[Writing]My Literature Stuff

[ThePortalGuru]

Been a while, hasn't it? Here's a little bit I wrote a couple months ago:

Horsemen

SMACK. You know, it’s kind of funny. SMACK. Funny in a sick sort of way. SMACK. Would “funny” be a good word to describe it? SMACK. Nah. SMACK. Ironic, perhaps? SMACK. Yeah, ironic sums it up well. SMACK.

The sad, disfigured thing before me no longer resembles the man it once was. SMACK. The biting air is beginning to work its way under his skin. His face has become so grey and frost-rimed that I start to feel like I’m beating a corpse. SMACK. For all I know, I could be. I've stopped caring. SMACK.

“Marsh, please-” the man begs. He cuts himself off and hacks out a glob of blood and mucus onto the stone floor, and when he raises his head again - SMACK.

A part of me is slipping away with each blow. SMACK. My sympathy. SMACK. My morality. SMACK. My mind. After the twentieth punch, I decide I’ve lost enough of myself. Twenty seems like a good place to stop. Nice even number.

A muddled white light streams into the tower through the colossal pane that makes up the clock behind me. It gives a heavenly aura to the room. The man begins to resemble something of a grotesque angel, bloodied face shimmering in gnarled grace.

He breathes heavily, in broken huffs. With each breath, a cloud of crystallized decay comes billowing out.

I look down at my hands. I turn them over and look at the ruby splotches covering my knuckles. The heat of passion must be tapering; my hands are shivering. After so many years, one would imagine that those responsible for running the place would have installed proper heating.

“Is that all?” the man croaks.

I walk to the stool beside the man and pick up a sheet of cream-colored linen.

“Come on, Marsh. That was weak. On a good day, you could’ve gone for at least twenty-five.”

The cloth is just as frigid as my skin.

“Marsh, the whole silence card you’re playing isn’t working. I know you’re listening, Marsh. Maaaaarsh!” he dons a mix of a smile and a grimace, putting his remaining teeth on display.

That name. That nagging, malignant little sound that makes my blood boil. Marsh. There’s a dull, corrosive burn in the back of my head that grows each time I hear it. Marsh. Marsh, Marsh, Marsh.

“You doing anything for Christmas, Marsh?”

I place the cloth back on the stool. I walk towards the colossal cogs that turn the hands of time, rubbing my clammy hands together.

“Spending it with family? Ey Marsh?”

“Don’t say that fucking word to me again,” I say.

“Which one?”

I turn and see that sickening smile looking back at me. The man turns his head and spits more blood onto the floor. Before I can even think to stop myself, I'm crossing to him.

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific, Marsh. How the fuck am I supposed to know what you’re-” SMACK. Twenty-one. SMACK. Twenty-two. SMACK. Twenty-three. SMACK. Twenty-four.