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Choices
Contributed by alecfernadez
on Thursday, 12th August 2004 @ 05:06:16 PM AEST
Topic:
horror
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The Slums
In the small gritty city of Peccadillo, past the high rise gleaming industrialized commercial revolutionist center and higher class urbanized area lay the slums. Row after row of generalized housing for the poor economically challenged citizens of Peccadillo. Graffiti and general street propaganda cover small tatty apartments filled to the brim with immigrants and lower class trailer trash scum, a name lovingly given to the poorer white citizens by the rich fat cats of the industrialist/commercialist zone. The streets of the slums of Peccadillo are covered with market stalls, old women forgotten by any pension plan the governments year after year offer, and children who have no future and prospects thanks to the inequalities of government proposals and economic structuring.
In this area of deprived wealth and inequality lies Apartment Block 1126, labeled by the rusted bronze tag, slanted to a side with immortalized curse words, lovingly drawn by the happy children who live in the neighborhood, graphitized all over it. The building itself is simply ugly. The walls are covered in white sterile paint, covered in graffiti, blood stains and bullet holes. The building is a deathtrap waiting to collapse, eliminating every single family living in this apartment block. Maybe this is the solution the governments of America had wanted, to rid the country of poverty…
If the outside of the house looks bad, the inside looks worse. Yet again white walls, all of which tagged by gangs in the area, is the décor of the interior. The floor is dirty, and disgusting, an example of the love and care which goes into buildings like this. A reception area lies on the bottom floor, looking more like a nuclear bunker than a welcoming facility. Beyond the facility is a large un-welcoming steel door, the only entrance to the apartments. The door is electronically controlled, probably the only decent system in the building, put there by the landlord to cut down on the murders and robberies, to keep the police and his tenants from badgering. So far it had been successful. Inside the reception fortress sits the receptionist, a ninety year old man reading the latest issue of ‘The National Geographic’. Beneath his desk and beyond the steel bars and bullet proof glass that protects him lies a 12 gauge automatic shotgun
Only in America…
A young malnourished boy walks into the building with a bag filled with news papers. He walks past the receptionist and bangs on the window; the old man looks up from the paper and smiles,
“Hey Jack” he calls, pressing the button which unlocks the door. The kid waves dismissively and walks through; the steel door shuts behind him.
The doors of the apartment are all made from cheap wood, the kind often used in ‘you’re favorite’ DIY show; obviously they paid more attention to the price than the look. The doors of each room are painted in a deep brown oak colored varnish, each with a solid cheap metal number, painted in gold which slowly after many years had been scratched off or faded. Behind these doors lie the results of a diseased, drug-fueled society. Crack heads, Methadone addicts, junkies and alcoholics sleep, scheme and use in these rooms, yet always paranoid when the often occurring police sirens are heard. In other rooms goats are slaughtered by Islamic traditionalists, blood stains the carpets and the smell of dead goat infiltrates into the rest of the building. In other rooms families of twelve occupy the one bedroom apartments, all of them welcoming this wonderful western dream world, yet still afraid that the next knock on the door will be white American nationalists ready to hang torture or molest any families that invade their country. But what they fear most is the arrival of the Immigration Services. Watching there children butchered and abused is far better than being sent back to their own country and being treated as traitors and executed as a gift for there gods.
Of course not everyone in this flat is illegal, a drug user or a psychopath, which brings us to the characters of this story, above the ground floor and the first floor lies the second floor. Covered in the same graffiti as the rest of the building, and alive with activity, tears and gun shots, lies Apartment 32. The two is at a 90 degree slant from its original position, and the smell of sweat, feces and rotten food radiates from the apartment door. The sound of a television is heard, gunshots, false idols fighting false idols, extreme car chases are heard loudly from outside. The dim light of the room shines through the cracks of the door, it is seen clearly from outside as the lights on the second floor flicker on and off, plunging the small cramped corridor of apartments into darkness, then brightness over and over again. What makes this apartment different is the fact there is no screaming, shouting and bloodshed unlike the rest of the rooms. In all respects the occupants of Apartment 32 are idol tenants, apart from the one factor that they are indeed slobs, dirty and rancid slobs. The rest of the apartments contain shouting spouses and abusive parents, the cries of the children are heard all night long, every day, seven days a week. But this apartment is quiet, save for the exceptionally loud television, quiet.
Jack, the local paper boy enters the corridor, and begins to deliver ‘The Daily Peccadillo’, door to door. He is a young blue eyed boy, his right eye black and blue contrasts with his irises. Wearing baggy second hand clothes he cautiously looks around the building. This place wasn’t a safe place, nowhere was a safe place, and he always had to be aware of his surroundings. His scarred lip quivered, he took a deep breath and began to walk down the corridor. He does this to fund his mother’s fondness of Crack Cocaine. Two dollars a day can buy a few pieces, just enough to keep his mother from throwing plates and glasses at him. Often he had been tempted to buy candy with the money he earned, but he quickly learned not to keep any of it, as last time he did that his mother split his lip open with the remote control. Remembering this made him wince in pain; pulling down his cap over his sandy-brown hair he began his rounds on the second floor of Apartment Block 1126. He walks up to each door, places a newspaper onto the ground and knocks. This was all routine, including the knife he keeps on himself for protection. At ten years old he knows that in this world, everybody wants a piece of everybody, and will stop at nothing to get what he or she wants. Not only had he seen it, he had experienced it. The boy sulkily walked up to Apartment 32, and placed the paper on the floor, noticing the foul smell surrounding this apartment he wrinkled his nose and walked of in disgust to continue his rounds. He hated that place, and hated the route, but knew that he had to do it, in order to make the money he needed. If he didn’t his mother would give him another black eye to match the one he already had for simply talking. One day if he was lucky, the DCF would take him away from the living hell he lives in and give him a better life. Fat chance of that every happening he thought, knowing that dreams are fake and should never be followed for fear of failure.
The door to Apartment 32 opened slightly. A chubby fat greasy hand appeared cautiously at the bottom of the door, it feels for the paper, and grabs it. Slowly the hand retracts back into the apartment.
Apartment 32 is the home to Rory Newton and his mother.
The Newtons
Inside the warm, damp apartment sat Rory Newton on a two seated sofa. Rory is an extreme case of obesity, his body snugly fits into the two seated sofa allowing no other room for other people. He wears white stained vest stretched barley over his large body, and a pair of shorts stretched to their limit. Opposite the sofa and the large man sits a small TV, blaring with sound and light, yet fussy from the bad reception obtained from the split coat hanger used as an aerial. In this room, the living room, it gives a pretty good idea of what the entire apartment looks like; Rubbish, mainly empty crisp packets, pizza boxes and empty beer bottles files the deep red lush deteriorated carpets of the floor. Stains from grease and fat turn the red carpet found everywhere in the apartment into a sickly brown color. Between Newton and the TV, is a small brown table, covered with rubbish and one remote control.
Moving away from the obese thirty something man, and into the kitchen, we find an old frail woman of at the very least eighty years. She works hard preparing supper for Rory and herself, smacking a large piece of steak with a rolling pin, to tenderize it. Her eyes are the most interesting part of this woman, one green and one blue, both very uncomfortable to stare at for a long period of time. The counter she works on is covered in blood from the steaks she prepares. She never has enough time to clean the house; supper is a very important meal, as is breakfast, brunch, lunch, snacks and tea. Beside her is a refrigerator packed with food and beer, next to that is a large freezer compartment, almost a meter and a half wide, filled with steaks and dead meat. In the center of the room, adjacent to a light bulb hanging dangerously from wires extracted from the ceiling, flickering on and off at fast rates, is a small table, designed for two people. On this table, dirty stain covered plates are already set, along with knives and forks, dirty with grease and remains from past dinners. The old woman grabbed the piece of raw meat, now tenderized, and placed it into a large frying pan; the fat surrounding the meat began to crackle as the melted lard began to heat up cooking the meat. She then flips it over cooking the other side, almost instantly she grabs the meat with a fork and slams it on a plate. In the other room Rory heard the sound and got up from the chair. The sofa creaks and squeaks as the extreme weight is removed from it; Rory then makes his way to the kitchen.
“DINNERS READY!” screamed the old woman, slamming the plate with the under cooked meat on, onto the table. Rory walks into the kitchen, and slowly carefully sits onto the chair where the large piece of rare meat is.
“Thank you Mother” Rory said quietly, and picks up the fork ready to begin consuming the raw meat. He places the fork into the meat, and rips of a slice. He puts the meat into his mouth and begins to chew.
Mother runs over to him, and grabs his neck, choking him; she then puts her fingers into Rory’s mouth and extracts the meat, afterwards slamming Rory’s face into the steak.
“HOW DARE YOU!” she screams into Rory’s face, her dirty spit coming from her mouth ends up on Rory’s face. Grabbing his sleeve he wipes it off.
“You know you have to say grace, after all the time I raised you, you forgot to said grace. You ungrateful *****!” She screams into his ear, then slapping Rory in the face.
Rory then clasps his hands together, looking at Mother he put his head down and began to speak;
“Thank you for the meal that you have bestowed upon us my lord, thank you for the love and the care that you have provided for me and the wonderful Mother that has cared for me, the ungrateful child for so long”
Mother looked and smiled at him, ruffling his hair,
“That’s good Rory”, She said, “You may eat now”
As soon as these words were said, Rory grabbed his fork and ripped up the meat on his place, shoveling in his mouth, barely chewing with the grease, fat and cow’s blood pouring out of his mouth and onto his T-shirt, sticking his fingers in his mouth, removing the gristle and hard lumps of fat he couldn’t chew. Mother picked up the lumps of fat and gristle, and pushed it back into Rory’s mouth;
“Waste not Son, god provided this food for us, and we must enjoy it” She said, with a smile on her face, her odd eyes staring into Rory’s. She then produced a bib, and wiped the scum of Rory’s face, as he struggled to chew the hard gristle and fat. Eventually he managed to swallow it whole. Rory was un-doubtfully a fast eater, and the large steak only lasted for a few minutes. He stared at the empty stained plate un-content. He looked back at Mother, who stared back sympathetically.
“Now you know what the doctor on the television said, lots of food can be bad for you…” she said smiling in a motherly way.
“I’m only looking out for the best in you son, you know that”
Rory looked at her, suddenly his eyes became watery, and he began to cry and bawl, screaming at Mother, opening out his arms expecting a hug. Mother walked over and instantly embraced Rory, hugging him, trying to get her arms around his big body. Rory stopped crying; he placed his thumb into his mouth and started sucking.
Rory is thirty-eight years old.
Rory Newton
Rory Newton is a thirty-eight year old obese man suffering from Agoraphibia, otherwise known as a phobia of leaving your house. In his thirty-eight years he has eaten more things than he has loved, and loved fewer things than he has eaten. I guess growing up in a broken home can really warp a child’s mind. You see food wasn’t just a comfort food for him, he actually believed that food was a form of love, given to him by his parents. In the new millennium you can justify anyone’s actions with probable cause. Maybe it was the fact Rory’s first memory in life was a fist coming towards his face, maybe he needed love, and creamed sugar coated pastries were his Juliet. Or maybe he just liked to eat. Rory didn’t want to leave the house, or was afraid of leaving the house, not because of a terrible incident that happened many years ago. No because he was enormous, and he knew that, he was afraid of people staring at him, watching him waddle down the street. Many people would say he brought it on himself. He was known only as an urban legend, the human whale living with his mother, who eats the alligators living in the sewer. I guess when reading a story you need to sympathize with the leading character, but you can’t with Rory Newton. He abused himself, making him fatter and fatter. He lived the life of thousands of children, who most of them turned out normal, and became scientists, layers and models. Rory didn’t, he wasted his life, because he coped in a different way from normal people. And in his coping he chose self abuse, bringing everything on himself, creating false memories, and eating for love. This is who Rory Newton was, and this is what he will always be, and the worst thing, the worst thing about all of his life, is that he just doesn’t care. He hates himself, he sees himself as disgusting, vulgar and vile, and he doesn’t care. Only one thing to live for and that is eating.
Rory walked out of the kitchen slowly after is meal, his stomach farley full, veins bulging from the mass pushing against the sides of his skin, while grease and fat drips down on to his bare skin, making his stomach shine, turning his clothes into a brown sort of sweaty color. He came to the living room, blinds shut, and door closed, stolen cable TV loud and visually exciting. Rory, walked over to the sofa, and sat down on it, absorbing the rays of light which were emitted by the television.
Saturday Night
Rory sat down on the old tattered sofa, watching The Wheel of Fortune. It was dinner time soon, and Rory felt the hunger surge through his body. He glanced at the clock with the broken face attached to the wall behind the TV.
7:01
Dinner was one minute late. At this point Rory felt worried. Dinner was always ready at 7:00pm sharp, and it wasn’t ready. He bit his lip and thought. Maybe his mother was making something special for him, something that would take longer than normal to make. That must be it, he thought. He stayed seated, and continued to watch TV. He never called for his mom, because she always got angry, and Rory didn’t like his mother when she was angry; Rory was always scared when his mother got angry.
7:01 quickly changed to 7:10 then to 7:30 then to 8:00. Dinner was an hour late, and Rory’s hunger increased with every precious second wasted. He decided to get up, and find where his mother was and what she was doing. Rory slowly walked to the kitchen. There was no-one there, there was no plates anywhere to be seen. Rory felt anger surge, and screamed;
“MOTHER”, there was no answer. Rory was furious; he picked up the pace and looked around the house,
“MOTHER” he screamed, his eyes bulging out of his head. He saw his mother’s bedroom light was on, the door was ajar. He quietly walked in, and saw this mother. She was lying on the bed, her eyes were closed, and her face was pale. Specks of blood lay around the bed, and on her mouth. Rory moved closer,
“Mother?” he said, quietly. There was no answer, Rory’s Mother just lay there, quiet and completely still. Her mouth was wide open, her eyes still and wet from tears. Her tacky red lipstick coated lips had a shade of blue and deep dark red; her veins bulged from beneath her skin, unmoving. Rory stared at her, he knew; she was dead.
He fell the floor, and stared at his mothers pale white corpse. Shock affects people in different ways, some people cry, some people scream, some people self mutilate and some people carry on their lives in exactly the same way. But mostly people hide bereavement in today’s western society, as it is unacceptable to show your feelings. Rory got up from the floor, and quietly closed the door leaving his mothers dead body on the bed. He had difficult decisions ahead of him. Rory had Agoraphibia, and was afraid of leaving the house; he also was a fraid of meeting people and liked his secrecy. Now that his mother was dead, there would be a funeral serivce, a memorial service and all the little inconviencies that come with the death of a loved one. No, none of this would have to happen, nobody would have to know. Thoughts came into his mind, what if he stored the body, kept from rotting, that would definatly stop any smells emitted from a small rotting corpse. Instantly he thought of the freezer in the kitchen. But it wasn’t large enough. Rory sat down on his couch, and scratched his head. There had to be a way, noway was he going to go out and allow himself to be seen, to be hurt…
And idea suddenly came into his mind. Walking into the kitchen, he reached around in the messy draws. Pulling a meat cleaver out of cutlery draw, he walked over to his mother’s bedroom. He stared at the dead body, at his mother’s distorted face. He bent over and kissed his mother’s bloody lips, and wished her good night.
Copyright © alecfernadez
... [2004-08-1205:06:16]
(Date/Time posted on site)
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Re: Gluttoney
(User Rating: 1)
by ShadowDaughter on Friday, 13th August 2004 @ 03:56:57 AM AEST
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Nice, seriously nice. I can't wait for the second part of this . . . post more and I'll certainly make a point of reading it.
This is creative and well-written, and I like your writing style a lot. You have a knack for bringing images to life and for telling a story in such a way as to interest and enthrall the reader. One of those ones where you hate to see the story end because that means it's OVER.
Might wanna use spell-check or something, since the spelling errors sorta detract from it, but besides that I have no suggestions.
waiting eagerly for part 2,
Nora |
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Re: Gluttoney
(User Rating: 1)
by corrupted_minds on Saturday, 14th August 2004 @ 06:33:20 PM AEST
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Welldone this was really good, you were so creative with it and you discribed things so well I had a mental image of what was happening. I cant wait to read the second part, It's a great story.
Corrupted_minds |
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Re: Gluttoney
(User Rating: 1)
by Jenni_K on Saturday, 14th August 2004 @ 07:49:51 PM AEST
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I had a great mental picture of everything in this story.... I honestly didn't think that I'd finish reading it but I did.... it was very intriquing...
You write so well..... Thank you for sharing this..
Jenni |
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Re: Gluttoney
(User Rating: 1)
by Former_Member on Saturday, 21st August 2004 @ 12:23:04 PM AEST
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I never thought i'd finish this, too . . . but its strangely compelling in a way much similar to your poetry. Partly because of the vulgar and oft repulsive imagery you employ, and part because of the descriptive quality and persistent objectivity of your language, the social reflection and extreme scenarios.
I found I liked this, and those are the reasons why.
Keep writing, Alec. |
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Re: Gluttoney
(User Rating: 1)
by Alina on Tuesday, 14th September 2004 @ 06:44:48 PM AEST
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This is truelly breathtaking. I was on the edge of my seat waiting for more. The end was somewhat predictable....but the building suspense and discriptions were great. I am eagerly waiting for part two. What makes this more compelling is that we have people in our society like this.....they just aren't usually publisized.
ALINA
Keep up the talented writes.
The begining of this story " The Slums" sounds much like my neighborhood. I could see this so vividley in my mind. |
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Re: Gluttoney
(User Rating: 1)
by TwEeK on Saturday, 2nd October 2004 @ 07:37:53 AM AEST
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i loved it!
it had such a morbid, melancholy air about it!
you have such a talent in describing every little thing about the characters you create!
i hope to read the next one, its gotta be as great as this one, or better!
Tweek |
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Re: Gluttoney
(User Rating: 1)
by brokenbylove130 on Sunday, 3rd October 2004 @ 03:48:02 PM AEST
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seriously awsome. i cant wait for you to post the second part. the imagery is amazing.
^_^ mandi |
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Re: Gluttoney
(User Rating: 1)
by alecfernadez on Wednesday, 10th November 2004 @ 03:28:07 PM AEST
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Ok the second parts taking a hella long time to write and fix, I reckon I'll have it up here in a week. The ending of this chapter may seem predictible, but believe me, you aint gonna be ready for the ***** thats in the second part. Honestly, I gotta stay off the sauce :))
Alex Trotter-Fernandez |
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Re: Gluttoney
(User Rating: 1)
by Essentially9 on Tuesday, 17th May 2005 @ 10:03:38 PM AEST
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well you certainly do have talent, but some things that i noticed in your writing that took some of my enjoyment out of it was, descibing different things with the same words. such as you used greasy/grease/grisel, etc many times. it just seemed kind of repetitive and wore out some of the words. it seems like you are so focused on putting the reader in the scene with discriptions that the reader sometimes forgets what you are describing anymore. in the first two sections i was wondering will all of these descriptions be of any particular use throughout the story and is that why he is precise? but its fine to put the reader in the story with descriptions, but sometimes when the amount of adjectives amounts to about 1/3 of the word used, than the story just seems to be drawn out. i must say that many of the things that i enjoyed in this was simply the way you stated things. i would like to see more of those used in your works. such things as this, "In his thirty-eight years he has eaten more things than he has loved, and loved fewer things than he has eaten." also your last two sections i thought were the best in it was basically the story. your ending was superb, but i have to admit i already knew what he would resort to to put her in the freezer. but your story is actually very realistic in many aspects, and that is what kind of brought me to put me more in the scene of the story. very good message so far, and very well worth the reading. |
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Re: Gluttoney
(User Rating: 1)
by PoisonousPyscho on Thursday, 30th June 2005 @ 03:40:58 PM AEST
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omg that was awesome !!! that was so frecken awesome !!! i loved it !!! |
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