1 Name: Flies story ark... this is a bit nastier than before. : 2009-09-03 17:37 [Del]
Ok, so I put these stories on before, however now they have come together into a complete story. Stick with it for the first chapter, the second two are much more guro... Last time I put the first one on Johnny told me to try to write a story he couldnt wank to. I think thats the last one, 'Kingdom'. So, tell me what you think guys.
House (fLies)
The house sat away back in the wood. It was not an imposing structure, no haunted house, no creepy shack. Just a nice sized cottage set back in the trees. It was by no means a small house as the doctor was wealthy enough to keep himself well, but by the same token it was not overly opulent; nothing flashy, nothing out of place. It was…ordered. The doctor himself reflected his house; a medium built man in his mid-fifties, well turned out. Neat. Neat man, neat house, neat life.
As you walk up to the house you get the sense that you are the only thing in the world which hasn’t been scrubbed clean. A gaggle of children stare at you blankly, just outside the tree line. Locals, and the doctor shoos them away with a wave of his hand. This is the effect the doctor likes to have. Understated power. As you walk through the door you enter the cream hallway leading into the sitting room. Once again, the feeling of cleanliness is overwhelming. It’s here you may find the doctor reading one of his extensive library collection or relaxing of an evening, although it is difficult to imagine the doctor ever doing anything so slovenly and disorganised as relaxing. He may recline, recede… but relax? Never.
As we move on through the house we progress into the dining room. The table is neatly laid, even if no-one is coming for dinner. The entire room is furnished ornately however not gaudily. Nothing in this house is overly showy or tacky, or even particularly homely. The entire house has a strange feel to it, almost clinical, so you can nearly smell the disinfectant in the air, always just out of range of the nose but still enough to exude a faint aura…
The bathroom is, as you would expect, exquisitely clean. Here you really can smell the disinfectant and the cabinet beneath the sink is filled to the brim with all manner of bleaches and anti-bacterial agents. It’s again difficult to ever imagine the doctor using this room… Still, everyone must go at some time or another…
Next we move onto the kitchen, but, wait, this cannot be right… the air here is sickly, and there is a rancid odour which a quick observer notes is fruit bowl is filled with rotten bananas, pears, grapes and plums. The doctor is quick to apologise, and explains that his cleaner must have missed it, however due to his busy schedule he hasn’t had time to deal with it. He smiles, and the tour continues onward.
In a return to normality (or at least consistency) the living room seems anything but lived in. Furnished in expensive but conservative style, it comes straight out of a showroom. The walls are adorned with various qualifications and certificates; the cream carpet leads to a leather sofa and a large television.
In the bedroom it all falls apart. There are clothes strewn around, the bed is unmade, the bedclothes unwashed… papers covered in doodled drawings, mostly of flies, carpet the floor and uneaten food, weeks old, is dotted around. The walk in cupboard is, in actuality, another hallway which is dimly lit by a bare 30watt bulb, leading to a concealed outhouse, masked from view by the house itself… there is a large steel door, and if you were to look back you would see the inside of the cupboard door is soundproofed. But to what end?
Throwing open the door will answer this question. Allow a brief few seconds for you eyes to become accustomed to the near dark of the outhouse, and as they do the raw animal stench hits you… The walls are smeared with shit, stained with piss and vomit, and are coated with what appears to be dry blood… There is movement in the darkness, something squirms in the shadows… what appears to be a huge grub is lying by the door, wriggling obscenely. But no, it is not a grub… It’s a torso. No arms, no legs, just the naked body and head of the cleaner, locked away for days, weeks, months… who knows? More movement. Another grub-person. And another. And another. There must be ten, twenty, maybe more… all limbs removed and neatly stitched up. Their eyes pleading for death, tongues removed. How many are here? In the doctors brood of maggot people? Then a faster movement. The doctor arises. His face is smeared with black lipstick, surgical gown on, and written in a sticky substance down it…
i
aM
tHe
QueEN
He crosses the distance obscenely fast, raising his scalpel with lightning speed before you've even a chance to scream.
And it is then, quietly and sweetly in the dark, that you become part of the hive…
Aborted (fLies)
I’ve been sitting in this basement for so fucking long now. It feels like forever. I haven’t even tried to move in days. There’s no point. My lips are dry. I cough, and once I’ve started coughing I keep choking until I gag. I can feel the saline crust on my cheeks of old tears, which are now a discomfort, and even in their prime were hot and useless.
I’ve been in the dark so long I’ve started to forget things. Memories. Sensations. Identity. Now it feels like I hardly know anything… I used to know things. Now I can’t even think straight. It’s like my mind’s shutting off… I think it’s a stress reaction. If I keep shutting my mind down, if I keep forgetting, soon I won’t remember yesterday’s pain. After that I won’t remember the last hour’s pain. Then I won’t remember anything. That thought is starting to scare me less and less… I can hardly remember who I am anymore. I hardly know anything. All I know is that I want to go home.
* * *
My name was Rebecca and I was fifteen years old. I was at high school, and was… well, I thought I was a good person. I tried, anyway. I made mistakes, but we all do. And what happened to me I definitely didn’t deserve.
OK, so I fucked a guy without a condom. It was a party, I was drunk and shit, it happens to the best of us, alright? I didn’t mean it. I was horny, and I know that makes me sound like a slut with little to no self-control but you can believe me when I say it was the first time. Unlucky for me, it turned out to be all that was required and within a couple of months I was scared as shit about my lack of ‘feminine bleeding’ and the presence of some fairly savage pre-breakfast nausea. So, being 15 and scared, I did the obvious thing: saw my doctor.
The whole day leading up to my visit I had been… well, let’s not sugar coat it, terrified. Sitting in the numb green waiting room the air conditioning made my skin cold and dry. I held my stomach subconsciously, and waited for my name to appear on the screen. The bitch behind the front desk had been pseudo-helpful and 100% uncaring. I remember thinking that she had the bedside manner of a sedated mannequin, but I suppose that was why she didn’t make the grade as a nurse. Have you noticed you always get those people hanging around really skilled labourers? I’m not talking about the receptionist who’s happy to be a receptionist and is just doing it for the money, I mean the people who didn’t make the grade and hang around on the peripherals, being bitter and semi-cooperative. The guy behind the desk at the mechanics’ who snorts at you because you don’t know what’s up with your car. The secretary who won’t bother to check if her ever willing-to-help boss is free because you didn’t make an appointment. I’m talking about anyone on any council admin team anywhere.
Anyway, I’m in this waiting room, and I’m scared out of my wits. Finally my stomach drops as my name appears in little red dots on the scrolling screen. I enter the doctors office, and even though he’s smiling at me and welcoming enough, I suddenly feel very alone, and very, very young.
‘So Rebecca, what appears to be the trouble?’
And it begins. I explain my story, and his smile disappears and is replaced by a look of honest concern. He asks a few questions about the regularity of my periods, my sickness… then takes a urine sample, and gives me some sage advice about using protection before getting me to make a follow up appointment in several days.
Later that night, I go home and cry myself to sleep. Even though I cry and cry there is no catharsis after, my tears are useless and infertile. As I think this I almost smirk to myself at the irony, but I just can’t bring myself to. I end up scratching at my wrist for over fifteen minutes, and the stinging brings a little relief. The night after its not enough, so I drag a pin down my arm. The night after that, I end up slashing my forearm with a Stanley knife. The pain is numbing and instant, and the pause before the red stream of blood begins to trickle is pure heaven. I fall asleep, nearly forgetting my appointment is the morning after.
I arrive at the doctors somewhat late. The nurse is impassive, but when I get into the doctors office he is anything but. He tells me he will speak frankly. As he tells me I am pregnant, his eyes flick between the scratches on my arm and my face. He says that if I want to do not want to keep it I have to come with him, now.
Yes, I was stupid. But I was scared and vulnerable. So I went with him. As I follow him into what I assume is another doctors office, or a waiting room, or a theatre, my mind is blank. I’m in the same state of emotional shock I feel after cutting myself, and I don’t even think. I’m grateful for his instruction, his bluntness. Don’t let me think. Tell me what to do. Control me. I sometimes wonder if this is almost my consent for what comes next. Almost. As I walk into what I later realise is a broom cupboard, the smell of chemicals gags me, and the cloth which covers my mouth is moist and unpleasant.
* * *
My vision is blurred, and I feel groggy. I try to sit up and look around, but my head lolls uselessly to the side. I’m confused by what I see… I’m trying to move my arm, but its held there by something very strong. This doesn’t make sense, because I’m looking at it, and it’s not being held by anything. An involuntary fear that some invisible entity is holding me captive fleetingly skips through my mind, before being overridden. That’s ridiculous, but the truth of the situation is no more comforting… I’m paralysed. I frantically try to force movement from my body but to no avail, and just as I start to panic a figure wearing a surgical gown strides across my peripheral vision.
At first my drug-addled brain is relieved, and I think this might be the start of a genuine medical procedure. Then I realise no, there was no release form, no consent. This isn’t a physical, or an abortion… at least not a legal one. I sense a figure standing over me and have a dizzying sensation as my head is propped up and I’m looking into a pair of burning eyes. A surgical mask covers the lower half of my captors face, but I can see his eyes, and they’re enough to tell me that I’m at the mercy of someone who has long abandoned sanity. I try to speak, but by numbed vocal chords fail me and I gurgle wetly, saliva running from the corner of my mouth.
‘You’re a fucking cunt,’
If I wasn’t already unable to speak I would be shocked into silence. The man reaches up and snatches the mask away, revealing the lower half of his face, smeared with dark lipstick. It is my doctor, and his face is twisted into a mask of pure hatred.
‘You’re a fucking slut. A filthy whore,’ he spits. My muscles would be shaking I’m so scared but my still body just lays there, ignoring my pleas to react. Suddenly he is in tears.
‘How do you do it? You fucking girls. You fucking children. You spew babies like they’re nothing… or you come to me and get me to remove them… just throw them away like they’re nothing. How dare you!’ his emotions are changing so fast I can’t keep up. I’m trying my best to make my eyes seem understanding, trying to communicate with him, unable of making any other attempt to control the situation. I thought I was scared when he first told me I was pregnant… now I’m beyond scared and deep into sheer terror. And I’m completely at his mercy. Involuntarily I feel a twinge in my groin at the helplessness of my situation, and I’m immediately disgusted at myself. But the tingling sensation only grows. The doctor is still talking, almost to himself now, sobbing heavily.
‘You… can’t… know… how hard it is… How hard I’ve tried… How hard I’ve wanted…’ Deep, wracking sobs wrenched from within him.
‘All… I… wanted… was a daught-… was a daughter…’ and with this he dissolves into pure despair, grief flowing from him. He flashes out of my sight as he collapses to his knees, head resting in the crook of his elbow on the table next to me, his other fist pounding next to my head. I want to flinch with every blow, but my unwilling body won’t respond to even that. After a while he straightens, and his face comes back into view. It’s calm now, sedate, and his eyes have drained of all emotion. Strangely this is even worse than the rage that filled them seconds ago. Now they’re dead.
‘My girlfriend left me. My sperm count is heinously low, and I am unable to bare child. And you were going to throw that all away. Well, now you have no choice. You will have the baby, and you will have it for me. You will do for me what she couldn’t… wouldn’t… You will be mine.’ His eyes flick to my scratched forearms.
‘You were wasting your life, so it is now no longer yours. You will help me start my kingdom. You should feel very honoured.’
My blood is cold. I can’t even begin to comprehend what he is talking about. There’s only blind fear now. My eyes roll wildly, as I frantically look for any reprieve from the madness which is overwhelming everything. This cannot be happening. I can barely come to terms with the fact I’m pregnant, and this is too much. Hysteria threatens to engulf me, but this is soon to be counteracted. Counteracted by terrible, physical pain.
‘First, I must prepare you. You’re going to try to escape. I’m going to avoid that.’
With this he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, and picked up something from beyond my field of vision. Metal clanked on metal and the sound of it sent a shiver down my spine and once again I felt that maddening, insane fucking tickle from my crotch. I’ve always been turned on by being controlled and being hurt… Kind of why I did the whole self harm thing. I guess it’s another type of stress response, a way of my body making the best of a bad situation. Whatever it was, my pussy was going crazy and I was scared beyond words, because the doctor had just come back into view… and he was holding a bone saw.
‘Try to relax. I’m a trained surgeon, so I have done this before. Just never on anyone who could remember anything about it… let alone feel it… Now… Ah yes, music!’ and he disappeared from my view. Music? My mind screamed. I felt sick. He was going to listen to music while he tortured me? Sickness was flooding me but my paralysis wouldn’t let me throw up. Then it started.
‘You can never know what it’s like,
your blood like winter,
freezes just like ice…’
I had been listening to this song on the radio less than a month ago. It had been playing in the room I ended up in at the party. When… this started. Please, fuck… no! Why that song?! Then he began.
I didn’t feel it at first. Too many severed nerves for an instant feeling, but I felt the force shake my leg and up through my left buttock. As he drew the saw forward for a second pull back my breath was driven from my lungs by a wave of pain that screamed through me. I tried to see what he was doing, but my head wasn’t positioned properly, so all I could see was his face, mouthing the words along with the song.
‘And there’s a cold lonely light that shines from you,
You’ll wind up like the wreck you hide,
Behind that mask you use…’
The pain was deep now, and ice cold. I heard a crunch as the saw hit bone, then felt a pause. The doctor stopped what he was doing and straightened. His eyes, still emotionless, rolled to mine.
‘You will watch.’
With that he was away, then back before I could think. My head was lifted, and dumped unceremoniously onto a pillow. It was obscenely comfortable, given the circumstances. I looked down. Who’s leg was that? My leg? That couldn’t be my leg. There was too much blood, and my leg wasn’t open like that. But it was, and the sickness comes back in a wave, savage and uncontrollable.
The tiny layer of fat covered slim, agile muscle that was cross sectioned in my thigh. This in turn gave way to tendons and pure white bone. It flicks across my mind that this might affect my future sporting career, but the thought spirals away as I realise its absurdity.
The doctor began again, and I was instantly aware how close the blade came to by groin with every stroke he made. I was so disgusted at myself, but I actually felt myself start to moisten. The bone whined as the doctor sawed, and harmonised with him as he started to hum. That fucking song was still playing.
‘I’m still standing, better than I’ve ever been…
Lookin’ like a true survivor,
Feeling like a little kid…’
I feel a sickening release of tension, and realise my entire left leg has come away. He dispassionately hauls the limb away, and returns, to begin cauterising the bleeding, and suturing, sewing away, leaving me with a neat little stump. For a second I think its over, and then the song starts again. I want to scream, to cry, to beg. Anything. But nothing will come out. My mind is tearing into itself in a second wind, and I manage to make a choking, rasping sound. My attackers head jerks at the sound, then realises its coming from me.
‘Ah, coming to? In need of a little top up? One moment…’
There is movement, then a stinging in my arm, and I don’t remember anything.
* * *
I come around and I’m staring at the same operating theatre ceiling. I hear movement and the doctor swims into my vision. I can’t feel anything. My mouth feels odd. So does my whole body. Without speaking he holds a mirror to my face. It is me, but minus my long, athletic legs. Minus my slim, toned arms. And my face, especially my jaw, is hideously swollen.
‘Aside from the obvious things, I’ve removed your tongue and your back teeth. This is so if you are awkward about feeding I can easily slide a tube into your stomach. I suggest you don’t bother, as I’m not ever going to let you go. Nothing you do will ever get you out of this situation. If I’m ever caught, or under any suspicion, I will fill this entire basement with petrol, burn the lot of you, then fill it with concrete. Any attempt at escape, to starve your self to death or to harm me is futile. Now, meet the rest of the mothers.’
And with this he lifts me gently and easily from the trolley, and takes me to the next room. As we enter, he shows me the ground. There must be at least five others like me in here, five other young, pregnant girls. The rest of those chosen to ‘start his kingdom’ I guess. He puts me down, and leaves.
* * *
I’ve been sitting in this basement for so fucking long now. It’s been forever. I haven’t even tried to move in days. There’s no point. Some of the other girls try to cuddle together, for comfort. There’s no point in that either. Rebecca is a dream now, and so is the girl who remembers anything outside. This is the third child I will bear him, and I’m fairly close to partuition. I lay back, idly thinking nothing. I’m smiling, and the words of a song come back to me. I can no longer sing, my useless stub of a tongue no good, so I start to hum.
‘I’m still standing, after all this time,
Pickin’ up the pieces of my life without you on my mind,
I’m still standing…’
Kingdom (fLies)
They don’t fucking deserve it. THEY DON’T FUCKING DESERVE A THING. They come in with their complaints and their petty illnesses and they don’t deserve a fucking bit of my help. I smile and I take the ungrateful when I can, but it’s not enough. Every day I see these fucking scum and they’re rotten minds and they BREED. They breed like flies, spewing their maggots who squirm out and continue the cycle. Feeding. Fucking. Feeding. Chewing and grinding, parasites to this dead, cold world. And the people who really deserve it are shunned, and lost, and out-bred. I see this every day, and I try to stop it, and I fail. But not today. Today is the invasion. Today I make my mark. Today they will know me. Today the kingdom comes.
* * *
He loads the guns methodically, and checks his implements with medical precision. Inside his trench coat is a clinical encyclopaedia of surgical tools. The stench of petrol is heinous, and the floor is a living, moving thing. He looks at the mothers with distain. One wriggles, and lands on his foot. He retracts as if he has been stung and spits at her. Then suddenly he brings his foot up and stomps, hard, on her chest. She coughs, and gags, and rolls onto her side, groaning incoherently. He hisses, and stamps again and again, randomly, at her face, her breasts, her throat.
She is screaming, which quickly turns to gargled moaning, which in turn is followed by silence, only the wet stomp of his boot audible. The other mothers have drawn back, terrified at this change. This is a new kind of madness. In their world where fear had become a constant, this new terror was a knife in an old, old scar. Apparently disgusted, his impatience gets the better of him. He grabs his guns, throws them into a holdall, and storms out. As he slams the door, he flicks something behind him. The mothers watch the match in the dark, and as one, begin screaming.
* * *
Outside, in the driveway, they are waiting. The wind whispers a susurrus of activity through the trees, and the sun shines down on the two rows of children stood with military discipline in the clearing. The oldest is no more than 13, the youngest barely five. This is the day they have been training for their whole, admittedly short, lives. Each boy holds his weapon, the largest and oldest holding crowbars, the smaller ones holding knifes, or blades. Each weapon has been picked to perfectly suit. Weight, natural ability, reach, all have been taken into account. Each troop is a master of his chosen tool.
The door to the house closes, and two lines of child soldier eyes look up, as their whole world stalks between their ranks. The doctor moves lucidly, ever the king in his castle, but his eyes are eager, checking weapons, examining clothing, and every time he catches one of the boys gaze encouraging, reassuring, comforting. When satisfied, he walks to the van. The two lines follow him. He throws open the back door, and turns to them. It is the first words he has uttered all morning, and he simply says,
‘We’re ready. Let’s go.’
The boys pile into the back of the van, each taking up a position. There is no jostling, no emotion in their movements. They are terrifying in their serenity, their movements and silence completely unnatural.
The doctor does not look back as he drives slowly away from the house. The very first faint wisps of smoke were just beginning to seep from the windows, and once the van was gone, the clearing was silent again.
* * *
Jennifer was not a bad person. She had done several bad things in her life, she’d stolen, she’d been unfaithful, but she was not, on the whole, a bad person. So it was not really fair that she was on the reception desk of the hospital that day. She was new, so she didn’t recognise the doctor, made redundant several years previously. If she had, she may have known about his erratic behaviour leading to his dismissal. She may have been more cautious. She had been reading a magazine, so she didn’t notice the two kids that waited by the automatic door, one helping the other up to flick the switch off. There was suddenly a dark shadow cast over her, and he was in front of her. She looked up, startled and angry at having been so suddenly interrupted. He swiped across the table and grabs her by the hair. He drags her onto the floor in front of the desk, kicking and stamping. Two of the boys join suddenly and savagely, while the others fan out around the sparse waiting room, threatening, attacking, invading, dominating, subduing. The doctor has already swept out, a third of the group following him. He is heading for the maternity ward.
He walks into the first room, where a woman is in labour. The Doctor delivering the baby has his throat cut before he is even aware the door has opened. The nurse is being savagely kicked unconscious by two of the boys, the others guarding the door. The pregnant woman’s screams change pitch, turning from the normal cries of birthing to terrified, hysterical screaming. The doctor’s face has come alive. He takes place between her legs, and she begins kicing and screaming wildly. He leans forward, and punches her in the face. Her nose explodes with blood, and she falls backward, stunned.
He takes a scalpel from his jacket, and a syringe. He injects her with a clear solution, then lifts her gown over her stomach. He slides the scalpel across her abdomen, and it parts like a curtain. He is cooing softly to the infant as he removes it from its mother. It is a boy, pink and screaming, covered in blood and afterbirth. He holds it extremely gently, umbilical cord still trailing back inside its mother. He then very gently lays it down on the bed, next to its concussed mother who is softly groaning as she regains consiousness. Sirens scream around the corner. The first shots of gunfire are heard from inside the waiting room.
Speaking for the first time since they left the house, the doctor looks at the two boys,
‘Tell the boys on this ward to go to the waiting room and help the others. You two wait outside.’
Unquestioningly, they leave. The doctor turns back to the woman and the infant.
‘Now…’
His face splits into a demonic grin. With one hand he reaches down and undoes his flies. The woman has regained consciousness, but the doctor’s drug has had its effect. Her eyes roll madly, but she is unable to move. She is weeping from he pain of the wound in her stomach. He takes his stiffening phallus in his hand, and pushes it inside her.
She screams, once, and begins sobbing. He begins to build up momentum as he penetrates her stretched vagina, and as he does becomes increasingly aggressive. He claws at her face, her breasts, leaving deep red scores. Suddenly his assault doubles in severity, and he begins screaming, even louder than her. There are words mixed in with his screams, random, terrifying animal screams. He reaches over and picks up the bloodstained scalpel, and begins slashing wildly at her torso, leaving gash after gash, blood pouring onto the sheets, splashing his face, splashing the baby.
He lunges forward, and grabs the child. Suddenly he is ramming it into her mouth, umbilical cord stretched to breaking point and he is screaming, and crying, and as she suffocates on the screaming infant. He convulses as he orgasms, and the only sound left in the room is his sobs. Within a minute, he has composed himself. He exits the room, and simply points to the next room along. The two boys kick open the door.
* * *
By the time he re-enters the waiting room, there is blood everywhere. The bodies of several of the children are piled up, and one of their still breathing comrades is firing a handgun over the top at the police cars outside. The doctor opens his bag, and reaches into it. He does something inside, and the zips it back up. He then stands on a chair in the waiting room, and addresses the remaining boys.
‘My children, you have done me proud. While our efforts have not eradicated the problem which we stand against, the problem of our wretched humanity, we have struck the first blow. We must now leave the task of building a new kingdom to those touched by our act. It has begun. Let us have our reward.’
With this, he climbs from the seat. The boys are waiting by the door to haul it open for him. They exits, the doctor with arms outstretched, his children either side of him. And as they walk into a hail of police gunfire, the doctor keeps walking. As his children sprout red blooms of blood, he keeps walking. As they fall, crumpled, he lets the bullets hit him. He falls to his knees, chest a ruined mess of meat and bone and organs, arms still wide. Behind him the hospital explodes. He smiles and falls forward, his face that of a monarch, surveying his glorious kingdom.
