47 Days Until The End – Me And Mine – Short Story

“They say, when you know what you’ve got, you should hold on as tight as you can, and never let it go. Sage advice for the trouble soul, or just an excuse cooked up by sick perverts who need an outlet for their desperation, their depravities, their, hopelessness,” he says as he nervously picks up a glass in front of him and takes a large mouthful, rolling his tongue over his lips, trying to wet them, he screws his face up in pain, as the water seeps into the cracks. He looks back up, at the camera, and takes a deep breath.

“That’s what I told myself, that’s what I used to get me through all the shit, but, fuck, look where it got me,” he says, as he peers over his shoulder, quickly glancing around the room. The red, less vibrant as it once was, now darker, uglier, he swallows, and turns back to the camera once more, his eye twitches, his lip trembles. “None of them understood what was right, they, they wanted,” he stops and looks at the table, clearing his throat. “SHE wanted to take them away from me, SHE said I was sick, I needed help and until I got it, until I showed HER my family came first, SHE was takin’ the kids and leaving, going up to JASON’S, the sleaze bag from work, holiday house up in the woods. FUCKING bitch, just like the rest, just like Mum said she was, but I couldn’t see because I was thinking with my cock, and not my head,” he says looking up again and takes another mouthful from the glass, slamming it back down into the table.

“But, now, no one can have them, no one, can take them, we’re going to be happy again, just like we’re supposed to,” he says, as he smiles and pulls a revolver from the table and smacks it against the side of his head, pulling the trigger as he does.

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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