Underneath The Skin

Frank staggers out the neatly painted, white door. A wry grin sprawls across his face. “Free, free, freeee!” he shrieks at the starry night sky. “Free at last.” His voice trails off. He glares behind him at the bleak building that has held him for so long. A friendly looking sign above the entrance reads Sunnydale Insane Asylum. The structure grows smaller and smaller as Frank stumbles away. The blank double doors still swing slightly in the distance.

Tina struts out the front door of the diner. It slams violently behind her. Her scarlet stilettos click loudly on the grimy sidewalk as she steps. Tina’s boss Garret had been keeping her way past her hours repeatedly for the last week. Her grandma (who she is living with do to a lack of money for a nursing home) is sick and home alone. She can’t afford not to work, but with her boss Garret forcing her to stay after her hours lately, Tina is seriously considering quitting.

She tilts her head back gently to look up at the sky, dark and gloomy. Looking down again, Tina gropes around in her bright red apron pocket for a cigarette. After searching for several seconds, her fingers curl around a slender stick. She pulls out her last smoke. Sighing angrily she lights it and takes a deep drag. The thin line of grey smoke trails behind her as she exhales, contrasting with the dark that arrived with the setting sun. Tina click-clacks down the street, exhausted, upset, miserable, and completely unaware.
He has walked for hours. Civilization is almost within his reach for the first time in years. Frank’s feet are sore,legs weakening. The silhouette of a little house appears through the nighttime haze. Frank’s face is contorted in a sinister smile; eyes dilated, dart from side to side, focusing on something only for a fraction of a second before jumping away. “Freeee!” he yelps. “Free at last. And now Frank is gonna have some fun, fun, fun!” his shrill, high pitched voice sends shivers down the spine and raises tiny goose bumps on those unfortunate enough to hear it. The shack-like residence that Frank saw as a silhouette before is now in front of him. The back door is open and somewhat askew. “Fun, fun, fun!” he calls out into the darkness.

Tina takes her last long breath of cigarette and flicks the faintly glowing, stub into the gutter. She has at least a good 45 minutes until she will reach her home. Her fit of anger has simmered off to a desolate depression. Her pace has slowed, her arms hang loosely at her sides, lips slightly parted, her eyes have taken a somber grey color. She feels crushed, overwhelmed, broken, alone.

Frank holds the dead woman gently in his arms. He is shaking, eyes are wild, he feels insecure, uncertain, hysterical. The lady is old, that is made obvious by the sea of wrinkles and liver spots coating her skin; but besides that he knows nothing about her. Briefly he wonders what she was like, then he throws her away in disgust, as his mood violently swings, anger overcoming him.Her fragile figure hits the floor, there is a few muffled cracks as she lands, then she slides, her limbs bent at odd angles. A trail of blood streaks the floor behind her. Frank jumps from his chair, knocking it over with a crash. He leaps into the kitchen and begins to rummage through several drawers and cabinets. After a few minutes he carries a terrifying array of knifes and cutlery in his arms. Frank hobbles over to the old woman and arranges the blades beside her mangled corpse, humming a pitch less tune to himself.

Tina’s mouth stretches open in a mighty yawn. “Only two blocks left Tina.” She mutters groggily to herself. Her eyelids droop and the sides of her mouth point downward in a fatigued expression. “You’ll be home soon.” She whispered comfortingly. “You’ll be home soon.”

It’s littered with holes and tears, and some parts are much thicker than others, but Frank is proud of his work. He is completely, entirely soaked in blood. His arms, hands, face, chest, legs, feet are all stained a dark red. Bits of flesh, hair, clots of blood are crammed under his fingernails. His eyeballs dance and skip around, different parts of his body twitch randomly. His plain white clothing is torn, ripped, cut, and died a murky crimson. Before him swimming in a pool of shimmering red liquid is what’s left of her flayed body.

Tina fumbles with the keys. They tinkle, chime as they knock against each other. Her eyes are closed, she has barely any energy left to fight the need for sleep that plagues her mind. Somehow she manages to open the door, and drag herself through the doorway. She doesn’t open her eyes as she enters the house, or even when she slips (she doesn’t notice that the floor is wet) and almost falls. Her thoughts have before she drops onto the bed.

Frank starts sharply as the door is pushed open. Grandma’s foreign flesh feels heavy on his shoulders. Blood leaks out the holes where eyes once were, and spills from the parted lips like a stream of scarlet vomit. Tiny droplets well on what used to be the old woman’s earlobes. Frank is silent, unmoving, crouched like some sort of demonic creature anticipating the right moment to pounce.

The girl that stumbled through the door lies fully clothed on the bed. She’s wearing a short, bright red dress and red apron. Frank stands over her, staring intently at her soft, sleeping face. His thoughts churn and tumble around in a tormented, frenzied mind. The knife gleams in the dim light produced by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. The girl’s breathing is slow, steady. Out the filthy window, night is beginning to fade gradually into dawn.

Frank rests the point of the weapon on her exposed throat. One fluid swing, her neck gushes scarlet. The yellowing blanket beneath her is red in a flash. Her eyelids never even flutter. Her breath stops silently. On her face is stilled a look of solace. Finally the girl is at peace. She will never worry again, cry again, fear again. Although she will never laugh, smile, or dream again either.

The dress is held together by a line of buttons that runs up the front. After being worn and abused countless times, it doesn’t take much effort for Frank to pull the garment apart. Frank feels powerful and dangerous holding the knife in his hand. It’s not far off razor sharp, and cuts through skin well (as he discovered with Grandmamma). The blade slides down the middle of her exposed torso. The flesh peels away from the edge of the knife. “Let’s play dress up!” he cries. “I love dress up.”

Through the widow, the streets are barren, deserted. The sun has yet to make an appearance, but the sky is milky and streaked with pastel blue, pink and orange. Street lights litter the sidewalks, still bright as if caught in the last moments of night. The air is still, the scene soundless. Misgiving, unease, dread hover above the town, waiting for the dreaming, sleeping people to awake.

Her skin was easier for Frank to separate, to peel off than the old woman’s. Of course, the girl’s bleeding was much more excessive than Grandma’s, so this made it more difficult, but Frank enjoyed it all the same. He especially liked that her skin was still warm as he slipped it over his own. Grandmas hadn’t been very heated to begin with, and by the time he had finished removing it from her carcass it was frigid, icy, cold.

Blood cakes the girl’s pasty white cheeks, the soft rosy tint that was once there is forever gone now. Her skin weighs down on his shoulders, almost as if he was wearing a wet coat. Bits of gore and layers of blood spill from her eye holes, ear holes, and mouth. Frank can hardly see, breathe, or hear. The stench of death and decay waft off of him. “I like playing dress up!” he cackles to himself ominously. “Fun, fun, fun!”

Several doors down from Frank a woman sleeps alone in her bed. She quivers, shakes, cries quietly as a vicious nightmare holds her consciousness. Suddenly she awakes and sits up. Tremors course through her anatomy, down her spine, shortly followed by waves of tiny goose bumps. The tears that lined her face are beginning to dry, her breathing is unsteady. She feels something is wrong; uneasiness hangs in the air so thick, almost tangible. Without knowing why, she begins to clothe and ready herself. She wipes her face with a towel and pulls her hair back into a loose bun. As a last minute thought, she slips a pocket knife into the side of her jeans. Then she steps out the door. Without knowing why, she heads for the run down house that sits on the outskirts of town, home to an old woman and her granddaughter.

Bright
brilliant sunlight streaks through the dotted window
seeping between the branches of a thick old tree
illuminating the classroom with dazzling lemon spears
Blue
a patch of azure sky immerges through the emerald leaves
undisturbed, a cloudless oval peering out from a leafy aperture
Good Morning
trees stir in whispered yawn
wooden limbs creak as they stretch mighty arms
birds slide open thier tiny eyes, begin to twitter amongst the neighbors
a waking breaze flys through the lush grass
a sea fo green blades lean forward in unisen as the wind sweeps over them
then relax as it moves ahead
like a giant wave rolling through the ocean
good morning

no name yet

In her hand they look so tiny, almost innocent. An ocean of small white ovals floating within her cupped palm. The lighting is low, dim, produced entirely from the orangish glow of a streetlight that spills through the foggy window. The outline of each pill is exaggerated in the faint darkness as if each edge has been painted with a thin black line. Tilting her hand to the side, she watches their silhouettes shift.
Night sky is invisible through the little window but for a thick sable rectangle, from her position on the floor. Several shades of grey charcoal dance, overlap, cut, and crisscross about the room. A hazy, halo of light poorly illuminates the center of this space reflecting off the oily tile floor. Outside this circle, everything is cast in darkness, deepening in the corners. She sits on the edge of the halo, her face strewn into shadow, the tip of her shoes taste the corner of the dusky light.
She stares deeply down into her hand at the pills, lost in the pattern of their slender bodies. They appear to gleam in an eerie incandescence. Gently, but without hesitation, she lifts a single tablet from the pile. It rests between her index finger and thumb. She peers at it for a split moment, then places it in the back of her throat. She swallows dry. It rides down her throat without complaint.
The kitchen has an unpleasant aroma that drifts in and out of her with each breath. Overripe tomatoes rotting in a timeless fruit bowl, severely burnt toast blackened beyond recognition, a mix of synthetic cleaning products stashed under the sink, spilled alcohol slick on the faded yellow counter. I will not miss this place. Goodbye, goodbye. She pops another pill. She can feel its surface sticking gingerly to the sides of her sodden throat. It leaves a lump in her neck that cannot be cured from repeated swallowing. Her eyes brim slightly. Another tablet down. Then another. Another. She smiles in knowing that it's ending. This is right, and she wants it to be this way. More pills. Sometimes two, three at a time. She gags, and takes a minute to breathe in a rush of heavy air. Grinning. Smiling. Dry lips stretched, cracks spider across their pink surface.
Minutes slip by. Capsules slip down. Tiny beads of brilliant light dot the perimeters of her vision. She feels much like a horse dressed in blinders. The kitchen twirls sickeningly before her, blurring and doubling. Standing is impossible at this point. Everything lurches in and out of focus. Her stomach gargles and complains, queasy. Her lips remain stretched, her smile undisturbed. Saliva dribbles from her mouth. Dizziness sends aching pangs to her head. She attempts to lift a hand to wipe at her slubbery chin, but her brain spins and she can't seem to get her hand to her jaw, instead smearing spittle across her cheek. Her thoughts skip about one another, and she can't seem to focus on a single one without it being lost in a moment. Darkness pools on the boundaries of her sight. Her palm once full with capsules, now hangs all but empty at her side. Her stomach boils, she feels as if she might burst.
Sliding down the wall, she finds her self suddenly in a very uncomfortable slump on the floor. She is stuck in place by the threat of severe nausea. Vomit flows from her lips in aggressive heaves. She fights hard to keep as much down as she can. Only vaguely smelling or tasting anything. Her senses are glazed over, bland. Her eyelids are being pulled down, it is so difficult to resist. She lets them fall closed. If you were to look down from above on her, you would see a simple girl. Her hair is died a few simple colors and that is the most exiting thing about her. She rests face down on the ground, sprawled with her filthy, matted hair spinning off in a number of directions. A pool of her own regurgitation floats about her, slowly expanding across the floor. Several pale, oval shaped capsules drift along side her, miniature boats gliding through a murky, gruesome sea. Her head is on its side, a twisted smile draws out her face.
He reaches icy fingers toward her in a motherly way, as if to caress the side of her face. His hand hovers a breath away from her skin, so close, the little hairs on her cheek stand up. She takes her hand and places it over his, palm to the back of his hand. She can feel his frigid touch permeating, seeping through the flesh just above her jaw. Spreading.
There is no sound but it is as if she can hear him sigh. She can't tell if it's a sigh of welcome or pity. She is suddenly aware of a subdued whisper echoing with a husky voice in the back of her head. Every living creature dies alone. Then it is gone. Foundation falls from under her. An abrupt stillness settles soundlessly over everything. Heart slows. S l o w s. stop.

Someone dies in every story.

hey all,
my name is Terrapin.
this blog is just a compilation of short stories that i wrote.
they're not related in anyway, its just sort of a list of them.
i would love criticism, or really any comments at all.
im not exactly known for happy endings so brace yourself.
i wouldnt want anyone to be let down.
-Terra

save our souls

Vacation had been his idea. Consumed, overwhelmed, choked by pressures of their separate jobs, with the family, with the constant financial struggle. There was a bitter tension in their relationship. He could not define exactly when it had begun, it wasn't like something had happened between them. It was simply like adding water to a glass drop by drop. He feared, dreading the day when the final droplet would cause a flood.
Already, things had changed. Before, every dinner was special. They would eat their food side by side at the dark wooden table in the center of their kitchen. Laughing, smiling, lively, often romantic conversation passing warmly between them. Their hands would lightly touch under the table, their legs loosely entwined. Together they would clear the table, wash the dishes. A kiss here. The skin on her cheek soft to his lips. A kiss there. Her tender green eyes glisten as she leans towards him.
Now, dinnertime is just another task on the list to get through, just routine. They sit. They eat. Work has become a common topic that infects their once pleasant meals. Their legs, hands, eyes, now stay sober and to themselves.
He can't imagine a life without her. Time has welded, glued, bonded them together. Slowly, she became his second half, a part of him through and through. Some piece of her lives within him, and likewise, a chunk of him with her. He misses those moments before, when stress didn't plague their time together, when laughing came so easily, freely. This vacation was much needed.
She stands elegantly towards the front of the fast moving boat. Golden locks of hair fly behind her, dancing and twirling in the rush of air screaming past them. Her loose, long sleeve grey shirt is flattened against her chest, it billows behind her, fluttering, flapping against her back. He stands with his knees uncovered and bent, he watches her from behind, and grips a metal railing for support. Cautiously, he takes a step forward, wary of the motions of the boat. He reaches his hands towards her, now that he is in reachable distance, and wraps his arms about her waist. She feels his sudden touch, and she turns her head slightly towards him. The smile that stretches across her face is wide, and perfect. It's the kind of smile you would expect to see on the face of a successful model posing on the front of a fashion magazine. For a moment he forgets everything, the world has fallen away beside him and the only thing left is this perfect smile. It takes a minute for the world to slowly return, and his surroundings to come into focus.
Gradually she brings the boat to a stop, she turns to him, chest to chest. They face each other, the space between them dissolves to a sliver, until there is none, and he can feel her torso rise and fall with her breathing. The only sound is of the constant slap of miniature waves against the side of the boat. Occasionally, a fish will jump, leap, fling itself from the water into the air, only to fall back again, unseen, submerged in the swirling liquid once more. If you listen you can sometimes hear a bird call across the lake, each of their distinct and exotic voices echoing off the surrounding mountains.
Their faces tilt towards each other, his slightly down, hers up. Lips touch so gently. Tongues dance, tease, slide together. Mouths melding softly to one, the point that divides his from hers is lost. They haven't felt this coupled, this close since before. She now realizes how much she misses those days.
Their mouths separate, he holds her tightly, her head fits well against his chest. He kisses the top of her head delicately, her hair gives off a slightly sweet scent that fills his nose. There is no place he would rather be, nothing more perfect then this exact moment.
Minutes pass, neither want to move. Eventually, she sits, starts the boat it roars to life, gathering acceleration. They hop over the little waves; a spray of icy lake water shoots at them. She shouts and giggles, the sudden cold sending goose bumps across her skin. She increases their speed just a bit, there is a certain freedom in the wind that blows by them.
The shore where they originally entered the lake comes into view as a line of golden sand on the edge of the horizon. The sun has begun to dip in the sky, blue is fading out, and you can tell that flaming orange, red, yellow, and pink will immerge shortly. Neither is ready to leave. She turns her head to look at him, he stands just behind her. Their thoughts mirror one another.
"I don't wanna go yet." Her voice is quiet, threatening to break. She reminds him of a child who knows she is defeated, but pleas one last time for her way regardless. He is silent, unsure of how to respond. On one hand, he knows they should head back, on the other he wants to stay on the boat with her forever, to make her happy. He turns away from her and steps back.
Stress is a very funny thing. It can do so much damage to people. It can make you sick, make any and all parts of the body ache, it can cause migraines, ulcers, it can kill the brain, give us violent mood swings, cause delusions, it messes with our heads. Everyone has at least one stress related freak out in their life, usually many. So really, her freak out wasn't unusual or uncalled for, it was however, inconvenient.
As she was holding the controls for the boat steadily in her fingers, a thought, a realization suddenly slipped into her mind. It was like a mental tidal wave crushing down on her head. Work was coming, and she was going to have to go. She was going to have to sit in her itty bitty cubicle, deal with her stupid, thick headed boss, cope with the army of selfish coworkers who's goal in life was to make her miserable. So much to get done, and time seems to only slip away faster and faster. This vacation is only a tiny break and then things are going to go back to being exactly the way they were. I'm going to go back to suffering. This happiness is only temporary.
Already, she can feel the stress pushing down on her. Anger overcomes her, devours her joy. It pulses through her fingers, hands, arms, legs, even to her toes. The mere thought of returning to the bitter, restless, strained life that this vacation has temporarily concealed from memory, is overwhelming. Dread surfaces in the livid puddle of harsh emotion that pools within her mind. I am not going back. Ever. She grips the handles tighter, her knuckles fade to a ghostly white in the pressure.
He sees her abrupt change in body language, her entire form tense up, he moves towards her again. She feels his fingers touch sensitively to her shoulder. Boiling, boiling. Her temper threatens to gush, cascade over the brim of the little cup in which it rests. He wants to help, really, truly he does, reassuring her is not, however, an easy thing to do right now. Tears spill down her face uncontrollably, her eyes stay forward, focused she is somewhat embarrassed by this outburst. In his desperateness to mend the situation, and calm his wife, he resorts in humor, squeezing her side with his right hand. He is well aware of how excruciatingly ticklish she is in that exact spot. She squeals and slaps at him wildly. He evades her attempts at peeling his fingers away and continues to poke and jab at her, squealing turns to shrieking, she gasps for breath, her feet kick madly. Her right foot kicks. This simple action. Unintentional. Accidental. She strikes the gas pedal full force.
The boat blasts, shoots forward. She is thrown against the front of the boat, her shoulder hits the steering handle. Pain shoots needles through her arm and neck. He had been standing to her left close to the edge, with nothing to stop him from the plunge into icy water. There is a slight splash as he becomes submerged in the frigid, murky depths of the lake. Partially, it was bad timing. He fell off the boat just before she slammed against the steering. His head was barely under the water as the craft swerved, out of control, over him. It was also inconvenient that his head was positioned directly under the motor when it hit him. I guess, sometimes the forces that be just get mad.
It takes her several seconds to recover from the torturous tickle attack, and from being thrown against the boat, to stand and reorient herself. The boat lost the majority of its speed when she pulled her foot back off the gas pedal. Now it drifts along the water, mostly moved by the never-ending supply of tiny waves lapping against it. Her bruised shoulder aches, agonizingly. Her vision swims.
After a minute she will begin to look for her missing husband. She will turn to face the right edge of the boat, and gaze into the water. At first there will only be a hand. Floating innocently before her, immerging from beneath the vessel. Then his forearm, elbow, shoulder. Gradually his mangled corpse will appear, she will look on him in absolute, pure horror.
His pruning anatomy bathes in a pool of scarlet that glistens in the late sun. Held to the surface by a fluorescent orange life jacket, his head knocks repeatedly against the craft with the oncoming ripples. The side of his skull has been torn, ripped, shredded apart, most of his hair is caught in the engine. The flesh that once shielded his forehead hangs by a string of skin to his head. His cheek has a deep gash through it, stretching from his upper lip to his cheekbone. If one were to look at it they would be able to easily view his teeth, tongue, and gums. An ear gently distanced itself from his body, as the sea of waves carry it away.
The rest of his anatomy would appear to be in relatively good condition. His flesh is fairly saturated. Water flows freely in and out of his mouth and nose. Already, several fish have begun to nibble at his tasteful, lifeless corpse, their little mouths chewing quickly.
She will rock to and fro. Stunned. Shocked. Horrified. Sobbing uncontrollably, yet soundlessly. The boat sways delicately with her rocking, leaning under her weight. It is silent but for the cry of a bird, or the occasional jumping fish. Day has melted to evening.