Depressant

Reads: 626  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story about how one's life experiences are unique to that one person, whether it is a good or a bad one.

Feedback would be nice-Not final version

Submitted: May 07, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 07, 2015

A A A

A A A


 As dark and as precarious as the situation was, this was not the way most people envisioned the death of 19 year old Michael Rosswood. When they were told of what happened to him in the alley behind a old Brooklyn bar, they could only try to imagine the severity of the scenario. They always say they are sorry for what happened to him and leave it at that.If they could only get a glimmer of what I felt as I laid there and watched it happen, they would pray to God that no one ever had to feel that way.
 
 My name is Henry Rosswood, and I am the older brother of Michael.
 
 It was late in the afternoon when it began to drizzle outside. Michael began to complain about the rain as we walked by the bar.
 
Naturally, we decided to go inside.
 
 I warned him that he is still prohibited from drinking by the court, but he didn't listen. That's the way it is with free-willed spirits. We sat down a few seats away from a group of drunken bikers. I warned him that even if he orders himself a drink, he should keep it to that. Again, he didn't listen.
 
 He ordered himself a shot.
 
 He has recently been drinking heavily, due to his fiancée committing suicide. He's gotten into many court cases for drinking and driving, and so now owes the government a total combined cost of $1780 in fines. He has to pay it by the end of the month, and would be able to, had not he been on final terms with his rent. It was prison, or homelessness.
 
Because of the choice, he has been drinking more than usual. And that night was no exception.
 
 Three hours after we initially entered the bar, he had drunk enough to kill a man. He probably would've drunken to death if I weren't there.
 
 Yet it poured on outside.
 
The alcohol didn't bode well with him, so he had vomit. He clumsily slide off his chair and told me in a drunken whisper that he was "going to the shitters". He then hobbled his way towards the restrooms and that's where it happened.
 
He vomited all over the shoulder of one of the drunk-to-hell bikers.
 
You can only begin to imagine the rage that was on their faces. They got up, and looked at him, ready to beat him to a pulp. Had he not spoke his last words, he might still be alive.
 
 Those words were ," Th' 'ell you looking at?"
 
Had they not been already steaming mad, they sure were after he said that. One of the bigger ones picked him up by his collar and said, "You think this is some kind of game, don't you, you little shit?" I instantly flew out of my seat and made way to the ugly scene. I tried to explain that he simply drank too much, but they weren't have it. They punched him right into the nose, which broke horrendously.
 
 I pleaded the bartender to call security, but he simply replied that the bar doesn't interfere with these events for legal reasons.
 
 Realizing that was no use, I followed the group of bikers to the back alley behind the bar.
 
 By this time, it was absolutely pouring.
 
 I tried to push past the guys blocking the way to my brother, but they simply shrugged me off. After three minutes of trying to push through, the biggest one turn around and slugged me into the wall. He then kicked me repeatedly until my arm began to bleed violently. He then put his bloodied boot on my head and pushed it away. By that point my vision was blurry from a combination of blood loss and rain, but I was still able to vividly see the gruesome beating they put on my brother through the gaps between their feet.
 
My brother was a pile of flesh, blood, and clothing. They mercilessly kicked him in the face and stomped on his chest. One of them hit him with a rusty pipe they must've found near one of the trash cans. Another one of them even decided to take a piss on him.
 
 This damn treatment went on for four hours. Each one of those hours felt like their own eternities. I tried to crawl through in-between their legs at one point, but they punted me away. Each minute my brother became less recognizable as a human being. I was definite that they killed him by the third hour of torture, but they continued. At one point, they literally stomped his leg into a pulp. By the time they were done, he didn't even look human anymore. And the entire time, I had to lay their and watch them kill my brother.
 
 Whenever people say they feel my pain, I simply look them in their eyes, and silently say, "If only you did."


© Copyright 2020 BlueSkyHound. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

Comments

More Thrillers Short Stories