the roach (chapter 1)

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is Chapter 1 of a fictional short story I've been working on, called "The Roach". This is a pretty raw story, so it's NOT for the faint of heart OR people who are easily offended. It's violent, bloody & vulgar, so you've been warned. But, it's JUST fiction, so don't freak out on me if you choose to read it. I will add more if this actually gets read & anyone has any interest in reading more. I'm trying to self-publish, but it's been difficult so far.

Submitted: August 05, 2016

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Submitted: August 05, 2016

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"The Roach"

 

Prologue

"The Bastard"

 

 

 

Let's see.....where do I start?

What should you know about me..................

Well, I'm a drug addict, plain & simple. I guess that's definitely one of my most prominent & favorite of my personality flaws.

I've stolen, to feed my habits. I've raped, to feed my desires. I've murdered, to feed my personal agendas. I've also been Robbed, Raped &……well, I haven’t been murdered, as of yet.

 

I’m sure SOMETHING bad will happen to me though. Just as sure as it will most likely be a very violent, bloody & painful demise.

 

 It will just be Karmas way of pay-back. Rapists get Raped. Killers get killed. Actually, I don't believe I’ve ever had sex that was consentual between both people involved. Whether I was giving it or receiving it.

 

I had a fucked up childhood like everyone else, but that’s not the reason I do what I do.

I do it because I WANT TO.

I do it 'cause it's just ME. Regardless what those high-paid brain-shrinkin', government certified mind-fuckers say.

It's just the way GOD MADE ME.

Ask Her why, or how, she fucked me up. I’d be interested to know her reasoning myself.

 

 

Chapter 1

"Meet The Family"

 

 

 

Speaking of the lords mistakes, by the way,

my parents were fucked up just like me. If not more, but in their own personalized ways of course.

 

 

Oddly enough, the last years of my family members lives, when dad was at his worst, we suffered through these long, violently painful days in a dirty little shack that was directly across the street from an old church. I used to lay in bed at night, listening to Mom scream as dad drunkenly smacked her around, bouncing her off the walls, in an attempt to vent his frustrations that never seemed to be alleviated.

I couldn't help but laugh at the irony of lying there alone & scared as I stared out my window at the giant church steeple across the street, thinking it's funny this pathetic piece of shit family is stuck, suffering in this garage we called a home, right in the shadow of our Lords house.

 

 

Dad was the typical, bitterly drunken bastard, who aimed his pent up self-hatred & anger that he had, due to feelings of personal inadequacy,

at every innocent bystander he could get his hands on..............................or his dick IN.

 

Staying true to the, Typical Trailer Trash Troglodite Tramp Tradition, my beautiful mother was a pill-head whore, who would gladly suck a dick for a LORTAB or $20 Crack Rock.

 

That old slut probably would’ve sucked ME off, if I'd have let her.

 

 

What a piece of shit……..

 

But let’s be clear by god, I’m NOT a “Victim” like that sorry bitch. I AM a worthless fuck like her, but I’m not a fuckin brain-dead floater.

 

 I’m a “Survivor”.

 

I refuse to let anyone hurt me on any level and get away with it.

 

Here’s an example. After years of having a buffet of Mental and Physical Abuse for dinner, with dessert consisting of sexual indiscretions that GOD hasn't even created punishments for, I snuck into my daddy’s room after he had passed out, got his pistol, stuck it under his chin & just stood there for a moment, savoring the fact that I FINALLY had the answer for how to fix the biggest problem in our lives. I was doing it for ALL of us. I was doing it for Tommy,……. and Mom as well. She was a great mother until that bastard got her hooked on that shit & turned her into an even worse piece of trash than he was.

 

As I stood there holding that gun under his chin my mind was flooded with memories. Flooded with countless reasons for him to die.

 

 

I laughed for a second, thinking in some stupid movie, the guy would probably kiss him on the forehead & whisper in his ear; "Night night daddy." and then scream up toward the sky; FOREVER!" and then BAM! and you see blood splatter all over the wall.

I ultimately went with spitting in his face & just saying; "Later dick." Then BAM!........

 

I shot that sorry bastard dead.

 

 

Mom always said, in her "tabbed-out slur", that he didn't have a brain in his head.

 

She was wrong, and the proof was all over the "Dale Earnhardt" poster he hung above his bed with good old southern pride.

 

 

Even looking back on it now, I never was surprised that the local police didn't pursue it as a murder case. They were so tired of coming by our house every other night for domestic bullshit, they simply wrote it off as a suicide, and that's the last we ever heard about it. When the sun came up the next morning it was almost as if that bastard had never even existed at all. That was a cool sunrise. Probably the only sunrise I’ve ever seen AND appreciated.

 

 

Those fuckin cops were in such a hurry to get out of there I was the one who had to clean up the blood & brains. The thing that called itself my Mom was so trashed it could hardly hold its dick-suckin’ head up.

 

At times, I felt kind of sorry for the burnt-out old bitch. But, like the old man, I knew she had to die. My brother to; poor little dude. He didn't know which end to shit out of. He was pretty messed up.

 

I think it was from the way Dad always punched and kicked that bitch in the stomach when she was pregnant, while screaming that he didn't think the baby was his.

 

Of course, it coulda been from all the crack she smoked, or the cloudy crap she used to shoot in her veins. I never did know what that shit was. I snuck & tasted it once when she was passed out. It tasted like Salt.

 

Mighta been for all I know. Dumb bitch...... But anyway, yeah......Tommy had to go.

Sorry little brotha.

 

Let me go ahead & tell you that part. I didn't have any trouble dealing with Moms demise. I felt she deserved it. She never was worth a fuck as a mother.

 

Now killing my brother was gonna be somethin that bothered me.......... even if just a little.

 

I never thought I would have to be the one to do it. I assumed that Dad would have beat me to it the way he always jerked Tommy around by the neck. Not to mention the beatings he received, "In Utero".

 

 

Although, he did put Tommy in the Hospital a couple of times, and even hit him so hard in the head once that the Doctors had to keep him in a drug induced coma for 3 weeks ‘til the swelling in his brain went down. But of course, Dad said that Tommy fell down some stairs and Mom backed him up. Funny thing was, we didn't have steps in the house we lived in, at that time.

 

Good investigative work you lazy fucks.

 

Tax-Payers dollars at work. Yay America!

 

 

While Tommy was in the hospital he never gave up. That little dude was a FIGHTER! His head swelled up like a watermelon, but he kept on keepin’ on. For some reason, he had a strong will to continue living this twisted joke GOD gave him as a life.

 

Just like when I held that pillow over his face. It took 10 or 15 minutes for him to give up and quit fighting. It took so much out of me that I had to take a nap afterwards. By that time Mom was dead to, so I had the house to myself. FINALLY!

Trust me, I loved Tommy. But he's alot better off this way. He doesn't have to suffer anymore. He just has to sleep.........forever.

 

Now Mom was a little different. I fucked with her for a little while, just for fun.

By this time we had moved to a house that DID have stairs.

 

So one day, when I had finally had enough of this bullshit known as my life, I was gripped with anger & hatred. Ironically, my sorry excuse for a Mother came staggering out of the bathroom after her first puke of the day. She headed towards the stairs to go down & get her morning liquor to wash the morning puke taste out of her mouth.

 

 

 

So, I waited ‘til she hit the first step, and then I shoulder blocked her from behind, like I was some thug-ass linebacker. As I watched her bounce and tumble down the steps it all happened in slow motion, and it kind of looked as if she was dancing, in a weird way.

 

It was beautiful really. Strangely graceful, in a violent way.

When she finally hit the bottom, she just layed there completely still and quiet. Right about the time I was thinking; "Damn that was easy."; I guess she regained consciousness and she started coughing and gagging. Then came the moaning and crying. I guess she was bleeding internally and had some broken bones or some shit cause the moans got progressively louder and more annoying with every passing second.

 

 Then I remembered that we had another flight of stairs going to the basement, so I drug her to the basement door, opened it and pushed her like a bag of dirty laundry.

 

BADOOMP! BADOOMP! BADOOMP! SMACK!

 

She layed there at the bottom of that musky smelling stairwell, as if she were truly dead this time.

 

But I'll be Goddamned, as soon as I tried to sit down and make a sandwich, I heard the bitch start moaning again.

 

"FUCK!"; I yelled, as I stood up in such a fast exaggerated motion that I bumped the table and sent the mustard smashing to the floor.

 

I remember thinking the splattered pattern it made on the floor looked like the sunflowers Mom and I used to pick together in the summer at my grandmother’s house. It was a nice memory for a second. Then I remembered that same mother was lying crumpled and twisted at the bottom of the dark dirty basement-stairs, waiting for me to finish killing her.

 

Of course, I was more than happy to oblige her if death was what she wanted all these miserable years.

 

Even though her suffering gave me pleasure, I knew it was the "Humane-Thing" to do.

 

I had to finish killing my mother.

 

But, little did I know, those moans I heard that caused the mustard mishap were apparently the last signs of life she had left, cause when I got down to where she was laying, she was 100% fuckin dead. No doubt about it.

I laughed to myself while I looked at her twisted, crumpled body.

I couldn't help but think; "She looks peaceful for the first time in her life. Who knew violence could create tranquility."

 

After a few minutes of watching her lie there at my feet, I stuffed her body in the deep freezer Dad kept his Deer meat in. It still worked really well, but alcoholism ended his love of hunting, so it had been empty for years.

 

Now all it had in it was a 6 year old brown mule ice cream bar, that had turned green.

Well, that & my dead mom.

 

That’s when I thought to call Dusty.


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