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Rough draft of a short story that is about a young man who tattoo's the name's of those who have tortured him onto his body (there are 79 names) and is determained to get back at those who have caused him pain.


Submitted:Jan 2, 2009    Reads: 142    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


The tension that surrounds the human heart can be as determined as a new born baby's fight for life . To have that tension squeezing harder and harder is having your blood running through your veins as fast as it can. The faster your blood runs, the faster you can run. The farther you can run away from your own hell.
Eighteen years of memories lie sprawled across his flesh as his skin bares the names of those who have taunted his death. Seventy Nine names have infected his flesh. Seventy Nine is the number of so called human beings that have acted as if they were a infected needle and pricked their way into his life. A needle prick is a small action that can change everything when it is infected. How deep will that infection have a chance to run before it seeps into your brain?
Or does that infection do no harm to your body. Does that infection actually turn around and help you in ways your collapsing skull never thought possible. Would the infection's fingers brush the hair of the name's plastered into his skin and create tiny french braids that would look beautiful strung from the celling?
The man's who has the capabilities to do reassemble his body into a new creation by simply disappearing has chosen a different path. More unique, you would say.
His name is Jeff. No last name was available. Crouched in a huddle bending over bleeding bodies, the tension that surrounds his heart has closed it's iron fist. A small smile creeps across Jeff's face as he picks off the fingernails from a women's body. He is not a small man and even if he was you would never seen a glimpse of self doubt run across his face. Standing at 6'2 with brown hair that is swaying into the growing pool of blood and hand's big enough to wrap around your ankles, Jeff has used his squeezing heart to his advantage.
Seventy Nine bodies intertwined together by their arms and legs lie oozing blood into each other's mouth's. Jeff has specifically positioned each body at his leisure to control his master piece. He has picked the nails off of each bodies right hand and re attached the fingernails to victim's tongue's.
But the bodies are not the victims. Each body bears a name that lies tattooed onto Jeff's flesh. A single rusty nail ripped the names off of his flesh as if his flesh was a perfect rose. Jeff is covered in a soothing warm blanket of blood that slowly trickles onto the floor as and cleans small patch of blood away on his wrist. Underneath the blood lies a cross. A cross that has been burned into his veins and has pussed a lime green substance that contains a stench that screams at everyone who he comes in the slightest amount of contact with. The blood dripping from Jeff's own body has intertwined itself with the puss and whiped it's feet over Jeff's floor. The cross is not a tattoo nor was it a self driven choice. Jeff would not be standing over these bodies out of pleasure without that cross. At the age of seven, his father had hung a cross over a fire, allowing the cross to burn itself into a glowing red. The amount of heat generated from the cross could be felt as it reached out for your skin, testing your self containment. Jeff's father had deemed his son to posses a unclean soul since the day his wife committed suicide over his only child's birth. Her body now rests under his father's house.
Burning a cross into your child's skin only repeals them from the forces you wish that they believed in. For sixteen years Jeff had attended a strict catholic church. Matching black socks, shinned shoes and a lint free sports jacket were only the minimum. Jeff is currently eighteen years old. For two years he has replicated the life of a squatter.
Splurging off of food tossed into alley's by restaurants before rats have the chance to infest it and living in a abandoned used clothing store, Jeff has adopted a life's style that few can conform to.
In that used clothing store lies the bodies of those who have diminished and grinded his life into the back alleys. Seventy Nine times. Some of those lying dead never saw it coming. Never did they expect shy quiet snot ridden Jeff to slowly rip out their teeth and paint their eyes black. Never did they expect that jeff would sew their mouths shut after ripping off each of the finger nails on their right hand and staple the nails to their tongues. Never did they think that he would just leave them suffering. Lying bound in cords, intertwined blindly with Seventy Eight other people. Seventy Nine people who have sliced open Jeff and allowed his stomach to puke it's acids onto their lives, permanently burning a hole through any potential they possessed.
With blacked out eyes it is impossible to see. Never will any of the now dead bodies be able to know who their arms and legs were tied up with. They were paired by who they knew best. The twins that had spit in Jeff's drink were sipping each other's blood in the right hand corner and the first girl to scrape her nails across his face sat perched up in the left corner with her best friend.
Jeff now sits on a throne. A throne made of those who lie beneath him. His father's body is still grasping for air as Jeff decided to spare him his life and let his own body kill itself. His father's body lies at the bottom of his throne and you can hear his bones cracking and snapping under the weight of the dead bodies. Perfectly perched onto of a girl's back, Jeff can only laugh at what he has accomplished. With blood streaming down his arms, chest and legs he has accomplished reimbursing every name that once rested on his body. Each individual name has been torn off with a rusty nail as Jeff watched their death. Only his father's name remained, and Jeff wanted it to stay for as long as possible.





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