Day 270 – Stocking – Short Story

“Simplistic little fucker, aren’t you?” She says, looking down at the quivering, bloody man who crouches at her feet.

“P-P-Please, Fiona, I meant no harm, I am but….”

“YOU ARE BUT NOTHING!” Fiona yells, cutting him off as she drives a boot to the side of his head, knocking him over onto his side. “When this world fell, I was the one who raised you up, when death took your loved ones, I was the one who comforted you, when you had desires, I was the one who fulfilled them, and now, after all that I have done, you, you chose him over me?”

“I-I-I,” he licks his dry, cracked lips, hoping to wet them with the blood that runs from a gash in the side of his mouth, and down the back of his throat, he swallows, tasting the saltiness. “I never chose him over you, you did, you pushed me away,” he says as he forces himself to his knees, and kneels in front of her. “You became so obsessed with making this world yours, obsessed with doing what you thought I wanted done, but you never stopped and asked, you never thought all I ever wanted was just you, with me, by my side, enjoying each other. I never wanted this, I never wanted anything but you,” he says softly, her body relaxes, and she looks down upon him, the hate that was in her eyes now gone, replaced by sadness, she feels her eyes begin to well up with tears, and she looks away, clutching herself.

“Go,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he sits there, still staring up at her.

She looks down at him, her face twisted with anger, “GO NOW!” She screams, “GO NOW, BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND!”

He scrambles to his feet, looking over to her one last time before staggering away into the darkness, once he is gone she falls to her knees and screams in anger, as tears run down her face.

END

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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