Grueberfest 06 - R2 - The Bad Man Came Again Last Night (821 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: one-part_stories
Rating: 1.93 on 26 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Stagger Lee (View user info) at 2006-10-10 20:13:56 EDT
The bad man came again last night, with his jangling pockets and rimshot footsteps. He swaggered up the path. His eyes darted everywhere, taking in everything. Every detail was of interest to him. He took everything into his twitching eyes and funneled it to his fevered brain. I cannot tell you what a man like him made of what he saw. In his face was a dancing glee, a merry hatred that cheerfully gazed upon the world and planned its demise. Here was the face of a man who would happily cover you in a thousand paper cuts and then bathe you in lemon juice, just to watch the look on your face while he slapped his thigh in delight.
He wore a battered overcoat, worn boots, dusty jeans, and a wide brimmed hat, scarred by the elements and by years of hard travel. He walked with purpose, each precise footstep rapping out sharp crack on the pavement. It seemed, to my fearful eye, that the bushes on either side of the path leaned away from him, fearing attacks that they could not comprehend.
I watched this from the kitchen window, one hand pressed flat to the counter, sweaty and tense; the other hand clutching at a long carving knife, my knuckles white and terrified on the slick handle. The bad man did not look my way; at least, I think he did not. His eyes looked everywhere but at me.
He knew where I was. Of that I have no doubt.
The night before, when he had come for the first time, I had repulsed him at the back door. I had stood firm, the knife in my hands, and I had barred his way. Last night, however, I was not so sure. Perhaps it was a mistake to watch him as he approached; his own obscene, grating confidence sapped at my own will, eating away at my resolve like high tide upon a sandcastle.
The birds were silent in my garden.
He reached the back door, and he passed from my view. Then came his knock, three sharp raps, gunshot loud in the quiet kitchen. Even though I was expecting the sound, I jumped upon hearing it.
I willed my traitor feet to move. They would not. I told myself that I had to stand firm at the back door, to safeguard my sleeping family. If a man cannot defend his own home and children, then how can he call himself a man? Yet my accursed, cowardly frame would not obey my quaking, angry mind.
I have never hated myself more.
Then the back door burst open, and the bad man entered my home. The very walls seemed loathe to be near him. He gave off a feeling of such menace, such spite, that I could barely stand to look at him.
He spoke to me, and in his voice I heard the screams of a thousand crows, bent on overstrained branches.
"Good evening," he said, his voice buzzing in my ears and making my head ache and reel. "You are the master of this house."
Though he did not question me, I nevertheless felt compelled to answer. "Yes."
He nodded, a slow, solemn gesture, yet in his eyes, that merry hatred did not subside. Never for a second. He looked at the knife, still held uselessly in my hand.
"That implement shall prove useful," he announced, and I felt miserably afraid. "Come."
He turned his back on me. As soon as his dreadful gaze had fallen from me, I felt released. My feet suddenly flew across the tiled surface, unchained and joyous. My knife arm felt powerful and sure as I plunged it towards his back.
The blade turned slightly in his overcoat. The thrust that should have penetrated deep into his back instead grazed down his flesh, laying open a mere cut on his skin. He turned, and my resolution drained away between my clutching mental fingers. One of his hands caught my wrist, and the touch of his skin was more horrible than I can relate.
"Enough." Once he said that, there was no argument, no second chance. He decreed it, and it was so. "Follow."
He headed for the stairs, which led to my sleeping, blameless family. In my mind, I shrieked and I wailed, I abased myself before him and begged for their lives. My body was once more a traitor to my will, however, and it meekly followed him up to the hallway. He did not break his stride as he passed the shared bedroom of my two twin boys, one of them my firstborn by a matter of minutes. Nor did he pause at the entrance to the master bedroom, where my wife lay ignorant and peaceful. He continued past them both until he came to the door of my youngest, my fairest, my beautiful daughter Dawn.
The door swung open eagerly at his touch. He beckoned me and so help me, I followed him into my daughter's room.
There she lay, sleeping, completely oblivious to what was to transpire. He strode across the room and hauled her from her bed. She awoke then, and she screamed, so loud in the stillness. The rest of the house did not wake, because the bad man did not want them to.
"A choice for you," he said. He took her arm and slammed her hand down on the bedside table. She cried out, and he took her by the scruff of the next, bent to look into her eyes. "Hush now, child," he said, and she did. Tears fell down her cheeks in silence.
"The choice is simple," he proclaimed. "Take that excellent implement in your hands and sever your beautiful daughter's fingers." He nodded toward her captive hand. "Do it, or I'll tear her throat out."
I looked at his face, disbelieving. Then I looked at hers. Dawn, her tears pouring down her cheeks, her blue eyes big and terrified.
"Surely...you cannot..."
"I mean every word," he said. "This is your test, family man. Come closer."
I walked across the room, every footfall a betrayal of myself and of my daughter. My knife hand hung limply from my arm, all strength fled on the night breeze.
"Daddy..." her voice broke, catching in her throat, unable to complete the sentence. Her eyes pleaded with me.
"Hush now," the bad man repeated. "Hush."
I looked at him. It seemed as though I could reach him easily. Then I looked down at Dawn's pale, delicate fingers. She had never seemed so frail before, standing there in her white nightgown, her blond hair falling to her shoulders, her eyes scared, yet trusting. Trusting that I could save her from the hand on her neck.
What if I could reach him? What if I could stop him completely? End this without any sacrifice? Or was it time to cut my losses? Was it even possible?
I raised my hand. And then, may someone forgive me, I gritted my teeth and I swung my blade.
User Reviews
Submitted by WatchMyStep (user info) at 2006-10-21 00:17:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Missed this one.
Enjoyed it.
Submitted by DuiTicket (user info) at 2006-10-11 20:52:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
mysterious and sad
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-11 20:18:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Aw, shucks, everyone. We'll see about that when y'all vote against me in Ubermadness.
Voltage, I don't even know what a descriptor is.
Submitted by inion_de_trua (user info) at 2006-10-11 13:56:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i agree with otron.
*heart flutters*
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-10-11 13:49:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
DADDY NOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2006-10-11 13:21:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Orgasmatron (user info) at 2006-10-11 11:53:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Your writing seems really effortless. Don't get me wrong - I don't mean it comes off like you don't put time or thought into it. I mean that it reads like you're absolutely in control of the characters and the situations. A reader is instantly encouraged to follow allong with your narrators, because he or she knows they're going to be taken for a smooth ride. That's a great thing. I hate you for it.
One thing about this:
"Here was the face of a man who would happily cover you in a thousand paper cuts and then bathe you in lemon juice, just to watch the look on your face while he slapped his thigh in delight."
Have you ever seen the movie Swimming With Sharks? That movie taught me that sometimes a paper cut isn't just a papercut.
Submitted by HighVoltage900 (user info) at 2006-10-11 10:16:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Very enjoyable. Though as a minor note (and truly it is minor) you reuse a lot of descriptors with small amounts of space between them. People tend not to notice (or I don't) when you use two descriptors in different paragraphs seperated by five or six sentences, but if two sentences in a row use them it makes me pause for a moment. But that is a weird thing of mine, I really liked this.
Submitted by yhywstudios (user info) at 2006-10-11 08:51:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 for the best writer on uber.
Submitted by Bigmike (user info) at 2006-10-11 08:36:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Very nice.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-11 03:57:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Indeed.
Submitted by Mike-Mc (user info) at 2006-10-11 03:21:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
meh.
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2006-10-10 23:30:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Good show, especially considering the crappy title I gave you.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-10 22:34:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-10-10 22:19:00 (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-10 22:00:16 (#)
Ranking: 0
Ahaha, you love it. What did you WANT to happen?
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I wanted him to cut his losses and his daughter's fingers. I mean, COME ON, what's he thinkin' taking on the bad man?
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Ever double down at blackjack? That's what he's thinking.
Submitted by Sepsis (user info) at 2006-10-10 22:26:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-10-10 22:19:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-10 22:00:16 (#)
Ranking: 0
Ahaha, you love it. What did you WANT to happen?
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I wanted him to cut his losses and his daughter's fingers. I mean, COME ON, what's he thinkin' taking on the bad man?
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-10 22:00:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Ahaha, you love it. What did you WANT to happen?
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-10-10 21:48:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-10 20:48:28 (#)
Ranking: 0
Eh?
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The damn ending. All ambiguous and shit. I'll keel you, Stagger. I'll send you to the Stanton meat processing plant, motherfucker.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-10 21:47:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Did he ever force you to make a decision as to whether your only daughter would die or live on disfigured by your hands?
Nah, you're right, he's crazier.
Submitted by forensicgirl3 (user info) at 2006-10-10 21:41:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Well, he thinks he's Samuel L. Jackson and he isn't even black.
Submitted by Amontillado (user info) at 2006-10-10 21:41:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You had me at "dancing glee".
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2006-10-10 21:32:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Oh yes, this made me warm inside...
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-10 21:14:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
How goddamn psychotic could your boss possibly be?
Submitted by forensicgirl3 (user info) at 2006-10-10 20:56:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
In my mind, the bad man looks like my boss.
I think I'll kick him in the back tomorrow.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-10-10 20:48:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Eh?
Submitted by Anansie (user info) at 2006-10-10 20:41:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
DAMMIT!