ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
I'm a 15 year old girl and my name is Meghan. I've been writing for about 3 years now, and I love it! I also love to play soccer, and I love pets! [February 2006]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (1) When Night Falls (Short Stories) Don't piss off a vampire. [902 words] [Thriller]
Crimson Meghan L Bell
Scotty sat, trembling under a wooden chair in his kitchen. He had just witnessed possibly the worst thing a little boy at the age of nine could ever have witnessed. He had just watched his mother be murdered, murdered at the hands of an old, shaggy looking man. And the worst part of it was, the man was still in the house. The man was sitting in his dining room, only a few feet away, rummaging threw his beloved mothers purse, looking for some things to bring home as a prize for his actions.
Scotty�s gaze shifted to the rusty knife lying in front of him, lying in front of him in a pile of his mothers own blood. The memories of what had just happened came swirling back into his mind all at once, and he closed his eyes, watching them play back scene-by-scene in his head. He had been sitting on his couch, his mother at his side. They had been watching a few of the popular cartoon characters at the time frolic happily on the television screen, and had been enjoying themselves.
Suddenly, there was the sound of someone beating on their little wooden front door, followed by a deafening crack. Scotty�s mother looked at him, worry and fright in her eyes, and told him to go run and hide. He had been unsure of what to do, he was worried about his mother and what was happening, but decided to listen anyway, and ran to hide under his chair. The door gave through after a few brutal hits, and the shaggy man walked in. Walked in and over to his mother, with an evil gleam in his eye. He wanted something.
A brutal fight was what had followed, a fight in which his mother could not win. The shaggy man had broken her arm, bashed her head in with a glass bottle, and then had thrown her violently to the floor. He had thrown her on the floor, right in front of poor little Scotty. Poor Scotty�s eyes had grown wide with fright as he watched his mother struggle to get up, pushing desperately at the floor with her unbroken arm. The man had laughed at her, thinking of the whole thing as a game, the old game of cat and mouse. Except in the game of cat and mouse, the cat doesn�t pull a rusty knife from his belt, bend over, and jam it into the hollows of the mouse�s chest. But that was just what the shaggy man had done. Tears had swelled up in Scotty�s eyes, and began to run down his cheeks as he heard his mother�s last gasp of breath, full of longing for life, and watched her blood flow from her now lifeless body, flowing through the indents in the tile as easily as water flows through unclogged pipes.
Those same tears were stinging his eyes now as he watched the man, listened to the man humming a jolly little tune as he finished with his mother�s wallet, and moved on to the rest of the purse. Scotty continued to watch the man as he extended his arm, slowly picking up the rusty knife that lay before him. He continued to watch him as he rose from under the chair and took a few silent steps towards him. He watched him until he was standing almost right behind him, staring hopelessly at the strands of dark hair on the back of the man�s balding head. Memories of the past events flashed violently through his mind. He started shaking; the knife was shaking violently in his hands. The memories were almost painful as they pulsed through his head. His trembling hands rose up above his head, knowing what their job was to do. He knew what he had to do.
One final memory was seen, the memory of his mother lying lifeless on the floor, before Scotty�s arms were brought down, brought down with a force no other nine-year-old boy could have ever produced. The blade crushed through the man�s skull with a horrifyingly grotesque crunch. The sound seemed to echo through the room, bouncing off the walls surrounding him before coming crashing back into his mind. He opened his once closed eyes, breathing rapidly as the man's blood poured from the instant killing wound. His eyes trailed the blood as it ran down the back of the man�s head, down his neck, then down the back of his shirt in little streams before ultimately gathering at his feet in a large crimson puddle.
He seemed to be hypnotized by the thought of it, by the thought of what he had just done. His breathing became even more rapid. The rusted blade dropped from his hand, colliding with the ground in a loud clatter. He turned around, only to see his dead mother. He winced, turning again, only to see the dead man. Death was everywhere, blood was everywhere. Blood was on the knife, blood was on his mother, blood was on the man, blood was on the floor, and blood was on him. He looked down at his hands, stained crimson from the blood of the man. The man he had just killed.
��� ��� ��� He screamed, running out of the house and into the streets. It was raining out, pouring out. But the old man wasn�t snoring, because the old man was dead. Dead, lying on the floor of his dining room. Dead, because he had just killed him. He ran throughout the streets, frantic tears undetectable because of the rain. He continued to run, not knowing where he was going, but just thinking, hoping, that the rain could possibly wash away his sins. Wash away, and hide the fact that he had just killed someone. Hide the fact that he was a murderer.
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"Great job and keep up the fine writing! Your awesome..." -- Matthew Mark@, USA.
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