Yaya, new installment from Max's new writings! This one is a bit messed up. But I like messed up shit. Deranged even. Sadistic. Depressing. Fucked up. I need new ideas =)
(I know I just posted another story yesterday... but you know I'm kind of in the mood for pumping out short stories)
Tell me what ya guys think~ ^^
Every morning I would wake up and think about the thing I dread the most. After enough teenage angst I’d hurl my blanket to the side and painstakingly outstretch my arms. I’d detach from this very idea, get up, brush my teeth, take a morning shower then get ready for breakfast.
Actually, I lied. In the bathroom I’d stare in the mirror, still contemplating all the ways this thing had brought misery to my life. I see the boy in the mirror doing all sorts of things. On good days he could disengage himself and continue the motion of his toothbrush. On bad days he would stop, stare back at me and ask the world why this was happening. And on very bad days, he’d do the usual which was to take a garrotte and hang himself. Sometimes he took one of the lesser known ways, or ‘easier’ ways of killing himself. Today was a very bad day. So I took a little longer getting ready for breakfast.
I’m in the kitchen now. Mum is in the kitchen too. I wonder if she knew about all this. All the pain and suffering I’ve been going through. The frying of the egg and faint simmering of something else shows she was oblivious. Her cheesy smile every morning only proved me right.
By now you’re probably wondering what my name is. But my name isn’t important. This is my story. The moment you give someone a name they start labelling you. And I’m not going to let a name contaminate such an untainted revelation of mine. Not today. Not now. Not ever.
I listen to the radio playing in the background. Sometimes I pay attention to the birds chirping outside. Occasionally I’ll have a deranged chat with my old dog that’s bound to die any moment. My mum’s still in the kitchen. You must think I’m a nutter. Actually, I don’t think you care. I don’t even know why you’re reading this.
So I sit down and wait - for the inevitable to come. Then I look up at you and smile. Yes you, the one reading this. I feel sorry for you. Why? Because I’m in fact Jesus. Reborn. And I’m simply just fed up with this place you call the world. I look down at you now, look at your impurities and know you’re going to hell. I’m still smiling.
Then the inevitable comes. You would think judgement comes in a cooler form. Something like the earth tearing open and some evil giant Satan emerges from the shadowy scorching depths. Then I’ll go Kung Fu on his ass and beat him back down to eternal torment, along with you and all those ungrateful sinners in this disgusting world. You don’t know Jesus knew Kung Fu?
But none of that happens. Judgement comes in the form of my mother carrying a bowl of nauseating fluid with floating crap and placing it on my table. Eat, she says.
Not cereal. Not again?
I look down. I lied to you again. I’m not Jesus. Or Satan, Buddha, or any religious figure reincarnated. I could be the boy next door that mows your garden, or even some depressed manic hallucinating in some mental institution. But no. I’m just a child that really hates his cereal. Like really, really hates his cereal. I detest it every single morning. But you know what’s even worse today? When my mother gets the kicks out of buying those cheerios. They taste just as bad except now the letters float around in milk spelling out words that laugh, taunt, mock and jeer at you.
I circle my spoon in this disgusting bowl of crap. I glare at the cereal box hid high up above the fridge. I want to punch it. I want to take my butter knife and cut it to bits. I wish I was Jesus and damned it to hell. But I can’t do any of that. Cereals aren’t alive. No shit. So all I can do is glare and stare.
I force a mouthful into me. I bite hard and shatter every single damn piece, wanting to crush every single bone as if it was alive. I want to spew and dump the crushed corpse in the rubbish bin. Yet I swallow it, incinerating it so to never see it again. I hope it never has children. I don’t know. I’ll kill your kids if I need to.
My name’s Jason. I hate cereal. And now I’ll be late for school.