The Purple and Pink
22-04-2008, 05:42
"I was waiting for you."
The pale face of the speaker shone eerily in the shadows of the small apartment. His tone was soft, frightened. His eyeballs were bulging out of his head, and small beads of sweat glistened on his sloping forehead. But there would be no reply.
"I...I'm done with you. I was done a long time ago. Why....why do you keep bothering me? Why are you here?"
He awaited an answer; he might have demanded one if he hadn't been so afraid. But for the longest time a silence wafted through the apartment's dark little den, washing over the black television screen and the cluttered mess on the kitchen counters. There was no movement, no speaking; only a towering moonbeam glaring through the sliding door glass. Finally, after several tense, noiseless minutes, the speaker's harasser stirred slightly in the comforter where it sat, sighing disappointedly.
"I'm here because of you, Harold. You brought me here."
Harold ran a trembling hand over his thinning blond hair, his narrow face now wrought with anger more than anything else. He pointed a bony finger at his enemy and practically spat his response, venom dripping from every word.
"I stopped taking those fucking things! I threw them out! I can't even-I can't even fucking look at them! But you still come. You come every night. Every god damn night."
His voice cracked. He buried his tired, starving face in a pair of slender hands.
"Why won't you just leave me alone?"
A brief pause followed the question, only interrupted occasionally by pained sobbing. When Harold lifted his head back up, he'd found his uninvited guest hadn't yet left. Now the shaking man just stood there, hands around his neck, jaw agape, searching for an answer he knew wasn't there. He finally got one, but it wasn't what he was looking for.
"Harold, I want to help you. I really do. But you're being difficult. Why don't you lie down for a moment?"
A dulled thudding kind of noise rang out, accompanied by a short burst of light. Harold leaned on the wall for support, his other hand clutching at the gushing hole in his stomach. As his wife beater turned from white to red, dyed crimson by his own blood, he jerked his head up to get one last look at his killer. He didn't understand...what was happening to him? How was this possible? They were questions he could never know. He fell to his knees and gasped his last breath of air. Then he collapsed in a heap on the cheap living room carpet. Harold was dead.
The killer sat in the dark quiet for some time, maybe reflecting on what just took place or maybe plotting his escape. Whatever the case, he seemed unsatisfied with something. The story didn't quite end the way he would've liked it to. Nevertheless, the morning time was approaching and soon the sun would rise. It was time to get a move on.
The little pink pig unscrewed the silencer from his handgun, put it in his mouth, then dropped the gun on the floor. He jumped down off the comforter on his fours and trotted to the front door, which was still ajar from when he first entered, before looking back behind him for the final time.
Then, slowly but surely, he faded away into nothing.
____________________________________________
OOC: Okay, this is going to be a detective story set in PMT. TG me if you're interested. I'm looking for quality writers.
The pale face of the speaker shone eerily in the shadows of the small apartment. His tone was soft, frightened. His eyeballs were bulging out of his head, and small beads of sweat glistened on his sloping forehead. But there would be no reply.
"I...I'm done with you. I was done a long time ago. Why....why do you keep bothering me? Why are you here?"
He awaited an answer; he might have demanded one if he hadn't been so afraid. But for the longest time a silence wafted through the apartment's dark little den, washing over the black television screen and the cluttered mess on the kitchen counters. There was no movement, no speaking; only a towering moonbeam glaring through the sliding door glass. Finally, after several tense, noiseless minutes, the speaker's harasser stirred slightly in the comforter where it sat, sighing disappointedly.
"I'm here because of you, Harold. You brought me here."
Harold ran a trembling hand over his thinning blond hair, his narrow face now wrought with anger more than anything else. He pointed a bony finger at his enemy and practically spat his response, venom dripping from every word.
"I stopped taking those fucking things! I threw them out! I can't even-I can't even fucking look at them! But you still come. You come every night. Every god damn night."
His voice cracked. He buried his tired, starving face in a pair of slender hands.
"Why won't you just leave me alone?"
A brief pause followed the question, only interrupted occasionally by pained sobbing. When Harold lifted his head back up, he'd found his uninvited guest hadn't yet left. Now the shaking man just stood there, hands around his neck, jaw agape, searching for an answer he knew wasn't there. He finally got one, but it wasn't what he was looking for.
"Harold, I want to help you. I really do. But you're being difficult. Why don't you lie down for a moment?"
A dulled thudding kind of noise rang out, accompanied by a short burst of light. Harold leaned on the wall for support, his other hand clutching at the gushing hole in his stomach. As his wife beater turned from white to red, dyed crimson by his own blood, he jerked his head up to get one last look at his killer. He didn't understand...what was happening to him? How was this possible? They were questions he could never know. He fell to his knees and gasped his last breath of air. Then he collapsed in a heap on the cheap living room carpet. Harold was dead.
The killer sat in the dark quiet for some time, maybe reflecting on what just took place or maybe plotting his escape. Whatever the case, he seemed unsatisfied with something. The story didn't quite end the way he would've liked it to. Nevertheless, the morning time was approaching and soon the sun would rise. It was time to get a move on.
The little pink pig unscrewed the silencer from his handgun, put it in his mouth, then dropped the gun on the floor. He jumped down off the comforter on his fours and trotted to the front door, which was still ajar from when he first entered, before looking back behind him for the final time.
Then, slowly but surely, he faded away into nothing.
____________________________________________
OOC: Okay, this is going to be a detective story set in PMT. TG me if you're interested. I'm looking for quality writers.