View Full Version : A Heartfelt Process.

08-15-2008, 09:59 AM
I deleted the old thread due to this being updated and needing more comments. I'd appreciate it if it was left in Main so it got more comments. Literature section is dead.

NOTE: This is the first chapter. I will probably be able to fit in 5 chapters overall. I need Crit' and just comments in general. I need any small errors to be pointed out, I may have got carried away on parts and made no sense, so let me know everything.
I have cut it into two posts, because it was too long for one.

Chapter 1: The Wake.
So it began. The new era. My brain had begun to process thoughts leading to entrances, exits, possible gaps in any thoery made. I would map out everything I would do in the day before even wanting to. It was all just.. There. I didn't have to think of what to do, I would just do it. Anything and everything. It just happened, I don't remember wanting to, I just remember it happening.
Maybe it hadn't. Maybe I just thought it had, and, was so focused on this that every other thought went unnoticed. The start of a new day, for short.
Ever since I was young, I've always been a thinker. I always did good in school, not perfect, not amazing, not brilliant, but good. I was a noticed worker, my work didn't go without praise. My family were always my best friends, my real best friend was practically part of my family.
I'm 20 years old and live at home with my parents and brother. I have no job and spend 90% of my day doing things that won't affect my being in the real world. The internet. Home to millions of peoples thoughts wrote down.
Do you know, you can find out more on a person through the internet than you could with a talk to them down the pub? Yeah, quite frightening, isn't it?
Ugh, this is every morning for me. I wake up with all of this running through my head.
I should get some breakfast.

I pick my dirty clothes from the floor, the same I wore the day before this, and that. Slide my left leg into my empty jeans, always left leg first. It's just how I do things, I don't think about it, I just do it. It's just there to be done. I believe I've explained.
The right leg shortly follows as I get to me feet and pull the jeans to an accurate point, where I see fit. Straightening my shirt out before I slide it over the remaining naked part of my body, I look toward the clock. 8:19 A.M.
Hm, 2 minutes earlier than the previous morning.
I see myself as something less than the normal human. Their days are fulfilled with acts which lead to them being slightly proud with themselves, yet they're still raged over the things they can't do. Possibly they want to go on holiday, but have a fear of flights. Small things which could be avoided. Boats exist, correct?
I'm raged over the things I can't do, also. I fail to speak to a person without plotting a way of killing them and escaping the inevitable route to my end in a concrete box with a solid steel door, horrified of the actions I see from day to day. I just can't do it, it's become one of those thoughts, as earlier explained, that just happen. I do nothing fulfilling, none of my acts go with praise from myself. Taking action in something would be a nice change, instead of sitting by watching my life wither away, curled in a ball, defending it's face from the true harshness of life.
The clock now reads 8:22 A.M. Speaking to myself has become a large fault. If I ever expect to get anywhere in life I believe I'll need to clear that of my system and become a normal person.
Holding long, well thought conversations with myself, in my life are another thing that just happen. These things are hard to avoid.

Well, moving on. I slowly bring myself to my feet, attempting to avoid that bloodrush. You know, that really annoying dizzy feeling you get as you rise to your feet after being in a laying position for a second too long. Yet the ****ing thing still seems to hit me. The un-avoidable flush over my body almost taking me back down to my feet. Due to the fact I haven't gathered enough energy to walk yet. It will pass.
I walk to my door, dreading the events this day will hold, but everything just happens, just as it should, as it always will. I won't change it, I can't.
My arm, automatically reaching forward, I can't pull it back. I won't try to pull it back, as I just know I can't. The handle as cold as morning frost, tightening to muscles in my fingers. My blood flow doubles towards this part of the body to replace the slow drop of temperature in this certain body part. This quickly heats the handle to an average temperature, leaving it as just a metal feeling of which my fingers are constricting and my palm is tightly pressed against, while I think of the exact bodily actions taking place as I force the handle downwards and push against the handle, thus opening the door. It's like magic. Gravity is just a magic trick of the gods. But, these gods are just a thought of ours, giving the weaker humans hope. No human can live without a belief, a hope, something that gives them reason. It's not possible we're all just here, no, there has to be a reason. Of course there does, it's a fact. But, why 'god'? He makes us look silly. He breaks his own rules. What does that make us look like to the real keepers. I call them keepers, as they keep us here. Keep us alive, keep us content with the world. Well, some of us. The rest are pathetic. But, they are our Keepers.
Now, the weaker beings tend to flow to suicide. Y'see, those who attempt it should succeed. They don't deserve to live, to bring more life into the world. They're too weak to keep their own life going, how could they be allowed to bring up another? That is why I allow myself to still live. I don't want to be another pathetic being. Our race, is weak.

I move towards the stairs, looking down. Not a long flight. I could probably jump down. Infact, I would jump down if it wasn't for my eyes not fully being opened.
I pass the stairs, leaving them to be underneath me for a few moments, into the bathroom. To the mirror and sink. I run the tap and let the water flow for a few seconds. I twist the handle more, creating a stronger, heavier flow. Placing my hand underneath it, quickly joined by the other, collecting all the water I can, I bring my face down and dampen it; then, dampen my hair. Pushing it back, out of my face.
Staring back into the mirror, at my cold exterior. My hair was wavy, and a deep brown. Knotted behind my facial appearance. My face looked fresh, and cleanly shaven. Eyes were a vibrant green, which was apparently odd. I would of said I was handsome looking. I looked like I was real. I had everything that a real person did, apart from the mind.
It was almost as though I created parts of myself during my living. I completed myself a little more with each thought. I wasn't sure on what I was, but I certainly wasn't a complete human.

"A disfigured view was what I had on life."
I loudly exclaimed to my reflection. It, obviously ignoring and carrying on it's work of being nothing but a reflection of a wasted bag of flesh. I should do something. Something that doesn't just... Happen. Something that will change everything, something that will trigger a part of my mind making me a new person, somebody to be thought of, somebody who isn't a wasted bag of flesh, moulded into the character of whome I control.
Turning around looking back at me, to the exact detail of my actions, copying my acts. As though it wants to be me, it tries so hard, to a perfect degree of accuracy, to be real. I wonder, why me? I'm nothing more than you, my reflection. Just the form of a human.
Stepping out of the door, staring down the hallway, looking straight ahead at my brothers room. To the stairs, then down the stairs. Through the downstairs hallway, into the kitchen, directly opposite the door leaving my house to the outside world.
I enter the kitchen.
"Make a drink, hon."
An annoying, whiney voice tells. No. I won't. I ****ing won't.
I'm already filling the kettle. No self control, I need self control. Can I buy self control online?
I place the kettle on the plastic basing and press the trigger down. Initiating the heating process.
My mother, dark haired, slightly chubby, ugly looking woman. Her nose pointed too much, her eyes were practically blocked by the skin between her eyelid and brow. I loathed her. I looked away from the creature in form. Opened the cupboard, looking around the kitchen;
It was small. Not, too small. Fair sized, I'd say. Old fashioned. The table was against the wall, with a walk space between it and the cupboards to the side. The cooker was in the centre, the room was a rectangle shape. The door entered facing the table, which was infront of the window on the opposing end. The cupboard tops were solid wood, fine varnish look to them. The floor was solid concrete slating. All nicely laid out, with a design not worth describing to myself.
Every morning, I do the same. Describe everything to myself. I could sketch out everything in my house, right now, to perfect scale, to perfect detail, to a replica on paper. Without a doubt.
I look back into the cupboard, pull out two mugs, place them on the tray and close the cupboard.
Grabbing the tea bags from the lower cupboard, placing them into the cups.
Tipping sugar into each cup from the bag, no point in using a spoon to dip in and get a measurement, it takes no differing effect either way.
I hear the flush of the toilet and see a man, my hardly elegible father. Entering the room as though he owns all that is inside it. Through the eyes of most people, he does. But, to me, he owned nothing. He traded these for some paper with a print. It doesn't make it his. Not at all.
He has a poorly grown mustache and wasn't well-shaven. His most distinctive facial detail would have to be his mouth. It didn't look real. It look as though it belonged to another person. A younger person. His skin was a shitty, tanned colour. His eyes, a dark blue, hair was dark, although not much of it covered his head, and he was well filled out. Not a weak looking man.
'Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.'
A repeating sound. Over and over. Over and ****ing over. My head began to spin, whilst I looked around for where the clicking came from.
Him. My Father. Clicking the pen he had at hand, whilst staring into the newspaper. 'Click.'
The pens ballpoint, pushed in, pushed out, with each click.
He stopped. He knew what I was thinking of doing.
That's it! Wait... The kettle! It's boiled. Lifting the kettle from the plastic base, pouring the steaming hot liquid inside into the cups.
"Don't make a mess, love."
Exclaims the brittle woman. Not fit for parenting me.
Cups filled to the correct point. Same point as yesterday. A venture into the fridge, taking control over the milk, emptying the contents into the cups, stirring until I achieve a decent coloured liquid, then, using only the spoon which is now in my grasp, I take out the tea bags, in each cup, and throw them into the dustbin. Day-to-day tasks. I need to make a difference in my own life. **** the effects it may take on others. This is a sickening life.

I lift a single cup, place it on the table behind me and take a seat. My inaccurately named 'father' looks up at me and opens his mouth, before any air could enter his mouth, before he even thought of saying what was going to come from his mouth in a few moments, I instantly knew.
"When are you gonna get a job, boy?"
His voice, in a tone above that of the average speaker, grunted in my direction.
"When I ****ing feel like it. Don't call me boy, please."
I reply, with a tone of politeness.
This is when my mother turns around, repeating with exact same words that have just came from his mouth, just simply moving the 'boy' to the start and changing it for 'yeah,'.
That's it.
This. This is it.

I rise to my feet, them still releasing the bone in their jaw, then locking it. Letting words escape their mouth into my ears, which I barely pay attention to. 'Job', 'get a'. Same old, same old. This crap has taken no effect on me for 4 years. I grab the drawer handle, slide open the drawer and stare into the shining cutlery. I wrapped my fingers around the handle of the sharp-looking meat cleaver. My knuckles brush across the metalic covered handle of a close-by butter knife. I turn. Stare at my mother who is now averted her gaze down at the frying pan. All I hear is the sound of the bacon spitting in the pan and my own breath through my nostrils into the cold air. With a few steps, I'm behind my father, sipping the drink which I made. I didn't even get a thank you.
My palm reaches around his head, tilting it back around 35 degress. His throat, my weapons designated area. I bring down the hand holding the meat cleaver, practically waiting in my hand to cleave some meat. I press is against his bristly throat and swipe, like a visa card.
"Don't make a mess, love."
I sigh.
The exact words my mother said to me whilst I made the tea. The spray of blood comes in a rapid movement, splattering against the window, opposite the table my freshly dead father was sat near. My mother, still oblivious. I take a stance. Swiftly jolt forward and stare at my mother. She was a short woman, very short. I'd say about 5'2. Tightening my grip on my now happy cleaver, I slam my fist into her temple, sending the poor woman to the ground. She hits her head against the table corner on her way down, with some force. Releasing a spurt of deep red blood over the table and onto the floor. Dead? Let's make sure. I crouch down and hammer my cleaver into her weak flesh, it quickly splits, emptying her body of even more blood. Content with myself, I move to my brother. He can't know, or can he see my new selfs first work.
I walk out of the room, lifting the matches from the side and put them in my pocket. Why? Not even I know. My mind has taken control. What My body couldn't do, my mind is now doing for me.
Up the stairs, staring down the corridoor. The door was a fine oak textured door, very well made, if I do say so myself. Everything about this house I had been in for 5 years now seems to be... So much more exciting. Could it be that my heart is now pumping blood thrice as fast as it was this morning? My adrenaline is rocketing. I'm about to kill another person. If only John was here, he won't believe this when I tell him.
John was, well, is, my best friend. A 5th family member, in the least. I grew up on the country side, which is my current placing in these events. He lived with his girlfriend around the back, I've only known him 4 years, but when he moved here with his family we got along well, played video games, went into the city, just general fun. Then he moved to america for business. He heard work was easily obtained there, taking his girlfriend with him.

My parents moved here from England when I was 15. I had no friends, but I was close to my family. Which is probably why. I was a nerd, to some. Just a freak, to others. When we got to Germany 5 years ago, I hated everything about it. I can't say I feel any differently as all I do is surf the internet without leaving my home anymore.
Well, today I make a difference in my life.
I thrust my shoulder into the door forcing it open, my cleaver still held remotely tight, in my stiffined, white knuckles. My grip hadn't gotten looser.
I walk over to him, still sleeping.
I whisper.
His eyes closed tight, his hair a mess around his face. It was a dirty blonde colour, and not long, but nor was it short. It was at an odd length.
"Happy Birthday, brother."
I smiled, while I said it with a chuckle.
He looked at me, saw the blood over my face, drenching my clothes. Looked as though I had bathed in a river of streaming humans blood. His eyes now wider than most peoples, no words released from his tightened throat, his mouth must've been dry, his sight still somewhat blurred.
I looked at the clock...
Stating it to myself loudly.
My sight locking onto my brother as he moved.
"You're 11 today."
I laughed to myself.
"It's, I-"
My brother tried talking, but it seems his words were strangled by fear, dying half way through.
I should say something, like, this is a birthday prank, then just start cleaving at him. No, that's not me. I can't do that to my brother.
"It's not my birthday!"
Came a voice, from the boy, who was now on his feet.
"What are you doing?"
He asks.
****ing questions. I hate questions. Why does everybody have a question? Isn't what we have good enough? ****. I'm asking myself questions. Maybe, myself is the problem, which is why, day in, day out; I fail to escape it.
I shout in his face with glee, grabbing his arm with my free hand dragging him down the stairs, towards the kitchen door. Dropping my cleaver on the way.
He stands there. I stand there, now empty handed. But, I grab the solid-looking clock from the shelf beside the door.
My hand pushes the door open ajar. I notice the puddle of blood on the floor, so does my brother.
In a rapid turn, his body taking action over his now frozen mind, runs into me, mouth wide open, ready to scream. Without realising, I raise my arm and clubber it down on his skull. The boy plummets to the ground, bouncing from the floor as gravity tries getting a strong hold on him, so he can't move for my next trick. Gravity is on my side. I follow him, still beating away. The blood squirting around, covering my face. My body seems to be fine about it. I.. I can't help but savour. This is perfect. This is what I wanted. These were just people who did crap for me, like, waste more air, so I couldn't.
I rise to my feet, now somewhat happy with myself. But, this is just the start. I need to see my friend. First, a shower and changing of my clothes is in order.
I enter the kitchen, dig into the pockets of my dead father and pull out dark-tanned leather wallet. Opening it, I see a credit card. I know his pin, I've used it online before.
I repeat to myself, then rush up the stairs into the bathroom, placing the card near the sink and stripping myself of clothing.
Forcing the shower on, with no hesitation, no thoughts, no remorse, no guilt. No pain in my body telling me I've done wrong. This was the right thing to do, obviously.
Maybe I'm crazy? No. They're the crazy ones. Having a god. Not living without these little, hopes. Hopes that they'll get the new job, hopes their soon to be wife will say 'Yes.'
I step into the shower, feeling the water beat down on my leg, burning a little. But, that's alright, I can take the apparent rise in the blood temperature.
I enter my whole body, washing off the events that have just happened. The blood, clearing off my face in haste, as the water purifies me.
If any of those exits, Satan is a lonely guy, for Jesus forgives us on every account. Forgive, and forget. God, he is just a scapegoat, surely. There can't be an explanation for him, there isn't one.

08-15-2008, 10:00 AM
2nd part of 1st chapter..

I've showered long enough. The tap twists easily, closing the valve releasing the water, to stop any flow of water that may want to escape the steel-looking hose above head, to enter the shit-infested sewer. I exit the shower, grab a nearby towel and dry myself thoroughly.
Walk into my room, find some clean clothes, put them on. Left leg first, as always. It always will be that way when I'm in control.
I take a seat on my bed, pull up my jeans, put on some socks. White. Cotton. Swell;
Pulling my shirt over my head, entering one arm in, followed by another on the opposite side, but in the same type of fashion.
My mind, is undefined. It has no meaning, it has no explination. I am alot like this 'God' fellow I dis-like so much, but, I'm real. I have skin, I have a human form. I'm as real as I can be. Not complete, but still real.
Theres alot to a mind. What there is? I'm not a genius. My own mind is hardly a mind. It's more the mind of a mind. It's merely thoughts traced through the comments of others, which in value take a rapid change. 'Others' being what controls the mind. As said, I just do things, things just happen. I can't change it. That's what the keeper of my mind does for me.
I'm dressed. I need the card, and the matches. Taking a short trip to the bathroom to obtain these two items, I noticed how cold it's gotten.
I should, heat this house up.
No. I was never good at humour. That thing doesn't just happen.
I begin to walk down the stairs and out of the back door, down the garden, into the shed. "Congratulations, you've found some oil!"
I state to myself.
This should come in handy. Entering the house again, releasing the contents of this oil canister over the floors, splattering up the walls, in the kitchen. The bacon crisp. Still spitting. Ah, what a mess.
The view of oil mixed with blood is fascinating, the way the two interwind with one another, like they're dancing.
Heh, shame they're going to evaporate and become nothing. Like me.
I throw the canister in the living room, the contents dripping, drenching the carpet. Pull the matches from my pocket, drag one out and press it against the rough exterior of the box, swiping it across creating fire.
I shout, while releasing the match and exiting as quickly as I can.
The door slams behind me, as I walk forward a few paces, inhaling the fresh air, with no hint of death. Smells nice.
The crackling of my families body burning to nothing in my ear. My house was never visited, not noticed by any passerby's. We rarely got mail, so I'd be long gone before they find out.

Chapter 2: The Venture
This is where I died. For real. No joking. You know I can't joke, I can't even pull off the badass jokes involving somebodies end.
Oh, well.
I begin walking, left foot, followed by the right. Inhaling air, exhaling air. Everything I did became slightly more obvious, as though I wasn't on cruise control any more. I had some control over myself, well, morely I had realised I'm alive.

08-15-2008, 10:04 AM
Literature forum.

08-15-2008, 10:08 AM
I'd appreciate it if it was left in Main so it got more comments. Literature section is dead.

Literature forum.

I posted the first few paragraphs there and got 2 comments from the same person.

08-15-2008, 10:42 AM
wow. This reminds me so much of myself, except for te killing my parents part. The way he thinks and feels is so much like me, it's uncanny. This is brilliant. Are you going to finish it? and There are a couple of mistakes, like "I would of" when it should be "I would have" and Sometimes it can be a bit hard to follow, but all in all it's great.

08-15-2008, 11:12 AM
wow. This reminds me so much of myself, except for te killing my parents part. The way he thinks and feels is so much like me, it's uncanny. This is brilliant. Are you going to finish it? and There are a couple of mistakes, like "I would of" when it should be "I would have" and Sometimes it can be a bit hard to follow, but all in all it's great.

Yeah, I noticed some spelling errors and simple mistakes here and there which I should fix. I still haven't read over it yet, to be honest.
I'm trying for the "I understand what he means, but it's complex" thoughts on the character.

I am continuing it, also. It's quite fun.
Moar comments?

08-15-2008, 01:16 PM
Updated it with a few errors being fixed, not all of them, just some small spelling errors and some places where sense was barely made.

Also added the start of chapter 2, before he sets off for America. This'll be all I post for a while now.
Moar Comments.

08-15-2008, 01:27 PM
Literature forum.

Sorry man, the stuffo has a point.

08-15-2008, 03:13 PM
Sorry man, the stuffo has a point.

Eh fair enough.
Can anybody reccomend a site where I'd get good crit' on this?

08-15-2008, 03:23 PM
Try this site:

08-15-2008, 04:16 PM
Try this site:

Cheers .

08-16-2008, 06:09 AM
try writers beat also, and the best i know writingforum.org.
google writing forum.

08-18-2008, 02:25 PM
try writers beat also, and the best i know writingforum.org.
google writing forum.

I googled a few literature forums but not many are that lively.