Feel Read online

  Feel

  Stephen Craig

  Michael is a troubled individual. Feeling different all of his life he has listened to the voices in the shadows and lived exactly as he pleased. No pity, no regret, no concern for other people; in fact the only emotion he values is pain and there is a pain in being alive.

  Stephen Craig

  FEEL

  Sin, guilt, neurosis; they are one and the same, the fruit of the tree of knowledge.

  Henry Miller

  Outside in the land of the living, the storm had finally begun. Weeks of endlessly sapping heat that remained as a constant at night had now been confronted by a cold front. Clouds had gathered to watch electricity dance down towards the earths skin and booming claps accompanied to show their joyful appreciation.

  The rain battered relentlessly against the glass of his bay window where he sat watching the chaotic patterns of water being lured downwards by gravity and forming into puddles on the driveway outside. His knuckles were white from where they were clenched tightly and he held the base of his index finger in his mouth – applying pressure with his front teeth.

  So much pressure that an imprint was visible once he had finally released the grip, the tooth marks remained – as too did his mood which was black to the world around him. Hatred, discontent, all existed within him and without him.

  He held the anger inside so much they he almost wanted to explode. Even so, for as much that he burned inside – he wanted to stamp on the heads of those people that whispered at him from the shadows.

  They had been with him for as long as he could remember. The Voices. They taunted him and mocked him for his cowardice. They laughed at him for being so very pathetic and yet these shadowed voices remained with him even when the people around him left him behind.

  Alone? Yes, he was alone and Michael had felt like an outsider ever since a very young age; certainly different to the pathetic lemmings of society that he had been forced to grow up with. He hated them for trying to break his will and change him into something that he was not, all of the tablets and therapists in the world could not change his nature. He was Michael Broadstone.

  * * *

  At eight, years of age, his nature was already developing. Following a disagreement with Gary, the obnoxious child from next door, he had stolen the boys pet kitten. One month old, black with green eyes, people had ‘cooed’ over it and said it was beautiful and adorable. He broke its legs and threw it into a bucket of water. To make double sure that it drowned, he put another bucket on top.

  He did not feel any pity for Gary’s tears when ‘Pixie’ had been discovered and they had needed to move after that.

  * * *

  By twelve years of age he had started to cut himself. He did not want to die and at that age he did not really have a full concept of ‘death’, but he knew that the pain from a blade always made him feel alive. The more he cut, the more ‘real’ he felt – pain became his drug. His desire, his need, his want. His arms were scarred as if somebody had used his skin to produce a tally chart.

  * * *

  At sixteen he lost his virginity to a woman that was much older than him. Wiser perhaps, but certainly not compliant to the act that was forced upon her. Numbed by detomidine that he had purchased in a pub, she was oblivious to the depravity he carried out. She never knew how tempted he had been to put his hands around her neck and squeeze the life away from her. Power. He had it in his mind – along with a God-given right to do whatsoever he wanted.

  The authorities had not quite seen it that way and he had been extremely fortunate only to get a short custodial sentence. Four years out in two.

  He had been nothing but meat to the inmates in there and he had spent the years broken, battered and sore.

  * * *

  By eighteen, his family, now sickened by his maladaptive and destructive behaviour had fully disowned him. They claimed to have put up with years of his abuse, aggression and mood-swings but he knew that it was they who had abandoned him. They had turned their backs on their ‘blood’ – his own parents had turned their faces from the seed of their creation.

  They were weak and they had deserved the death they got. A car, a fire, tortured screams and the pops and cracks of melting glass before a beautiful explosion. An accident? The authorities said so, but he knew different. He had filmed it all on his camera phone, but that was only for his own personal pleasure.

  The thought brought a rare smile to his face and he grunted a little as he tried to stifle down a deep laugh.

  * * *

  He looked down at the table in front of him which was bare of content except for three things. There was a line of white powder that was undoubtedly cocaine, a solitary razor blade and a long piece of black braided rope – onto which the end of, he had already formed a running bowline. With no prior experience and from information he had only gleaned from a book, the layman’s noose had been partially completed an hour ago.

  That was long before the rain had started.

  He got out of his seat and knelt down besides the table and over the line of cocaine. In a controlled fashion, he rolled up a note from his wallet and covering one nasal passage and then another, he snorted the line until all that was left were fine particles.

  He breathed in deeply and his nose burned a little. Eyes widening and in deep thought, he considered all of the wrongs that people had done to him. The betrayal, the disloyalty. The people who had wronged him and told him that he was out of his mind.

  The voices from the shadows were true though, they were real and he could hear them talking. He listened hard to make out what they were saying.

  ‘Kill me’.

  ‘Kill you’.

  ‘You kill’.

  ‘We kill’.

  ‘Kill them’.

  ‘Kill us’.

  ‘We die’.

  ‘You die…’.

  The voices had merged and echoed and repeated themselves. He had listened and heard it all as he had done thousands of times before. Perhaps it was time to take their advice? Perhaps it was time to remove them from the shadows? What was the last part they had said? ‘We die, you die’?

  Maybe there was something that he could do.

  * * *

  He reached down and collected the razor blade from the table, then he picked up the rope. He walked up the stairs, counting them – thirteen and secured the end of the rope around the banister from the galley landing so that the noose rocked back and forth in the living space below.

  He walked back down the stairs and judging the height to be correct, he placed a chair under the noose. For some reason, he decided that it was proper to remove his shoes before climbing up and he revealed socks with holes in, just like his character.

  Thick yellow nails protruded as he stood on the chair and he placed the rope around his neck, tightening the knot a little. For minutes he stood in contemplation before reaching into his pocket for the shaving blade. Steel between finger-tips, he felt the metal scrape against his wrists and the sudden pressure and release of blood. He turned his head upwards and screamed at the top of his voice. Pain was his reward and pleasure.

  He became aware the blood was dripping and looked down at his damaged wrists. So much blood over the years, so many scars. It was surprising that he had any more to bleed out. Without a second thought, he edged a foot to the side of the chair and raising his left, used his right to kick it over.

  He felt the tightness around his neck and was aware that he could not breathe. He had thought that there would have been a quick crack and his neck might break to end it quickly, but he had not planned it out that carefully and the fall was not enough. His end was going to be slow, painful and panicked.

  As he hung there, deciding that he did not really want to die, his bloo
ded fingers grasped and slipped around a knot that he could not loosen. Blood ran down his elbows and pooled below him. Oxygen was being denied and through blackness, the shadows, were coming. The Voices were calling him to them but he did not want to go. Alone in a house with no friends or family to call in and save him, he finally did feel something that was unique and a tear came to his eye.

  He died with a purple face, gasping and convulsing in his own piteous regret.

  ###

  About the author

  Stephen lives in England with his wife. Following a re-evaluation of his life goals, he looked to establish a career through his writing and has published several e-stories. Along with his like for horror, he is currently working on the first in a series of fantasy stories and he hopes that you take as much enjoyment from his work as he does in creating it.

  With your support, he hopes to make his writing dreams come true.

  Connect with me online

  [email protected]

  http://www.stephencraigauthor.wordpress.com

  http://www.facebook.com/pages/Stephen-Craig/567151849971213

  Twitter: @stephencraig74

  Also by the same author

  Blooded Eyes

  Grim Reaping

  Who Killed Bob?

  The Drowning of the Innocents

  Coming Soon in 2013:

  Falling Through the Rainbow

  Flash Fiction:

  Symbiote

  The Tortured Clouds of Kh’all

  The Omnipotence Paradox

  Glue

  Dead Ted

  The Last Step

  Cream Of Volition

  The Reaping Rewards

  Road Kill And Everything In-Between

  Feel

  Available for download from www.smashwords.com

  COMING IN 2013

  FALLING THROUGH THE RAINBOW

  by Stephen Craig

  Prologue: Black

  Night had fallen over the God forsaken city and below, where people searched for the slightest glimmer of hope, chaos existed only to consume their dreams. The poverty here was the worst that had been experienced for many years and crime was rife. Law and justice struggled to control the overwhelming blackness that devoured the hearts of the innocent. In walking the streets below, those rotten, squalid streets, it would be extremely difficult to believe that innocence could even exist here. But it did. In small cracks and pockets, light could be found. In a perverse balance to this and allowing for the depravity that was abundant, there was also a malevolent cancer that ate away at the depths of society. An abhorrent presence that simmered in the despair and self-loathing of mankind. This canker existed in man.

  One man in particular sat alone in his own squalor, alone in a dirty little room where the smell of drainage lingered. He closed his eyes momentarily and mouthed a silent mantra before opening them to look down at his hands. In the darkness of this dimly lit room, he sat holding the thin strips of flesh, soggy and bereft of form, between his fingers. He was watching them with great interest. They seemed to move constantly within themselves, rippling like tender waves upon an expansive ocean. They danced as though with a mind of their own. Instinctively, he cupped his hands together around the prize and drew them towards his face. Towards his nose, where he inhaled deeply to savour every possible sensory pleasure. His eyes flashed open, widely, magnetism to all light, pulling in the messengers that would define his surroundings. Moving the skin in circular motions, he felt his arousal building, building to a blissful crescendo. Building upwards, almost to the verge of ecstatic release. He stopped himself and breathed heavily. There could be nothing possibly beyond this moment. Beyond this taste. The man bit his lip hard, bit until he felt warm blood running down his chin. Listening. Listening with intensity for the contact. The crash of the droplets hitting the floor, like a cymbal being struck with a hammer. All senses were heightened. Sight. Sound. Smell. Taste. The taste of his own blood was exquisite.

  Getting up from his knees he walked over to the table in the centre of the room, upon which rested an old wooden box, cracked and warped like his mind. He raised the creaking lid slowly and reached in to hold the contents in both hands. In his left a paintbrush and in his right, a knife.

  * * *

  ‘Black coffee’ he called to the waitress.

  ‘I’ll bring it over to you’.

  Richard Grain walked over to the grim table with its plastic tablecloth and sat down. As he pulled in his seat, his hand grazed the underside of the table and he could feel some dried chewing gum stuck in the place where one of the previously cultured cliental had obviously sat. He hoped it was chewing gum.

  The waitress brought over a large mug of coffee.

  ‘let me know if you want food or a top up when you are ready’.

  ‘I will, thanks’. As the waitress walked off he looked out of the window and picked up the laminated menu on the table. It was sticky.

  Outside, it was raining heavily. A depressing rain that had been falling constantly for what seemed like days. In places, the storm drains were backing up in their impotence to control the downfall. Sitting here, he could feel the dampness of his clothing. If he did not get ill from this wretched weather, he would not get ill from anything. He took a sip of the bitter black coffee and looked down at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. He waited.

  * * *

  The man walked over to the corner of his room and pulled a discoloured dust cover from a pile on the floor. He revealed a large amount of paint cans, some which had been previously opened and had dried streaks down the side, others were new and unopened. Reaching down, he picked up a can and a screwdriver that was lying on the floor and carried them over to the table. By the window there was something else covered by a sheet. Removing this he revealed a stained wooden easel, upon which rested a large canvas. A work in progress. HIS work in progress. He looked out of the window at the rain that pounded against the glass and watched the intricate patterns that ran down the outer pane. He stood in thought, mesmerised by the beauty in the droplets dancing on the glass, then turned his attention back to the canvas.

  Moving across to the table he picked up a ceramic saucer that he liked to use to mix his paints upon. He prised open the tin of paint with the screwdriver and stirred the contents, of which he then poured an amount into the saucer. Next, he picked up the knife and examined the sharp blade. Satisfied, he rolled up his sleeve and ran the knife along the side of his arm, watching the blood trickle down his flesh, over his wrist and through his fingers. It dripped from the end of his fingertips and landed in droplets into the paint on the saucer. After a while, the man reached under the table and picked up a dirty bloodstained towel and wrapped it around his arm. He picked up the saucer and paintbrush then went to his easel. With a smile on his face, he dipped the brush into the mixture and began to apply it to the canvas.

  * * *

  Richard had been sitting there for twenty minutes and he looked again at his watch. Doesn’t look like she is coming. He thought to himself.

  ‘More coffee’? The waitress spoke.

  ‘Please’. She filled up his mug.

  ‘Any food’?

  ‘No thanks, I’m just waiting for somebody’. He turned back to the window.

  The waitress walked off towards the kitchens and he was aware of the clattering of pans and distant voices.

  The bell above the café door sounded as the door itself was opened and a woman walked in. She put down her umbrella and gave it a good shake. Unbuttoning her coat, she looked around the café and saw him sitting at a table. He was looking through the window but suddenly became aware of her reflection in the glass as she sat down.

  ‘Hello Richard, I wasn’t sure if you would still be here’.

  * * *

  The paintbrush moved with silent vigour across the canvas. He was painting from memory and at this moment his eyes were ablaze. All things come from something he thought to himself. Blood had soaked through
the towel and dripped a little from his upturned elbow. He finished for a moment and stood back to admire his progression. This work of art was coming alive from life itself. Ironic then that the life that he had used so far was now dead. The forms were all there, his vision was being created as he went along, but he wasn’t quite sure about something. It was a small irk and he could not quite put his finger on what it needed, what he wanted. He walked over to a chair near the table and sat down. Here, he closed his eyes and began to remember, to think about his artistic progression. In this place he could remember the voices, the screams, the smells and the silence of death. Lifeless forms that had become his inspiration, that had given him the materials to produce. He could see the skin on the table and picked it up again.

  ‘Materials’ he spoke with a smile.

  * * *

  ‘I didn’t think you were going to turn up’. Richard spoke.

  ‘I almost didn’t, the weather is awful and my cab was late’.

  ‘But you did’. He smiled

  ‘But I did’. She reached across the table and stroked the back of his hand with a tender finger.

  ‘I’m sorry, Joanna’ he looked up from the finger on his hand to her face. ‘I wish we hadn’t argued. It’s just…work. I felt so stressed. I have been working non-stop trying to…’

  ‘I know’ she interrupted him and touched the finger to his lips. ‘Let us not talk about it now’.

  ‘I miss you’. He closed his eyes.

  ‘I miss you too’. She gripped his hand in hers.

  The waitress walked over.

  ‘Would you like a drink’?

  ‘Yes. I’ll have a coffee please’ Joanna said, ‘black’.

  ‘Any food’?

  ‘No thanks’. She smiled at the woman.