Where have I done?
Blood is everywhere. Is it mine? I can't tell anymore. My fists. I can't feel my fists.
Stop punching.
Stop punching.
My hands. Look at my hands.
Gaping wounds. My knuckles. They are bleeding. What has happened to me?
What have I become?
He steps back. Out of breath, each pulse registering throughout his body. He can feel it rushing through his body.
tha thump
tha thump
tha thump
tha thump
His back hits the creamed painted brick wall. Sliding down, letting the grooves guide him down until his bottom hit the floor. The blood flows through his knuckles but he feels nothing.
The canvas in front of him. Blood splattered against the wall. It sneered down; forming in the crevases. Slowly drying out. It was becoming darker.
Was there someone here? What was I punching? My hands. I feel them again. I cannot move them.
Dark red gashes line his fist. Feeling begins to come back to him. He can't feel his hands anymore. The pain is so emmense, it feels like his hands were in ice water. It cannot be described.
A fluorecent light flickers off and on as in some sort of taunting morse code. The floor has not been cleaned in days. Fucking janitors.
I gotta stop this bleeding.
Daintly, he takes off his shirt to get off his undershirt, wrap up his wound.
Fuck. It hurts. He tries to flex but each bring a lightning strike of pain through his body. He winces. He pulls off his shirt. Breathing hard, holding back the screams inside. They might here them? Who?
He stops. He looks down the hallway.
Good, not here.
Ripping the shirt in two. The only way he can cover both fists. Deep breaths now.
One.
Two.
Retaliation.
Just kill me now. Just do it.
Is there a bathroom here? Get yourself up. Get on up.
Get up.
Get up.
Get up.
I need a doctor. I need to see a doctor.
FUCK, the pain. I can't feel my hands now. Everything is going numb. Fear begins to set in.
Am I going to be alright? Shit. I don't want to die.
Please God. Don't let me die.
Please God. Tell me what will happen.
Please God. What will happen now?
The bloodpaint dries on the wall. It looks oddly familiar. The more I fade out, the more it looks like...
Please God. Let me be alright.
What have I done?
---
What have I done here? This has always been a scene for a beginning of a movie I have wanted to make? What exactly does it mean? What does the character done? Has he beaten himself? Has he beaten someone else? I wanted him to be overwhelmed with anger, adrenaline, overcome with the power of emotion.
Anger that has built up. One after another. Throwing him into a concentrated blind rage. As the condition weared off, he comes back to his normal state. His feelings coming back slowly but powerfully. As if he was unable to control it. He likes control, but was unable to control himself.
Does he find a way to a hospital? A doctor? Does he pass out with the image of his bloodportrait in his mind? Engraved? Certainly, he will live. I wanted to give the reader the knowledge that blood has been lost, but not enough that he will bleed to death. We can imagine that a hallway, about the size of any normal length in a classroom building; a portion of it is splattered with blood, focusing on the two fist marks that he was making. The more you stare at it, the more it begins to take shape. A person? An object? That is the beauty of the imagination. It can embed whatever notion you want it to be.
Ever try looking at the clouds and do you swear that one cloud looks like a dog chasing a stick? Or God lunging out with a lightning bolt attacking another puff of cloud that resembles a turtle? To that person, it may be a throne, with a man pointing outwards at something. Perhaps at the car shaped cloud over to the north.
That is the beauty of imagination.
Exactly what this can be. I don't have anything planned out, layed out, concieved for the future. It will all flow as through my conciousness; as one; not to stop. Until I feel it is fit.
I wasn't going to write today. I had a massive headache. It is kind of scary thinking about it, your body heats itself up to kill off an organism trying to take over you, attack your cells, your body. What did I have? The flu? A disease? Can't keep myself but wondering what exactly is going on. Christ.
Sometimes those headaches can be some crippling. The pounding on your forehead. Vision blurred and sensitivity to light. A simple lamp light can even be blinding. As if a ship of men, pounding, marching one after one. You can only lie in your bed and let the pounding continue. I even feel that sometimes, headaches can come straight out of my forehead, and that a stream of fluid will come out; instant relief. Anything, just anything to make it stop. To feel normal. To walk around.
It may not even be the sickness either. People...yes. People can give you headaches. Sometimes, just sometimes that can make you so angry. So angry inside. You want to yell at them. Feeling every muscle tighten inside. Face becoming red; filling with anger. Your hands the veins they begin to enlarge. The blood rushes through them faster and faster. You feel powerful, on top of the world. Taking on an entire army. Talking it out is out of the question. No time to reason, to think. Only to hit. Only for flesh to flesh contact.
Bring it on. Your fingers clench, they form the fist. They almost penetrate the skin as your fingernails dig deep into your palm. Your chest tightens and you feel a power, an urge, a bloodlust begin to leak through. It is a drug. A state of euphoria. You only begin to slightly cackle as your eyes begin to feel the pulsing as the rest of your body does.
Tha thump.
Tha thump.
Tha thump.
Tha thump.
Quicker, yes. Faster, yes! More! More power! Bring this fool down. Friends? Not anymore. Best thought that one through, buddy, pal. Think to fuck with me any farther? No. You will pay. You will pay for your sins, sinner. An eye for an eye. Feel the pain as I rock with you with each fist. Each blow you will remember. I will beat you until you cannot feel. Close to death, to feel God. Run towards the light. Be rid of your soul; from this planet. You scum.
You blackout, I am still going, still throwing the punches. You feel some connect,sometimes not. Becoming oblivious to the world around you. Unable to stop. Please...stop.
...
Blood is everywhere. Is it mine? I can't tell anymore. My fists. I can't feel my fists.
Stop punching.
Stop punching.
My hands. Look at my hands.
Gaping wounds. My knuckles. They are bleeding. What has happened to me?
What have I become?
Blood is everywhere. Is it mine? I can't tell anymore. My fists. I can't feel my fists.
Stop punching.
Stop punching.
My hands. Look at my hands.
Gaping wounds. My knuckles. They are bleeding. What has happened to me?
What have I become?
He steps back. Out of breath, each pulse registering throughout his body. He can feel it rushing through his body.
tha thump
tha thump
tha thump
tha thump
His back hits the creamed painted brick wall. Sliding down, letting the grooves guide him down until his bottom hit the floor. The blood flows through his knuckles but he feels nothing.
The canvas in front of him. Blood splattered against the wall. It sneered down; forming in the crevases. Slowly drying out. It was becoming darker.
Was there someone here? What was I punching? My hands. I feel them again. I cannot move them.
Dark red gashes line his fist. Feeling begins to come back to him. He can't feel his hands anymore. The pain is so emmense, it feels like his hands were in ice water. It cannot be described.
A fluorecent light flickers off and on as in some sort of taunting morse code. The floor has not been cleaned in days. Fucking janitors.
I gotta stop this bleeding.
Daintly, he takes off his shirt to get off his undershirt, wrap up his wound.
Fuck. It hurts. He tries to flex but each bring a lightning strike of pain through his body. He winces. He pulls off his shirt. Breathing hard, holding back the screams inside. They might here them? Who?
He stops. He looks down the hallway.
Good, not here.
Ripping the shirt in two. The only way he can cover both fists. Deep breaths now.
One.
Two.
Retaliation.
Just kill me now. Just do it.
Is there a bathroom here? Get yourself up. Get on up.
Get up.
Get up.
Get up.
I need a doctor. I need to see a doctor.
FUCK, the pain. I can't feel my hands now. Everything is going numb. Fear begins to set in.
Am I going to be alright? Shit. I don't want to die.
Please God. Don't let me die.
Please God. Tell me what will happen.
Please God. What will happen now?
The bloodpaint dries on the wall. It looks oddly familiar. The more I fade out, the more it looks like...
Please God. Let me be alright.
What have I done?
---
What have I done here? This has always been a scene for a beginning of a movie I have wanted to make? What exactly does it mean? What does the character done? Has he beaten himself? Has he beaten someone else? I wanted him to be overwhelmed with anger, adrenaline, overcome with the power of emotion.
Anger that has built up. One after another. Throwing him into a concentrated blind rage. As the condition weared off, he comes back to his normal state. His feelings coming back slowly but powerfully. As if he was unable to control it. He likes control, but was unable to control himself.
Does he find a way to a hospital? A doctor? Does he pass out with the image of his bloodportrait in his mind? Engraved? Certainly, he will live. I wanted to give the reader the knowledge that blood has been lost, but not enough that he will bleed to death. We can imagine that a hallway, about the size of any normal length in a classroom building; a portion of it is splattered with blood, focusing on the two fist marks that he was making. The more you stare at it, the more it begins to take shape. A person? An object? That is the beauty of the imagination. It can embed whatever notion you want it to be.
Ever try looking at the clouds and do you swear that one cloud looks like a dog chasing a stick? Or God lunging out with a lightning bolt attacking another puff of cloud that resembles a turtle? To that person, it may be a throne, with a man pointing outwards at something. Perhaps at the car shaped cloud over to the north.
That is the beauty of imagination.
Exactly what this can be. I don't have anything planned out, layed out, concieved for the future. It will all flow as through my conciousness; as one; not to stop. Until I feel it is fit.
I wasn't going to write today. I had a massive headache. It is kind of scary thinking about it, your body heats itself up to kill off an organism trying to take over you, attack your cells, your body. What did I have? The flu? A disease? Can't keep myself but wondering what exactly is going on. Christ.
Sometimes those headaches can be some crippling. The pounding on your forehead. Vision blurred and sensitivity to light. A simple lamp light can even be blinding. As if a ship of men, pounding, marching one after one. You can only lie in your bed and let the pounding continue. I even feel that sometimes, headaches can come straight out of my forehead, and that a stream of fluid will come out; instant relief. Anything, just anything to make it stop. To feel normal. To walk around.
It may not even be the sickness either. People...yes. People can give you headaches. Sometimes, just sometimes that can make you so angry. So angry inside. You want to yell at them. Feeling every muscle tighten inside. Face becoming red; filling with anger. Your hands the veins they begin to enlarge. The blood rushes through them faster and faster. You feel powerful, on top of the world. Taking on an entire army. Talking it out is out of the question. No time to reason, to think. Only to hit. Only for flesh to flesh contact.
Bring it on. Your fingers clench, they form the fist. They almost penetrate the skin as your fingernails dig deep into your palm. Your chest tightens and you feel a power, an urge, a bloodlust begin to leak through. It is a drug. A state of euphoria. You only begin to slightly cackle as your eyes begin to feel the pulsing as the rest of your body does.
Tha thump.
Tha thump.
Tha thump.
Tha thump.
Quicker, yes. Faster, yes! More! More power! Bring this fool down. Friends? Not anymore. Best thought that one through, buddy, pal. Think to fuck with me any farther? No. You will pay. You will pay for your sins, sinner. An eye for an eye. Feel the pain as I rock with you with each fist. Each blow you will remember. I will beat you until you cannot feel. Close to death, to feel God. Run towards the light. Be rid of your soul; from this planet. You scum.
You blackout, I am still going, still throwing the punches. You feel some connect,sometimes not. Becoming oblivious to the world around you. Unable to stop. Please...stop.
...
Blood is everywhere. Is it mine? I can't tell anymore. My fists. I can't feel my fists.
Stop punching.
Stop punching.
My hands. Look at my hands.
Gaping wounds. My knuckles. They are bleeding. What has happened to me?
What have I become?
posted by Ryan Schneider at 23:46
5 Comments:
This was supposed to by 500 words but once I got going, I couldn't really stop and I liked where I was going with this.
It's wild. The voice is intense. It's a kind of metafiction--where the "author" is commenting on his own writing. You've got these parallels set up: the battle on the page and the battle in the author's head.
Holy crap, this was really intense. What prompt was this? It reminded me of Rage Bull. If that was the idea, it worked.
Well, it's okay, but you keep changing voices, and the second part totally interrupts any sort of narrative you were building. I was totally into it until I got there, and then you stopped telling a story and started talking directly to the reader. I'm not sure what's going on, but after you slipped the reins of narration I lost interest any way. I really liked the first part though, very intense. You might want to use spell check, though.
i have to agree with diana, the battle on the page and the author's mind. it would be an interesting experiment to keep going with this...or even this idea of writing a story that splits between the fictionalized author of it and the story itself. it'd be interesting style to go in, and you could mesh the idea of how we often impose parts of ourselves in the writing.
even if you don't choose to add more to this story...the style of it could work with something even more complex. i love it.
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