This is definate proof why I shouldn’t be allowed near the legitimate writing world. Read on, if you dare.
What I Want
By d Galloway
Mary entered her apartment building, climbed the stairs, cursed the broken elevator, and walked to her apartment door. She then noticed something in the corner of her eye. However, she didn’t pay any attention, and walked in. She didn’t bother to lock the door; nothing happened here, anyway.
She looked out her apartment window, surveying the distant, quiet street. It had a kind of calming effect on her, easing her nerves after a long day of stress. She didn’t even notice the man until he began to talk. “I want your body,” he said.
She turned and looked at the man. It was Timothy, the weirdo who lived two apartments down. She had turned him down for a date numerous times, and it seemed like he had finally snapped. “What?” she said. “Timothy…”
”Like I said, woman”, said Timothy, “I want your goddamn body. Now get your ass over here!”
”NO!” shouted Mary. She knew nobody would bother with her screams, though; everyone had their own problems to deal with. She darted to her desk and reached for a handgun, but Timothy was able to run over and grab her wrist in a bone-crunching grip before she could even begin to raise it. Mary tried to wrestle free, but Timothy threw her into a chair with practically no effort.
“I want your fucking body,” said Timothy. “All you have to do is give it to me.”
”I’ll never give it!” she screamed. “You’re a retarded freak! I don’t want anything to do with a fucker like you!”
Timothy grabbed her mouth and held his knife to her throat. “Don’t ever call me that,” he said. His large hunting knife was barely centimeters from her throat. “Only suicidal idiots would dare to insult the guy with the knife.”
Mary desperately bit his hand, causing him to release her in panic. She ran back into her kitchen, grabbed a frying pan, and hid behind the counter. Timothy ran after her, but since he was still recoiling from the bite when she ran, he didn’t know where in the kitchen she was hidden. He looked around on the opposite side of the counter, until his back was turned to Mary. She jumped up and brought the frying pan down.
Timothy grabbed it before it even touched a hair on his head, pulled it out of Mary’s hands, and set it on the counter in one swift motion. “I want your fucking body,” said Timothy. “Give it to me.”
Mary ran back into the living room, but Timothy grabbed her and knocked her to the floor. He held his knife to the back of her head. “PLEASE!” she shouted. “LET ME GO!”
“No chance!” said Timothy. “Now I get your body!”
A half-hour passed. Timothy walked into Mary’s kitchen, a large bag swung over his shoulder. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed some butter and lemons. He then grabbed the pan Mary had used on him and left the apartment.
He returned to his barren apartment. He started up the stove, placed the pan on it, and buttered the bottom. He then reached into the large bag and pulled out a single human leg. He put it on the pan and poured the lemon all over it.
“Like I said,” he said, looking at the bag, “I just wanted your body.”
THE END