The Horror Of A Creative Writing Failure

I often think I have great story concepts, but I'm a terrible author. This post is basically exhibit A; my proof of lacking skill. After the piece, I will talk about my intention with it.

I warn you all that once you read this, you cannot unread it. You probably will be able to forget it though. Maybe.

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There it is again, the feeling of being ripped apart from the inside. I feel the thick, crimson liquid descend the higher section of my stomach. First it's as though my newest scar is fighting back tears, but eventually the dam of crudely sewn flesh breaks and floods. Screams grow louder in the distance; I'm so close. I can't be stopped now. The voices become more desperate with each step; begging for someone, anyone, to find them. Behind me I hear those bastards racing to reach them first, and I know I have to intervene. Please my lord, give me back the strength I'm losing.

Their footsteps tap in rhythm as pairs of two echo on the hardwood floors; at least three coming this way. No way I can take them straight on, especially with this gash giving my torso a new paint job. I stumble to find something to even the odds as the victims draw more attention to themselves. The horror in their voices becomes amplified. I cringe with fear at the unavoidable thought, "Am I too late?"

My focus narrows to the pain in my chest. I can't breathe. I hear the henchmen surround me as I fall to my knees, guns at the ready. I can barely manage to whisper my favorite phrase of unpardonable French before collapsing in a pool of my own failure. Weak and paralyzed, I hear only one word from my captors before fading into unconsciousness, "Gotcha."

I awake in some kind of basement. Light seems artificial, but dim. My eyes begin to focus and I recognize that I am surrounded by bars; trapped in a cage like an animal. My hand raises to the bite wound on my chest, now expertly stitched and bandaged, only to feel the tug of chains that have been stretched to their limit. Tied to a wall in a basement cage; a prisoner. Whomever these people are, they want me alive like those kids at the house. The pain begins to resurface all at once as memories and images of the restrained children haunt my mind. What's become of them? My internal troubles are interrupted by a potent odor. Subconsciously I notice that I've never smelled anything this intensely before, but I don't have the luxury of actively questioning my senses as the source of the stench draws near.

An overweight man in a pressed uniform swings a stick against the bars of my cell, whistling an awkwardly timed melody as he comes. In his other hand was a bucket of raw venison. He opened the cell and tossed his bucket's contents in my direction, saying only, "Eat up you foul beast. Enjoy it while you can, before we put you down like the dog you are." I feel myself become overwhelmed with rage; as though I was suddenly going to burst out of my skin. My feelings must have been transparent because the uniformed man suddenly drew a cross over his face with his right hand masking an expression of sarcastic panic.

The guard's friends weren't far behind him, telling him that they were transferring me to another location. The walk to the garage is a silent one. As we ascend the stairs and head for a garage, I recognize these people to be police. It finally dawned on me that I have been arrested. I try to ask what's was really going on, but the guard simply strikes me and orders my silence. They load me into a black, unmarked van with tinted windows. The guards that sit with me hold their guns at the ready, pointed in my direction the whole trip. They call me a beast, and tell me to enjoy my last days of living. I finally get the nerve to ask, "What happened to the children?" The guard next to me whips the butt of his pistol across my face and tells me that they've been taken to a safe place now, where I can't get to them. What is this conspiracy against me? What are these dirty pigs doing with the children?

There are those who disbelieve in divine intervention; who do not worship the true Lord of this world. Who doubt His very existence. This day serves as my proof. The Lord sent an eighteen wheeler with a drunk driver to hit my transport vehicle. At first I think this is just another curse wrought upon me as the vehicle tips and rolls. But I understand it to be His hand as the van settles itself upside down with all of the guards incapacitated. I remain conscious, though the pain is significantly worse than my prior injuries. I grab a guard's gun, shoot out a window and climb to safety after freeing myself from my binds. I breathe a free sigh of fresh air, but can only enjoy it briefly. There is still work to be done.

Deja vu. After months of searching, I finally found where they took the last kid. I stare down the house before I make my move. Crickets chirp in the absence of busy human life. The suburban streets are dark as soccer moms and middle managers dream of their ultimate vacations and sexually repressed fantasies. I take a deep breath and pray for the strength to succeed this time. This time, I will not leave without them. This time, I will not fail.

On my approach I spy a face in the window; searching the night for oddities. Clearly they know I am coming, but there's no turning back now. Clouds move overhead and the night sky lights up almost as daylight thanks to a full moon. I take a deep breath and feel a mild phantom pain tearing me apart from the inside. Not much more intense than a needle at the doctor's, but enough to have me take notice. I exhale and pick the lock. I accept the destiny that I have many corpses to make before dawn. I pray that my body doesn't betray me this time.

I start with the first floor. A woman is sitting in a chair by the window, the same face I had seen before. She hadn't noticed me outside, and didn't react to any sounds I had made entering the house. I crept behind her nervously, dreading the potential creaks of the hardwood floors giving me away. Just before I strike, I think of the child. I must get to him. I must complete my task. I quickly wrap my arm around her neck and squeeze, covering her mouth with my left hand. She tries to scream, but she doesn't have the wind to overcome my suppression. Moments feel like hours as the life leaves her; her arms weakening as they fail to pull mine from her throat. She falls back in her chair, devoid of life. An empty shell, never to be occupied again. One down.

I search the remainder of the floor as discreetly as possible, only to find nothing. Everyone else in the house is upstairs. Another agent is sitting in a chair outside of the child's door, with a vantage point of my approach. Only blind luck that his head was turned when I first gazed on him, and I quickly backed down to avoid detection. Now, it's just a matter of patience. An hour passes before I hear a door open and close. This is my chance. As I carefully climb the steps, I hear the sound of liquid falling into water. This would have to be quick; one swift motion. I position myself just to the side of the door and wait for the door to open. The agent is sloppy, clearly relying on his partner to be the real watchdog. He passes right by me returning to his seat without so much as a thought of checking his surroundings. I fight a smirk as I kick the back of his knee and strangle him. After all this time, tonight His will shall finally be done. Two more agents were sleeping in the master bedroom. I checked the kitchen downstairs and found a pair of knives suitable for the task, and struck both of them before they could wake up. Nobody left to stop me. Nobody left to stop the ceremony.

I check to make sure the child hasn't been disturbed yet, sighing to find him sound asleep. I approach his bed and kick one of his toys, which startles the child to awaken. Frightened, the boy thinks he's recognized my face. I take off my shirt and show him the scar left in the impression of his teeth, and his every doubt is replaced with certainty. He starts to scream, but I quickly cover his mouth with duct tape and restrain him in a small wooden chair positioned perfectly in the midst of a chalk-drawn pentagon. The ceremony can now begin. I have rehearsed in my dreams more times than I can count; no need to consult the books to recite this rite.

Confidently, victoriously, I enact the ritual without pause or error. Heretics believe there are animal parts and hundreds of candles, but Lucifer requires nothing of the sort. Only marks carved precisely in his flesh; my victim's heart freed from the constraints of the boy's chest cavity. I complete the ritual, feasting on the heart of the pure child to gain its essence. To make myself a fitting and viable vessel for Lucifer's rise. Twelve rituals have been completed now; only one final must be performed. It won't be long now my Lord; your rise to Earth is so close, I can almost taste it.

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My goal with this story was to make the reader, primarily my professor, incredibly uncomfortable. I prefer writing tragedy, and I wanted to make him root for the main character, then feel sickened for having done so. I wanted to trick the reader into thinking they could see my twist coming, and then giving them a different one. Length wise it was only to be a short story, between 1500 and 2000 words. When I had to shorten it before submission, I decided to cut the introduction and one of the meatier parts in the prison, because they each focused more on sub plots that didn't have any outside relevance.

My professor lamented my piece has having a poor opening scene, a terrible ending, and a general lack of respect for the reader. He gave me an F. After some further discussion, I was able to get him to raise it to a C simply for pity. But I have a lot of experience with professors who screw with me, so I wanted to see what all of you thought of it.

Please give me any criticisms you have of this piece. I have thick skin, so don't be afraid to tell me if you hate it. I just wanted a second opinion.

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“I can't possibly yell "underage!!!" at every one of them. I'm doomed!”

-Understandout

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