Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26826668-20160721051600

So I wrote this story a while back and thought it'd be a cool idea to post this on here. Needless to say it got marked for delete lol. Can anyone tell me why? Here is the story:

Mea Culpa: The Tragedy of John Rivers

As I gaze out of my bedside window, a cluster of dark grey clouds slithering over the horizon moves into my view. For the past two weeks, there has been nothing but extreme torrential downpour. For the past two weeks, I’ve fallen asleep listening to the soothing sound of rain, only to be awakened by roaring thunder booming from out my window. The newspapers say it is the worst storm Dukes County has ever faced, as if the wrath of God has been unleashed upon the Earth.

It was about sixteen days ago that I checked into the New Hope Inn, a motel on the outskirts of an average sized town called Hopeville, which despite the apocalyptic weather still seems like a cheerful town, booming with optimism. I was born in that bright Massachusetts town in the Spring of 1994. Growing up under the loving care of my mother, I’d say I have mixed feelings about my childhood. My mother divorced my father after finding out he was having an affair with another woman. Mom always told me that my father was a wicked old man, with weird habits and askewed morals. My father had the intelligence of a brick and never worked a day in his life, relying on others to get by. Even though I was more fortunate than some other children in my area, I can say with certainty that my childhood was terrible perhaps even traumatic. Unfortunately I'm unable to say that I've had it much better since then. Let me explain my current situation to you, my “life story” if you will, starting from beginning: the day my brother fell through the ice of the old Hopeville Pond.

It was cold but dry with a bitter breeze blowing that day. It was the type of winter howl that bit into your skin, stinging any uncovered part of your body, as the angry air blew across the state coming in from the Massachusetts Bay. On December 13, 2006, Ethan, my brother, and I were playing in our town’s park when one day Ethan asks me,

“Hey John, why don't we go and check out the old pond? It must have gotten frozen by now!

“No way dude, that's dangerous and we might get hurt, plus mom’ll have us for sure if she finds out we were playing on the ice,” I explained to him.

“John come on man, it'll be fine. Don't you wanna have some fun?”

Ethan was always the adventurous sort, trying to get into trouble. There was a strange mix of maturity and yet irresponsibility about him; he was always ready to get into trouble, but he was wise enough to acknowledge when he might go too far. If you were to the compare the two us, I'd be Gandhi and he'd be Joseph Stalin. There was such a strange dynamic between the two of us that although we looked so similar, we were yet somehow so different. My aunt once commented on this peculiarity, saying that we were like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; that we were the most interesting twins she had ever met.

“Come on dude, don’t you wanna slide on the ice?” asked my mischievous twin brother.

“Alright, but only for a little while, and don't get yourself hurt ya’ hear?” said I, the innocent, little angel.

As soon as I had agreed to going out on the ice, Ethan bolted off in the direction of the old pond. I ran after him at first so I could catch up to him, but then as he stepped foot on the ice and broke through it, I realized I was running in an attempt to save his life. When I got to the edge of the pond, my legs turned into jelly. Overcome with an inexplicable sense of panic, I could do nothing but drop to my knees and watch as my brother struggled in the freezing cold water, trying to stay afloat. His limbs began to constrict from the cold, ultimately drowning him. As his tightened up body began falling into the water, I remember morbidly thinking to myself that he deserved to drown right then and there. He was such an irresponsible fool, ignorant of the responsibilities around him. Like my father, he never appreciated the opportunity to work hard, and to make something of himself. He slacked off and never followed through with anything he started. He never applied himself and he deserved to die.

Looking back on this event I’m not sure why I even felt that way, considering that mere seconds after I fell to my knees, I regained my composure and dived into the icy cold water, pulling my brother up and out of the pond. When I brought him out onto dry land, I of course checked his pulse and checked his breathing. He coughed once or twice as I brought him out of the water so I knew he was breathing fine, and naturally I felt a pulse immediately. I couldn’t wake him up, as he fell unconscious, due to shock. I dialed the emergency medical services and in minutes an ambulance was on the scene, bringing him to the St. Peters Hopeville Hospital. Oh how happy I was when I found out he had survived! However after evaluation at the medical ward, they informed us that he would be sent to a recovery unit, where he would stay until he made a complete recovery. The doctors who diagnosed Ethan stated he suffered major muscle tissue damage somehow, so this recovery process could take up to multiple years. I had almost lost my brother, but 5 years later he was released from rehabilitation.

June 10th, 2011 was the day I had picked my brother up from the recovery center. It was on the outskirts of town in the hills, and the only way I could describe it now is as “a peculiar mixture of suburbia and the countryside”. As I watched my brother walk out of the facility, I saw he had a slight limp on his right leg. Walking through the June heat, the distant image of Ethan stumbling through the summer haze gave the false impression that the sun’s vicious rays were beating down upon and crippling my poor friend. By the time he had reached my car, Ethan was dripping in sweat.

“I left the A/C running for you! How've you been?” I began.

“Don't talk to me. Just drive. Get me out of here. Go. I will not spend another second in the presence of that place,” he barked at me.

“Man what happened in there are you ok? I thought you had-”

“I am not ok! Listen, you haven't contacted me even once in that madhouse. Mom just sorta forgot about me…” Ethan interrupted, slowly trailing off into his own thoughts.

“Ethan, I hate to tell you this but, mom’s sick. She's gonna make it, I mean, it's nothing serious but, she's been busy working herself to the bone, dealing with the illness,” I pleaded.

“I don't give a damn if her spine’s broken! She could've at least said something. You guys fucking abandoned me!”

There was a change within him, I could sense it. No longer was he an individual seeking a mischievous adventure. No, now he was looking for retribution. Pent up in that cursed ward, he became highly aggressive and uncooperative. He wouldn't find a job, and wouldn't agree to continue his schooling. For the rest of my time that summer and the following school year before I left for the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, I noticed he seemed agitated, spending all his time inside his room watching television, writing furiously.

I know little about what happened to him while I was away at University, but when I returned to my old dusty house in the summer of 2013, my mother and my brother were both nowhere to be found. Searching through the rustic hallways of my childhood home, I found only a notice on the kitchen table from, of course, St. Peters Hospital. While I was away, my mother had been put into critical condition from a heart attack. The cause of the diagnosed cardiac arrest had been attributed to work induced stress, according to my mother’s physician. As any normal individual would do, I began to feel an enormous regret. The notice from the hospital stated that she was currently unconscious and under constant observation. Obviously, there was a slim chance of survival if there was any possibility she could've pulled through at all. Tears began to form, slowly falling from my eyes, down my cheeks, onto the paper. I still regret not being able to say that I loved her, one last time. I'm sure she knew it, or at least I hope she did.

Knowing that Ethan had taken this notice out of the ripped up envelope on the table, it was safe to say that he was just as upset if not, more so than I. I found him in his room upstairs lying on floor, amongst the scattered Remains of his destroyed notebook. He was lying face up with eyes closed; his cheeks were red but there were no tears. With a bit of curiosity, I decided to pick up some of the papers he was writing. They were all titled with some sort of date, which preceded a journal entry. Written in a harsh, angular font I began to read the most recent entry, held in his hand. It said:

July 1, 2013 I hate myself. I hate how I could've done such a thing. Why in the world would I have hurt the one I loved most. Mom is dying and I'm to blame. It's my fault that she is lying in that hospital bed, her mind and soul gone but only body left behind. I thought I could control my feelings but I went too far this time. I don't know why I'm writing this, and I know not why I committed this crime in the first place. I'm a disappointment to all my friends, my mother, my teachers… I'm a disappointment to my brother, to myself. Every day the Reaper approaches me closer as it has my mother. And every day, the arms of death seem less menacing, and more inviting. A just punishment I shall deliver, for the death of such an innocent, loving, hard-working caretaker will not go unavenged.

I was speechless. The other entries Ethan wrote told of his feelings, and how he wanted to make movies and write books. Nothing before this entry seemed so pessimistic and dreary as my brother’s total confession. But what he was confessing to, I'm still unsure of today. Perhaps he had figured he stressed out mom to the point where her aging heart gave out. Whatever it was, I figured I needed to help out my only remaining family member get back to his senses. I needed to guide him on a new path.

I reached over to where my brother was lying, shaking his shoulder in an attempt to wake him up. “Hey, you there? It's time to get up… Hey. There you go,” I said, sitting him up and helping him to the bed. “Quite a mess you made here,” I remarked, partly joking, but also partly being serious.

“I hurt her John. I killed her! I can't take it, it's not right!” he cried.

“Don't worry about it, she isn't gone yet. She'd be proud of us I'm sure. After all you're a warrior, you've made it this far despite everything, and I've just completed a semester at MIT. She's happy man… besides, she'll pull through I'm sure!” I consoled.

“No John,” he stated grimly, “she's not making it out. Believe me: I know she isn't.”

This last statement he made worried me. What could he have meant by that? Could he really have done something, God forbid on purpose, to kill mom? No there's no way.

Ethan bent over to the ground, picking up his pen off the floor before asking me, “Say John, do you want to have some fun? I have the perfect idea. Let's go on an adventure, you know how like we'd always do at the park. Oh, but it won't be the same, going on those trips were adventures only to our young adolescent minds. Let's go on a real adventure this time. Let's have some real fun.” Before I could provide any objection to his statement, I was being dragged through my old home out the front door, into my old beat-up 1976 Chevette.

“Ethan, what is going on, where are we going?”

“Well considering you’re driving me, I suppose I’ll have to tell you. Listen, recently I found out where our father is. Oh and you know how he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer? Well he pulled a Forrest Gump and invested in that online movie streaming site Netflix. Boom, suddenly its stocks rise like crazy and we now have a millionaire ex-father. He was even appointed a financial position at the company and of course he took the opportunity. Talk about karma huh? Well anyways we are going to 367 Hillcrest Ave. for a little visit.”

I didn't complain or even question how Ethan knew this: I was just excited to meet my father again. Maybe he had changed over the passage of time. When we arrived at the address, the silhouette of a large mansion filled the evening sky, it's dark shadow looming overhead. It was clear that the property was tended to by servants, but there was no movement visible inside through the windows. The estate looked dead, with only a singular light on in the study. It was clear that my father was home, and so as I coasted up to the building’s front door, my brother instructed, “Don't follow me. I need to do this alone. I have a plan for us alright? It'll take us on our adventure!” He then proceeded to get out of the car and run up the steps to my father's mansion before I had any opportunity to object. I was curious as to what kind of plan my brother had, but I figured it was best not to ask. After all, he was dealing with the same deep pangs of regret that I felt. When he came out of the large household, he appeared jittery, clumsily opening my car door.

“What happened? Did you see him, did you talk to him? What did he say… Oh and what is that red spot on your shirt? I didn't notice it before!” I persisted.

“Oh this? It's nothing, just um, a little bit of wine. Our father in all his grace offered me some as a greeting, considering that I haven't seen him in years. He asked if you were ok, and I said of course. He said he missed us and I said the same. And then uh, he gave me one of his credit cards, which I well, asked him for. With this card we can go on our adventure, alright? He asked us to do a favor for him though, and to bring to his business associates these packages.” He proceeded to hand me four beige-envelopes - the kind that clip shut - and a notepad with four unique addresses written on it.

“Ethan? What are these packages anyway? What adventure are we going on? I don’t think that it is-”

“Just drive to the first address John. Trust me. We have to make these deliveries. Don’t you believe me? Don’t you want to have fun John?” Ethan interrupted.

“Alright, I was just a bit curious, that’s all.”

The truth is that I was scared. The random trip to Dad’s and being asked to deliver packages… it was all so unprecedented. It came out of the blue. I remember thinking that, maybe Ethan was planning the trip for a long while and was waiting for me to come back from University. I thought that that was it! He likely phoned Dad telling him that we’d be coming soon, and arranged the meeting ahead of time. And the package delivery run was just us helping out our Dad with his work.

As I drove to our first address, surprisingly enough, I realized I didn’t hate my Dad anymore. Of course I disliked him - and still do to this day - but I gained some sort of unspoken respect towards him. However, the fact that Ethan was so anxious and fidgety was offputting to say the least. Regardless, I trusted him. I wanted to say to him, “Man this seems way too crazy for me dude. What is going on? What trip are we preparing for?”, but I couldn’t. Ethan seemed so steadfast with his decision, so determined. He was my brother and I loved him. How could I stop him from doing something he seemed to enjoy. Each delivery was the same: we would drive up to the home of one of my Dad’s associates, Ethan would exit my vehicle and enter each house with parcel in hand. Strangely, each time we dropped off a package, Ethan seemed happier, grinning whenever he left the associate’s home. I didn’t think much of it until we delivered our last package. I was left in the car, playing mobile games on my cellphone, when I heard a loud crash, followed by a window-shattering scream accompanied by what sounded like a drill, all of which originated from the house Ethan entered moments ago. By this point in the day, it was pitch black outside - in fact it was almost midnight. Shocked by the scream, I jumped out of my car and ran inside as fast as possible.

When I finally found my brother, my skin turned pale white as I dropped to my knees. I no longer felt like a 19-year-old adult, but rather a 12 year-old boy kneeling by the side of a lake. The difference this time though, was that my brother was drowning not in icy waters, but in a pool of blood. Lying on the ground was a shattered glass vase, each broken corner neatly dressed in the crimson red waters of life. The package was on the ground, ripped open. A black and red drill gun was lying atop it, the entire upper half of the tool covered in fresh still dripping plasma. The viscous red liquid painted the fingers, palms and forearms of Ethan. His shirt and pants were drenched with the red substance, which I could see clearly, had the same color and consistency of the “wine” our Dad had “spilled” onto him.

Literally hanging on the wall behind my now sociopathic brother, was the still breathing body of a middle-aged woman. With her arms outstretched above her head, she was suspended in the air by two screws that were drilled through her hands into the wall and with one screw driven between both her feet. Blood was clearly seen dripping from her hands and feet, forming a small pool on the mahogany floor. She was screaming out in pain and agony, but her cries were muffled; her mouth was seemingly sewn shut. Violently, her body shook obviously writhing in pain. Watching her suffering, as her wavy brown hair swung vigorously, I was frozen in a state of panic. I couldn’t think. I didn’t know what to do. In front of the female mass that was convulsing side to side, stood Ethan sporting a grin that extended from one ear, to the other. Blood covered his chin, his cheekbones, and trailed up to his eyes and forehead, giving him the appearance of a rabid dog that had just feasted on its prey; this effect was magnified by the foaming of his mouth, as he stared straight into my eyes, judging my very soul.

“Isn’t she beautiful John? I know you’ve always had a thing for brunettes. I told you to stay in the car you know? But it doesn’t matter now. Now… now you can join in on the fun. Don’t you think this is fun? I think it’s fun. I could do this all day. I mean, look at the colors on the walls, how this stuff feels on my fingers and on the palm of my hand. Oh and the taste is amazing. You know, I’ve always wondered what blood tastes like. If only I had tried it sooner, and had such willing participants!” my clearly insane brother spoke. At the sound of these words, the woman drilled to the wall gave the loudest cry she could before passing out. “Aw that’s a shame. It seems our friend here doesn’t want to play anymore. That’s alright, you don’t have to. I’ll just remove you from the game!”

With this last sentence, Ethan pulled a large bowie knife from his shoe, and proceeded to slit the throat of the poor woman, who I now recognize was my father’s mistress. “Ah, that was so liberating. Do you want to join in on this game John?” Ethan asked. I said I’d play later, but not right now, knowing that it’d surely mean my death if I said either yes or no.

My brother replied, “Oh that’s a shame, I wish we could play it right now! I love this time of night you know. Are you sure you don’t wanna play John? Oh come on… John come on man, it'll be fine. Don't you wanna have some fun?” he asked me, with the same innocence he did those years ago when he asked to go on the ice at Hopeville Park.

Suddenly, before I could answer him, multiple police officers with guns held in hand rushed through the front door behind me. I was oh so very relieved and yet so shocked as they burst in yelling “GET DOWN ON THE GROUND! DROP THE WEAPON!” My brother ran for the nearest window, diving through it, only to somehow slip away from the authorities.

After my brother made his escape, the police officers sat me down, holding my hands tightly at the wrists in a strangely confining but comforting way. They asked me if I was hurt. I responded no. They asked who the man holding the knife was. Naturally I told them it was my brother, who seemed to have snapped at the news of my mother’s impending death. I had no idea he had murdered five random people, including my father. They told me to remain calm and that everything was alright. They told me that they would continue their search for Ethan, and that he would be stopped. The kind police officers drove me in the back of their squad car to the local courthouse, and where I gave my testimony of the day’s events to the local magistrate. After hearing my story, the judge ordered for me to be sent to a secure location that would be monitored by undercover police agents, all working to protect me from harm, keeping me safe from the reckless madman that was my brother. The police task force then transported me to the New Hope Inn, where I currently reside.

Despite the pain that I’ve endured up to this point, I’d have to say I feel fine right now. The employees at this inn are very kind to me. They all wear white matching uniforms, which I honestly think looks really nice. The inn is actually pretty large, with hallways that are completely clean. There’s also a homely feel to this place, as if I’m living out in the countryside, despite being so close to such a suburban town. Other people similar to me spend their time here, but it seems as if they all ignore me. It’s as if I don’t exist to them, although some do give me dirty looks. I’m not sure why the other residents of this “public” motel are so against my presence, but it bothers me none. The television here is great, and I have enough books and newspapers to read for a lifetime. The police said as soon as they detain my brother, that I could leave this place, if I ever even wanted to. I still wish this thunderstorm would stop though. I swear it never ends. I’m still worried however, as recently yesterday, I picked up a newspaper with the date July 9th, 2013. The article was titled: Killer Still Stalks Hopeville Residents!

Written in bold ink on the front page: ''Two persons have been found stabbed to death in a Hopeville home recently. On July 8th, 2013, a couple was found dead in their homes, after being allegedly attacked by a man with a knife. Left at the scene of the crime was a message written on the wall in the victims’ blood. The alleged murder weapon was a standard Randall Made Model 12 - Confederate Bowie Knife, sold across the entire nation. The alleged suspect is believed to be one Ethan Rivers, whose brother, John Rivers is now under police protection. The victims were Mary and Wade Greene, the parents of young adult Stacey Greene. “More information will be released soon”, says Police Chief Harris Buehler.”''

Judging from the article, it appears that my brother is still roaming free. I hope he is arrested quickly. I want him brought to justice, but more importantly, I want to go home.

Afterwards The 20-year-old Hopeville University Sophomore had recently read in the news that a man had allegedly used a chemical mixture of methamphetamine and cocaine to create a drug that would cause an automated body response that would result in cardiac arrest. These victims would not die immediately, but instead enter a critical stage for a couple of days before finally passing on. This man had used this drug on both his own mother, and three of his father’s most important business associates before proceeding to murder his own father with a ballpoint pen. After this gruesome incident, he finished his crime by drilling screws into his father’s secret mistress, before slicing her throat open with a bowie knife. Being a psychology major, this scholar was so fascinated by the mental state and actions of the young man, that she decided to do an independent research study on this subject, determining his motives, and what sort of disorder he held. To gain information, she visited the New Hope Center for Psychiatric Evaluation, where she used her student identification card to acquire public information on any patients being treated. As per her request, the college student received information of Patient 1691, which read as:

Patient Report - #1691 / Subject Name: John V. Rivers

Date of Birth: April 14th, 1994 / Gender: Male

Diagnosed Condition: Dissociative Identity Disorder

Residency Records:

December 13th, 2006 - June 10th, 2011 -Admission Diagnosis: Trauma Induced

Psychosis (Patient Condition Cured)

July 1st, 2013 - N/A -Admission Diagnosis: Dissociative Identity Disorder

History of Patient:

Patient John Rivers was first admitted to the institution in 2006 after the death of his twin brother Ethan Rivers. Ethan had drowned in an icy lake on December 13th, 2006. Medical Services arrived to see a terrified John kneeling beside the frozen lake in a state of shock. Ethan’s body was retrieved but he had lodged pieces of ice in his lungs. Ethan died the following day, which brought John from a state of trauma induced shock, to a complete state of psychosis. Patient lost contact with reality and was on life support, recovering from a deep coma from December 13th, 2006 to May 25th, 2009, when he regained consciousness and was put under a rehabilitation program, and made a full recovery by 2011, relearning and learning new concepts at an incredible pace. Patient was discharged on June 10th, 2011. Patient was readmitted on July 1st, 2013 after poisoning his mother and three others, causing a drug-induced state of Cardiac Arrest. On the same day, John stabbed his father Matthew Rivers with a ballpoint pen in the throat, effectively causing strangulation and preventing airflow, resulting in death. He then proceeded to use a drill gun and a bowie knife, killing Madison Lowe, Matthew Rivers’ mistress. John Rivers was arrested at the scene of his crime, where he insisted his dead brother Ethan had committed the murder. Handcuffed and put under police custody the delusional John Rivers went before a judge, who sentenced him to psychiatric evaluation at our facility. Dissociative Identity Disorder, more commonly known as Schizophrenia was the final diagnosis for the patient. Patient is currently within custody of the facility and shows no signs of agitation, but does show signs of content. Subject is being conditioned using electroshock therapy at the present time.

After receiving this printed report the college Sophomore was ecstatic. Not only had she conducted her own independent research, but she had a topic, subject, and primary source of information to write her report. As she left the facility, her heels clicking on the ground, she entered her car with a great amount of determination. The girl turned on her car, and then proceeded to select her favorite song on the stereo player. She couldn’t wait to get home and show her parents the work she had done for her classes. Things turned out a bit differently for her however. What Stacey Greene didn’t expect when she got home were the lifeless bodies of her parents, with a bloody message written on the wall which eerily shone out of the darkness, saying: “Want to join me? Come on… don’t worry. It’ll be fun.”

Is the story too cliche? Is it too boring? Too slow paced? Too much filler? What makes this story lack the quality necessary for it to be a true creepypasta? 