I Feel Better

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Just churned this out. This is a branch of an idea that wont go away. I'm tired of it festering. I'm trying to rid it from my mind.
I had written a very nice, heart-wrenching story set in this same...reality, universe, basis? What the term? Setting?
Anyway, the computer killed that and here's what's left....

Submitted: July 17, 2017

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Submitted: July 17, 2017

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I Feel Better

 

I stepped out of a nightmare; out of a white van and into the real world.

Nothing had changed & the story continues as usual. I’d soon be taking my freedom for granted.

My idea conflicted with what I knew to be the right thing to do let it go. I needed to forget and let it die. To nurture these feelings will certainly be heartache and disappointment. Why should I go against my senses? Everything I’ve learned from novels and movies is: don’t give up.

The matter of my heart was laid in an undiscovered wreck. It, waiting to be found, yearned to apprise any soul with a careful ear. Validation was key to the mending of this fracture. If only there was one to commiserate.

I shot up my last nerve. The thing is what I love and I want to replace it; I want to shove my love into whatever void within you. Ill make it fit. Ill cut it down and hack away the curves and turn it into a frame and flip it upside down. Carve and slash away the parts you’ve come to hate. Also, the things I believe you despise or scrutinize. I want it to look like something you want. Then, I want to throw it away.

You were there and words are a no go. Saying the right thing was never my strong suit. I’m vehemently sarcastic and it’s difficult to suppress the urge, so I don’t. I watch you walk away and behind your back I blow a kiss and shake a fist in your direction.

The thing is, love, I wish you a big cock. I hope you climax and the world breaks in an instant. I hope it fills you with cum and you get pregnant.

Later

Five months on and sitting in an expensive, customized exactly for your shape, maternity chair. A spark sets at the front door and you jump. Up you go and the door is too hot to exit. Now you and your unborn child are trapped in your little fucking world.

…all around your house burns slow and the reality you’ve built is aflame. You scream, but the fire is fast and it is suffocating your stuffed, plush life. Its burning, & it’s easy to burn. Your wails are stifled by the carbon dioxide; It’s stretching throughout your respiratory system. It’s reaching into your womb and clogging the fetus. Your child dies inside you. The unborn is a product of that fat, slimy cock bursting into the depths of your cunt.

 He took his cock and bailed. Now you’re left with a drying fetus, a postmortem example of your sex. But now your skin cracks for lack of moisture. The external organ wrapped around your bones excretes its last vapors as you curl up and burn slowly.

I would apologize. But we all hurt. We get what is coming. It’s full circle, baby. & I believe I’ll get mine.


© Copyright 2017 C.G. Bennett. All rights reserved.

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