Murder Happy Fairytales
the Narration
My oldest memories mean very little to me now. My childhood is so far behind me but my years of life never seem to end. I still don't understand why the first twelve years corrupted and condemned the rest. My mother chose my birth name, Vincent, while my father insisted on reminding me that I was nothing. He also routinely reminded my mother of the sweet taste of blood from busted lips. Paranoid by his self-righteous, cult-like beliefs of perseverance in a world filled with liars and traitors, he instilled fear in our home.
Things weren't any better for me away from home either. I learned about humiliation at a young age and I seemed to be the punch line of all the other kids' jokes. For a while, I ignored the abuse and tried hard to fit in. At first I'd only hear whispers like, "kinda creepy...ugly...freaky, little monster". Until one day, I rode my bike down to the local playground. Several kids from school were there but I chose to be by myself and play with a spider I'd found. The spider intrigued me as I watched it gracefully scale a rather large rock. As I studied it, I witnessed it's life end by the foot of a spoiled, rich kid three years my elder. My blood was racing and my anger and hatred grew as he and two of his friends turned their attack on me. I didn't have a chance against those monsters. They were the real monsters. I lost two teeth and any remaining pride that I had. The funny thing is, through the whole ordeal, I didn't say a word. My father had taught me well.
My mother's tolerance for my father lessened as time went on and she became numb to the pain, while I grew fearful of her as well as my father. One windy, Autumn day, as I arrived home on my bike, I caught the aroma of steaks cooking in the kitchen. My mother called me in for supper and I claimed my usual place at the end of the table. As she placed a well-done piece of meat on my plate, she informed me that I need not worry about my father anymore because he had left us and gone far away. She glanced up for a moment to give me an awkward smile that chilled the back of my neck.
That was the beginning of the end because, that day, I lost my family. My mother was soon arrested and convicted for the murder of my soulless father. I had no one. I should have been dead too. It would have been best for society. My best friends soon became my hallucinations. They took me away from "that" reality. I hallucinated about worms and insects chewing away at my conscience. In my reality, I was invincible. I was right. I was god.
I don't even remember when I first became a killer. I still prefer the term, "angel of mercy". I just know that the first time was all it took for me to realize that I had to do what I could to clean up this twisted nation. All those selfish, wife-beating bastards and sicko child abusers didn't deserve the gift of life. My next fifteen years were filled with venom in my veins and blood on my hands. Although my intentions, at first, were noble, I quickly found myself addicted to and strangely turned on by the touch of lifeless flesh. Some urges can't be explained. I just know that I didn't want to admit or face what I'd become.
Many things are fuzzy to me but I often have vivid dreams about being chased by ghouls through a festival of dancing skeletons. Street vendors hidden behind masks of makeup sing and scatter a variety of candies to the crowd. I race through rooms of balloons and bubbles with demon faces, until I reach the front door of my childhood home. The door creaks open and I'm shoved through the entrance and onto the living room floor. My ears slowly fill with the sounds of many crying voices begging for another chance of life. I look up to see the shelves on the walls lined with the heads of my victims. I can never seem to wake from that dream until after I've told them that there's nothing I can do to help them.
Strangely enough, those of my particular occupation garner a large amount of attention. My story made it's way to headlines and was featured on many TV news programs. I guess you could say I was some sort of bizarre celebrity without a face.
I remember the night that it was all supposed to end. The streets resonated with the laughter of masked goblins and gruesome creatures. October 31st was alive in the neighborhood. From the shadows, I inhaled the night air as careless visions tangoed behind my closed eyes. That moment was perfect. Unfortunately, for me, it didn't last long enough. My eyes sprang open with a young mother's scream. Somehow, she had recognized the danger I represented because she was pointing in my direction and screaming, "help... it's the murderer from TV".
As quickly as possible, I was on my feet and running through yards and down alleys. I didn't look back but I heard what sounded like hundreds of racing feet pounding the earth behind me. I felt like a featured character from a classic Mary Shelley story. The words "killer" and "monster" chased after me and were eventually able to surround me in the place I'd sent so many, a remorseless cemetery. Once again, I was attacked by monsters. I eventually lost consciousness and my mind drifted away in a pool of blood.
I have no actual memory of how long I'd been beaten or how severely. However, I do have a faint awareness of my trip to the morgue and my funeral. I heard the closing sound of the zipper on the human-sized envelope I was placed inside of and I recall a preacher's voice reciting, "ashes to ashes... rest in peace".
I'm not dead however. I've been dragged from life to death, and then to life again. Maybe, I've been sentenced to forever walk this soil as a monster, all bloody, scarred and beaten. I still have my nightmares and I harbor bitter hate because I don't have the answers to why I was not given the opportunities to have a normal life. I have accepted an unwelcome reality. I was walking through the graveyard...and I found myself.
By: Abby Normal (the graveyard boulevard)
"Life is a grave; Dig it."
the Narration
My oldest memories mean very little to me now. My childhood is so far behind me but my years of life never seem to end. I still don't understand why the first twelve years corrupted and condemned the rest. My mother chose my birth name, Vincent, while my father insisted on reminding me that I was nothing. He also routinely reminded my mother of the sweet taste of blood from busted lips. Paranoid by his self-righteous, cult-like beliefs of perseverance in a world filled with liars and traitors, he instilled fear in our home.
Things weren't any better for me away from home either. I learned about humiliation at a young age and I seemed to be the punch line of all the other kids' jokes. For a while, I ignored the abuse and tried hard to fit in. At first I'd only hear whispers like, "kinda creepy...ugly...freaky, little monster". Until one day, I rode my bike down to the local playground. Several kids from school were there but I chose to be by myself and play with a spider I'd found. The spider intrigued me as I watched it gracefully scale a rather large rock. As I studied it, I witnessed it's life end by the foot of a spoiled, rich kid three years my elder. My blood was racing and my anger and hatred grew as he and two of his friends turned their attack on me. I didn't have a chance against those monsters. They were the real monsters. I lost two teeth and any remaining pride that I had. The funny thing is, through the whole ordeal, I didn't say a word. My father had taught me well.
My mother's tolerance for my father lessened as time went on and she became numb to the pain, while I grew fearful of her as well as my father. One windy, Autumn day, as I arrived home on my bike, I caught the aroma of steaks cooking in the kitchen. My mother called me in for supper and I claimed my usual place at the end of the table. As she placed a well-done piece of meat on my plate, she informed me that I need not worry about my father anymore because he had left us and gone far away. She glanced up for a moment to give me an awkward smile that chilled the back of my neck.
That was the beginning of the end because, that day, I lost my family. My mother was soon arrested and convicted for the murder of my soulless father. I had no one. I should have been dead too. It would have been best for society. My best friends soon became my hallucinations. They took me away from "that" reality. I hallucinated about worms and insects chewing away at my conscience. In my reality, I was invincible. I was right. I was god.
I don't even remember when I first became a killer. I still prefer the term, "angel of mercy". I just know that the first time was all it took for me to realize that I had to do what I could to clean up this twisted nation. All those selfish, wife-beating bastards and sicko child abusers didn't deserve the gift of life. My next fifteen years were filled with venom in my veins and blood on my hands. Although my intentions, at first, were noble, I quickly found myself addicted to and strangely turned on by the touch of lifeless flesh. Some urges can't be explained. I just know that I didn't want to admit or face what I'd become.
Many things are fuzzy to me but I often have vivid dreams about being chased by ghouls through a festival of dancing skeletons. Street vendors hidden behind masks of makeup sing and scatter a variety of candies to the crowd. I race through rooms of balloons and bubbles with demon faces, until I reach the front door of my childhood home. The door creaks open and I'm shoved through the entrance and onto the living room floor. My ears slowly fill with the sounds of many crying voices begging for another chance of life. I look up to see the shelves on the walls lined with the heads of my victims. I can never seem to wake from that dream until after I've told them that there's nothing I can do to help them.
Strangely enough, those of my particular occupation garner a large amount of attention. My story made it's way to headlines and was featured on many TV news programs. I guess you could say I was some sort of bizarre celebrity without a face.
I remember the night that it was all supposed to end. The streets resonated with the laughter of masked goblins and gruesome creatures. October 31st was alive in the neighborhood. From the shadows, I inhaled the night air as careless visions tangoed behind my closed eyes. That moment was perfect. Unfortunately, for me, it didn't last long enough. My eyes sprang open with a young mother's scream. Somehow, she had recognized the danger I represented because she was pointing in my direction and screaming, "help... it's the murderer from TV".
As quickly as possible, I was on my feet and running through yards and down alleys. I didn't look back but I heard what sounded like hundreds of racing feet pounding the earth behind me. I felt like a featured character from a classic Mary Shelley story. The words "killer" and "monster" chased after me and were eventually able to surround me in the place I'd sent so many, a remorseless cemetery. Once again, I was attacked by monsters. I eventually lost consciousness and my mind drifted away in a pool of blood.
I have no actual memory of how long I'd been beaten or how severely. However, I do have a faint awareness of my trip to the morgue and my funeral. I heard the closing sound of the zipper on the human-sized envelope I was placed inside of and I recall a preacher's voice reciting, "ashes to ashes... rest in peace".
I'm not dead however. I've been dragged from life to death, and then to life again. Maybe, I've been sentenced to forever walk this soil as a monster, all bloody, scarred and beaten. I still have my nightmares and I harbor bitter hate because I don't have the answers to why I was not given the opportunities to have a normal life. I have accepted an unwelcome reality. I was walking through the graveyard...and I found myself.
By: Abby Normal (the graveyard boulevard)
"Life is a grave; Dig it."