The Outsider,( Part 1 of 2)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Not a person, something else... Having never known happiness why should others feel it?
Jealousy or just a sadistic nature?
Either way...they die

Submitted: March 10, 2007

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 10, 2007



The sunlight flickers through the leaves of the tree that I am leaning against. The patterns the shadows make on the lush grass seem to chase each other as they constantly change in the breeze.

The day is perfect with no cloud in the sky, the sun radiating its heat down onto the park with only a slight breeze blowing, perfecting the coolness of the shade. Looking to the far edge of the park I can see the heat shimmer off the busy road, the tall buses slowly making their way across the small horizon. The black iron railings that make up the fence complete a large circle, not all of its edges are visible to me. The young people hired to walk dogs slowly pass along the fence, and the young students are enjoying a game of football using their shirts as goal posts.

From where I sit alone the game seems mostly one sided, though it is obvious that both sides expected the result. The players of the losing side were being obviously clumsy, laughter often rising high up in the clear sky. It is the laughter that ruins it all for me. In my mind the happy scene before me has been destroyed a million times in the space of a second. Sometimes someone falls and seriously hurts themselves, next time the most talented of the bunch collapses having taken one too many pills to cope with the stress, hearts are strained to bursting, asthma attacks turn deadly, a lose dog turns savage and claws and bites at the players. Each individual is crushed and hurt, death can come quick or not come at all-just the oblivion of a coma or paralysis.

Is it wrong to long for these morbid ends for others? Surely it is, but those people are not me. I who have only known pain and coldness, they should be touched that I acknowledge their petty existance at all. With every movement my body longs to just give up, to collapse and crumble into nothing. Time has given me strength and power. But this blessing is just a curse, the pain of movement. The pain when I breath, first in my jaws as my mouth opens, then in my mouth and throat as the air scrapes against my insides, eroding and making me bleed. Then pain in my lungs, as the air is forced into the microscopic alveoli, like everyone of a thousand needles being forced into the same spot. I have become so sensitive to everything, if I was to walk barefoot across the grass it would be like walking in a field of razors. It is my own terrible existance that encourages my treatment of those others playing their delightful little game. To inflict pain on others is my only true pleasure in what would be called my life.

Am I even alive anymore? People see me, they look at me and smile, then as I look back at them always in the hope of a friend, they turn away from me and move faster. It is the look in my eyes that causes it, or more that my eyes do not have a look. There was once a man who said that the eyes are a window to the soul. That man died at my hands, I asked him to look into my eyes and he founds them dead.

Still leaning against the tree, I close my eyes and doze. I will wait untill the sun sets and the footballers have left the park, thats when the park starts to really comes to life. I smile in my sleep, anticipating the joy the night will bring.


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