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Deranged: Loom at your own risk

[the following story is seriously demented and deranged. do not read if you feel there may be things that will give you an upset stomach. This was written in 2002 and it was the first short story I wrote as a contest candidate for Writing.com. However, it was NEVER included in the contests as they felt it was too sick to be hosted with their service. This alone should tell you something if you intend to read the story.]

I’m getting tired of being alone. Ever since I was brought here, there hasn’t been anyone to talk to. No one to say a word. No one to open my heart to. No one to share my thoughts and ideas with. No one to discuss our problems, our fears and hopes.
Everything is so brightly white here. It’s such a pain behind the eyes. White is the colour of the floor, white is the ceiling, white are these ever compressing walls.
This room is shrinking. The walls are moving. I know.
And this thing I ‘m wearing is not at all comfortable. And it is all white. These people are seriously taste-deprived.
I wonder. Where is everybody? I’ve been hearing footsteps all day today. And yesterday night. The screams… Who was it that was screaming? I couldn’t get a moment’s rest with all that commotion.
People are not at all what they used to be. Nowadays people don’t respect one another. That is why this world is going so off-track. People have rights; but one’s rights have to stop where another’s rights begin. And anyone has the right to scream his lungs out but not when I’m trying to sleep. I have the right to get some rest. Well, lately what I only have is the right. I never get to exercise it.
I don’t like this place. I think I will ask for a transfer. When I find someone to talk to that is.
How long has it been really? This damn cloth is coming over my watch. I‘ve completely lost track of time in here. Has it been over a day? Over a week? I feel like I’ve been here for a lifetime. It’s so depressing really…
Footsteps! Someone’s coming. But that’s what is always happening. Someone will come, that tiny window on my door will open but no one will speak. No one will say a word. And I wont be able to see or listen a thing. There is a black glass on that tiny hole on the door that keeps all secret.
Did I say I have a bed? Well, it ‘s no use since I can’t get any sleep but anyhow I do have one. It’s nothing like the one my parents used to sleep in but still it’s better than the floor I used to be thrown on.
Did I mention I used to live alone before I was brought here? No? Oh well let me tell you.
I lived in a house somewhere around a place called Johan’s City. At first I did not know that it was a house as I had always been down in the cellar but I guessed that, since there was a cellar there must had been a house above.
I lived there all alone. Well not really. There were another two people who were visiting me once in a while but they never stayed. Actually they never came together. I would only meet one of them at a time. There was someone with lots of hair all over his body and another one with no hair at all. The first one, as I was told lately, was my father. To be honesty, it was only lately that I found out that people who don’t live in cellars like to identify themselves as men and women, and have also various differences they like to apply when talking for themselves. Anyhow, that man then was my father. They told me so, quite some time ago. Some people all dressed up in a nice blue uniforms. I saw quite some of them on that special day that I was finally out of my cellar.
That other person I was told that she was my mother. She was not like me and she was not like my father. She was actually missing quite a few things. Hair to be the first one. But I liked it. She was so soft and smooth and sleek. Yes, I definitely liked it that she had not the hair my father and I had. Then again she didn’t have that funny thing that goes up and down and both my father and I had. Instead, she had a couple of other things that were puffy and oozed a yummy creamy white liquid.
Anyhow I don’t even recall why I was telling you all this. So now I stop.

…Oh! My bed. Now I remember. I was telling you of my bed. Nice little bed with white linen and a hard pillow.
I didn’t have a bed in my cellar. That’s what I began to talk about yes. I only had the floor. Well not exactly. I had a handmade bed made all of books. I had used three encyclopaedias down there on the floor in my cellar. Each time I woke up I would read one of the books and then put them all back together in order to lie over them and sleep.
Damn rats. Each time I was asleep they’d come and eat my bed away. So that is how I ended up sleeping on the floor. My bed was gradually being transformed into rat shit. At least I read some things from the books and some of them I memorized. Others though were not referred anywhere in the books I read so I am not familiar with. Like this thing I am wearing now. I really hate it. It keeps my hands tied together and I cannot do anything I please. And I don’t even know what to call the damn thing. Oh well…
I knew I was nude. There was a photo of a man in one of the books I read. Magazines. Yes that is what they used to be called. Actually zines. I remember seeing it in one of those I read. Anyhow, in one of those zines there was a man wearing something. Looked really nice. It was called “boxers”. Next to him there was a line that described the boxers, had a number with a strange $ symbol next to it and a line saying: “Semi-nude. Completely sexy!”. The rest of his body was like mine though and so I guessed that if he was semi-nude I must have been completely nude.
I liked being nude. It felt comfortable. It was practical too and hygienic. Now when I take a shit I ‘m stuck with it. There’s no way to take this thing off me and the shit in here is getting crowded.
My bed. It is comfortable. Lots more comfortable than the zines. If my father and mother were here we wouldn’t have the problems we had with the zine-o-bed. Specially that thing with my mother…
One day she had come down to bring me my food. Each day, either my father or my mother would come with a bag full of I-don’t-know-what and throw it on the floor for me to eat. Sometimes it tasted good. Others I didn’t like it but they wouldn’t bring me anything else until I had cleaned the floor from it. So, after three or four days of having nothing to eat I would eat it only to have something new brought to me.
Anyhow that ‘s not the point. The point was the bed. And the difficulties we had with it. That day then, my mother had come down the dark stairs and walked over near me. There was one large torch they would light each morning so that I could see. It never lasted more than eight hours so the rest of the day I’d sleep, as there’d be no light at all in the cellar.
So then, my mother walked slowly towards the light and I could see that once again she was naked. Both she and my father would bring me the food naked but I had to work hard before I was allowed to eat. My mother asked me then if I believed I was worthy to eat her shit that was in the bag. I remember nodding with joy that I’d finally eat as I was just about to collapse, as the previous six days I was being fed of something my father had brought me and I really didn’t like it at all.
Without opening the bag my mother let it fall on the cold floor and with a juicy splash the shit came out and scattered all over. Some came over my mother’s feet, some dirtied the torch holder and some even came over the corner of my bed.
My mother then turned her face to me and locked her eyes deep into mine. With a lusty smile, she twisted one of her fingernails against her teeth and asked me to clean her feet.
I moved on and licked her toes, sucking the shit off of each of her toe-fingers. I don’t know why but that strange little thing that I have between my legs started growing once again. I really need to admit that it felt good each time it went up but I couldn’t explain why it happened.
My mother pushed me back onto the zine-o-bed and sat on me. With her right hand she carefully placed my strange-thing in a strange-hole she had and then started to go up and down. Firstly slowly and then faster and faster. It really felt good and I was feeling something strange coming up inside my thing but then it happened. The long dirtied cloth that I used to cover my bed with was removed and one of the zines flipped open. As my mother was still going up and down one of the pages started cutting her leg a bit over her knee. At first she didn’t notice but then after the page had made about six cuts and the blood was coming out thick and warm she stood up and started screaming. Then she faded and dropped on the floor, the cuts still bleeding.
I stood up myself, my thing still hard and prolonged pointing forward, and looked down at the view. My mother, all nude, had fallen on the spread shit and bled like a volcano. From all the holes in the walls the rats had smelt the shit and the blood and had already come sucking on my mother’s soft skin, biting her deeper to taste warmer blood.
The view was disgusting. So much I liked it that my hard-on seemed to grow bigger as time went by. I took the same page that cut my mother and made a deep cut onto my prolonged member. It hurt like hell. I did another one and watched my blood showering the little rodents. Blood dark, blood thick.
I kneeled and moved towards my mother. Still fainted I helped her spread her legs a bit more so that I could enter her again. I turned around and looked at the open zine. I grasped it and brought it over my mother’s hole. Then I brought it down fiercely letting the pages slice the skin around and inside the hole. Again, again and again. My mother did not react. Even so I could feel how much she wanted me. I did the same on my thing. I was in so much pain that my eyes let out tears of pain. It was exciting.
I put my hands under my mother’s waist. I lifted the body up and fiercely pulled it towards me, my member entering my mother’s behind. That was not the plan. Still it hurt like hell. So I decided to stay there. I started moving inside out as brutally as a fly being consumed by a spider.
My mother’s ass was dripping blood. My blood. Or her blood. I don’t know. I didn’t mind at the time and will not care now either. I tore another page from the zine and drove it over my mother’s throat. It was an eruption. Thick waves of blood came out as my mother opened her eyes in pain, fright and excitement. She may have wanted to scream out of fear or pleasure but no sound came out. Then she passed out again never to wake up.
About five minutes later I was standing over her head my thing drooling thick dark red blood and some other white viscous liquid on her cut throat and open mouth.
It was that very same day that I noticed my mother hadn’t taken the time to lock the door to the upper part of the house. It was on that very same day that I took the torch from the cellar and went up the stairs. Light. I came against lots and lots of light for the very first time since I remember myself. My eyes closed shut and a pair of needles of pain were driven deep into my brain. When I finally managed to open my eyes my father was just coming out of a room all naked and dripping and had a large piece of cloth around his waist covering his feet to the knees. He didn’t notice me and turned his back on me walking to some other place in the house.
His hair got fire in an eye’s blink. As soon as I reached his back and moved the torch towards his head, he was set alight. He started screaming and cursing and swearing and tried to put the fire out. I could feel my cut member extending again. At that point he grabbed this wet cloth he had around his waist and started damping his head with it. As soon as I saw his little hairy member looking at me I felt deeply excited. I pushed him back and watched him fall on a thick red carpet in the shape of a heart. I took my torch and turning it upside down I watched as the melt wax was going straight for his thing. Before the first wax drop reached his member I fiercely pushed the burning candle all the way onto his thing.
He twisted and he turned, he screamed and he yelled. He eventually passed out. I looked around all the rooms in search of something sharp and I came across a little thing called Razor-X. I pushed it against my skin and it cut through deeper than a rat bite…
I was still above my decaying father’s body when the people in blue came in the house. They watched me as my blood was coming thick in my father’s behind, my member pushing deep into his shit and bleeding all the more, the burnt skin from my dead father’s head and thing clouding in the room.

…Haven’t seen anyone ever since. I’m left alone in this white room with the white bed and this white clothing all around me. There’s not much to do in this brilliantly lit place. Only wait. Wait and study. Study the only thing written in this room that is hanging from my iron bed:

Pat. 6630952669
Mentally deranged, disturbed and unstable, traumatized, distressed, demented, frenzied and frantic, hysterical, anguished, tormented, angst-ridden.
Suffers from delusional paranoia, schizophrenia, obsessive illusions.
Consider extremely dangerous. Do not come near. Loom at your own risk.

  2001  /  Short Shories  /  Last Updated July 20, 2013 by Phlegyas  / 

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