Day 264 – Potion Twenty-Six – Short Story

“I want to start this story out, with one important fact, one fact that will ensure as you hear this, as you take all this in, you will know, that none of this was my fault. You may, at times think, maybe I had something to do with it all, but I can assure you, for the sake of any future arguments, I, Tim Malone, did not have, or ever did have, any underlying, self absorbed intentions, other than to ensure a fair and just outcome was reached so that everyone involved would benefit,” He says, as he stares down the camera lens, he tucks a finger down between the collar of his shirt and his throat, and pulls it lose.

He clears his throat, takes a mouthful of water from a glass that he holds nervously in his hands, and smiles, “Two days ago was when it started, or ended, I’m not sure anymore what you would call it, either both, or whatever, but two days ago was when Trevor Malduver unsuccessfully attempted to free what he thought were refugees from a government holding centre, somewhere in the arse end of the city. Stupid fucker didn’t realise they were locked away for a reason, ” he says, as he reaches up to his collar again, and pulls on it once more, this time  unbuttoning the top of the shirt.

“If Trevor had done his homework correctly, he would’ve found out that they were being held for a reason, but he didn’t, and he, well, he freed the infection from it’s chamber, and they ran, spreading their disease to everyone,” he hangs his head and looks down at the floor, he feels the tears well up in his heads, and watches as they drop and slash onto the concrete floor. “T-T-This, this disease took my family from me, as I’m sure it has to many of you out there, but unlike you, I don’t sit waiting, hoping, for the government to find a cure, hoping that they can save my family,” he says, as he looks up at the camera once more, his eyes red, his skin puffy.

All emotion drops from his face, and he stares blankly into the camera, “There is no cure, there is no saving those infected, the only way to survive is to kill, to run, and if you don’t, if you can’t do that, then, the best this to do, is, kill yourself,” he says as he raises a revolver to the side of his head. “My name is Doctor Steven Templeton, I created this virus, I built this weapon, this killing machine, and, it is, unstoppable,” he says as he pulls the trigger, removing half his head.



Published by

Matthew Tonks

People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time and dream of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.” So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.

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