Fan Fiction ❯ Your Place on My Wall ❯ Your Place on My Wall ( One-Shot )

Your Place on My Wall -

 

Silence: my biggest fear. Is it adversary because of its nature or the way it suddenly creeps out of the night like a shadow at the rise of the sun? I am none the wiser than are you, yet it is a fear I should be accustomed with; it is a fear whose origins I should know. If I were to take a guess as to where my fear came from my bent finger would point silently at the picture that my wall bears as a reminder of all my pain. I yell at myself for allowing this man to claim to be something he was not; how is it someone can claim to be a loving father and then take all you have and leave you with not even the ground to walk upon? He was a father, yes, but how hard a task is getting a woman pregnant?

 

Why is it that the silence surrounds me? The better question to ask is was my plan to surround myself in silence all along, and the answer is but of course No! I am victim of this because the one I love decided to love me as well. Those that call themselves parents sought to eliminate this threat to their sick jealousy that sends into fit both my inner self and the gods themselves. To weed her out they used, as if they had enough thought as to be ironic, a simple garden ho. If there was irony to their thoughts, I wonder which form they thought of, or if they thought of both. None the less they still murdered her with a dull gardening tool. I weep every night and laugh every day. My tears are of insanity and my chuckles of remorse. I am who I am because of them yet they shunned me for being who I am. The images of the dull metal rending flesh still linger in the inners of my brain.

 

I could not let them do what they were going to do without punishment. How could they be so cruel and so unloving? I had to make them suffer as they made her suffer, but how? First thing was first, I had to tie them down; that was almost easier done then said. They remained unguarded much through the struggle to murder her and before let the fatal blow I had one jab to both their sides and rope around their limbs before they could exhale. I went to comfort my pure and innocent love as any man would do when I realized the condition. I knew there would be no chance for her, yet I asked her if she was alright as if she had only been hit once, instead of been put through more than one would after being disposed of via open flames.

 

The shadow's of the candle that rest mounted on the wall danced across her cheek, more than likely hitting the back of my head as well, as she spoke her last words. As she told me she loved everyone for who they are we kissed. Tears brushed a pallet of sorrow and filled my canvas with visible emotions. I turned to the people responsible as they lay tied squirming on the ground.

 

IT IS YOUR FAULT! YOU ARE THE ONES THAT KILLED HER

 

Their moans filled the room; the sounds, being too much for the room to handle, installing unstable echoes upon our ears. I kicked them both hard in their stomachs as I thought about what to do.

 

In the corner I saw what was soon to become my weapon of choice, a can of spray paint and a chainsaw. I knew that to make them suffer was to relieve the burden off of my love; I knew that as much as the rest of the world did the world's planar attributes eight hundred to a thousand years ago. I cranked up the chainsaw and decapitated the woman who claimed to be my mother in one swift blow, and then I turned to my father.

 

You did far worse than she could ever claim to do, you carried through with thoughts she was only guilty of possessing.

 

I went back to the corner of the room for the can of spray paint and gently shook it. I sprayed the blade of the chain saw. While it was still wet, I fired it up again and cut four gashes on each of my father's arms. I remember the blue paint flying slightly off the chainsaw as red blood gushed upward toward my face.

 

If you do not die from the loss of blood then let the bacteria eat at your arms. If that fails to kill you then let the toxins in the paint do the job.

 

I laugh and cry now at my actions. He deserved it? I do not know anymore. He suffered though, to such an extent I was forced to put him out of his misery. He too finally died by decapitation.

 

I do not know if my actions were justified but still they were my actions as true to the fact as one's memory can get without being that of a computer. What is it that my wall bears as tribute to my actions and penalty for them at the same time: The head of my father, the head of a parent who cared so much as to ruin my life!

 

Let those who died rest and those who live suffer. Every day I continue forward taking the punishment I was dealt without struggle to escape. I suffer, I hurt, I cry, I fear, but worse of all I must live.