Sinister Scribblings - Volume 1 Page 6

As the woman reached the entrance to the store, she had to shimmy sideways to avoid colliding with the woman that was just making her way into the store. She had a mean, intense look upon her face, her hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail. The way she barged into the store reminded Geoffrey of a kamikaze bomber on his final mission.

  “Hello, Karen,” Geoffrey called to her.

  Totally ignoring his greeting, the woman stormed right up to Geoffrey. “I hate coming here, that mall out there is always too busy, and the sodding escalators are broken again.”

  With that, she stormed past him and towards the office behind the counter.

  “Good to see you too,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “What did you say?” she snapped.

  “Me? Nothing”

  She gave him a look as though he was something that she scraped off the bottom of his shoe and headed through the office door, slamming it behind her.

  Smiling and shaking his head, Geoffrey slid the black holdall towards him and slowly undid the zip. As he looked inside, he felt a mild sense of embarrassment as he reached in and grabbed the first item. He removed it from the holdall, did a quick last minute check to see if anybody was around, and removed a massive black dildo from the bag. He stood for a second, weighing the item in his hands; it was absolutely huge. He placed it down on the counter and reached once more into the depths of the bag.

  He felt something fuzzy, something that was soft to the touch. He grabbed the first item and removed it from the bag. Geoffrey nearly fainted, the hairs on his arms stood on end, and he felt dizzy. Reaching back into the bag, he grabbed the last item and pulled it into view.

  He stared at the two masks from his troubled past. The pink hippo mask with its large blue eyes stared back at him from behind their pink lashes, the dead gaze burning into his soul. The large, round blue eyes on the Zippy mask stared at him with their blank, friendly appeal. The zip of the mask caressed his fingers, cold to the touch.

  Geoffrey’s vision blurred, and his throat felt dry. He began to sway gently backwards and forwards, somehow resisting the urge to fall to the ground. Something snapped within his mind, he could feel the serotonin leaking from his diseased brain and into his blood, the darkness beginning to take over his thoughts.

  He could feel his grip on sanity rapidly slipping away from him. It was like a transformation was occurring in his entire nervous system. Suddenly, the television set that stood in the middle of the store burst into life. Extravagant bright colours filled the screen. Bizarre characters leapt around as the familiar theme tune began to ring around in his mind.

  Up above the streets and houses, rainbow climbing high...

  He walked from behind the counter and approached the television as the theme tune continued to play out.

  Everyone can see it smiling, over the sky.

  Geoffrey stared at the screen, the macabre, colourful scene of madness before his eyes started to turn dark and distort into a dark vision of his own face. His features were dark and contorted, but it was like staring into a mirror of his own soul. The theme tune concluded.

  Paint the whole world with a rainboooooow.

  The evil reflection of his face on the screen began to laugh. He, too, began to laugh. The laughter increased until the point where he was almost hysterical. From the office, Karen appeared behind the counter, bearing witness to Geoffrey in his reincarnation of madness.

  “What the fuck is going on?” she screamed.

  Geoffrey didn’t respond to her question. He headed to the entrance of the store, and removed his key from his pocket that operated the shutter. He pushed it into the automated control and twisted to the right as the shutter slowly began to shut.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed again. “Let me fucking out.”

  Geoffrey walked towards her and she attempted to dart to the right to avoid him. He threw out a vicious kick that connected with her hip and sent her crashing against the wall. Grabbing her from behind by her ponytail, he flipped her over and connected viciously with a head butt to her nose. He felt the cartilage snap effortlessly and stood back up. He put his foot over her throat, removing the leather belt from around his waist. He began wrapping both ends tightly around his hands, and spoke, “If I can’t have you,” he said, “nobody else is having you.”

  Educating Horace

  She awoke with a start, as a wave of panic and nausea crashed into her. Everything around her was enclosed in pitch black and she couldn’t see a thing. Her face was constricted by some type of thick cotton-like material, she could feel the sensation of the fabric rising and falling in her mouth as she continued with her laboured breathing. The pain hit her rapidly and unbearably, all over her body – like dozens of sharp blades puncturing and penetrating her skin, all at the same time.

  The sour, coppery taste of blood caught in her throat, coating her tongue and the roof of her mouth. As she ran the tip of her tongue against her ruined gums, and the remainder of her teeth, she began to sob and moan uncontrollably. The majority of them had been yanked out, leaving nothing but gaping, throbbing holes. The wounds still leaked fresh blood, and the odd broken stumps of teeth and exposed nerves sent pain shooting through her skull. The contained heat of the makeshift hood over her head made her brow wet with perspiration as she continued to panic and hyperventilate. Rivulets of sweat began to run down her burning cheeks and neck.

  She made an attempt to move, but her hands and feet were bound together tightly by some kind of sharp plastic or metal straps. The restraints dug into her wrists and ankles, restricting the flow of blood, and left her fingers and toes with a numb, tingling sensation. They were tight enough to rub and break the surface of her skin, threatening to lacerate and draw blood.

  She lay in a warm room, the stuffy air intensified by her obstructed airways. The hood that constricted her head and view made it difficult to breathe. Despite her discomfort, she lay on a soft surface; perhaps a bed or mattress.

  *****

  Horace sat alone at the large table located at the back of the school assembly hall, shovelling stale hot cross buns into his mouth, buns that had sat in the heat all day. He sat with his home-made Easter bonnet placed messily upon his head, the headpiece depicting a scene involving fluffy yellow chicks and pink eggs. He didn’t pay any attention to the world around him. He continued to gorge as the other children on stage were singing Easter songs and reciting prayers. Large crumbs fell from the stale pastry and rolled down his chin from the corner of his mouth, landing in his lap, adding to the growing collection.

  He sat listening to the next Easter song; something about the gift of life. He smiled contently, enjoying the Easter service. This was one of his favourite times of the year. He didn’t really care for the Easter traditions or religious aspects, oh no.

  For Horace, it was all about the chocolate.

  Horace Davidson was a large boy for his age. At fourteen-years-old, he was already weighing in at a portly thirteen stone. He wasn’t particularly tall, and he was certainly no taller than some of the other boys in his year. He carried no muscle on his body to bolster his mass; Horace’s weight was saggy body fat, plain and simple.

  His shoulders were narrow, and almost didn’t seem wide enough to carry the mass of his large cranium. His arms were flabby and dimpled, excess fat hung in place of firm triceps, and his forearms were similar in appearance to those of the cartoon character, Popeye. His hands were particularly small, with short, stubby fingers.

  His vast paunch hung around his midriff like a large spare tyre. Despite his large abdomen, he had short, scrawny legs that looked as though they were about to buckle under the imposed load, at any given moment.

  Horace wasn’t a bright kid; he was the type of boy that gave the tyrants in his year a wet dream – he would often be referred to as a retard or a blockhead by his peers. The truth was, nobody knew whether there was anything medically wrong with him, or whether he was just a little simple-minded, or slow. Or all of th
e above.

  He was raised by his mother; a single parent since the disappearance of her husband, shortly after the boy was born. She was a skinny, hard faced woman in her mid-forties. Her grey, curly hair lay back from her unwelcoming, dark green eyes and thin, pursed lips. The skin around her eyes were blemished with stress lines and wrinkles – the result of many years of worry and sleepless nights. With him being an only child and her sole responsibility, he had been reared as the epitome of a mummy’s boy. She had done everything for the boy since birth, in all stages of his development, even if it did bridle his progress. She had taught him to tie his shoe laces, kick his first football, and dropped him off at his first day of school. She loved the boy with all of her heart, even though her love would often cloud her good judgement.

  She would make up for his obvious lack of intelligence by making excuses that he was simply shy or withdrawn. When he was found staring strangely at people, making them feel uncomfortable, she would justify his behaviour by saying that he was inquisitive. Her flippant attitude towards her son’s strange demeanour resulted in them both being classed as social misfits, by many people in the town.

  He wore thick, black rimmed spectacles that had been broken and taped back together numerous times. His heap of curly, greasy brown hair hung down over his skull and face like an old, smelly mop. His cheeks were adorned with thick patches of ugly looking freckles, and a scattering of downy brown hairs collected upon his top lip. The lenses in his spectacles magnified his small, brown, rat like eyes, and their lack of any real depth or expression gave his whole gormless looking face a lack of any discerning quality or charisma. His mouth was small, and his lips thin and shapeless. The excess layers of skin and flesh hung around his cheeks and chin, his jowls wobbling when he spoke or ate.

  Horace didn’t mix well; he had no real friends at school – not that he minded, he enjoyed being alone. However, because he was an obvious target, he often found himself on the receiving end of many of the school bullies. Most days, whilst riding the bus home, he sat quietly amongst the other children while they were bouncing items of rubbish off the back of his head, or stealing his property. He simply zoned himself out and became totally entrenched in a world of his own. A million miles away from the noise and carnage erupting around him. He never retaliated, he simply stared away, awash in his own thoughts.

  As he continued to sit at the back of the assembly hall, shoving another hot cross bun into his mouth, the other pupils began to file out from the hall. As he stood unsteadily from his seat, he spotted three girls from his year walk past him, chatting. They were three of the most popular girls in the clique from his year, led by the beautiful Candice Smith; the only girl in the year to have a chest that was anywhere near the size of Horace’s own. She was very popular with the boys in the year, mainly due to her slim attractive face, jet black hair, tanned skin, and athletic figure.

  Horace stared as the girls walked by, admiring the view. His eyes locked with hers as she stopped walking and stared back. She gave the boy her most sultry look, and puckered up her lips towards him. Feeling his face suddenly redden with embarrassment, he glanced around him to check that she was looking at him.

  Suddenly she spat at him. “I said, who do you think that you’re looking at, Horace, you fat waste of space?”

  “Erm, what?” he asked.

  Candice jeered. “Just then, stood there with a gormless, puppy dog look on your face. I’ve told you before to stop looking at me. God, you give me the fucking creeps.”

  “But you were looking at me, I just –”

  “Why the hell would I want to look at you?” she spat, interrupting him. “Look at you, you're a complete fucking mess. Come on, girls, let's leave this loser to ogle somebody else.”

  Turning on her heels, she stormed from the hall, her two friends following directly behind her. Horace looked around the room nervously and felt hundreds of sets of eyes burning into him as the entire canteen erupted into heinous laughter. One of the boys from his registration class walked past, knocking into his shoulder, sending him sprawling to his left.

  “Way to go there, Horace. Always impressing the ladies,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  Horace didn’t respond, he struggled his way through the crowd, ignoring the other children as they jeered. He threw his Zippy rucksack over his shoulder, quickly shuffling his way towards the exit, narrowly avoiding the dozens of feet that were thrown out in his path by other pupils in an attempt to trip him as he passed.

  *****

  She continued to struggle, which made her sweat even more.

  Wriggling her head from side to side, she managed to get a corner of the material loose from around her chin; just enough to give her a view from her left eye. She appeared to be laid down upon a leather bed with no bedclothes or pillows. Inspecting herself, she was totally naked apart from her skimpy underwear and bra, her hands and feet appeared to be strapped together with plastic zip ties. With her one exposed eye, she could just make out where the sharp plastic had cut into her flesh, leaving red marks. Attempting to pull her hands apart to break the plastic tie, she yelped in pain as it cut into her skin and a trickle of blood ran down her wrist.

  Wincing in pain, she called out quietly. “Hello?”

  *****

  Back in the sanctity of his classroom, Horace sat in his seat, beads of perspiration gathering on his brow as the heat inside increased from the sun pouring in through the large glass windows. Sitting right at the front of the class, he got the best view of his favourite teacher – Miss Fingerhut. She had been teaching at the school for a few months, after transferring from a teaching assistant’s job on the other side of town to a full-time placement; an excellent opportunity to forward her career.

  From where he sat, he could smell the scent of her musky, sweet smelling perfume. She was a young woman in her mid-twenties. She had radiant blue eyes that sparkled and emanated a deep inquisitive nature, and vibrant spirit. Her straw-blonde coloured hair was perfectly straight and dropped down to the middle of her back, keeping it from falling into her eyes with a plain black headband. Her slim face had fresh, smooth skin with high, defined cheekbones, a small nose, and full red, pouting lips. She was absolutely stunning; a woman that oozed sexuality with the littlest of effort, while remaining natural and attainable.

  As she stood, writing mathematical equations on the board, her short summer dress began to ride up as she stood on tiptoes in her flat leather shoes, exposing the top of her slim, toned legs. Horace’s jaw dropped open in awe and he swallowed the lump in his throat, unfastening the top button of his shirt, allowing him to take in a mouthful of stuffy air.

  She turned to address the group of pupils in the class. “Right, settle down then, children,” she began. “You boys at the back, stop talking. Stop it. Bruce, I won't tell you again."

  Bruce settled, slumping in his chair.

  She continued. "Thank you. So … who can give me the answer to number … oh damn it, I’ve laddered my tights.”

  Taking a step forward, she cocked her leg up and placed the sole of her foot on the edge of Horace’s desk. With her leg straightened, she proceeded to hitch up her dress and run the tip of her index finger down the ladder in the flimsy material. Horace found himself beginning to sweat as she exposed the top of her toned thighs, and he could make out the outline of the woman’s light blue underwear beneath the dark fabric of her tights. Horace could barely control himself as he felt himself harden beneath the surface of the wooden desk. After glancing up, she noticed Horace staring between her legs, his eyes quickly snapped up to hers, and their gaze met.

  She spoke to him quietly, in a soft, sultry tone. “Do you like what you see, Horace?”

  She continued to inch up her hem of her skirt, giving him a better view between her legs. Then she slid the tip of her index finger into her mouth and slowly began to slide it backwards and forwards suggestively, never taking her eyes away from his. Horace thought that he would have an explos
ion in his loins at any moment.

  “Oh God, yes, miss,” he replied.

  She suddenly asked him, “Horace?”

  The boy was quickly snapped out of his trance, and found Miss Fingerhut staring at him with a stern, annoyed look spread across her face.

  “Horace?” she asked again. “For the third time, can you give me the answer to number three? How many times do I have to tell you – stop daydreaming in class!”

  “Sorry, Miss Fingerhut,” he responded, “the answer is fourteen, I believe.”

  She rolled her eyes wearily. “The answer, if you had been paying attention, is twenty-four.”

  Horace shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his desk. The rest of the class erupted into iniquitous laughter and cheering, at his expense. He sat quietly, staring vacantly at the board, ignoring their attempts to chastise him.

  The sound of the school bell rang out, signalling the end of the day, and the end of the term.

  Miss Fingerhut addressed her class. “Right then, boys and girls, everyone have a good Easter. Don’t eat too much chocolate.”

  She looked at Horace and gave him a sly wink. He pulled himself up from his seat and made for the exit, his mind already wandering onto the subject of confectionery. As he rounded the corner of his school block to the main playground, he crossed the yard passing a few groups of other children. He was approached by three of the boys from his year. The largest of the boys put out his hand to stop Horace in his tracks.

  “Oi, Davidson,” he sneered. “What were you doing eyeing up Candice earlier?”

  Horace didn’t answer.

  Taking a deep breath, he filled his lungs with air and took a step backwards. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he dropped his rucksack from his shoulder to the floor. In one fluid motion, Horace threw a solid, overhand right hook, his fist connecting with the boy's chin. The boy collapsed backwards, his head thumping the playground with a sickening crack, opening up a large gash on the back of his skull. Blood quickly began to ooze out and gather in a sticky pool below his head. Horace didn’t hesitate; he quickly stepped forward and began to stomp, bringing his heel down repeatedly on the fallen boy's face and neck.