So I was talking to , Sharon and she's pretty stoked because her photoset is gonna be us soon. She also had a pretty cool idea when I told her that I wanted to be a writer but had been slacking lately. So I'm gonna start posting the shit I write in my journal to torture all you poor poor people. 
Have fun, and remember: yes I am that fucked up.
The 700 Club Revision 3
By: Nicholas Rodgers
Looking back, murder was not the goal of my actions, it was the byproduct. My goal was to purge all of the hate I had buried. Had she given me cause for such severe violence? I looked back and tried to figure out what had triggered my severe response. I had made an attempt at intimacy (we had never had sex and I was growing impatient, you know, frustrated), and she rejected me. I was disappointed but ok. Then she made that comment, that stupid fucking comment, and attacked my manhood. That pissed me off. After all the time I spent being nice to her and doing things for her she went and belittled me. I couldnt let that stand. Someone had to put that bitch in her place, so that was that. My rage had done this. The hatred I had suppressed for so long had come to the surface, like a child losing hold of a beach ball he was trying to force underwater. Every time she took advantage of my kind nature added to her vicious murder. The first strike knocked her to the floor and I jumped onto her, again I hit her beautiful face. These punches soon formed a rhythm of countless blows that I laid upon her. I dont know for how long after expiration I continued to brutalize her, but afterwards I could not longer force the muscle contractions necessary to strike with my fists. With all of my hate poured into her, she was left lifeless, just as I was.
Afterwards I rose and stepped away from her. I was surprised at the radius of blood surrounding her body. I sat down and took account of myself. My arms were sore, my body was shaking, and my mouth tasted like rust. This is what it felt like to kill someone. It was just like Dad said: at first you dont feel anything because all of the adrenalines gone and youre left numb. Its not until hours later that the reality of the situation hits you, and by then its far too late to do anything about it. He was luckier than me though, because he had killed for his country, and they didnt throw you in jail for murdering people in a war. Not unless you did something really fucked up, like murder a whole village of innocents, and then you only got in trouble if the press caught wind of the story. Maybe I should have joined the army.
Finding my fathers words true, I was left deeply relieved. I reclined lazily in the center of her old couch between two worn throw pillows and focused on the television. There were spots of blood sprinkled across its convex screen. She had been watching the 700 Club. I found the remote and turned up the volume so I could hear it over the strong beat of my heart. It felt good to hear the sound of someones voice.
The televangelists were reporting on some sob story involving an impoverished family. These folks from a rural community in central Texas described how the devil had tempted them through a job opportunity. The husband had been given a job as a sales representative, but quit when he was told to lie to customers. This resulted in unemployment for the husband, but luckily God had provided for them. I wondered what this phrase meant. This family spoke as if God had come to their house, put food on the table, and clothed their children. It was obvious though, to me at least, that they had done these things themselves. It never sat well with me when people took their own victories and gave God credit. It isnt right for this power to be taken away from people and credited to some omnipotent yet abstract being. But before I could complete this thought the televangelists interrupted and beckoned for contributions to their holy cause. Yeah, like any contributions I made would have gone to people that actually needed it. They didnt give a shit about some poor family in Texas, all they wanted was money. Their hands were stained just as mine, but at least I wasnt claiming my work as Gods. Jesus, network television felt more like brainwashing than entertainment.
I turned the television off. I had to do something about the murder scene three feet away. I thought back to forensics class where we had studied in great detail the evidence that could be gathered at a scene such as this. The odds were stacked against me should anyone investigate the room because the crime had not been premeditated. Blood was everywhere. I focused at length on how to remove the body and clean up its surroundings so that no one would know, but it simply wasnt possible. She didnt have the cleaning chemicals required to undergo such a task, and even if she did, sooner or later someone would notice that she was gone. One of her close-knit family members would surely stop by within the next day or two. A wave of panic traveled up my back. I focused, pushing it down like the rage I had just let go. My next option was to leave the body as it was and clean up any evidence showing I was there. This meant cleaning bloody fingerprints off the remote and pouring ammonia on her corpse to corrupt any possible samples of my blood.
I started for the ammonia when I realized that destroying this evidence wouldnt do me any good. Everyone on her cul-de-sac knew my car and at least one of them would have noticed that I visited her today. When the body was discovered the police would no doubt question her neighbors who would inevitably lead them to me, and no amount of evidence tampering was going to heal my battered knuckles. With eyewitness testimony placing me at the scene and no way to account for the condition of my hands it wouldnt be hard to convict me of her murder. My options were quickly evaporating and the fear was now taking a firm hold. It was obvious that there was no way out.
I stood up and stepped over her body into the kitchen. I walked up to the sink, turned it on, and lathered my hands with dish soap. The warm water felt good rushing against my skin. I watched the red bubbles circle down the drain and let the water caress my hands long after the blood was gone. This made my fear evaporate. I grabbed a dish towel and methodically dried my hands, drying each finger separately then rubbing the palms and backs of my hands in circles until they were completely dry. After this I folded the towel neatly and set it on the counter. Virginia always did keep her place spotless. Having done this, I went back, and while standing over her body pulled out my pocketknife. I flicked it open held it to my right wrist. I suddenly got hot, like I did in grade school when the teacher called on me to read out loud. My heart rhythm spiked and I could see my arms pulse with its beats. Cut at an angle, that way they cant sew you back up, I said. I didnt know if that was true but I had heard it somewhere. I pushed hard on the knife with my left arm and threw it downward. The pain was intense, and my body, obviously rejecting what I had done, triggered some self-defense mechanism that made me drop the knife and grasp the gash with enormous pressure. I countered by ripping my arm away from the possessed hand and attempted to seize the knife from the floor but it was no use. The chords running from my wrist to my fingers had been cut, but one slit wrist would be enough. I laid down next to her and turned my head away, focusing not on her, but on the red life quickly beating out of me. The pain was fading. The blood felt warm, like the water from the faucet. It cleansed my mind like the water had cleansed my hands. I thought about my mother.
Have fun, and remember: yes I am that fucked up.
The 700 Club Revision 3
By: Nicholas Rodgers
Looking back, murder was not the goal of my actions, it was the byproduct. My goal was to purge all of the hate I had buried. Had she given me cause for such severe violence? I looked back and tried to figure out what had triggered my severe response. I had made an attempt at intimacy (we had never had sex and I was growing impatient, you know, frustrated), and she rejected me. I was disappointed but ok. Then she made that comment, that stupid fucking comment, and attacked my manhood. That pissed me off. After all the time I spent being nice to her and doing things for her she went and belittled me. I couldnt let that stand. Someone had to put that bitch in her place, so that was that. My rage had done this. The hatred I had suppressed for so long had come to the surface, like a child losing hold of a beach ball he was trying to force underwater. Every time she took advantage of my kind nature added to her vicious murder. The first strike knocked her to the floor and I jumped onto her, again I hit her beautiful face. These punches soon formed a rhythm of countless blows that I laid upon her. I dont know for how long after expiration I continued to brutalize her, but afterwards I could not longer force the muscle contractions necessary to strike with my fists. With all of my hate poured into her, she was left lifeless, just as I was.
Afterwards I rose and stepped away from her. I was surprised at the radius of blood surrounding her body. I sat down and took account of myself. My arms were sore, my body was shaking, and my mouth tasted like rust. This is what it felt like to kill someone. It was just like Dad said: at first you dont feel anything because all of the adrenalines gone and youre left numb. Its not until hours later that the reality of the situation hits you, and by then its far too late to do anything about it. He was luckier than me though, because he had killed for his country, and they didnt throw you in jail for murdering people in a war. Not unless you did something really fucked up, like murder a whole village of innocents, and then you only got in trouble if the press caught wind of the story. Maybe I should have joined the army.
Finding my fathers words true, I was left deeply relieved. I reclined lazily in the center of her old couch between two worn throw pillows and focused on the television. There were spots of blood sprinkled across its convex screen. She had been watching the 700 Club. I found the remote and turned up the volume so I could hear it over the strong beat of my heart. It felt good to hear the sound of someones voice.
The televangelists were reporting on some sob story involving an impoverished family. These folks from a rural community in central Texas described how the devil had tempted them through a job opportunity. The husband had been given a job as a sales representative, but quit when he was told to lie to customers. This resulted in unemployment for the husband, but luckily God had provided for them. I wondered what this phrase meant. This family spoke as if God had come to their house, put food on the table, and clothed their children. It was obvious though, to me at least, that they had done these things themselves. It never sat well with me when people took their own victories and gave God credit. It isnt right for this power to be taken away from people and credited to some omnipotent yet abstract being. But before I could complete this thought the televangelists interrupted and beckoned for contributions to their holy cause. Yeah, like any contributions I made would have gone to people that actually needed it. They didnt give a shit about some poor family in Texas, all they wanted was money. Their hands were stained just as mine, but at least I wasnt claiming my work as Gods. Jesus, network television felt more like brainwashing than entertainment.
I turned the television off. I had to do something about the murder scene three feet away. I thought back to forensics class where we had studied in great detail the evidence that could be gathered at a scene such as this. The odds were stacked against me should anyone investigate the room because the crime had not been premeditated. Blood was everywhere. I focused at length on how to remove the body and clean up its surroundings so that no one would know, but it simply wasnt possible. She didnt have the cleaning chemicals required to undergo such a task, and even if she did, sooner or later someone would notice that she was gone. One of her close-knit family members would surely stop by within the next day or two. A wave of panic traveled up my back. I focused, pushing it down like the rage I had just let go. My next option was to leave the body as it was and clean up any evidence showing I was there. This meant cleaning bloody fingerprints off the remote and pouring ammonia on her corpse to corrupt any possible samples of my blood.
I started for the ammonia when I realized that destroying this evidence wouldnt do me any good. Everyone on her cul-de-sac knew my car and at least one of them would have noticed that I visited her today. When the body was discovered the police would no doubt question her neighbors who would inevitably lead them to me, and no amount of evidence tampering was going to heal my battered knuckles. With eyewitness testimony placing me at the scene and no way to account for the condition of my hands it wouldnt be hard to convict me of her murder. My options were quickly evaporating and the fear was now taking a firm hold. It was obvious that there was no way out.
I stood up and stepped over her body into the kitchen. I walked up to the sink, turned it on, and lathered my hands with dish soap. The warm water felt good rushing against my skin. I watched the red bubbles circle down the drain and let the water caress my hands long after the blood was gone. This made my fear evaporate. I grabbed a dish towel and methodically dried my hands, drying each finger separately then rubbing the palms and backs of my hands in circles until they were completely dry. After this I folded the towel neatly and set it on the counter. Virginia always did keep her place spotless. Having done this, I went back, and while standing over her body pulled out my pocketknife. I flicked it open held it to my right wrist. I suddenly got hot, like I did in grade school when the teacher called on me to read out loud. My heart rhythm spiked and I could see my arms pulse with its beats. Cut at an angle, that way they cant sew you back up, I said. I didnt know if that was true but I had heard it somewhere. I pushed hard on the knife with my left arm and threw it downward. The pain was intense, and my body, obviously rejecting what I had done, triggered some self-defense mechanism that made me drop the knife and grasp the gash with enormous pressure. I countered by ripping my arm away from the possessed hand and attempted to seize the knife from the floor but it was no use. The chords running from my wrist to my fingers had been cut, but one slit wrist would be enough. I laid down next to her and turned my head away, focusing not on her, but on the red life quickly beating out of me. The pain was fading. The blood felt warm, like the water from the faucet. It cleansed my mind like the water had cleansed my hands. I thought about my mother.
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I love to write as well.
I have a million short stories I've written.