Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25648339-20141109165529

 Hello! I've been working on a story for the past while, and I'm getting to the point where I need new readers to help with edits. That's where you come in, if you are willing. I also don't have a name for it, so help with that would be appreciated. Thank you!



Here it is:



The room is dark. Shadows stretch and contort on the walls, forming monsters. But I have a real monster to face, and I don't know if I'll make it away alive.

His face is horrendous, all pale scar tissue, pitted and torn. His nose is partially missing. His lips have been torn off of his face, exposing yellowed teeth that have been filed to points. There are pieces of meat of an origin that I don't want to think about stuck between them. Greasy black hair hangs over his sunken, almost black eyes.

His predatory gaze lands on me, and chills run up my spine. He recognizes my terror, and the torn edges of his mouth raise into the semblance of a smile. He moves closer until his face is inches from mine. His breath smells like a rotting carcass. I fight down the bile rising in the back of my throat and try to look unafraid. His smile grows impossibly wider. When he speaks, it sounds wrong , his voice exaggerating every rise and fall of normal human speech. "It's ok to be afraid, everyone's scared sometimes" he whispers, as if he was a ten year old telling me a secret. "Sam" A wave of recognition washes over me.   I know him, and I've known him all my life.

<span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">We met on the first day of kindergarten. Everyone was breaking up into pairs to work on an activity. I was rather shy, and he, well, he didn't look normal. He was born with large red splotches on his face. It was enough to keep most kids away, and it certainly scared me when I was told to partner with him because we were the only kids without partners. Me, being a kindergartener, of course asked what was wrong with his face. He wove a fantastic tale involving fire, a puppy, and an evil uncle. It was not until first grade when I met his mother that I realized that that was not the case, and the splotches were, in fact, just birthmarks. In any case, we became practically inseparable.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">It was in third grade that bullying became a serious issue. There were, of course, the usual gawkers, and the occasional curious kid who asked a lot of questions, but there were also Ethan and Nicholas. Ethan and Nicholas, coined the "Terrible Two" by us, were the nastiest third grade boys that I had ever met. They mocked Sam and would adapt games, such as Bloody Mary, to taunt him. They would trip Sam in the hallways, and occasionally kicked, punched, and hit him. However, it wasn't until they began picking on <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-style:italic;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">me <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">that Sam reacted. Since it was the third grade, most of the insults that they threw at me were cuss words they'd heard their older siblings say. Halfway through the school year, Ethan hit me, hard enough to knock me down. The tears in my eyes were more from hurt pride than physical pain. Sam was there, and I could see, even through my tears, that something changed in him, something in his eyes looked wrong. He leaped onto Ethan, and began punching and kicking him, the expression on his face unnaturally calm. It took two teachers to tear Sam off of Ethan, and the smile that split Sam's face as he saw what he had done scared me more than anything I had ever seen. Sam saw my expression, and his face changed to horror, and then to guilt. He avoided me for the rest of the week.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">In fifth grade I discovered that he was being abused at home. It was the beginning of the school year, and it was hot, as the school's AC did not work very well. Sam started wearing long sleeve shirts and pants to school. I was confused, but I didn't push him about it, until he came to school with a large gash across his face. After school let out that day, I followed him onto his bus. When he noticed me, he jumped off at the next stop, with me close behind him. We walked until we found a bench to sit on. "What happened?" I asked, my voice full of worry. "My dad." he said "Sometimes he gets drunk and he hits mom, and I tried to protect her, and he had a knife, and I didn't know what to do, and I tried to take it from him, and he cut me, and there was blood and I punched him and, and.." he said, tears welling in his eyes and panic rising in his voice. "It's ok," I said, and gave him a hug, squeezing him tightly. "You did everything right. Is your mom ok?" "Yes" he said. "Are you ok?" I asked. "I don't know" he replied "what's wrong?" I pressed, growing more worried. Sam didn't exaggerate when it came to stuff like this. "I don't know, I don't feel right. sometimes I just want to hurt someone, for no reason at all." he's almost sobbing now. "I'm scared" he says. I try to comfort him; "Its ok to be afraid, everyone's scared sometimes. Now come on, we've gotta get you home."

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">We were both sixteen, and still close friends when the next event occurred. It was a Saturday, and I was sitting at home, watching TV. My parents were out and wouldn't be back until Sunday afternoon. There was banging on my door. I jumped, and ran over to it, opening it a crack to look out. As soon as I saw Sam, I threw the door open and ushered him inside. He didn't look good, his face was pale, and his eyes were tired and bloodshot. He was shaking. I sat him on the couch and got him a cup of tea. "Ok, what happened?" I asked. "My dad, he's dead." Sam said, choking back a sob. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry." I replied, wondering why he was at my house. "What happened?" "He was drunk, and he had a gun, he was threatening mom. I wasn't even thinking, I just grabbed the gun and shot him. He was laying on the floor and there was blood, so much blood, it was everywhere. I just stood there for a long time, staring at it. But you know what scares me the most? I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry at all." He gave me this look,  his eyes were empty and cold. It was like Sam just, wasn't there. " <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-style:italic;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Sam? <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">" He blinked, and shook his head. "Sorry, what?" "Nothing" I said. "Can I stay with you tonight?" Sam asked hurriedly. "Of course!" I said, rushing to get some sheets and a blanket to put on the couch. He stood up, swaying. I got the couch ready, and Sam collapsed back onto it. Within minutes, he was asleep. I went to bed, and fell asleep wondering at the day's events.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">I was thrown into a nightmare. There was a body on the ground, a bullet hole through it's head. It's eyes were gouged out, and lay neatly in its hand. Blood was smeared in seemingly deliberate patches across its face. The markings were familiar, but I couldn't quite put my finger on where they were from. There was a bang behind me. I woke up in a cold sweat.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">I almost-ran to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face, shaken. I stepped  into the bathroom and immediately ran out and gagged. Intricate circles and patterns were lovingly written in blood all over the walls. They radiated out from the mirror, which had been shattered. I walked cautiously back in. There were chunks of meat in the sink. The smell is overwhelming. Everything went black.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Months later, no one knew what happened to Sam. I had cleaned up the mess in the bathroom the next morning. His dad's murder remained hidden, a body was never found. Sam’s mom must have been looking out for him. My life was finally beginning to get back on track, as much as it could be without Sam. It was a Friday night, and I'd stayed up late doing homework the night before, so I was getting to sleep earlier than normal that night. I fell asleep, and promptly found myself in a nightmare. I was running, running from something or someone, and it was catching up. Hands grabbed me from behind. I started awake, finding myself tied to a chair in a dark room.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Sam, although I don't think it's Sam anymore, at least not the Sam that I knew, backs away again, shaking out of my reverie. Bouncing with excitement, he turns, and picks up a knife. He shows it to me, and seems disappointed when I look away in disgust. There is a deep crimson stain along the edge of it.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">My eyes are beginning to adjust, and I wish they wouldn't. There is blood twisting up the walls in complex patterns and swirls. There are piles of meat in the corners, and a finger is lying near my chair. The stench is awful. "Isn't it beautiful?" Sam asks. I twist to the side and throw up, mostly missing my shirt. Sam cocks his head like a confused dog, looking from the bodies to the throwup to me. "You're a monster." I say, disgusted. "Aren't we all? Somewhere deep down inside?" he responds, studying me. "When you looked at that wall, for just a fleeting moment, it was beautiful, amazing. And then you got ahold of your thoughts, falsifying them into something acceptable to you, to society. Because, there is a monster in all of us, and it is waiting for the chance to come out." he states calmly. He talks to me like he is explaining something to a two year old; briefly, but not without compassion. I am confused, this is not the empty, hollow being from minutes before. This is something much worse.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">My head feels fuzzy, everything is seeming more and more sane, the blood on the walls, the bodies strewn across the room, Sam. I study the walls intently, admiring the skill with which the patterns were created, and have to remind myself that it is made with blood, was once part of a human. Panic begins rising in my throat like bile. "I'm not like you!" I scream, hysteria in my voice. "Why not?" he asks, seeming genuinely curious. I am terrified, because I have to stop and think to come up with an answer. <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-style:italic;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">What if I am like him? <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">"I would never, I could never, do something like this! This is horrible, You're a monster!" I scream. Sam is suddenly very close to me, although I didn't see him move at all. His voice lowers to a whisper. "You could do it, and you would do it, and that's why you're so scared, isn't it? You're not afraid of me, or of them, you're afraid of you, and your mind. You're afraid because you look at me, and you don't see a                                       monster, do you? You see beauty, not beauty like you know it, but beauty nonetheless. You are afraid because you look at the walls, and it's beautiful, beautiful that it was once a person, living, breathing, and talking like you and me. I'm showing you the true beauty in this world, the beauty of death, and it scares you, it scares you because it's different, because you have to change. It's hard, I know, when I was staying with you, I just wanted to be "normal", and I was looking in the mirror, asking myself, God, and whoever else would listen why I was like this, why it had to be me. And then I wondered what would happen if I just, cut myself, just enough to see the blood. Could it really be <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-style:italic;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">that <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;"> bad? And all turned to beautiful chaos." he laughs, it is a sound that I have never heard before, disturbingly animalistic, and piercing, like a hyena. I flinch back. Suddenly, something changes in Sam. His eyes become more empty. Gone is the cold intelligence. He walks away and stalks around the room, searching for something. He stops, and picks something up. He turns around and I see five throwing knives cradled in his hand like a baby. He unties the ropes binding me to the chair. I jump up. "Run! I want you to <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-style:italic;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">run <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">!" he screams. I don't have to be told twice. I feel sluggish, clumsy. I stumble. A knife whizzes by my head. Sam is shouting and laughing, but I can't tell what he's saying. Another knife flys by, nicking my arm. I yelp and run faster. I don't feel quite right, like my body isn't connected to my brain properly. I find a door. It's locked. A knife buries itself in the door next to my head with a loud <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-style:italic;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">thunk <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">. I try to unlock it, but my hands are shaking, and I'm fumbling with the lock. The next knife hits my leg. I scream, and finally get the door open. I spare a quick glance around, I am in an urban area near my house. I limp towards the road, and walk out in front of the first car to drive by, trying to stop them. They stop and open the door. I collapse into the car. My head is spinning. "Ohmygod what happened?" I turn to look at the teenage girl, she appears to be barely old enough to have her license. She is staring at my face, I must look awful. She looks like she is going to scream at any second. I'm glad she hasn't noticed my leg. "Please... please take me to the hospital." I wheeze. The night is catching up to me. Darkness is closing in on my vision. I black out.

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<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:bold;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">Three months later

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<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">I woke up in the hospital, with my mom at my side. I recovered well, the knife wound was just superficial. Police showed up, and tried to get me to tell what had happened. I was about to tell the story, but something held me back, I don't know why. I was released from the hospital the next day, but was stuck on crutches for another week.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="color:rgb(255,255,255);font-family:Arial;font-size:15px;line-height:1.15;text-indent:36pt;white-space:pre-wrap;">Now it's like the whole incident never happened, almost. Everything seems a little different now, but I can't quite figure out how.

<p dir="ltr" style="line-height:1.15;margin-top:0pt;margin-bottom:0pt;text-indent:36pt;"><span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">I'm getting ready for bed, it's a Friday, and I'm up way too late. I'm thinking about what happened three months ago, which is frustrating, because I can usually keep it out of my head. Something just seemed, off. Sam could have easily killed me, it was like he <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-style:italic;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">let <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;"> me go. I look into the mirror and I wonder what would happen if I just, cut my face, just enough to see the blood. Could it be <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-style:italic;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">that <span style="font-size:15px;font-family:Arial;color:#ffffff;font-weight:normal;font-variant:normal;text-decoration:none;vertical-align:baseline;white-space:pre-wrap;">bad? <ac_metadata title="Story (I don&#039;t have a good name) Reviews please?"> </ac_metadata>