02 Jun 2011
by Keri Tomlin
in Uncategorized
Tags: death, everyone, god, life, love, no one, religion, world
In the back of my mind I have always known that something was missing. Religiously, emotionally, mentally, physically. There was a piece missing from me that took a huge chunk out of each of these parts. I am incomplete and have no one to turn to.
God was something that felt too good to be true and with the way my life has always gone, I figured that if he did exist, he forgot a lot of things or just didn’t care. I’d prefer to believe he just forgot, that maybe he bit off way more than he could chew when he created everything and that he’s just sitting in an easy chair staring at the billions of tv monitors he has to watch people and is trying his best to go through his list.
Maybe my tv is broken. Maybe the tv you have only clicks on once your life becomes a tragedy film. Maybe he only watches the sad ones. I bet it’s this way for him, because I’m okay in life. I have a home, a family, somewhat okay health, an education, food, etc…but I feel so dead. I feel like I have too much but at the same time not enough and it makes me want to scream.
I think, perhaps, if God exists, he forgot to give me happiness. He seems to have given me everything I need to be happy, but I’m not, so maybe that was his personality flaw that he decided to gift me with. I don’t know, I just feel like if he were there he’d grant my one and only wish, after all, it’s only one wish.
I’ve had a lot of wishes though, petty ones that were ignored. I could understand that and at night when I pray to someone I don’t even think exists, I tell him. I talk to him like I would talk to any other person, but I always feel ridiculous and a little dirty.
18 May 2011
by Keri Tomlin
in Uncategorized
Tags: abuse, country, father, girl, hell, help, high school, lakes, life, living, love, mother, parents, peace, son, sunburn, trees, water
In the summer Roy though about two things– water and Emily. Sometimes, well, more often than not he thought about the two together. It was something he dreamed about in the evenings when his father was sitting in the over sized, rotting easy chair in the living room–drinking usually. His mother, of course, would be cowering in the kitchen or in the bathroom, crying quietly not wishing to disturb his father again.
These moments had become distant to him as he thought of Emily’s curves flowing into the water of the lake in his backyard. His mother’s sobs would drown with the water and his father’s yelling would become a far away echo that ended up just blending in to the scene he created. The yells would transform into the harsh waves that the winds would create. Emily would be silent, as she usually was but instead of looking away from him, she would stare directly into Roy’s eyes, pleading for him to come join her.
He wouldn’t, of course, he would just tell her that he wanted to admire her beauty from where he was sitting, which would be under a large, old pine tree. With that, Emily would smile and mischievously disappear under water. She would stay so long that he’d wonder if she was okay and eventually, usually with a small tickle of fear in his stomach, would go to the water’s edge while her name fell from his sunburned lips. There would be no response causing him to not think about how it actually hadn’t been that long and how Emily was on the swim team, he’d jump in to rescue her only to find her rushing back to the surface with a smile on her lips accompanied by musical laughter.
“Emily!” he’d say, “What in the hell are you doing? I thought you were dying!” Her smile would not fade, but choose to change into a seductive form as she would wrap her arms around his shoulders, “I could never die, not with you around Roy.” She’d go in for a kiss, her soft pale lips wanting to touch his rough, sunburned ones, but Roy would not have it. He would push her away, one arm extending to grab hers, the other reaching across and allowing his hand to fly towards her cheek.
The moment his palm meets her cheek, though, he jumps. The scenery disappears and the sound from the slap isn’t within his room, but in the dining area. His mother, he can hear her crying, begging for mercy, begging to not die. His father is saying nothing, allowing his fists and steel booted feet to do all the talking. Roy goes to his bed and allows himself to fall, wishing, dreaming, hoping, praying that he never becomes his father, that someday he could be brave, and as he hears his mother’s crying and screams becoming faint and being replaced with gurgling sounds…he prays that today will not be the day she dies and that he does not become his father.
He’d just have to stay away from Emily.
11 May 2011
by Keri Tomlin
in Uncategorized
Tags: black, depression, georgia, happiness, heat, husbands, life, love, racism, white, willow trees, wives
Summer is always so hot. Even the trees droop in sweaty depression praying for rain or any form of liquid. Georgia weather was always muggy, something Janice had noticed immediately upon her arrival to the southern, back-wooded state. She had been living in Georgia now for the past 8 years, something she wasn’t sure she enjoyed, but none the less, she didn’t have the money to uproot once more and leave town or her husband. Not yet anyway.
She ended up in a small town, the kind where southern hospitality was just a show and racism dug deep into the ground. Lynchings still took place, as far as she knew, but they were in secret, and often more than not they were covered up by the local sheriff’s department. It was a predominately white town because of this. She supposed she should be scared, a black woman such as herself, but for some reason she wasn’t. She lived right smack in the middle of these white southerners and she did right well by herself.
Besides, she did house cleaning for the locals, and they seemed fine with that. As long as she stayed under them, they felt no need to antagonize her. Along with that was the fact that she was a lighter skinned beauty that kept to herself. She didn’t sass anyone and she sure as hell didn’t think poorly of anyone, especially no one that hadn’t done any harm towards her person.
She was, however, a little ashamed of herself. She knew she should be outraged by the injustices of what she faced everyday and the things she saw the locals do, but she wasn’t. She took it with a quiet acceptance and prayed for their souls. A large favor for those who had done nothing for her.
It was funny how the civil rights movement had been done and passed, and that in the year of 2011, not much had changed in this town. She always laughed silently as she passed buildings with signs that denied a “colored” person admission, or racially separated bathrooms that still littered the public scene. She wondered how they had managed to keep the town so tightly locked in the old ways, she supposed no one cared to change it and the town folks were happy just the way things were.
She would then think about how she was kind of the same as the town. Quiet, reserved, subservient to her husband, and always giving up her seat to her fellow, bleached neighbors. She never questioned much, never pointed out the law, always respected white folks more than they ever deserved and she had always been underpaid for her hard work. She had always allowed herself to be treated lower than dirt and smiled politely even when the only thing she really wanted to do was reach her arm out and slap the white off of people.
Things would remain the same so long as someone allowed them, and as long as this town kept its ways, no one would ever be brave enough to do anything about it. Besides, she was kind of hoping her husband would slip up and they’d lynch him in the woods like all the others. She smiled to herself as she sat down under the willow tree in her yard wondering why she was thinking such thoughts.
Maybe it was just the Georgia weather.
12 Jan 2011
by Keri Tomlin
in Uncategorized
Tags: beautiful, beauty, broken, death, dying, emotions, girl, hate, hurt, lonely, love, sex
There is a clanking noise in the background as I shiver in the cold, grey room. You are only inches away from me, speaking softly about what it means to be in love. You shift closer to me and soon your lips are against my neck and I sigh, because it’s the only thing I know how to do around you. I always feel so lost and strange when you touch me, but when you stop–I feel nothing.
So I let your hands continue their slow, soft journey on my thigh and I wonder what it means. What everything between us means. You keep saying it means love, but I’m not so sure. Maybe it’s just one sided. A shuddering breath escapes me and you catch it with your lips, pressing harder against mine and I can’t help but reach up to see if you’re real.
At this moment I want to cry in relief, because I honestly can’t believe you’re still here. I can’t believe that you still beg for my love, a love that withers and dies and falls. I can’t believe that you still think I’m beautiful even though life has walked away from me, leaving me pale and cold. I can’t believe…I can’t believe you love me.
While I try to keep pace with you, my head is empty and my body reacts naturally. I want so desperately to love you, and I think that perhaps, because I think that…I must love you. Your nose is nearly touching mine, you seem so sincere. I pray that you are. I pray that I’m not making another mistake.
31 Dec 2010
by Keri Tomlin
in Uncategorized
Tags: calls, cancer, cigarettes, cupid, death, dying, life, living, love
She doesn’t quite know why she’s there, or why he even allows her to be there, for that matter. She loses her breaths and skips more than a few heart beats. He brings her so off course, that she forgets where her destination was. He doesn’t notice, or he pretends not to. She’s alright with that, because she would probably turn red if he knew and then she’d be all sorts of funny.
He makes her realize, without ever saying anything, that she is still tolerable to the world, and that, for the most part, is good. She thinks slowly, speaks quickly, and stutters often. She wonders where her mind went and when did she become so silly? He talks to her, speaks softly, and she hears nothing. She watches his lips move and his eyes shine, but she does not register anything he says.
The whole time she can only think of a few things. How beautiful he is, how bad it actually is to be within a few feet of him, how she shouldn’t even be here…and what would happen if anyone found out? He seems less nervous and even calm about the situation. So cool and smooth, just like when he holds her hand.
She is jumpy, she realizes this when he touches her arm gently, forcing her to recline, laying on the soft grass. He kisses her slowly and she is hesitant at first, but she returns it and loses her worries as she begins to kiss back hard and desperate. His hand wraps around her hair, scrunching it between his fingers, devouring her mouth. She doesn’t think anymore, and for a moment they are meant to be together and no one will condemn them for being from different worlds. It was like Romeo and Juliet, without all the dying.
But later, when it is time for him to leave, because someone she refuses to believe exists–calls. He has a new job to do, a new murder to commit. She touches her lips gently, debating on whether or not to cry or smile. She chooses smiling when he leaves, waving good-bye and giving him yet another kiss that lasts a little too long.
Right now, it is enough, but later–She knows she’ll want more. He’s always burning her, filling her lungs with smoke and cancer, like a cigarette. …and she thinks that perhaps…she’s addicted.
05 May 2010
by Keri Tomlin
in Uncategorized
It always seems to be raining out here, but maybe I just notice more things when the water is falling from the sky; pounding, really, against anything and everything in it’s path–including us.
It’s a comforting sound. It’s more comforting than your promises. I don’t think you care, though…with the way your hand travels across me, like you’re drawing out a map for the world to know me. I feel exposed to your eyes but you can’t see anything and even though I know this, I’m still afraid.
Your breath dances along my neck as your lips lightly graze a trail, trying to find a point to bite me, suck me dry, kill me. You’re a vampire, sometimes. With the way you drain every protest out of me and I don’t remember how to even deny you. You take and take and I give so willingly, you don’t even realize that you’re killing who we are.
I don’t love you anymore, everything is based on sad habits that you’ve made me create and keep. I want you to leave and I want to run away, but I feel as if I wouldn’t live through it. Something along the way would kill me without you hiding so close. I need you, I breathe you, I hate you.
But I know that you need me more than I need you and even though that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t pull away, it helps with the hopelessness. Or maybe I’m just lying to you, myself, and everyone else….
Maybe I just…Love you.
03 Apr 2010
by Keri Tomlin
in Uncategorized
Tags: beautiful, death, hate, keri tomlin, murder, sleep, women
Doriana Misuse had been living a long (or maybe short, depending on who you are) 19 years. She had seen things most people would not have, but that was mostly because she was bat-shit crazy. On top of seeing things, she heard things, and what was worse was she had acted upon things. She was compulsive and broken and sometimes a bit obtuse depending on the time of day and whether or not she had been given her morning cup of mega caffeinated coffee. She was quiet–unless she was yelling; she was happy–unless she was sad; she was herself– unless she was pretending.
What made her dangerous, however, was the plain and simple fact that she was still human, despite the efforts of society trying to suffocate her in an unfeeling environment. She felt—she felt so much that it nearly tore her into little, bloody ribbons. It wasn’t because she was hurting, no…it was because she felt so much excitement and happiness when she held the gun in her hand that she’d almost miss because of her shaking. Trembling hands and awkward chuckles were the last things her victims would know.
She killed for many reasons…money, drugs, self-satisfaction, urge, etc. Which is why she was here–sitting in a rotting chair which creaked under her slight weight. She was waiting patiently for Adam Piloskie to walk quietly into the front door of his tiny, roach infested, one-roomed, barely livable apartment as he always does at 7:23 pm. The minutes were ticking by, she had at least an hour to think.
She wondered how she should do this. Maybe make it personal? After all, she was planning on killing him because of a run-in earlier in the day. Stupid man had made her drop her book and he had been handsome while doing it too! That didn’t sit well with her. Or perhaps she should do it as she always did, let it add up on her little (huge) file sitting on the desk of Detective Mathew Duram (not very good at detecting if Doriana had any sort of say about it). Her name was left out and only the list of bodies filled the pages (and the morgue), along with pictures and diagrams. Statements were absent (there were never any witnesses). Trophies she called them, poor saps said the detective.
Her long and bony fingers drummed lightly on the wooden arm of the half stuffed, rusty-orange chair.
Dra-dump, dra-dump, dra-dump.
Her hazy, almond eyes stared blankly ahead while her falsely purple hair framed her porcelain looking face. Doriana was quite a pale woman, practically glowing in the darkness though no light really was shed on her tiny little frame. She was like a ghost almost, clothes drinking her up and bones protruding from her skin like the models on TV. She seemed like she were floating, but that was not the case. Gravity was a very indiscriminate thing.
A low screech of the door opening was the thing that shattered the thoughts of the young woman. A man filtered into the room, like a faint light in fog. He seemed unobtrusive, as if trying to avoid disturbing Doriana as if he knew she were there. A small cough entered the silence followed by the jingle of keys and a crinkling of a plastic bag. With shuffling feet and a click, the lights seemed to magically fill the room.
Doriana sat still as she waited for the man, Adam, to notice her. He did so almost immediately. He did not seem surprised or worried or even curious. He gave a quiet acceptance of her presence and he continued on as if she were not there.
“I know why you’re here.” Doriana blinked, the voice surprising her slightly. It came out as a hushed tone and somewhat bored. “Mm? Well then, I suppose it makes the job a bit easier.” she replied, her lips barely moving. Her words seemed to fall out of her mouth like a bleeding wound and it sent a slight panic through Adam, but he held no sign of it physically.
This girl was beautiful but there was something in her eyes that screamed of a certain kind of madness that only a monster could relate. Cold and calculating. Never seeing the light of love and never seeing anything beyond the darkness that surrounded her. As Adam pondered why she was so frighteningly gorgeous, he had not notice her stand and walk towards him. The only thing bringing him from his thoughts is a gentle touch from Doriana.
Her hand slowly travels from his shoulder to his neck and then to his face. She holds his cheek so delicately, he isn’t even sure if he’s imagining her touching him or if she really is. She is so close to him that he can feel her warm breath fan across his neck which causes goosebumps to rise quickly. Her eyes dart up to his, lips slightly parted and chapped. He can’t move, not that he really wants to at this point.
It’s been so long since he’s had any sort of physical human contact that wasn’t accidental, that he finds he doesn’t mind that there is a killer in his home —taking up his personal space like some kind of lover. For a moment he wishes she were his lover. His sick and twisted, small and fucked lover. The sheer thought of the power he would have from her just being his was enough to make him consider it. He discarded the wish, though, as soon as it came. This woman had no feeling and she could care less, but apparently she cared enough to find him and kill him.
He took a moment to wonder what it would be like dead. Hopefully like sleeping, he concluded. The girl hadn’t really moved much from her position except the soft stroking of her hand on his cheek, as if trying to sooth him. Maybe she was trying to prepare him for the inevitable. It would be such a kind gesture, he thought.
With that, an earth shattering bang echoed through out the dilapidated apartment and Adam crumpled to the ground. He watched as Doriana step over him and closed his eyes. The last thing he heard was his apartment door shutting and the fading footsteps of the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. He laid in a pool of his own blood until the cops would come and Detective Mathew Duram would add Adam’s name to the list.
And as Duram stared down at Adam’s body, he couldn’t help but think– Death looks just like sleeping.
17 Jan 2010
by Keri Tomlin
in Uncategorized
Tags: anything, bad, beautiful, beauty, black, broken, cold, death, die, doctors, dying, emotions, everything, evil, friends, girl, god, keri tomlin, nurse, perfect, religion, satan, sex, ugly, world
The hospital walls were cold, unforgiving..Merciless. Low murmurs and whispers rang through the hallways like haunting voices of an abandon mansion. The temperature — cold, like the feeling of the woman who had just died only moments ago…
It was times like these he didn’t believe in God.
Had he been a little bit more caring..a little less hardened with life, and somewhat attached..He might have..would have been listening to his heart break a little. All because the man who was currently holding the dead woman’s hand, his body shaking, sobs coming out in a choked manner.
But seeing he wasn’t a little more caring, he wasn’t a little less hardened, and he wasn’t somewhat attached, he couldn’t bring himself to comfort the man. Besides, words didn’t bring someone back, if anything, they made the pain worse. He knew; he was experienced in tragedy.
So instead, he turned heel and walked out of the room. Of course, waiting on the other side of the door was the nurse he had been working with. She was smiling, grinning, ear to ear. Seeing his face did not make her smile leave, it remained.
“How are you doing?” he looked at her as if she had two heads. Did this woman just ask him how he was after their patient had just now died? “I’m doing wonderful, I succeeded with my goal of having one less person contribute to the population!” his voice was a sarcastic drawl, the nurse’s smile faded, and she gave into what she really felt with a frown.
He looked at the nurse, though he didn’t admit it, he loved her smile. Sometimes when he looked at her, he thought maybe there was a God. After all, who else could have produced such a perfect creature?
She was always there to share the happiness he wouldn’t show when they saved someone. She would always try to cheer him up, and pull him from the depths of his hellish thoughts. She knew what he was thinking all the time..and she would tell him it wasn’t his fault, and for a moment, he would believe her.
So she put back on her smile and said, “It wasn’t your fault you know? ” and for a second he did believe her, he would never admit that though. He continued to brood. “Alright, so we lost a patient, people die everyday. No need to get depressed about it.” she said with a roll of her eyes, though inside she felt exactly the same. No, no she didn’t, because he didn’t feel bad. That’s what he told himself.
Had he been able to save the woman, he would have just been delaying the inevitable [Because death was always going to happen, why not end the suffering sooner?]
But of course, that was a lie too. He got into this business to save lives and be able to give good news to his patients’ loved ones that everything would be alright. He lived for that moment to say the words, “You’ll be just fine.” but as of lately, that phrase seemed so out of reach.
Everything had been falling apart, not that he would tell anyone that. He was cold, but anyone who knew him saw through that facade. He cared, just a little bit more than he wanted to.
But for now, he would just go home, his shift was over and he needed sleep.
So, he went home. He took his shower, scrubbing off the invisible blood from the patients he had treated that day, and though only one had died, it had been the one that mattered most [but of course, she didn't matter to him...]
When he was done, he did his usual. Grabbing a bottle of vodka, downing it all. After all, what better way to forget than getting shit-faced drunk? Though of course it would only be temporary.
And so he would walk to his bedroom, collapsing on his bed in a drunken stupor, and pray he didn’t have a hang-over the next day. Which he knew he would. He, of course, was used to this, so it would most likely just be a dull, easily ignored pain in the back of his mind.
The next days had come to pass, and then something had happened that was a little bit out of the usual. He had gotten a patient, and though this was normal, it was the patient who wasn’t normal. It was his cheery nurse, his little side-kick, his smile.
And he tried so hard, so, so, so hard to save her. But she died anyway, whispering to him, still trying to give him reassurance, her last words being, “People die everyday..I’m no exception.” She had a smile on her face, and it had sent him over the edge.
Because the hospital was still the same; cold, unforgiving..Merciless.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He was sick of it, he wanted to save lives, he wanted to be able to say the words, “It’ll all be okay.” Life just turned around and slapped him in the face, leaving him to be a drunken mess at the end of the day.
Tonight would be the end of it all though, because in times like these, he didn’t feel anything. He walked through the now slightly less populated hospital, heading for his locker, grabbing his stuff. He would walk out to his car, drive home and do what he always did..with a small twist.
He would take his shower scrubbing of her blood, then he would go grab the vodka, drink, and grab a pistol he kept in his bottom draw of his dresser. He would sit on his bed, and put the gun to his head, because he didn’t care. Because he didn’t feel a loss when his patients died, because he didn’t love her.
Because in times like these, he didn’t think there was a God…But he supposed he would soon find out as a loud bang echoed through his home, his body dropping back gracefully onto his pillows; a note falling from his hands..
“I’m no exception.”
22 Aug 2009
by Keri Tomlin
in Uncategorized
Tags: ambulance, bar, boy, call it hot, cigarettes, city, clubs, cute, damned, dance, dancing, evil, girl, hate, hot, keri, keri tomlin, love, new york, paramedic, party, sad, sex, sexy, strip, throw up, town, vomit, winter, world
It’s a Friday night and I really don’t know why I am here, in this nasty “club.” Multiple bodies are dancing around me and I can’t breathe. The lights keep flashing and plastic barbies dance on poles, but who am I to judge? I’m here just the same. Clothes really aren’t a factor.
The smoke that floats through the small building burns my eyes and lungs. I can’t really see that well, just blurry faces of men behind women– simulating sex. Pushing my way through the crowd I wonder if I’ll make it out alive. I see my friends in the sea of people and I don’t understand what they find so fun.
Something was not right with these people, the way they let go so freely. They get into groups of two (sometimes more) on wobbly legs because they’ve had too much to drink, and they throw up, only to kiss each other shortly after, calling it sexy. Sometimes I think about how awkward it must be to wake up in another bed with someone you met the night before, naked. I wonder if they still feel hot.
I finally get to the bar counter and sit on one of the old, rickety stools. My feet hurt from the high heels my friend made me wear and I want so badly to kick them off and rub my feet, but even if I am among animals, I refuse to act like one. So I keep my feet on the foot rod on the stool and tug my (friend’s) mini skirt down. I grieve that I do not have my jeans on, and wish that I had my sweater. I take my hand and run it through my hair, trying to push it out of my eyes, which is proving to be very difficult do to the sweat and mist that contaminated my hair. None of it being my own and I resist the urge to vomit.
I look up and across from me there is a mirror behind the liquor cabinets and even though my image is distorted I know I look rough. My eye make-up is slightly smeared, my whore red lipstick has faded (thankfully), and my hair is in all sorts of disarray. I want so badly to go home. Away from the drugs, the sex…
And the violence as a fight breaks out behind me. I don’t know who is fighting or why, just that there is fighting, I can see it in the reflection of the mirror in front of me and I resist the urge to turn around. If I don’t look, I won’t be in it, but as I subtly observe, I realize I am about to be put into a very painful situation.
The bar rings out with loud bang, a stool falls over, clanging to the ground and I am just short of catching myself as I hit my head on the edge of the counter and tumble down in a very undignified and very revealing heap. I close my eyes, bite my lip and try to count to three, willing the pain and the blood I feel flowing down my forehead to go away. Just go away.
But it doesn’t, and it’s like everything stopped. The music was no longer playing, the lights were only slightly flashing, and everyone had stilled. Silence over took and I couldn’t really move. I let out a moan of pain, opened my eyes and suddenly the world is in fast forward…
People are scrabbling to help me, the two guys are trying to get out of the club, but the bouncers have stopped them. Someone is calling the police and maybe an ambulance. Really, cracking my skull open is not that big of a deal. It’s a side effect of coming to this place. I try to fight off the hands that reach for me, as I struggle to get up, my friends…unsurprisingly, aren’t there to help me. I look around as I stand on shaky legs and see a good majority of the group passed out in the booths, and wickedly I hope they drank themselves to death.
With my hand pressed up against the gash that had decided to take up residence on the hairline of my skull, I feel someone’s warm and latex covered hand grip my wrist. I can’t see that well still, but I can see the sudden appearance and disappearance and repeat of a light. I try to pull my hand away but a voice stops me.
“Hey, heyyy!!! Relax! I just need to look at this. Seems pretty deep…Can you hear me?”
I assume, by that time, I looked pretty damn pitiful. Wild eyed, bloody, and barely focused. Even though I heard him, I couldn’t really answer, I was too worried about how much of me was covered, how much people had seen and how much I really just wanted to cry from embarrassment. A fun night indeed. I think, briefly (but not for the first time within the past 20 minutes) about how I really need new friends. Ones who are safe and like to play scrabble. I pull at my skirt once more.
“Ah, you don’t look like the type to be in here, ya know. Here, take this jacket.”
I feel something fall across my shoulders and it covers my arms, which gives me a bit of comfort. More comfort than I’ve had in the passed hour or so. I feel hands and cotton swabs and alcohol gently rub away all the blood, but I wince because really…a gash that deep is going to burn. I feel the breath of the guy blow onto the wound, trying to ease the burning. I feel like I’m 5 again and my mommy is trying to sooth a boo-boo. I also feel that perhaps that’s a bit unsanitary and wonder where he had his training.
“So, tell me, what’s a girl like you doing in a shitty place like this?”
My eyes are finally focusing and I’m able to see this man’s face. He’s in a paramedic uniform (surprise, surprise), messy, dark hair, scrawny, pale, brown eyed. Everything that screamed indie high school stereo-type and I wanted to half way slap him for it. I realized, though, that would be kind of childish and perhaps a bit psychotic. So I don’t and he continues to clean the gash.
“My so-called friends, brought me here…”
My answer seems to satisfy him as he gives off a smirk that says he knows more than he lets on. When he finishes cleaning the wound he decides that I should go to the hospital anyway, because it was really hard hit and from the looks of it, it might be a bit more than a gash. I agree to get into the ambulance only because my ride is passed out and really, I just want to leave. As I go to walk away, I slip slightly in my own blood and again, I resist the urge to vomit. The blood was extreme and I realized that it was probably the reason for my dizziness. The paramedic gripped my elbow tightly to steady me and I continued on to the ambulance.
The ride is silent, except for the sirens that wail all around me. I go to poke the gash, but a hand slaps my own away and I make a very unladylike grunt of disdain. I really don’t have the patience for this guy to keep touching me, even if I do think he is kind of cute.
I suddenly feel very sick to my stomach, the paramedic notices and quickly puts a bucket in front of me where I empty out the booze and food of the day, and I think I even see my breakfast from earlier in the morning. He gives a chuckle.
“Throwing up, now that’s hot,” he says sarcastically, while laughing at my expense.
We arrive at the hospital, he disappears as my doctor shows…They fix me up, four stitches in my forehead and I stand outside in the cold trying to figure out what to do next. A man stands beside me, but I can’t make him out. He breaks the silence, “Need a ride?” It’s my paramedic. I look over to him and suddenly I think that perhaps…I should have gone clubbing earlier.
Turns out, he likes scrabble.
03 Aug 2009
by Keri Tomlin
in life
Tags: angels., beautiful, brave, coward, damaged, demons, dying, family, hate, killing, lonely, love, lust, religion, school, seduce, seventeen, sex, shooting, siblings, ugly, whore
Many people coated the floors of Francis J. High that mid-afternoon in May. Only one girl and boy stood, standing tall among the deceased. He was Satan and she convinced him.
It began with a simple hello at a park bench at the beginning of July a year prior. With gold locks that waved and tumbled around her, she could catch any eye– and with her own deep sea-green eyes, she could keep it. She was sixteen going on seventeen and nothing in the world could stop her from getting what she wanted and she wanted him.
Why she wanted him, she wasn’t sure. He was just a plain boy, perhaps even a momma’s boy. Dark brown hair always neatly combed over, silvery-hazel eyes downcast, and pale skin that had never seen the sun do to the study and sleeping habits that had taken him over.
Despite the lack of time spent in the sun, she found him at the park on an old creaky bench that had fading paint, old chewing gum on the sides and underneath, and carved in I-love-yous. It is there that she approached him, extended her slender arm, reaching her delicate hand out and waiting.
“Hi, my name’s Renea.”
The boy at first did not, or simply could not, respond. He sat dumbfounded and nervous, putting the book he had in his hand down into his lap, staring at the girl with suspicious eyes. It is then he found his voice, stuttering all the while.
“Uh. Hi, m-my name is T-Tyler.”
The girl gave a cute little giggle and sat down next to the boy without invitation and proceed to play a game of ask-and-tell. That moment, he fell into everything she was. He never thought he’d meet such a beautiful girl who was so willing to converse with him without making mention of his flaws. It was liberating in that subtle way, to know that not everyone ignored him.
Soon after they were friends or lovers, no one could ever tell which.
Over time, the girl had dropped hints that perhaps the boy was worth more. That there was more to him…That he was God. She whispered words and gave small touches, her cold hands pressing against his heated flesh, and he had forgotten the morals his parents had worked so hard to hammer in. All of the hard work peeling off in little strips, the girl ripping it away as if she were opening a gift. She told him that she was.
The boy had no chance, he was so lonely and broken as was and as far as he could tell, she was something that fell from the heavens to glue him, fix him and remind him…He had power. The power to give or take life. The power to command. The power to be worshipped. The power to cause prayer. When he told the girl this, she gave a devilish smirk and kissed him on the lips, he returned the kiss willingly and happily. This was the moment the girl knew she had him.
She made a suggestion one night in April, one that made the boy’s eyes slightly widen by surprise and then narrow in excited glee. “Perhaps…” she whispered into his ear, “you could prove to the world…” Her hands trailed up his chest, to stop at his shoulders and gripped them tightly, staring into his eyes. He stared back, a grin starting to form then bursting into a smile that spoke in volumes of corruption.
During the time from then to now, the boy sat at his desk planning with the girl whispering in his ears about power, violence, and maybe a dash of love. The boy’s hands would shake with such excitement that sometimes he couldn’t write and he’d have to grip the girl under him, under sheets, on his bed, sometimes to tell himself that he was the one with all the power, not her. Never her. She was just the push that needed to shove.
When the day came, that very sunny May, they went to the school, as they did everyday. The girl walked with confidence and a mini skirt, the boy had an air of proud surrounding him. People suspected nothing and knew nothing until the first bullet flew, prematurely. Things did not go exactly as planned, because of an incident with another student who ran into the girl. He did not apologize and after the gun was pulled out, neither did Tyler.
So began the massacre of Francis J. High. Renea bounced with wicked glee as she helped pick off teachers and students alike, Tyler spun around in his own little dance routine, laughter beginning to bubble in his chest and spew out into violent fits, while the guns he held let out explosive rings and bangs. Soon there was no one left aside from the two and a shaking girl in the corner.
Renea stood in the middle of the hallway, her last kill slumped onto the ground and bleeding on her new shoes, but she didn’t really mind. Tyler moved, though, towards the little girl. Sirens just beginning outside, a passer-by calling in the kills. He stood in front of her, blood on his face and clothes and hands and shoes. She sat, big hazel eyes looking up at Tyler, her brother. He knelt in front of her, reaching out his hand, she flinched, not wanting to touch him. Not wanting to know him, not wanting anything to do with him.
“Take my hand…” He whispered out, his voice slightly husky from all the laughing and yelling he had done.
“No, no…No…You’re Satan. You’re evil. I hate you, I HATE YOU!”
The girl screamed out shoving Tyler away, yelling furiously. Tyler, allowing his younger sister to push him, fell back into a pool of blood, soaking the back of his pants. He stood up and stared at her. Something clicked in him and he turned to Renea. Renea stared back, her eyes narrowing at the little girl, aiming her gun and it clicking as she readied it. The girl let out a whimper, knowing her end was coming. A Shot rang out…
Renea fell.
Tyler’s sister stood, staring wide eyed at him and slowly walked over, as he came towards her. Men with guns and black suits and helmets suddenly came into the doors of the school. They turned towards the men, Tyler in tired defeat, and his sister in sad relief.
Tyler and his sister stood tall among the deceased. He was Satan and she convinced him.
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