48 Days Until The End – Starch – Short Story

It stings, like a fucking bitch, I want to rip my eyes from my head, but, that’d just be letting her win, she’d already taken so much.

“Does it sting?” She asks, like why the fuck would she ask? I’m on the ground, clawing at my face screaming in pain, of course it fucking hurts, Although, if she really wants an answer, she’ll be waiting a while, I’m no where near finished screaming.

She laughs, “It didn’t have to be this way Jerry, we could’ve been happy, you and I. I had everything planned, the whole nine yards, kids, a house in the Hamptons, Christmas with the whole family around the table, old age, a shared plot, but, you fucked it all up, you and your dick, bet he’s not feeling happy now,” she says, fucking bitch, I tighten my grip, pain shoots through my body, I feel the sticky, congealed blood between my fingers, as well as my junk, or lack there of, bitch cut it right off, sliced him right off, that was after she’d emptied an entire can of pepper spray in my face.

I didn’t even have time to explain myself, she didn’t want to know, her mind was made up and I was going to pay. I guess this is what I deserve, she’s right, me and my old mate made a few mistakes, went a few places, down south, we shouldn’t’ve even gone, but, you know what, even though all this pain, I sorta still think, in the long run, it might’ve been the best decision I’d ever done, because, well, obviously, this bitch is fucking crazy.

I just hope they can stitch him back on.

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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