Monster
Jul 31, 2013 23:42:43 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Jul 31, 2013 23:42:43 GMT -5
Boston, Massachusetts.
The Dorchester neighborhood of Boston is divided into seven sections, named for the seven hills that make up this inner-city neighborhood. 20 Deer Street is located in the Savin Hill neighborhood; colloquially referred to as “Stab 'N Kill” for the high proportion of violent crime in the area. The house on 20 Deer Street is straight out of a 1950s architectural catalog; a double decker with mint green vinyl siding and a hard plastic awning over the doorway. The vinyl siding is cracked, warped and caked in dirt and grime. The second floor windows are shattered from rocks thrown through them. The first floor windows have been covered with rod iron screens, to keep vagrants from sneaking in for shelter. The small yard that surrounds the house is overgrown with weeds and natural vegetation, nearly engulfing a stray red shopping cart, abandoned alongside the cement stoop.
There is no door in the doorway, only two large board of plywood with a notice that reads “NO TRESSPASSING. POLICE TAKE NOTICE.” The boards had, until recently, been nailed in place. But now the makeshift barricade has been left askew, showing the dark emptiness of the house's innards. A large boot-print mars one of the boards, near where its nails were twisted from their hold. No light emanates from the house; there is only the failing sun of twilight and the early flickering of the street lamps.
Inside the house, the wooden floors creak underfoot. Elongated geometric shadows are thrown across the floor as the sunset streams through the uncovered windows and between the bars of the window-grates. There is a staircase in the front hallway that leads to second floor. Each step groans under the strain, as if the house has forgotten how to accept its visitors. A rat scurries from the sounds of the approaching footsteps. Their furtive claws can be heard inside the walls. A faint and patternless white noise.
The first room to the right was once painted baby blue, but what remains of the paint is chipped and worn; colored orange by the setting sun streaming through the shattered window. Shards of glass sit amidst a baseball-sized rock on the floor, half in and half out of the window's outline that stretches across the floor of the small room. In the far corner, at the edge of the orange outline of the window, a man sits with his black combat boots and jean-clad legs splayed out and his head hung low, staring at the tattered remnants of a teddy bear in his hands. Long matted locks of dirty blond hair hang down over the man's face and down to the collar of a black T-shirt. The shirt bears the slogan of Kevin Hardaway - “UNBREAKABLE” - but with a crude slice of duct tape over the letters “BREAK,” and the Sharpie scrawling of “FUCKWITH” in black across the silver tape.
“Home,” he says while rolling the bear's “fur” between his thumbs, “is where the hurt is.”
Malcolm Drake slowly lifts his eyes from the teddy bear in his hands, allowing the strands of his hair to rest haphazardly over his face. The sunlight casts irregular shadows across his features.
“I used to sleep with a teddy bear. When I was little, someone told me that teddy bears protected good little boys from any demons or monsters hiding under their beds. So that when good little boys went to sleep at night, they wouldn't have to worry about the monsters getting them.”
Drake's head stays up, but his gaze slowly falls back down to the bear.
“Unfortunately, they can't protect you from the monsters that don't live under the bed. The ones that lurk in the shadows, the ones that move in the darkness, or the ones that live... across the hall. And while the powers of a young boy's stuffed toy are fabrications and LIES... the monsters and the demons are very, VERY real.”
Drake tucks his legs underneath himself, sitting cross-legged, as he slowly starts to rock back and forth with the bear still firmly in his grasp. Drake's voice is a whimper; child-like and quivering.
“You know I TRY. I try and I try to keep them inside me. But sometimes they get OUT. Sometimes they're too strong for me, and they escape and they have their fun and they make me watch it. There's so many of them... There are SO MANY demons. And sometimes they're quiet and sometimes they're LOUD and SCREAMING and nothing will make them SHUT UP!”
Drake's rocking becomes more vigorous and agitated.
“Sometimes I do all I can to keep them inside,” he says before violently striking himself in the forehead with his right fist, “Sometimes I try to HURT them. To make them go away. But it doesn't work... Ouchie... And sometimes... Sometimes I don't try to stop them. Sometimes they make me do things, bad things... and I... ENJOY it.”
A smirk slices across the lips of Drake. The rocking stops. He begins stroking the bear's head like the hair of a small child.
“Sometimes they say, 'Malcolm, look how PRETTY she is. Look at her neck, Malcolm. Can't you see it? Can't you see your hands pressed around that pretty little neck? Can't you see the blood blistering under the pressure from your fingertips? Can't you see her face turning red, then purple, then blue as you deprive her of oxygen? Can't you see the look in her eyes, Malcolm? The begging. The pleading. The FEAR. Go touch her, Malcolm. Go TOUCH her.' And sometimes I do. Sometimes you have to let the demons OUT. Sometimes they have to PLAY. Sometimes... I like to destroy something beautiful.”
Drake smacks his lips together loudly before letting out a sigh.
“Oh the things they're saying about you, Ms. Evangelista, and you, Ms. Hardy. I can feel the anticipation coursing through me, in my blood. I see you two and I think how pretty that pale British skin would look riddled with bruises. I think of your soft skin and the breakable bones underneath. I hear the sounds of arms snapping, shoulders popping, legs breaking. And the screaming. The wonderful, WONDEFUL screaming. Hmmmm. Some men... they fight for their accolades and their championships and their PRIDE. They want to see how many titles they can accumulate. Me? I look at you two and I don't think about the Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship or how many titles you've won. I think about how many teeth you have, and how I can KNOCK them down your THROATS. I think of the hairs on your heads and how much scalp I can RIP OUT when I drag you around the ring by those pretty locks.”
Drake smirks.
“And I'm sure Ms. Hardy will be all bluster and bad attitude, talking about her hardcore pedigree and how she loves a good fight. I can't wait to hear it. I LOVE good foreplay. I love a woman who puts up a FIGHT... However brief it may last. So fight. Struggle. Resist. It will only make it all the more savory when you go limp in my hands.”
At the mention of hands, Drake's eyes fall again to the toy resting between his hands. He stares at the mangy, tattered bear for a long moment, silent. Outside the sun sets, casting the room into a final darkness. Drake's body remains unmoving in the shadows. He whispers.
“Monsters are real. I should know... I'm one of them.”
“Memento mori.”
The Dorchester neighborhood of Boston is divided into seven sections, named for the seven hills that make up this inner-city neighborhood. 20 Deer Street is located in the Savin Hill neighborhood; colloquially referred to as “Stab 'N Kill” for the high proportion of violent crime in the area. The house on 20 Deer Street is straight out of a 1950s architectural catalog; a double decker with mint green vinyl siding and a hard plastic awning over the doorway. The vinyl siding is cracked, warped and caked in dirt and grime. The second floor windows are shattered from rocks thrown through them. The first floor windows have been covered with rod iron screens, to keep vagrants from sneaking in for shelter. The small yard that surrounds the house is overgrown with weeds and natural vegetation, nearly engulfing a stray red shopping cart, abandoned alongside the cement stoop.
There is no door in the doorway, only two large board of plywood with a notice that reads “NO TRESSPASSING. POLICE TAKE NOTICE.” The boards had, until recently, been nailed in place. But now the makeshift barricade has been left askew, showing the dark emptiness of the house's innards. A large boot-print mars one of the boards, near where its nails were twisted from their hold. No light emanates from the house; there is only the failing sun of twilight and the early flickering of the street lamps.
Inside the house, the wooden floors creak underfoot. Elongated geometric shadows are thrown across the floor as the sunset streams through the uncovered windows and between the bars of the window-grates. There is a staircase in the front hallway that leads to second floor. Each step groans under the strain, as if the house has forgotten how to accept its visitors. A rat scurries from the sounds of the approaching footsteps. Their furtive claws can be heard inside the walls. A faint and patternless white noise.
The first room to the right was once painted baby blue, but what remains of the paint is chipped and worn; colored orange by the setting sun streaming through the shattered window. Shards of glass sit amidst a baseball-sized rock on the floor, half in and half out of the window's outline that stretches across the floor of the small room. In the far corner, at the edge of the orange outline of the window, a man sits with his black combat boots and jean-clad legs splayed out and his head hung low, staring at the tattered remnants of a teddy bear in his hands. Long matted locks of dirty blond hair hang down over the man's face and down to the collar of a black T-shirt. The shirt bears the slogan of Kevin Hardaway - “UNBREAKABLE” - but with a crude slice of duct tape over the letters “BREAK,” and the Sharpie scrawling of “FUCKWITH” in black across the silver tape.
“Home,” he says while rolling the bear's “fur” between his thumbs, “is where the hurt is.”
Malcolm Drake slowly lifts his eyes from the teddy bear in his hands, allowing the strands of his hair to rest haphazardly over his face. The sunlight casts irregular shadows across his features.
“I used to sleep with a teddy bear. When I was little, someone told me that teddy bears protected good little boys from any demons or monsters hiding under their beds. So that when good little boys went to sleep at night, they wouldn't have to worry about the monsters getting them.”
Drake's head stays up, but his gaze slowly falls back down to the bear.
“Unfortunately, they can't protect you from the monsters that don't live under the bed. The ones that lurk in the shadows, the ones that move in the darkness, or the ones that live... across the hall. And while the powers of a young boy's stuffed toy are fabrications and LIES... the monsters and the demons are very, VERY real.”
Drake tucks his legs underneath himself, sitting cross-legged, as he slowly starts to rock back and forth with the bear still firmly in his grasp. Drake's voice is a whimper; child-like and quivering.
“You know I TRY. I try and I try to keep them inside me. But sometimes they get OUT. Sometimes they're too strong for me, and they escape and they have their fun and they make me watch it. There's so many of them... There are SO MANY demons. And sometimes they're quiet and sometimes they're LOUD and SCREAMING and nothing will make them SHUT UP!”
Drake's rocking becomes more vigorous and agitated.
“Sometimes I do all I can to keep them inside,” he says before violently striking himself in the forehead with his right fist, “Sometimes I try to HURT them. To make them go away. But it doesn't work... Ouchie... And sometimes... Sometimes I don't try to stop them. Sometimes they make me do things, bad things... and I... ENJOY it.”
A smirk slices across the lips of Drake. The rocking stops. He begins stroking the bear's head like the hair of a small child.
“Sometimes they say, 'Malcolm, look how PRETTY she is. Look at her neck, Malcolm. Can't you see it? Can't you see your hands pressed around that pretty little neck? Can't you see the blood blistering under the pressure from your fingertips? Can't you see her face turning red, then purple, then blue as you deprive her of oxygen? Can't you see the look in her eyes, Malcolm? The begging. The pleading. The FEAR. Go touch her, Malcolm. Go TOUCH her.' And sometimes I do. Sometimes you have to let the demons OUT. Sometimes they have to PLAY. Sometimes... I like to destroy something beautiful.”
Drake smacks his lips together loudly before letting out a sigh.
“Oh the things they're saying about you, Ms. Evangelista, and you, Ms. Hardy. I can feel the anticipation coursing through me, in my blood. I see you two and I think how pretty that pale British skin would look riddled with bruises. I think of your soft skin and the breakable bones underneath. I hear the sounds of arms snapping, shoulders popping, legs breaking. And the screaming. The wonderful, WONDEFUL screaming. Hmmmm. Some men... they fight for their accolades and their championships and their PRIDE. They want to see how many titles they can accumulate. Me? I look at you two and I don't think about the Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship or how many titles you've won. I think about how many teeth you have, and how I can KNOCK them down your THROATS. I think of the hairs on your heads and how much scalp I can RIP OUT when I drag you around the ring by those pretty locks.”
Drake smirks.
“And I'm sure Ms. Hardy will be all bluster and bad attitude, talking about her hardcore pedigree and how she loves a good fight. I can't wait to hear it. I LOVE good foreplay. I love a woman who puts up a FIGHT... However brief it may last. So fight. Struggle. Resist. It will only make it all the more savory when you go limp in my hands.”
At the mention of hands, Drake's eyes fall again to the toy resting between his hands. He stares at the mangy, tattered bear for a long moment, silent. Outside the sun sets, casting the room into a final darkness. Drake's body remains unmoving in the shadows. He whispers.
“Monsters are real. I should know... I'm one of them.”
“Memento mori.”