Gteeuu
04-20-2014, 02:32 PM
People shouldn't expect to be given a free rein in life. They have responsibilities. You might not like me saying so but you have to live with the results of your choices. You can't just decide to do something, not think things through well enough and then expect other people to pick you up at the end of it, be sincere and receive a heartfelt hand back up when you fall to the bottom, next to the gutter in despair.
I pride myself on keeping clean, keeping a straight back and knowing only enough of the world to keep me going in the right direction. The way is laid out for me by those who understand that, left alone to live our own lives, we would destroy each other. People should follow the right path and when they stray from it, I am ready to drag them right back to it. I load my automatic shot gun, pull up my mask and flip down my visor as I step off into the night, ready to take the personal freedom from those who insist on diverging from the rest of us, those disgusting individuals who don't fit, those who resist.
***
The key smashed through the door, it made a hole big enough to fit a giant wearing a helmet through. It opened the doorway to pain. As I watched my feet push through the splintered wood, I get annoyed by the shoulders and legs in my way. I can only hear my heartbeat and I feel strange in my equipment. It pulls me down. I'm to run through this small, dimly lit, messy hall-way but something pulls me backwards, a pulley rope attached to my yoke. I'm willing it to remove me from this responsibility, but I got up early for this.
I open my mouth to yell, the first action of a Liberty Breaker, I'm drowned out by the other's screams. I'm to go down this hall, stop, check, swing left, another door to wreck. "Get up, get up now!" I snatch at the man laid out on the bed between two unconscious bodies and drag my prisoner indignantly from his hive of curled fabric, out into the dank despair that is the reality of his life decisions. Some words come out garbled from between his liars lips, I don't bother to listen. You can't be too careful with these people, if you really insist on calling them that. They could have any trick ready to attack you without notice. We've all heard the stories and seen the news reports of the thugs lashing out without warning. "For my security, for your security" the now bland words echo in my nerve filled ears as I chastise his wrists with my own personal cuffs. Those that are issued are too simple to break out of, so I had the wise thought to invest my pay in a pair that cause a higher degree of pain. On appearances and to the idiot, they look the same. No one need know. A yelp of suffering, as I tug the connecting chain between his hands to the ground, is enough to know that this criminality-ridden biological husk will agree to my terms.
Each of my cheeks fill with blood. Their heat betray my clear confidence. My hands have turned blue, the plastic gloves make it impossible to probe and pick up the smallest pieces of the hunt. May be the poetry lies in this act of failure. Even with all the force behind us, it's next to impossible for me to stop my limbs from shaking and my voice from quivering. I'm telling you it's the adrenaline, my anxiety builds so high that the only way to come down from it is extra adrenaline. At this point I would find it difficult to clinch a leaf in mid-air.
It seems we have finally decided to leave with the prisoner, but I can't bring myself to take him away. He hasn't enough time to get clean, so I'll settle for him brushing his teeth. I can't stand the stench in my car after transporting Them. At least this way I'll be able to face him without wanting to hurl in my mask. I foresee his bristled length of plastic is actually a cut throat razor, a pistol or a bread knife ready to sever my head from its blood supply and oxygen. I lead him to the basin and remove his privacy.
I stand in the corner and watch. I watch him find his toothbrush with his fingers. It's surprisingly neat, in a cup with two others on a glazed white tile on a windowsill beneath a frosted window. This room must be above the route we used to smuggle ourselves in. I remind myself of looking up and briefly seeing the window as I swept past the smooth brick wall, shuffling in the shadows of last night. I catch sight of hard impressions on the skin of his arm. They disturb your conscience.
The brushing causes agony in my head as I search for an answer. He must have slept on it all night to make those shapes. No, you're thinking his tiny daughter would have been holding on too tight as she listens to my boot steps creeping towards her bedroom, as she listens out for the inevitable pause that gives the illusion of reprieve before I destroy her peace. You'd be imagining that she would have been watching the door, fearful of the silhouettes ripping this man away from her and scraping the warmth that only a loved child can weave into words. Except, you're wrong, I don't do the pause. You shouldn't let yourself think that way, it makes it real.
He finishes the routine and places the brush in the cup and places the cup onto the windowsill, too hard. The fool makes a smack noise as it impacts the tiles and a crack appears. This total lack of care makes my face twitch and a bolt of lightening shoot through my cranial cavity. I feel the burn from the friction before I notice I've smashed the back of my hand across the back of his head and I take a step back. Blood trickles down the plastic floor covering where his face impacted, his nose split open showing the globules of fat. I can't let my personal emotions get in the way, he didn't know he would dirty my boots with blood, it's ok, it's not his fault.
END
I'm still waiting on what to do for a ending and to find a weakness for the character big enough to cause his final downfall, a trap to be set to catch him.
I pride myself on keeping clean, keeping a straight back and knowing only enough of the world to keep me going in the right direction. The way is laid out for me by those who understand that, left alone to live our own lives, we would destroy each other. People should follow the right path and when they stray from it, I am ready to drag them right back to it. I load my automatic shot gun, pull up my mask and flip down my visor as I step off into the night, ready to take the personal freedom from those who insist on diverging from the rest of us, those disgusting individuals who don't fit, those who resist.
***
The key smashed through the door, it made a hole big enough to fit a giant wearing a helmet through. It opened the doorway to pain. As I watched my feet push through the splintered wood, I get annoyed by the shoulders and legs in my way. I can only hear my heartbeat and I feel strange in my equipment. It pulls me down. I'm to run through this small, dimly lit, messy hall-way but something pulls me backwards, a pulley rope attached to my yoke. I'm willing it to remove me from this responsibility, but I got up early for this.
I open my mouth to yell, the first action of a Liberty Breaker, I'm drowned out by the other's screams. I'm to go down this hall, stop, check, swing left, another door to wreck. "Get up, get up now!" I snatch at the man laid out on the bed between two unconscious bodies and drag my prisoner indignantly from his hive of curled fabric, out into the dank despair that is the reality of his life decisions. Some words come out garbled from between his liars lips, I don't bother to listen. You can't be too careful with these people, if you really insist on calling them that. They could have any trick ready to attack you without notice. We've all heard the stories and seen the news reports of the thugs lashing out without warning. "For my security, for your security" the now bland words echo in my nerve filled ears as I chastise his wrists with my own personal cuffs. Those that are issued are too simple to break out of, so I had the wise thought to invest my pay in a pair that cause a higher degree of pain. On appearances and to the idiot, they look the same. No one need know. A yelp of suffering, as I tug the connecting chain between his hands to the ground, is enough to know that this criminality-ridden biological husk will agree to my terms.
Each of my cheeks fill with blood. Their heat betray my clear confidence. My hands have turned blue, the plastic gloves make it impossible to probe and pick up the smallest pieces of the hunt. May be the poetry lies in this act of failure. Even with all the force behind us, it's next to impossible for me to stop my limbs from shaking and my voice from quivering. I'm telling you it's the adrenaline, my anxiety builds so high that the only way to come down from it is extra adrenaline. At this point I would find it difficult to clinch a leaf in mid-air.
It seems we have finally decided to leave with the prisoner, but I can't bring myself to take him away. He hasn't enough time to get clean, so I'll settle for him brushing his teeth. I can't stand the stench in my car after transporting Them. At least this way I'll be able to face him without wanting to hurl in my mask. I foresee his bristled length of plastic is actually a cut throat razor, a pistol or a bread knife ready to sever my head from its blood supply and oxygen. I lead him to the basin and remove his privacy.
I stand in the corner and watch. I watch him find his toothbrush with his fingers. It's surprisingly neat, in a cup with two others on a glazed white tile on a windowsill beneath a frosted window. This room must be above the route we used to smuggle ourselves in. I remind myself of looking up and briefly seeing the window as I swept past the smooth brick wall, shuffling in the shadows of last night. I catch sight of hard impressions on the skin of his arm. They disturb your conscience.
The brushing causes agony in my head as I search for an answer. He must have slept on it all night to make those shapes. No, you're thinking his tiny daughter would have been holding on too tight as she listens to my boot steps creeping towards her bedroom, as she listens out for the inevitable pause that gives the illusion of reprieve before I destroy her peace. You'd be imagining that she would have been watching the door, fearful of the silhouettes ripping this man away from her and scraping the warmth that only a loved child can weave into words. Except, you're wrong, I don't do the pause. You shouldn't let yourself think that way, it makes it real.
He finishes the routine and places the brush in the cup and places the cup onto the windowsill, too hard. The fool makes a smack noise as it impacts the tiles and a crack appears. This total lack of care makes my face twitch and a bolt of lightening shoot through my cranial cavity. I feel the burn from the friction before I notice I've smashed the back of my hand across the back of his head and I take a step back. Blood trickles down the plastic floor covering where his face impacted, his nose split open showing the globules of fat. I can't let my personal emotions get in the way, he didn't know he would dirty my boots with blood, it's ok, it's not his fault.
END
I'm still waiting on what to do for a ending and to find a weakness for the character big enough to cause his final downfall, a trap to be set to catch him.