demonic_monkey
04-30-2010, 02:53 AM
For a while now, I've been kicking around the idea of starting a thread for any short stories I happen to write. Well, here goes. Hope they don't suck too much. Also, most of these will likely contain adult content. Not all of them will, just most of them.
The Final Day of Timothy Anderson
The day started the same as every other day of his life. Timothy awoke to the sound of the train passing by his shithole apartment. He swung his legs out of bed and started picking up the things that had fallen when the train passed. He growled when he saw that the picture of his dead parents had been destroyed when it fell. He set it back in its place and went about getting dressed.
When he walked out into the open air of the city, a passing taxi splashed water out of the gutters and onto his clothes. He growled again, but kept walking down the sidewalk. He stopped at an ATM and wasn't surprised to find that his account at the bank was empty. His last girlfriend had her name on the account and had been draining it for the last three months. His rent was due today and he knew he had to get money unless he wanted to live on the streets.
He continued down the street until he reached his place of employment. He had managed to get a temp job at a plant where he was charged with picking up the chicken that fell on the floor and taking it to be washed and put back on the line. He found it mildly interesting that in a plant preparing chicken for human consumption, it was okay to pick up fallen pieces of chicken to be put back on the line, when in a plant preparing chicken for dog food, any chicken that fell on the floor was unfit for canine consumption. Apparently, dogs mattered more than people. To Timothy, it felt like every other being on the planet mattered more than him.
In the last few years, his parents had died and, just when he needed them most, his friends had abandoned him. His girlfriend had left him, her only reason being that she didn't see him going anywhere in life. Maybe she was right, but he had since stopped caring. He had simply continued with his menial, boring existence, knowing that it wouldn't matter what he did. He was fucked and he knew it.
Shortly after he had started his shift, he found himself called into his supervisor's office. The overweight woman, whose red hair was clearly a dye-job, simply looked at him. He looked around the room as he waited for her to speak. She cleared her throat and he looked back to her.
"Mr. Anderson," she said. "I'm sorry to say this, but we're going to have to let you go."
"Whatever," he said as he started leaving the room. "Fuck you and this whole fucking place. Go fuck yourself."
He left the plant and noticed his supervisor's car sitting in the parking lot. He suddenly found himself compelled to damage the sedan. Before he realized what he was doing, he was assaulting the car with fists and feet. Eventually, he tired himself out, but not before he had broken out her headlights and two windows. He spat a ball of phlegm onto the windshield and left the scene.
As he walked back into the apartment building, his landlord began to bombard him with questions about his rent money.
"I don't fucking have any money, you god-damned parasite," he shouted at the old man. "Don't worry. I'll be gone by the morning."
He slammed the door to his apartment behind him and went into his bathroom. He surveyed himself in the mirror. His brown hair was in disarray and his green eyes were possessed of a wild look. He looked down at his hands, bleeding from where his former supervisor's windows had cut him when he put his fists through them. Once again, he balled his hands into fists.
"Fuck this shit," he muttered angrily.
He trudged into his bedroom and pulled a box out from under his bed. He extracted a .45 revolver from the box and loaded it slowly, considering what he was about to do. He had no conection to the world around him anymore. He knew exactly what his future would hold; living on the streets, digging through dumpsters for meager scraps of rotting food, sleeping in a cardboard box. He wanted to die with some dignity, not in an alley covered in grime and sweat and lice.
What he was about to do had been on his mind for some time. He had been waiting, hoping that his life would improve, but now he knew nothing was going to get any better. He had nothing left. The only thing that awaited him was in the chamber of the gun he held. Why should he make it wait any longer?
He pulled back the hammer. He turned the barrel toward himself. He slid the barrel between his lips. Tears streamed down his face as he swallowed down the fear that tried to rise up within him, knowing he would suffer no more. He squeezed the trigger and finally found peace in death.
The Final Day of Timothy Anderson
The day started the same as every other day of his life. Timothy awoke to the sound of the train passing by his shithole apartment. He swung his legs out of bed and started picking up the things that had fallen when the train passed. He growled when he saw that the picture of his dead parents had been destroyed when it fell. He set it back in its place and went about getting dressed.
When he walked out into the open air of the city, a passing taxi splashed water out of the gutters and onto his clothes. He growled again, but kept walking down the sidewalk. He stopped at an ATM and wasn't surprised to find that his account at the bank was empty. His last girlfriend had her name on the account and had been draining it for the last three months. His rent was due today and he knew he had to get money unless he wanted to live on the streets.
He continued down the street until he reached his place of employment. He had managed to get a temp job at a plant where he was charged with picking up the chicken that fell on the floor and taking it to be washed and put back on the line. He found it mildly interesting that in a plant preparing chicken for human consumption, it was okay to pick up fallen pieces of chicken to be put back on the line, when in a plant preparing chicken for dog food, any chicken that fell on the floor was unfit for canine consumption. Apparently, dogs mattered more than people. To Timothy, it felt like every other being on the planet mattered more than him.
In the last few years, his parents had died and, just when he needed them most, his friends had abandoned him. His girlfriend had left him, her only reason being that she didn't see him going anywhere in life. Maybe she was right, but he had since stopped caring. He had simply continued with his menial, boring existence, knowing that it wouldn't matter what he did. He was fucked and he knew it.
Shortly after he had started his shift, he found himself called into his supervisor's office. The overweight woman, whose red hair was clearly a dye-job, simply looked at him. He looked around the room as he waited for her to speak. She cleared her throat and he looked back to her.
"Mr. Anderson," she said. "I'm sorry to say this, but we're going to have to let you go."
"Whatever," he said as he started leaving the room. "Fuck you and this whole fucking place. Go fuck yourself."
He left the plant and noticed his supervisor's car sitting in the parking lot. He suddenly found himself compelled to damage the sedan. Before he realized what he was doing, he was assaulting the car with fists and feet. Eventually, he tired himself out, but not before he had broken out her headlights and two windows. He spat a ball of phlegm onto the windshield and left the scene.
As he walked back into the apartment building, his landlord began to bombard him with questions about his rent money.
"I don't fucking have any money, you god-damned parasite," he shouted at the old man. "Don't worry. I'll be gone by the morning."
He slammed the door to his apartment behind him and went into his bathroom. He surveyed himself in the mirror. His brown hair was in disarray and his green eyes were possessed of a wild look. He looked down at his hands, bleeding from where his former supervisor's windows had cut him when he put his fists through them. Once again, he balled his hands into fists.
"Fuck this shit," he muttered angrily.
He trudged into his bedroom and pulled a box out from under his bed. He extracted a .45 revolver from the box and loaded it slowly, considering what he was about to do. He had no conection to the world around him anymore. He knew exactly what his future would hold; living on the streets, digging through dumpsters for meager scraps of rotting food, sleeping in a cardboard box. He wanted to die with some dignity, not in an alley covered in grime and sweat and lice.
What he was about to do had been on his mind for some time. He had been waiting, hoping that his life would improve, but now he knew nothing was going to get any better. He had nothing left. The only thing that awaited him was in the chamber of the gun he held. Why should he make it wait any longer?
He pulled back the hammer. He turned the barrel toward himself. He slid the barrel between his lips. Tears streamed down his face as he swallowed down the fear that tried to rise up within him, knowing he would suffer no more. He squeezed the trigger and finally found peace in death.