Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24996913-20140811072625

I'm at a standstill with whether or not I should possibly extend this and provide more backdrop information or leave it to readers imagination. I'd love some constructive criticism pertaining to what I should improve/etc.

Once I start something I have to finish it regardless of the circumstances. The rituals... They force me to. If I try to cheat them, they make me repeat them over and over again until the stench of uncleanliness fills the air. Days could go by without so much as leaving my studio in the basement. My wife, Julia, cavils persistently about my absence. She feels our two boys are missing out on key developmental bonding time with me. And, I must agree.

Ever since they were born, I've been too occupied with my rituals to even consider their feelings. It's hard to when the rituals whisper in your ear, stopping you from doing even the most basic of tasks such as bathing, eating, or sleeping.

You would think putting a roof over their heads is a solid enough display of affection. I sit in the basement, buckets of paint surrounding me in excess as I paint what eventually becomes their food through the process of business. Who complains about a man who does his work? I would be an even worse husband and father if I let them starve, right?

Sure, the rituals were toxic. They routinely devoured my very being, turning me into something unrecognizable by my own wife but they were necessary. Though they may keep me from indulging in pleasures most would proclaim as needs, it also provided balance within my chaotic life. Each ritual has it's function.

The last time I checked myself out in the mirror was also the last time I showered, which was about three weeks ago. When I looked into that mirror, after performing my breathing ritual fifty times, I saw the blueish bags overwhelming my once youthful eyes. My skin, once a lively shade of ivory, resembled that of a cancer patient. Anger swelled inside of me, causing me to break the mirror after locking eyes with the monstrosity looking back at me within its reflection. But, doing so only created another ritual.

It spoke to me, causing my angry scowl to become a pitiful pout. I had to eat the shards in order to restore balance. I couldn't just leave them there. I knew better than to destroy something that was supposed to be a solid unit. I had made that mistake before, but the ritual corrected it. It always does.

So, after chewing and swallowing the broken mirror pieces one by one, blood spilling from my lips with each crunch, I attempted to quiet the ritual's whisper but it would not let up. I had to complete several rituals such as straightening the linen towels numerous times, turning the sink's faucet on and off for what seemed like decades, and flipping the light-switch non stop for ten minutes to quiet the overwhelming feeling eating away at my being. It always worked temporarily, but the urge would surge through my body eternally, demanding I quench its mad desires at any and all costs.

Fortunately for me, it had quieted long enough to check up on my wife. As usual, she laid in bed, watching her favorite program on tv. Quickly, not wanting to interrupt, I approached, kissing her cheek before heading towards the boy's room.

On my way to their bedroom, I noticed how unkept the house had become. The floors were dirty, in need of a deep carpet cleanse. The stench permeating throughout the room suggested the garbage hadn't been taken out in days. Being that it was the boy's job to take out the garbage, once I inhaled the raunchy scent of molding cheese and putrid fish, rage radiated within me as I stepped into their room.

As I stood, staring at the boys who pretended I was not there, they both held remote controllers in their hands, playing grand theft auto.

"Your room is a mess! Get off of this game!" I yelled, snatching the remote controllers away from them.

They both pouted, staring at the ceiling as they ignored me.

"Get up! Clean this entire house! What has gotten into you two?" I questioned, grabbing them and pulling them into the hallway.

They rolled their eyes as I released them from my grip.

"Start with that trash, Henry! And, Michael, you can vacuum the floor before you deep clean it. Got that?" I questioned, looking at each with a stern expression.

The boys begrudgingly walked towards their tasks, taking their sweet time. I watched them like a hawk, informing them of spots they had missed, before remembering the painting I had to finish downstairs.

"I'll be back up to check on you two. You better not half ass anything either," I said, pointing at them.

Once I turned around, the urge crept back to me.

"Check on the buckets. Check on the buckets."

My mind continued to repeat the phrase until I ran down the basements stairs. Taking a deep breath, I approached the hooks drilled into the ceiling. There, dangling from one of three hooks, was Michael. Well, the flesh and blood Michael... The one that became a ritual.

Beside Michael was his brother, Henry. Beside Henry was their mother... My wife...

I didn't want to do this to my family, but they were planning to leave. A solid unit cannot be divided. The ritual would not allow it. So as they scrambled in the darkness that night, believing I was asleep, I surprised them, dragging the boys down into the basement that in turn caused my wife to follow behind, frantically.

What happened next was simple. I completed my ritual; I made sure our family unit would stay together. I hooked each to their current post, each screaming in agonizing pain as their backs were impelled. The look in their eyes as the days passed by was painful to bare witness to. I wanted so badly to take them down, get them to a hospital, and repair our tarnished relationships but I couldn't. The ritual wouldn't allow me.

Consequently, their eyes drained of life after a while and their skin began to give off a foul stench of looming death. I couldn't allow them to die. No, that would destroy the unit... so I did the only thing I could do: I grabbed my buck knife, placed a bucket beneath each body, and slit the wrists and throats of each. The blood was then put to use. Somehow, I had to embody their essence.

"Paint them. Paint them."

As their buckets filled with blood, I began sketching each face into a blank canvas. Once I could no longer hear the echo of blood dripping behind me, I grabbed the bucket from under each body and, matching it with its corresponding painting, I finished each portrait. They could never leave me now. The ritual wouldn't allow it. 