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Seventy Nine Final.

Short story By: Kat Bailey

How many lives does it taken to destroy one?

Submitted:Jan 8, 2009    Reads: 92    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 clamp down and squeeze harder and harder is to have your own 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 paralysed his skins potential through a simple tattoo gun. They have not sunk their teeth into his flesh out of pure compassion. 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 simple unforgettable action that can create movements that were never meant to be created in time. But Seventy Nine pricks can not souly effect those Seventy Nine people who have created those pricks for one man without a furious backlash. That backlash skins the creator's of the beasts using no physical damage other then the one's they may create for themselves but physiologically slashes any remnants of normality. How deep will the infection that infection have a chance to run in one man body before it seeps into his own foundation. His brain.
But could that infection cause no harm to your body in a negative sense? Does that infection actually turn around and help you in ways your disintegrating skull could never grasp it's shaking fingers around. Could the infection's fingers brush the hair of the name's sinking into his skin and seduce them into handing over their free will as easily as spit clings onto concrete? There is a certain force that every human possesses that allow them to commit unspeakable acts as condemned by the general public but those acts are far from unspeakable in the sense that every single person possess the power to commit them. But the list of those who have committed them is sparse. Add one more to your list.
First Name: Jeff. Last Name: Not Available. Crouched in a huddle bending over bleeding bodies, the tension that surrounds his heart has closed it's iron fist. A small smile crept across Jeff's face as he picked 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 individually 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 like a fallen god's skin being torn away from a burning stake. Jeff is covered in a soothing warm blanket of blood that slowly trickles onto the floor as he dusts small patch of blood away from 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 possesses 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 whipped 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 ashes once rested in his father's stomach.
Burning a cross into your child's skin only repeals them from the forces you wish they believed in. Living along side his father has ended. Jeff is currently eighteen years old and for the last 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 dusty, bug infected used clothing store lies the bodies of those who have diminished and grinded his life into the back alleys. Seventy Nine times. If you could ask the dead if they ever thought that they would be potentially harmed by Jeff, they would all answer a stern "No" and chuckle as they would walk away. 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 former living 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 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 now remains, and Jeff wanted it to stay for as long as possible.


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