doubted it.
For the
third time, Greg realized why his room was soundproofed.
His name
was Greg. He had been in a car accident.
The local
press in his home-town carried the story of his tragic demise while
he was on vacation in Serbia. The car had collided with the
guardrail on a mountain road and carried on going, rolling down the
side of a ravine. The gas tank had exploded on impact, obliterating
Greg’s body; there hadn’t even been anything left for his
distraught parents to repatriate and bury next to his beloved wife.
Apparently on the verge of a breakdown, they insisted that they
hadn’t even known that he was planning a vacation.
No-one
said anything, at least not above a low whisper, but ‘suicide’
echoed around more than one mind.
It was a
heart-wrenching tale and a tragic waste. Car accidents were such a
nasty way to go, as commented many of the readers when the story
ran.
But at least it had happened quickly, they all agreed. In that
way, Greg had been very lucky.
THE
GROWLING
David Jeffery
“ Stop it! Stop it, for Christ’s sake! You’re killing
him!”
The voice
was distant, a dream within the nightmare, fogged by fury and the
need to get even, to set things straight; rage fuelling the
repeated pummelling punches; blunting the pain in the knuckles as
they parted lips, mashing them against teeth, the sickening crackle
of a nose disintegrating under the onslaught. The gurgle of warm
blood in the back of the throat.
Retribution is a cold beast, but Cory Anderson was warmed by
it, juiced up on it, getting positively high on it and all the time
his heart pounding, pounding, pounding; in beat with the beating he
wilfully doled out.
Hands
upon him now, small hands, hands with nails that used to rake him
in the throes of desire; Jennifer Spencer loved to do it, hell, he
loved her to do it, loved her leaving her mark on him.
A sign of
her love.
But no
love now. No love for quite a while, in fact. Just lies and deceit
and distance.
And
Malcolm.
Malcolm with his Ford Tigris and faux gold Rolex that rotated on his twig thin
wrist. Malcolm with his thin laugh and wide boy charm. Malcolm with
his bloodied lips and pulverised nose.
“ Get off of him, Cory!” Jennifer was back in his head,
insistent, the tone in her voice lilting and frantic, and the nails
raking his neck.
Anderson
dislodged her, knocking her aside as he climbed to his feet.
Jennifer was on her knees, mouse-blonde hair hanging, strands of it
clinging to the sweat about her neck.
God, even
pissed off she looked great.
Malcolm
lay sprawled across a coffee table, his face splattered. He waved
an arm feebly in the air and one of his loafers had fallen off. He
was making thick mewling sounds.
Jennifer
scuttled over to him, her hands unsure of where to go. They settled
on his chest.
“ Why did you have to do this?” she sobbed without taking her
eyes from her lover.
Her
little secret, now in the open and bleeding out on the green
carpet.
“ Why did you have to do that?” Anderson said, his sneer made even uglier
by his breathlessness. His eyes caressed her lithe frame in an
attempt to avoid any possibility of meeting hers.
“ You just don’t get it do you, you fucking animal?” she spat.
“You and me, we’re done. And that was before this. Now GET OUT OF
HERE!”
Her skin on her neck was mottled red fire. With some
incongruity Anderson noted that it was the same colour as when
Jennifer came, hot and hungry and holding onto him breathless and
sated. That was back in the days when their lovemaking had actually
been informed by love. Anderson felt a tear in his chest,
realisation that he would never again bear witness to such an act.
Never again feel her warmth lying against him, around him.
His
remorse chased off the remnants of his anger. His desire for
vengeance now giving way to his desire for her. He opened his mouth
to say something but nothing wanted to step up to the mark. Nothing
wanted to be shot down in cold
For the
third time, Greg realized why his room was soundproofed.
His name
was Greg. He had been in a car accident.
The local
press in his home-town carried the story of his tragic demise while
he was on vacation in Serbia. The car had collided with the
guardrail on a mountain road and carried on going, rolling down the
side of a ravine. The gas tank had exploded on impact, obliterating
Greg’s body; there hadn’t even been anything left for his
distraught parents to repatriate and bury next to his beloved wife.
Apparently on the verge of a breakdown, they insisted that they
hadn’t even known that he was planning a vacation.
No-one
said anything, at least not above a low whisper, but ‘suicide’
echoed around more than one mind.
It was a
heart-wrenching tale and a tragic waste. Car accidents were such a
nasty way to go, as commented many of the readers when the story
ran.
But at least it had happened quickly, they all agreed. In that
way, Greg had been very lucky.
THE
GROWLING
David Jeffery
“ Stop it! Stop it, for Christ’s sake! You’re killing
him!”
The voice
was distant, a dream within the nightmare, fogged by fury and the
need to get even, to set things straight; rage fuelling the
repeated pummelling punches; blunting the pain in the knuckles as
they parted lips, mashing them against teeth, the sickening crackle
of a nose disintegrating under the onslaught. The gurgle of warm
blood in the back of the throat.
Retribution is a cold beast, but Cory Anderson was warmed by
it, juiced up on it, getting positively high on it and all the time
his heart pounding, pounding, pounding; in beat with the beating he
wilfully doled out.
Hands
upon him now, small hands, hands with nails that used to rake him
in the throes of desire; Jennifer Spencer loved to do it, hell, he
loved her to do it, loved her leaving her mark on him.
A sign of
her love.
But no
love now. No love for quite a while, in fact. Just lies and deceit
and distance.
And
Malcolm.
Malcolm with his Ford Tigris and faux gold Rolex that rotated on his twig thin
wrist. Malcolm with his thin laugh and wide boy charm. Malcolm with
his bloodied lips and pulverised nose.
“ Get off of him, Cory!” Jennifer was back in his head,
insistent, the tone in her voice lilting and frantic, and the nails
raking his neck.
Anderson
dislodged her, knocking her aside as he climbed to his feet.
Jennifer was on her knees, mouse-blonde hair hanging, strands of it
clinging to the sweat about her neck.
God, even
pissed off she looked great.
Malcolm
lay sprawled across a coffee table, his face splattered. He waved
an arm feebly in the air and one of his loafers had fallen off. He
was making thick mewling sounds.
Jennifer
scuttled over to him, her hands unsure of where to go. They settled
on his chest.
“ Why did you have to do this?” she sobbed without taking her
eyes from her lover.
Her
little secret, now in the open and bleeding out on the green
carpet.
“ Why did you have to do that?” Anderson said, his sneer made even uglier
by his breathlessness. His eyes caressed her lithe frame in an
attempt to avoid any possibility of meeting hers.
“ You just don’t get it do you, you fucking animal?” she spat.
“You and me, we’re done. And that was before this. Now GET OUT OF
HERE!”
Her skin on her neck was mottled red fire. With some
incongruity Anderson noted that it was the same colour as when
Jennifer came, hot and hungry and holding onto him breathless and
sated. That was back in the days when their lovemaking had actually
been informed by love. Anderson felt a tear in his chest,
realisation that he would never again bear witness to such an act.
Never again feel her warmth lying against him, around him.
His
remorse chased off the remnants of his anger. His desire for
vengeance now giving way to his desire for her. He opened his mouth
to say something but nothing wanted to step up to the mark. Nothing
wanted to be shot down in cold
Similar Books
