𝕿𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖘 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒:

𝖅𝖊𝖑𝖚𝖘' 𝕯𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖙

Welcome to my writing space. I have always had a love for writing, reading and anything English. I started writing short stories as a small habit around August of 2019, and since then, have written 5 short stories based off of small prompts I would generate or find on a prompt site. The purpose of my writing is to take a prompt where you'd have very traditional written pieces, and twist it into something horrific, melancholic, or, at times, mournful. I am not the type to write happy stories as I feel as though there are less lessons to be learned from them. All of my stories will always have an underlying theme, and while I love discussing them, I ask that no one posts in this forum, instead, please pm me if they're of interest to you and you would like to discuss them. 

Without further ado, let's begin sharing my pre-written 5 stories. 

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔇𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫 𝔐𝔶 𝔐𝔦𝔫𝔡

We didn't mean to kill her. We didn't even mean for her to be there that day, your typical case of "wrong place, wrong time". But she was there, and through forces that were ungodly and blasphemous, we killed her. This is all I can think of as I lay here, strapped to this bed by the imaginary forces of sleep paralysis. She's staring into my soul, the liquid left by our unholy black magic oozing from her core and onto my stomach, my soul.

Her eyes are impressionable, despite her lack of expression as they stare into mine, blank and lifeless. It had been me that killed her. The them I spoke of was me and the voice in my head, or rather, the voices. She mocks me. Magic was for those who couldn't and shouldn't be able to succumb to the deepest, darkest parts of their subconsciousness. Where envy, lust, and every other sin resided, begging to be quenched.

I remember the first time I laid eyes on her. She was more beautiful and surreal than any other I'd met before. In that moment, she had become all I wanted and all I thought about. My skin begged for her warmth, her radiance, her holiness, her innocence. I can play off what happened as incidental, but that day, that beautiful, seductive day, we had followed her, ravenous for her like a wolf who'd gone months without feasting, it's hunger awoken by the scent of her flesh.

The eyes that stared into mine were hers, the liquid oozing from them was in fact, oozing from her, and the laughter I had aforementioned was indeed hers.

Or at least, it all looked like it came from her as I stared at the reflection above my head.
Her skin was so beautiful to wear.

Prompt: Write a love story that begins and ends in 24 hours.

24 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢

It's hard, trying to describe the way the heart beats at the very mention of a name. The way you smile at that old memory of that special person. It's hard to describe why you cry whilst they continue to live their life, unaffected.

I've loved, been loved, lost love, and fell out of love. When you're in it, everything that was special becomes tenfold more special than a memory of the same thing outside of love. When you're no longer in love, there's this longing that you push past as you tell yourself that that word that reminded you of that once upon a time love doesn't mean what it used to anymore.

I ponder this as I sit and watch her. I'm watching her as she's sorting through her belongings, angry tears rushing out, only to be brushed away in exasperated anger. I watch as she yanks the photo of us off of our drawers and looks at me, making sure I'm watching as she slams it against the old, worn out corner of that dresser. Millions of glass pieces shatter, exploding everywhere as she does, like fiberglass. I half expect to feel some hidden within the narrowing veins of my heart, as if there was some captured in there, leaving an itch. There had been an itch there for a while now, but it was only now that I truly noticed it.

I blinked once, twice, watching her as my nonchalant attitude towards her actions forced her face to shift into that of hatred. A beast so ugly, I almost couldn't recognize the beauty I once sought in her.

She isn't that same smiling, carefree face I recognized as a younger adult. There was a ragged, exhausted look in her now, wrinkles of worry and anger now marring her face where her smiling wrinkles once lay foundation. My lack of a reaction earned me a slap to the face. There was a hesitation in it, but a rightful resentment. 

It's an odd thing, how in that moment, I smiled. Not because she had struck me, but because, in that tense, rage filled moment, I remembered how we staggered home once, covered in sweat and barely capable of walking when she harshly pat my back, a smile playing on her child-like lips, naive and hopeful.

We'd challenged each other to do a hundred squats and lunges before running a mile, trying to see who had the better cardio and willpower. The pat on the back had been her celebratory mark, having beaten me by a hundred feet.

"You didn't want it enough." She teased me then.

"You didn't want it enough." Her voice broke, barely above a whisper as tears still rolled down her cheeks, though a look of numbness now covered her anger towards me.

"You didn't want US enough to try!" She yelled, the accusation slamming into me when her fists were pushed into my chest.
Once, twice, again and again, like the repetitive drumming you would hear in a marching band, or the sad beating of a soldier's marching feet on his last day of borrowed time.

As she went to strike me again, I grabbed a hold of her wrists and spun her around, pushing her back against the now barren walls, her body where pictures of her used to be.

"How could you?!" She was screaming, her words forming a tremor in me as she tried to break away from my hold. My chest ached from where she struck me, but not out of the pain of being hit. It hurt to know it was I who caused this.

Fervently, I kissed her. Like I needed it to live, I kissed her with all I had as memories of us throughout the last seven years played in my head, like that of an old school movie, the film in black and white and no sound to accompany it. Each scene that passed ebbed into a static and her fight to push me away faded into desperation as she tried to pull me closer, the taste of her salty tears leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

I pulled away, and looked at her once more before going back to my position that I had maintained since the morning when she had started to pack her things. It passed over her face like waves, her confusion, anger, sadness, before it inevitably became that same well-placed hatred and she was forced to blink away the last of her blinding tears.

Once, twice, then once more, she hit me. I couldn't even muster a flinch at these hits, all I could do now was let it ache, and ache it did. It ached when she grabbed the last article of her clothing, a pair of pants I'd bought her years ago, faded and torn now. It ached as the slam of the screen door echoed in what was now an emptier home. It ached as the sun went down and the moon came out, as the sounds of day morphed into the thick, suffocating silence of night.

It was only then that I dared to move. It felt like it was only then that I could breathe again.

I moved cautiously, as though there were a bear nearby, sleeping, and I didn't dare to wake it for fear of the rage it would spark. I moved silently to my bed, her side of it chillingly empty, hollow. In all seven years of being with her, I can honestly admit that now was the one time I could have ever loved her more than I ever had before.

I lay there, silent, waiting for the hurt to finally manifest itself. As I drifted off to sleep, a lone tear rolled down my cheek and was soaked into my limp pillow.

As I slept, I expected her to be in my dreams, but what were once memories of her was now static. Loud static like that of an old television set, the sound the only thing one could focus on as those circles of black and white shook on the TV.

When I awoke, the pain had dulled and I began to get ready for the day. What a beautifully, painful 24 hour love I had. As the last minute passed, like the final light bulb going out in an old, dark, abandoned house, her face was erased from my mind.

It's hard, you know? Trying to describe what love is, what love isn't.

I loved her in those 24 hours, but not a minute before, nor a minute after.

And now, I know the meaning of love.