldn't escape it no matter how I tried, someone always found a way to mutate whatever name I chose to call myself into some kind of invective. I tried the truth, but everybody said Leslie was a girl's name. So I changed it to Les, and that produced such phrases as "Les is less," "Les Calories," and a whole slew more. Recently I've changed it to L. L. You think that one would be safe, wouldn't you?
"Hey L.L. Bean, what ya selling today from your catalog."
I tried to ignore him, you see. I tried to just walk right on by him, but I guess the Fates wanted me to trip onto the path I find myself on now. The "him" in question was a mountain of a boy. He was also a Freshman, but he acted as if he were a Senior, which prompted the true Seniors to beat him up or place him in some kind of embarrassing situation.
He was as tall as he was wide, so that he was almost a perfect egg- shape. His big fat close-shaven head barely had a neck to keep it separated from the rest of his body. The hair was a washed-out blond practically devoid of color, his eyes were small dark evil things that sat on their haunches above his blob of a nose ready to pounce on anybody they determined to be inferior to them. His mouth was as full as a supermodel's while his cheeks threatened to hang like a dog's jowls beside his chin.
So, anyway, as I was saying, I was ignoring him and passing him when he stopped me with an outstretched hunk of ham he called an arm. His balloon of a hand pressed firmly into my chest, not only stopping me but also pushing me back a few steps.
"Hey, Beanie! Did I give you permission to leave? I don't think I did. If I did, I think I would have remembered, don't you?"
I was more tired than angry at this point, so I just said, Sure, in a calm unshaken voice. It was the end of the day, Friday. I had already had an awful day to this point that I would rather not go into, and I just wanted to get through this obstacle and hope it was the last one and wouldn't last long. I had no idea what was about to occur--but how could I have? I'm no Seer or what ever they call those Future-Seeing Types.
I stood there with my back pack slung over my right shoulder, staring into the twin black holes that were trapped in Ben Stonestreet's eyes like onyx stones embedded in some evil cult's idol. The slight irritation I felt must have been written all over my face like a short story, because it didn't seem like Ben was ready to let me go yet. Perhaps it was when I yawned that I transferred my emotion to him, because his eyebrows suddenly bent downward pulling folds of skin helplessly near those greedy eyes of his and he swung his other arm to knock my backpack off my shoulder. Then he did a stupid thing.he smiled and said "You dropped your back pack, Leslie."
I don't know how he knew my real name. Perhaps he didn't, maybe he was only using the most derisive "L" name his 15-watt-light-bulb of a brain could spark into thought. Whatever the truth was, it didn't matter. He chose the wrong place and time to piss me off. He was only slightly taller then me, although I was skinnier. I had been working out after school, and I felt it was the time to test out the new equipment, I suppose; because I reared back and punched him in the face with my full weight behind my blow.
Before his head even had time to come back forward from the shock of the blow, I threw my other fist deep into his gut. He grunted as I easily penetrated his "padding" and he staggered back a step. I guess he was so shocked at such an obvious inferior's show of not-so-inferior force that he didn't have time to collect himself or defend himself. That's right, I put him on the defensive instead of the offensive--and that must have been new to him. He knew all about being offensive (in all definitions of the word), but had had no practice at defense.
I, on the other hand, was just the opposite; but I was tried of being the brunt of everyone's jokes. Ben made a few feeble attempts to swing at me, but they were wild and slow arm movements that I easily ducked. That was another advantage of mine, I was quick. I now used my quickness to throw both fists into Ben's gut like pistons moving in a car going at least 45 miles per hour. He kept groaning and staggering backwards. I have no idea when I finally stopped. Time had no meaning to me as I found an outlet for my anger that was too sweet to ignore, and was pushed on by the cheers of the crowd of peers that had suddenly appeared around us as quickly as if by the magic words uttered by a powerful prestidigitator.
My last punch hit his nose, and it popped like a water balloon. Blood flew out in all directions and some landed on my swiftly departing fist of destruction. I don't even remember many details of what happened next. I picked up my backpack while hands smacked on my back congratulating me. There were a few female voices filled with adoration, and the males' were filled with awe as well as a little fear and a lot more respect.
I felt as if electricity had replaced blood in my veins as I floated through the hall like a heavy-footed ghost. My stomach was filled with what filled like boiling water. I felt such a mix of emotions that my heart might as well be a fruit cake.
I guess I made it home all right in my car. I don't remember any of the trip, so I have no idea how I got to my house without running any red lights or getting into any accidents. I guess I was on auto pilot as my mind chocked on it's own vomit of thought.
When I got home, my dad was still at work and my mom wasn't there; then I remember where they really are. They are in the Bahamas, and they were both frank in their reasons for leaving me behind.
My dad was in the Military and reminded me every damn day that he "fought in the heat and sand of Desert Storm while you were still young enough for your poor mother to wipe you." He was an jerk, if such a simplification can be allowed. Him with his stupid pseudo-cool crew cut and his bristling arms that you would never best and his quick temper and flying fists. I just realized that Ben's hair is like my dad's. Perhaps that's why I felt so good while I hit him, and why I didn't ever want to stop.
He was in Desert Storm while my mom was in the hospital attempting to purge me from her body. My mom was almost delirious from exhaustion when they asked her for my name. When she was asked for a first name, she thought they said last name. When they asked if she wanted to give me a middle name, she misunderstood and repeated her last name.
My name pissed my dad off, he came after her like a hornet. Was this some kind of sick joke, he asked my mother before back-handing her, hard. How could you give my son such a sissy name, he asked before he pushed her onto the stove. She fell onto it and knocked off the kettle of boiling water and her hand fell on into the burning gas. She yelped with pain and managed to get off it. She ducked another blow, ran off and scooped me off the floor where I was crying and ran out the back door. I guess I got my quickness from her.
She should have kept running, but my father yelled after her that he would be really mad if she didn't come back and fix him dinner in the next hour, he would find her and really let her have it. She made the mistake of telling me this story when I was old enough to remember it, and I have never forgiven her for not leaving him. But every time she thought of leaving, he would either threaten her or throw sugar onto her.this trip was one of his latter tricks.
So I was home alone with my pain and anger. The first thing I did was go in the bathroom to wash Ben's blood off me. I decided to take a shower to make sure the coppery smell of someone else's blood was completely off of me. I scrubbed my skin with soap to make the red splotches disappear, washed my hair to make sure none was up there. I got out, dried myself, and walked naked to my room to put on new clothes.
The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully. I went bar-hopping with a few of my male friends and the alcohol drowned my thoughts of Friday. Too soon Monday reared its ugly head, and I returned to school.
In the hall throughout the day, people were whispering and changing subjects as soon as I got near them. I felt like I was in a dream because nothing seemed to make logical "sense", everything seemed to reflect the ultra-reality that is the backbone to all nocturnal musings. Finally at the end of the day, my last teacher gently pulled me aside and told me quietly that the principal wanted to see me. I still thought I was dreaming, so I didn't question the reasons. I just sleepwalked my way to the principal's office.
This must be a dream, I tried to tell myself then; but I knew that it was real--still it felt so strange. Just like a dream I was neither in control nor was I helpless. I just was. I followed cues like an actor-- reading my lines as if they were my own words, doing things as if I had just thought of them myself.
When I got to the Principal's office, he told me a lot of things. He told me too many things. He asked why I had gotten in a fight with Ben Friday. If I were more alert and in a bad mood, I would have said "I'm sorry, but I don't know anyone named Ben Friday, but I think there is someone here named Ben Stonestreet," but I didn't. Instead, I told him the truth.
He told me he understood that Ben was a bully, and that such a response as I had made always happened to bullies sooner or later, but he asked me if such violence was really necessary. I said that I thought it was at the time. Then he asked me if I wanted to sit down. He reminded me of a cross between that bald guy on Mork and Mindy and the bald military guy on Stephen King's Golden Years , except his temperament reminded me more of my father--pretending to be your friend as he prepared you for the kill I told him I was already sitting. He said Oh. Then he told me something that really had me doubting reality.
"You haven't seen Ben today, have you." It wasn't really a question.
"Do you know why?"
"Because he finally learned his lesson?"
"No, because he's dead."
This hit me like a rocket. I sat up in my chair as my blood rushed adrenaline into my now quickly beating heart. It sounded like the punch line for a tasteless joke--like the time when some one asked me if I knew what happened to the space shuttle Challenger. I said no, and they said "It blew up." Only later when I finally saw the recorded image of the ship exploding in mid-air for the second time did I fully understand. So, I thought that there was no way the principal could have said what he had just said, but he did.and it was about to get worse.
"What do you mean he's dead."
"Just what you think it means--he's dead."
I swallowed something that felt like a cactus before I asked the next question. I know I told you before that I wasn't a Gypsy, but somehow this time I knew what he was going to say before he said it.
"How did he die?"
"Funny you should ask me that question, because I was just about to tell you. He died because his appendix burst. He's already been through the coroner--do you want to know what she said?"
I didn't give him an answer. He didn't need one. My head felt like a hot air balloon--hot and light. It seemed to pulse in time with my heart, pounding audibly in my ears. My stomach felt like a cannon ball.
"She said that he already must have had an inflamed appendix, and that only a series of severe blows to the stomach area could have made it burst. The infectious slime from his appendix flew all over his other internal organs." Here I saw his nose burst and blood fly in all directions, and my stomach tried to hitch, but the cannon ball it had become made it so so heavy! "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
I did, but I couldn't face it. I felt like I was going to throw up, but I still managed to push myself out of the chair so fast that it tipped over. Then I quickly ran out of the room with the principal calling after me. I didn't stop. I ran straight to the bathroom. I leaned over the sink and threw up. Then, I looked at my self in the mirror.
I saw without believing. I looked so pale. Then I was so ashamed of myself, that I looked down. As fate would have it, I looked down to see my hands gripping the sink's sides. My god, my hands! My hands were still bloody from the fight with Ben. So, I moved over to the next basin and washed them. I looked at them and the blood spontaneously reappeared on my hands as if by magic. Again I washed my hands, and again the blood reappeared.
I kept doing this even when the principal came storming into the bathroom. He tried to pull me away from the sink but I held onto the basin for as long as I could; which wasn't long at all because my hands were wet and slick with soap and blood. In the back of my mind, I wondered at his hypocrisy. I thought he said violence wasn't necessary? But violence was all I knew, taught all about it by my father. Violence gets you things that you want. And here the principal was using this principle against me.
But right then I was babbling "I've got to wash it off, but it won't come off, Ben's blood won't come off my hands, I've got to stay here and wash my hands until it comes off!"
Now I find my self here, in this place full of mild weirdoes and other crazies. I hear them call my name, but this time I don't react--I know what I did last time I reacted against the sound of my own name. They also call me an Obsessive-Compulsive and something else I never quite catch.
Right now I think about what happened to me in another life as I count the times that the soap is turned in my hands. Twenty turns, and then I rinse them. Fifteen minutes later, its the same action, but not necessarily the same thought. This is the only thing that washes the blood off temporarily--for about fifteen minutes. I try to never again think of the story I just recalled. For now, I will pretend it was only a dream. For now, it never happened.
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FLAMES SHALL BE USED TO ROAST MARSHMALLOWS *evil grin*