Messages

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: The Imaginarium


A short story inspired by a first sentence prompt.

Submitted: December 08, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 08, 2017

A A A

A A A


Messages.

 

He snarled as he broke the computer to pieces with the hammer, feeling the joy of doing a job well and completely. It had been making his life a misery; making up messages and sending them to people he had never even heard of. Not until he had been bombarded with their rude and irate replies.

How many times had he been claiming total innocence only to have the evidence displayed in front of him? Too many! And it could not be that he was suffering from a crisis of some sort. From the time and date displayed on so many of the messages he had not even been at home, let alone working on his computer.

His first instinct had been to change the locks, just in case someone had made a copy of his key and was sneaking in. He’d invested in deadbolts, in chains, but none of it had made the slightest bit of difference. The messages kept being sent, the increasingly insulting ones; and the outraged replies had got to the stage where not only was he scared of being taken to court, but was actually terrified his life might be put in danger.

How could anybody believe that someone would be fool enough to put not only their name, but address too, to such things?

No, it had to stop! So what if he’d spent so much on the damn thing! So what that he’d be lost without it. He had gone to the garage and found the hammer, the heaviest one that he owned. And he had walked up to the black plastic monstrosity and swung at it, hard. The case crumpled a bit on the top, but it was still working.

Over and over again he had swung the hammer in it’s direction. The sides had caved in and now it was not much more than a heap of flattened and split plastic, with a smell of burning coming from inside. He’d done it, destroyed it. So how come the monitor was still working? He could see the messages appearing on the screen, followed by the word ‘Sent’, flashing past at a ridiculous speed.

He pulled his arm back and let it swing the hammer towards the monitor. It didn’t make contact though, but bounced back as though the screen was made of rubber. No way! This could not be happening. He knew from experience how easy monitors were to break.

But not this one! It was as though it had some kind of protection, like a force-field, around it.

How stupid was he? There was such a simple solution, it had not even entered his mind. He reached under his desk and pulled out the plug from the socket. The screen went black. Finally, he’d sorted it out; his torment was over.

He’d go and make himself a drink. He deserved one. Just as he neared the door, he noticed a flash of light. Worried in case the computer had caught fire, he turned back. The monitor was back on and on it’s screen in giant letters was a message.

“Wanna play?” it said.


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