The Cold Monster - Original Writing

How can you tell if a “bad guy”--the villain, the monster, the thief--is necessarily a bad guy? Is it by the images they choose to ink on their skin? Their crooked smile, or maybe perhaps the way they like to crack their knuckles? Maybe it’s just their attire: it’s too dark, too scary. And what of their eyes? There’s something there...something about the way they’re placed, something about how they flicker and gleam with every mention of what they desire. But what of their feelings? The ever-circling wheels of emotions from deep inside that manage to control the raging tides of life? Do they not care like we do?

“I have all the characteristics of a human being: blood, flesh, skin, hair; but not a single, clear, identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust. Something horrible is happening inside of me and I don't know why. My nightly bloodlust has overflown into my days. I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy. I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.” (Harron)

“Oh hello there blood this is Dana Cross one of our top doctors and interrogators on Zahltag We call her the butcher.” He says.

And how twisted was the world, that his victim would forgive him before he forgave himself? That after he’d raped her, he was the one crying, it was him needing her comfort? She was always like this… this frightening mix of strength and vulnerability, both built upon suffering he, back then, could never even fathom. Now though… now he was beginning to understand what made her like

Suddenly he found himself with them, coming along the trail and looking for himself. And, still

Scuttling innocently through the twisting corridors I bore the same expression; head down, shoulders hunched, avoiding any eye contact - my desperate attempts to deter the despot for one day at least. Despite my efforts, there was no escape, as seemingly within the second of having that naively optimistic thought, a cruel, callous voice demanded I surrender my broach. Fear spiked, as it always did, but with it came something else, an alien emotion ... Looking back now, I see that it must have been the cumulative effect of months of torment that brought me to the realisation that at this point I had reached the nadir of my life. Deriding cackles pierced my ears and this time I recognised the emotion, fury. It burned through my veins, along with the memories of the past to form a feeling of overwhelming power. I met the daggers that would usually invoke terror, and calmly, I said “No.”

His breathing turned rigid, heavy, and hastened as his throat closes up like a little boy hiding under the covers from the “bag bad man”, except this time that little boy can't hide because that “big bad man”... is in the covers with him, grinning with pleasure as he stares. The boy too paralyzed to move because his fear has a knife on the little boy’s back. Gently drawing circles with the tip of a blood ridden dagger. This “big bad man” was no longer human, neither in body nor in spirit. The small squabbling amount of emotion left in IT was just lust, blood lust.

The rest of his dreams might have been overrun by his shell shocked memories that were caked with the dirt and scabs. His eyes filled with snakes, wearing their death masks, and his voice became coarse from the continuous babbling caused by battle fatigue. Mirroring a punch drunk fighter, he walked on wobbly knees, and frequently, he turned his head side to side as if looking for the hunger, which dogged him like the stench of dirt and sweat. I couldn’t help but notice the grime gathered in the hollow at the base of his neck.

He lay on the ground, clutching his wound. Sirens wailed in the distance, but they would never reach him. He was fading, but he felt peace.

Obviously she hadn’t seen the blood yet, thank the goddess Meirsha for that; however, it was now time the woman slept. “Close your eyes now. Think later, don’t you worry about anything.”

We think about the torture and our chest aches with grief. Feeling helpless to stop it, we cry. The moment that we see the fear, the pain in their eyes when we see the blood pooling around the voiceless' shivering body, we are consumed by the horror, robbed of our happiness, we are left heart broken.

River woke feeling refreshed as always. “Shadow, where is my pint?” Before he could complete his sentence Shadow was handing him his pint. “Right here, Master.” Shadow waited patiently as his Master enjoyed his evening pint of blood. After River was finished, he handed Shadow the empty bag. River wanted to laugh at Shadow’s impatient fiddling.

I WAS sick, sick unto death, with that long agony, and when they at length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me. The sentence, the dread sentence of death, was the last of distinct accentuation which reached my ears. After that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged in one dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed to my soul the idea of REVOLUTION, perhaps from its association in fancy with the burr of a mill-wheel. This only for a brief period, for presently I heard no more. Yet, for a while, I saw, but with how terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the black-robed judges. They appeared to me white--whiter than the sheet upon which I trace these words--and thin even to grotesqueness; thin with the intensity of their expression of firmness, of immovable resolution, of stern contempt of human torture. I saw that the decrees of what to me was fate were still issuing from those lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name, and I shuddered, because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments of delirious horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the sable draperies which enwrapped

Walking outside the castle grounds, the hair was raised on the back of his neck. The air seemed to get colder. Which was unusual for a spring night, lately the nights had began to warm as the leaves started to bud on the trees.

Soon enough, the whispers turned into every cry of displeasure and anger. The feelings of being perplexed and muddled soon turned into the feelings of fear and terror.