----

Well, after some though I dont know if it would fit here. It is fiction, and nothing supernatural or anything takes place. When I wrote it my goal was to make the reader afraid of every day people. Plus, it has some scenes that are pretty violent, and a tiny bit of sexuality.

Anyways, here is a bit of it. If you want to read more, let me know. And if a mod doesnt want me to post it all, I understand. As a quick break down of the questinonable things: There are several graphic parts of self mutilation. The main chatechter is dilusional. And there is a part where he jacks off.

Anyways, here is part one.

Full.
By. Aaron George.



“Well makers lead the water where ever they like,
Fletchers bend the arrow,
Carpenters bend a log of wood,
Good people fashion themselves.”
Taken from the dhammanpadda.


I first started to hear voices when I was 16. I remember the exact day that it first happened because it was the day after my birthday, February 19th 2001. I was standing in a room full of people with red tile flooring and nicotine stained white walls, I was wearing a blue polo shirt and black slacks that didn’t fit right and I knew that I was only one who was hearing these voices. The first voice I ever heard was that a feeble sounding old woman, her voice grew to be my favorite, and for the first 2 years it was a sort of highpoint to my week, we got to know each other quite well. Her name was Angus and she told me that I reminded her of her son, Teddy, and that just like him, I should get into the movie business.

Aside from Agnes there were other friendly voices, middle aged men with that tinge of cheap suit business and slight swagger of tone. Soccer moms in such a hurry to feed the kids, do the laundry, and everything else they had to do in order to be able to read a bit later in the night. Old black folks who called me names like ‘sonny’ or ‘partner’. Teenagers whose main concern in life was whether or not such and such thought they were cute, or whether their car was cool enough or not.

These were some of the more friendly voices; I in return was friendly and did what ever it was they asked me to do. I was happier than, I had a girlfriend and we were madly in first love. I was doing well enough in school that I was sure to graduate when the time came, I had some close friends, not many friends, but they were all the better for it. Back than I remember that my life ambition was to build a sky scraper, something massive and eternal that could withstand anything. The plan was to attend college for architecture, most likely at Archdale University. But, this was all before I did something that made people call me sick and crazy. This was before I woke up.
There were less friendly, ugly voices also. Voices stuffed with toungs and cheeks, the voices of lonely drunks with slurred words and raspy, smoke decayed throaghts. Voices of bitter old people with nothing better to do than harass me because their children became whores and crack heads because they fucked up raising them, voices of people in too big of a hurry to be even the slightest bit friendly. Voices of drug dealers, small crooks, and pissed off cops. They were tragic and sorry voices and doing what they asked was always a chore and I hated listening to them.

Aside from a few in the early days though, these voices were few enough that I could take them in stride. But buy the time I was 21 it was like someone opened the flood gates of the asshole river and they all converged to form a committee whose mission statement was to piss me off and drive me insane. It was than that I developed a sort of hatred for them and the unbelievable stress that they nurtured and cultivated inside my head. But I don’t want to talk about the undesirables.

I want to tell you about Bill. Bill was their in the early days. Bill wasn’t one of the voices but I could talk to him about them, Bill understood. Bill was 42 years old, divorced 3 times, and had one daughter whom I went to high school with but never talked to. Bill’s teeth were decayed to a point and he liked to drink cheep beer and smoke cheep cigarettes. Bill was great. An almost perfect mixture of pride and shame lived inside of him, their was always a bounce in his step and a check in his voice and mannerisms. Bill drove a rusty car from 1993.

My father died when I was 3, Bill was the closest thing to a replacement I have ever had.The conversations bill and I had were, I guess, typical to all conversations between a 42 year old man and a teenage kid, always advising Bill was. I learned many things from Bill such as “if you ever drink beer out of a girls ass crack make sure she showers first” and “if its your first time getting laid, beat off a couple of times before the girl comes over, you’ll last longer and impress the shit out of her”. Along with these little nuggets of wisdom I also learned a little bit about love from his stories about his ex-wives, or “Bitch numbers 1, 2, and 3.” As he called them. “That bitch tried to tell me that I love my mother more than I love her” he once said “well Franklin, I looked her right in the eyes and I said, your damn right I do! My mother never gave me herpes you fuckin cooz”. I think the herpes came from “Bitch number 2”. Bill taught me a bit about patience also, “take it in stride” he would always say when I complained about the voices. Bill was a man who’s whole life consisted of trying to make up for past mistakes only to make them all over again.
----------------------------------

Go on?

You already posted that.

----

Fuck. I used to be alone in my house at nights and be alone with my dog, I live on the corner of a street, so alot of houses can see me. I'm not scared though, since alot of other houses can see me I'm like" Who would try to rob a house that you can see the back yard and the front yard from?


Also, that Candle cove thing was creepy, even the video.
*Off to search Candle Cove*

Also, go on. I like the plot.

Yep, a few years go. Here is part 2.
----------------

Bills one problem, his real problem, the problem that he really, really needed to address was his weight. To say “Bill is fat” would have only been accurate if you meant that, “indeed, 90 percent of his girth is fat”. He waddled instead of walked. Most of the time when anyone saw bill he was sitting down and out of breath, talking was a chore for him. His pants alone could have clothed at least 3 small children from head to toe. Bill was not big boned, in fact underneath of everything was actually a rather frail skeleton that ached and developed spurs.

I never commented on bills weight to his face or behind his back, in fact aside from a few snide comments from stupid people, Bill himself was the only one who ever talked about it. “You know Franklin” (bill was the only person aside from teachers who took the time to say my full name) “my glands are all fucked up and my arteries are clogged like fuckin toilets” or things more self depreciating like “and you know me Franklin, I’m a fuckin fat ass…”. I never knew quite how to react to these things when he said them. I see know that maybe I should have said something, after all bill had been there for me many times. One time I thought my girlfriend was going to break up with me and Bill told me to “Get her before she gets you, than she'll come running back my friend, guaranteed”. I didn’t think it would work, but it did.

At that time I figured that Bill would be o.k. I didn’t realize that the strain on his heart from doing something like walking up a flight of stairs was comparable to me running for 20 minutes straight, I didn’t understand what it meant to have clogged arteries and high blood pressure.

I suppose before I go on into the inevitable turn out of Bills life that I should come clean about something. Let me first apologize for misleading you. My doctor tells me that I'm a chronic liar and I think he’s sort of right. See…the voices I used to hear weren’t coming from inside my head; they actually came from a tiny speaker on a headset in a fast food drive through. I’m not really crazy and wonderful old Agnes was a real old woman, and really wonderful.

If your angry with me than you should be thankful to my doctor. I was gonna just keep the lie going until the very last page of this account, just keep on lying to you until I had some ammo built and than just drop a bomb. But after I let me doctor read a copy of what I had so far he told me that I should be honest. “People are only gonna read this to find out what really happened Frank” he said. But admit it. This whole deal did lose a bit of its sweetness now that you know I’m not nuts. Everyone loves a little bit o crazy in their stew and I tried to remind my doctor of this but he reminded me that aside from others like him (doctors) very few people were actually going to be reading this anyways. When I persisted more he threatened me with bringing in an outside “Author” to make and “autobiography” of the things I tell him. I told my doctor that “I’m not some second rate celebrity halfwit trying to make a buck” and that “I would write my own damn story”, so that’s why you know the truth right now, Again sorry for the inconvenience and if you like, if it would make it more interesting, you can still believe I’m a crazy person, I like to think I’m just dedicated, but what ever.
----


If you keep saying more, I will keep posting.

For months now I've had worsening insomnia, and now I frequently wake up with the uncontrollable urge to just dive out of my bed and stand up even if I'm dead tired. I just spring up out of bed, and usually crawl back into bed a few minutes later or after I get a drink. I've considered a way of stopping myself might be to sleep in a large box so I can't easily jump out of it. That or placing an obstruction at the side of the bed so when I try to jump out I can't and then I have to stay in bed. Sometimes this startles my cat. My cat sleeps on my bed with me also and when I wake up suddenly the cat appears surprised and frightened by me suddenly jumping out of bed and standing up. Then the cat wants picked up which I oblige, and if I can't get back to sleep quickly I tell the cat bedtime stories and watch infomercials with it until I get tired again. This calms both of us and allows me to get back to sleep. Sometimes I dream about the infomercials but I never actually want any of the products featured in them, the contents of the infomercial just appear among anything else I'm dreaming about. If I wake up thirsty I usually just get myself some water, but I don't drink very much since I'll just have to wake up and go to the bathroom again later. I have a water cooler because the water is very hard and unpalatable here. The cat is fascinated by it's strange noises and will watch in amazement at the bubbling after I've filled up my glass. Usually I'll just stay there with the cat and we'll watch the bubbling before we go back to bed. I also experience this more than once a night on occasion, sometimes several times a night. It seems to occur less if I'm sleeping on the couch but it still happens, and I wake up with a sore back from sleeping on it. One time after attempting to stand from the couch I stumbled into the coffee table, which was confusing until I realized that I'm not in my room. There isn't a table in my room. If there was a table in my room I would choose a small table, and perhaps place a lamp on it. Unfortunately I have limited space for such things and so I've been apprehensive in acquiring one.

----

Part 3.

Anyways, back to bill. Bill was actually my boss for 2 and a half years at a fast food place that sold roast beef sandwiches.
The last words I heard bill say were “alright Franklin, lets get the fuck outa hear. Get everything cleaned up because I’m ready to go home”. He was talking about closing the store down for the night, he meant he wanted me to, shut everything down, lock the windows, clean anything left to clean, and wait for him to finish counting the money so that he could give me a ride home, but I couldn’t get a ride with Bill that night.
Apparently the average hum of machines and lights in a fast food place is enough to muffle the sound of a 400 or so pound man falling to the ground, at least muffle it to the point that the 18 year old kid who’s busy locking the window up front has no clue that his boss, and friend is dieing. Bill was the first and only person I've ever seen die.
I walked to the back of the store probably thinking of how I could finally convince my girlfriend to have sex with me. He was lying on the floor next to the steel prep table with the last bits of life leavening his body in a heart attack, one last spark before he went home I guess.
At first I didn’t really know what was going on, it only took me half of a second to realize I was seeing him die. I called 911, they said “we’ll be their soon”. I went to bills side as though my sitting their was gonna help. His face was sweaty and scowling, his forehead was wrinkling, his lips kept folding in on themselves and every few seconds he would grunt a bit. He didn’t look at me, than he just stopped. He was staring into the after life with wide eyes to show his struggle against the inevitable; and I was alone in a store with a dead man at midnight.
By the time the ambulance arrived I was the only one left. The slicer guy, Kevin, had left at 10:30 because bill would have been able to finish up for him and that would save on labor costs. The front counter girl, Latanya, had left at 9:00 because she was only 16.
For a moment before they got their I just sat their looking at him, his body. The whole night was sort of surreal and I don’t really remember every detail. But the memorys I do have are thick and almosy physical. I remember Bills swollen nose, it was red, Not only because he had just had a heart attack, but also from years of drinking. I remember that I could see bits of his pale skinned stomach through the cracks of his red button up shirt. I thought of closeing his eyes but I didn’t, he was supposed to be breathing.
When they finally arrived it felt like it had been a long time but honestly I have no clue how long it was. It was good when they got their though, at some point I had started to think about all the dead cows that wear in the building, then I looked at Bill, then I vomited in the corner. When the medics found me I was crying and sitting in a puddle of brown bubbly puke, my mouth tasted like sulfur. The first medic I saw was a stoutly blond woman, her name was Beth she said. She looked at Bill than told me to stand up and come up front with her, that she needed to talk to me. When we got up front I remember I offered her something to drink for some reason, than I got myself one, but I never drank it. We sat down in the lobby and 2 more medics came through the doors with a gurney, they were good looking guys, dark hair, the gurney squeaked.
Beth began to ask me all sorts of questions like, “when did he pass on?” (I wondered why she didn’t just say die) “How well did you know him?” “Did he ever mention anything about drug abuse?” I answered her as best as could I think, honestly it’s not important, Bill is dead, that’s what matters.
I remember thinking “those damn lights”. Than I went home and went to sleep. I slept for a day straight through and I quit my job. I sat around my shitty apartment thinking.
---------

On my way to work now. Will post more when I get home. Remember it IS 10k words though, so its pretty long. Also, you will notice quite a few grammar failures. I havent edited this as good as it should be, and when it was written there were a lot of things I didnt know about writing properly.

----