Stories I Never Finished

Blue Eye Bruise

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P R E V I E W

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Darkness swirled with oozing light, dancing in shades of mania as a hanging light swung side to side in a sway of illumination.
Muffled sobbing echoed like a ghost's whisper, growing weaker and weaker as seconds declined.

Kneeling in front of a young woman bound to a chair, Luke Hemmings threaded a coil of barbed wire through the wounded flesh of the woman's cheek, his fingers pulling it through from one side to the other with a delicate curl of his slender touch against fleshy crimson.

Blue orbs glistened with madness, a deep seeded insanity coursing through vibrant red veins pulsating against the white of his eyes.
He could hear the woman sob, pain flooding her senses until there was nothing left for her to focus on. Soon enough she would pass out, the bleeding hole in her side left open from a large jagged blade now resting by Luke's knee.

"This is all your fault." Luke whispered as he rose to his feet and yanked the barbed wire hard, his skin torn against its razor sharp edges as he coiled it tightly around the woman's neck.

Her head dropped, her mind silenced by a wave of agonising unconsciousness, and he moved to stand behind her; pulling the wire tight like a corset until he could hear the sound of bone cracking in the quiet.

He kept pulling, his body hitting the floor as his hands slipped their grasp; razors tearing through pale flesh with a sudden slash. Releasing the wires from his hold, he raised his trembling hands before his eyes; blue aching gaze staring at the sickly red colour pooling from his flesh.

"...blood. I forget sometimes..." He whispered to himself, his mind rampaging violently within the depths of his skull; violent thoughts tearing down the walls of his brain's soft flesh until it were nothing but tatters.
Slowly, calmly, he rose to his feet; black shoes pressed against the cold concrete floor. Light bounced off his black leggings, flowing through to the black shirt he wore; soaking in light and offering nothing in return.

His eyes drifted toward the dead woman, trailing over her simple body of plain clothes from her floral top to her blue shorts. Dark skin, a cultural background Luke didn't know, curly pitch black hair and once visible brown eyes.
What made her better than him? What did she offer to the world that Luke could never give?
She looked plain, a bored life among the millions in existence, and yet here she sat; snapped neck, bleeding. Somehow she was more than Luke. Somehow, he knew, she would always be more than him.

Somehow.

His ringing phone pulled him from his trance, his bloodied hands wiped senselessly over his shirt before he reached down to the floor by his knife and picked up the smartphone. Sliding a smear of blood across the screen, he accepted the call from the man who caused his madness.

"Where are you?" The voice of a demon echoed through the small device and Luke choked.

The voice was so calm, simplistic with nothing hidden within such a short question, yet Luke could feel his heart race. Whether it was fear of being caught or his own obsession he wasn't sure.

"Home." Luke managed to form his voice into a tone adored by humanity. One that wouldn't stand out as a whispering madness.

His mask was pulling itself back on, forcing its stitches to tighten through his flesh the longer he spoke to the man on the phone.

"Have you seen Jasmin lately?"

"No. I haven't." Luke lied. "Why? Is she alright?"

"She's missing." The man replied, unease settling into his voice. His mask was cracking.
"I haven't seen her in days."

"She must've ghosted you, Ashton." Luke confidently said, his eyes floating toward the dead woman in question. "I told you she wouldn't stick around after you gave her money."

"...She told me she needed it for her mother's illness."

"She must have lied."

There was a long pause before the man replied with a heavy sigh. "I can't believe I trusted her."

"You could have her killed..." Luke suggested.

"She's not worth the money Clifford charges." The man was bitter, his hatred beginning to boil over the longer he realised he had been betrayed.

"Would you like me to come see you?" Luke offered, his heart begging the man to accept.

"No." Luke's heart shattered. "I'd rather be alone tonight."

The man hung up, disconnecting from Luke without a second breath wasted; leaving the blond standing idle in a basement filled with oozing blood trickling in dried cracks down concrete walls from times he didn't bother to clean.
He preferred to see the madness, to visualise each death and slash that caused such beautiful pictures on the concrete walls.

Luke carelessly dropped his phone to the floor, letting it slip from his bloodied hand and clatter uselessly to the floor.

And he screamed, a violent, howling, haunting sound of sheer insanity ripping through his lungs like exploding spikes.

He wasn't enough!

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Cigarette smoke drifted through subtle darkness, dim lighting glowing from lanterns pressed into white-painted walls; their light used rather than the blinding glow of the ceiling bulbs within the vast living room.

Looking like a collection of a private bar and a gentleman's lounge, the room was a cozy fit together with dark shades of grey clashing against smooth black and subtle whites. It was gentle in its state, quiet with nothing but a stereo within a cabinet beneath a switched off plasma television.
Heavy bass music played against dark threatening lyrics, filling the quiet as Ashton Irwin sat on his curved mocha couch with a glass shot of pure espresso in his hand.

He contemplated downing it in one shot, though he had been sipping from it absentmindedly for a short while since making it from his café-value coffee machine on his kitchen counter.

A knock on his door and a press of his doorbell caused him to make up his decision; downing the espresso with one throw back of his head and placing the glass gently on his black table as he got up.

His red satin shirt shimmered in the subtle glow, tucked into the belted waistband of his trousers, as he pulled the door open to reveal the darkened night and the young male who stood on his doorstep.

Calum Hood stood holding a dagger in his hand, it's sleek silver tainted by dried red. Dressed in a simple pale peach shirt whose light sleeves danced around his long arms and a black skirt tucked over its edge with plain black sneakers on his feet, the man enjoyed tearing apart society's view of fashion even if it meant he had to use his blade more than he preferred.

"So your girlfriend's a whore?" Calum quirked a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, brown eyes swirling with tamed emotion.

"Hello to you too." Ashton muttered in distaste as he pulled the door open for Calum to step inside; closing it with a click of the lock afterward.

"I'm not surprised, she struck me as a gold digger." Calum tucked his blade away, slipping it into the holster on his upper thigh as he walked further into the living room.

"Everyone strikes you as a gold digger." Ashton commented as he headed for the kitchen while Calum sat down on his couch.

"Because everyone is." Calum's response was cold, and their conversation paused for a moment while Ashton crafted two lattes from his coffee machine.

Calum had always been clear he was an alcohol drinker, he preferred the buzz of liquor and the bubble of champagne. But Ashton? There would never be an alcoholic drink in his hand, nor in his home.
He lived on coffee and energy drinks, replacing a tipsy sway for the buzz of caffeine.

The man returned to the living room, passing a hot cup of coffee to the brunet before taking a seat beside him with a sip from his own matching black cup.

"Everyone loves money." Calum continued their conversation. "It only takes a taste to become consumed by greed."