~Demolition Lovers~

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a small test just to see if any of you guys thinks that this would be a good intro to a book or not. I guess you could say it a little bit of a demo really, but I hope you guys really like it and don't worry, I'm open for constructive criticism. I wanna make this perfect for all to enjoy.
This is based off the My Chemical Romance song of the same title. I'm just trying to make the story much longer and less scream-y. Even if you don't like the band, I don't care. I enjoy the story and hope you guys do too. I don't own the song. I don't own the band. i'm just a fan writing a fan's story.
I got the image from Google Images, so it's not my own picture https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http%3A%2F%2Fimg03.deviantart.net%2F5564%2Fi%2F2012%2F233%2F1%2F9%2Fdemolition_lovers__by_onlyhopeformeismcr-d5bwe2i.jpg&imgrefurl=http%3A%2F%2Ffreelancedoe.deviantart.com%2Fart%2FDemolition-Lovers-322317882&docid=6XuqdRXJGmhNrM&tbnid=8mIrpEZvGeyHRM%3A&vet=10ahUKEwjxq-jgst3UAhWMy4MKHRK_BL0QMwhcKBswGw..i&w=900&h=672&bih=886&biw=1768&q=demolition%20lovers&ved=0ahUKEwjxq-jgst3UAhWMy4MKHRK_BL0QMwhcKBswGw&iact=mrc&uact=8

Submitted: June 22, 2017

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Submitted: June 22, 2017



"A Thousand Bodies Piled Up"

Edward picked up his pen and opened the latest of many journals that he has kept for the past ten years. Journals in which he has chronicled his deeds on this earth since his return. Unsure of where tonight's writing session will take him, he nonetheless begins his writing on the fresh paper.

How long will it carry on like this? When I began, it was hard. It made me vomit. I still remember the blood. Blood everywhere, like red rain puddles. I don't understand why it has to be like this now. Everytime I finish, I feel as if I have to find another and another and another until I'm completely out and have to wait another week before I have more. 

But it doesn't matter anymore. Soon enough, I'll be done. Everything will be complete. Soon. Tonight made 963. And two days from now, it will be 969. Assuming that everything will go well. And it will. I've gotten smarter. I've gotten better. I know how to hide well and shoot fast enough. 

Just 37 more. Then we'll be together again. I promise. 

--June 23

Eddie closed his journal and went back to the kitchen of his apartment, the table riddled with colorful pills and half-finished cigarettes. The knife that he pulled out of his neck the month before was still stabbed in the center of the table covered in his dried blood. He looked at it in cold amusement, remembering the look of the weilder's face when Eddie didn't stop his pursuit. He would have been number 957 if Eddie hadn't lost his gun. "It doesn't count unless it's with the gun," the terrible voice had echoed from inside of Eddie's mind. It didn't matter anyway. There was already the blood of 957 evil men on his hands. What's another just for good measure? Besides, the bastard had stabbed him. Eddie wanted to make sure that he would have a more painful death than a shot to the head. 

That particular incident was brutal. It involved the teeth of a pry-bar and one tattooed face of a rapist. And screams were disturbingly satisfying. 

Eddie chose a few different pills from the table and chased them with a large draw out of the bottle of vodka on the counter. Eddie grimaced. Too cheap to be enjoyable, and the last victim didn't have shit for money on him to buy anything else. He couldn't even get something to eat tonight. 

A strange noise hummed inside of his head for a bit and he knew what that meant. 

"Why do you take these?" the sickly amused voice asked inside of Eddie's head.

"To block out the sound of your fucking voice," Eddie shouted violently, throwing the bottle of vodka on the ground. Laughter.

That's all the bug in Eddie's brain did. Laugh at his anguish. And why not? What was there to NOT laugh about? Here was a killer of killers who couldn't be killed taking things that should kill him. There was just so much about it that was funny. 

"Just a few more to go, Eddie. don't mess it up," said the voice, with a more serious tone, and with that, the humming noise left his mind and Eddie felt alone and at peace onece more.

Eddie flopped onto his couch and turned the television on, not really paying any attention to the news story that would have likely changed his life, had he listened to hit. He was too busy remembering sweet times and sweeter places. He remembered a song that he used to hear on star-lit nights a few miles away from the city. But he couldn't remember who used to sing it to him. His mom? No... someone else... someone closer...

Well I thought I heard you say to me
We'll go so far, far as we can
And I just can't stay, one day we'll run away

He closed his eyes and let the pills take away his thoughts to those times before he was like this. And the dreams that came were haunting and lovely all at the same time. 

© Copyright 2019 Skylar Kristofer. All rights reserved.

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