22
Jul
09

Wednesday Story Time #1 Ultra Violent

So, folks, keeping up with the literary tune of things, I’m going to start the first weekly thing on GONG (since I’m still trying to find a crap ton of freeware/flash games for the actual debut of Freeware Fridays). Every week, we’ll be posting a new story on Wednesday. Be it by staff or submission, we’ll put it up. In going with the theme of our site, you can make any type of story you want… ever if it’s (shudder) yaoi. Please, no fanfics. If we indeed do anything related to fan ics, it’ll be on a separate day. So, enjoy the first WST, featuring one of my stories, Ultra Violent

They say that every person is born to fill some sort of job or purpose. I suppose that I was born to be one thing and only thing only: a mercenary. After all, I murdered my own mother the day I was born.

She was in labor with me and the doctors said that my thrashing inside of her womb had caused my umbilical cord to wrap around my body to the point to were, once I was fully birthed, it could rip the placenta out of her uterine wall. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happened. No one could have expected that she’d bleed to death. From that day forward, my father loathed me. He beat me, cursed me, belittled me. On each of my birthdays, he’d grab me by my ankles and throw me into my bedroom door. Afterwards, he’d force me to eat spoiled food, so I’d get food poisoning. To top it all off, He’d take a knife and cut a horizontal line across my back, to show him how many years it had been since I’d taken the love of his life by being born. Then, there was my 8th birthday.

I was awakened by my body being ripped from my bed and into the door. I screamed, but pulled myself together. My father sneered at me and left my room. I followed after him and saw that he was going into his room. He was going to his room to retrieve the knife he cut me with. It was a small-serrated blade with a hard plastic handle. As he came out of the room, I stared at him. As soon as I locked eyes with him, I muttered:

“It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t mean to.”

I’ve never seen anyone or anything display such malice in their face; it was the type of hatred that could bring a charging bear to a halt. He backhanded me with his left fist, knocking out at least four of my teeth. As I stumbled backwards, he clutched my neck with left hand and struck me over and over with the handle of his knife in his right. I kicked and flailed, but it was to no avail; He was just too strong. It took all that I had to break away, but it was just long enough to move two steps towards the stairs. That’s when he lunged at me.

I hadn’t noticed that he had raised the knife high over his head; I only realized this when the blade cut deep into my face. As I screamed, I felt my body lift off of the ground. My father had tackled me too hard, and now we were about to fall down the stairs. Even as we hit the stairs, that horrific rage was still burning in my father’s eyes. We tumbled and knocked up against the walls, banisters, and sharp edges; me shrieking and crying; my father cursing and flailing to hit me. That’s when we hit the end of the stairs with a SNAP. I landed on my father, who was sprawled on the ground. His knife was jammed into his leg, with blood dripping off of it. He arched his back to get up, but his arms and legs pooped and ground into his muscles. His limbs were completely broken and useless. He glared up at me and continued to spew curse after curse at me. It was at that moment that I realized that I was no longer helpless; I could do whatever I pleased, as my life long tormentor wasn’t able to hurt me anymore

My eyes widened with glee as I jumped off of him and walked around in circles, giggling at my newfound freedom. I didn’t care if it was temporary or not, I was free. My father growled even more profane curses at this point, as he had never heard me laugh before. There was a brief silence after he stopped cursing. He bent his head toward me and screamed at the top of his lungs. I saw his body jerk up and flail towards me. He hated me so much that he was forcing the shattered bones in his legs and arms to move, just so he could stop me from laughing. As he neared me, I noticed that the knife was still in his leg and that he didn’t realize that it was. With all of my might, a charged at him and knocked him back down. In one clean jerk, I pulled the knife out of his leg and jammed it in his chest.

He and I were both stunned. Using the last of his strength, he beat my face with whatever part of his arms that he was able to swing at me, I continued to stab him. I started crying and shrieking out swear words, myself. As I stabbed and stabbed, the last thing I ever heard my father say was:

“You filthy, murderous cunt! Got to Hell, Go to Hell!!”

That’s why the last stab was in his throat.

I dragged my body off of my father’s body; haggard and broken. I wasn’t upset, yet not happy. I just… was. No more hurting and abuse, but no more family. I was alone. Unable to utter a single thing, I limped back up the stairs and took a bath. I filled the tub with water and splashed in. In a matter of seconds, the water went from clean to dark pink. As I sank into the water a sharp, excruciating pain hit my face. The events after falling down the stairs had made me forget about the gash on my face. It was pretty deep; I could feel the air slipping into it when I breathed out of my nose. Seeing as I was just a kid, I began to panic. If it was that deep, I might bleed to death. I finished bathing, got dressed, went back downstairs and went to our neighbor’s house.

I think that my appearance scared her more than it had me. While most people (including her) were oblivious to my father’s abuse of me, my neighbor’s kindness was incredibly strong. The very first thing that she did, after screaming at my appearance, was to pull me into her house and call the police and the ambulance. I was rushed to a nearby emergency room. As the doctor’s put me under, I caught a few glimpses of my neighbor and a police officer; the former with a worried look and the latter with a stoic, piercing stare. As I drifted into the sleep of morphine, I dreamed of my mother and father killing me.

They stabbed me and beat me, but I couldn’t fight back. I felt so help less. I couldn’t stand it. For the first time in my life, I wanted to die. Then, something came from my heart that I had never felt before: vengeance. I realized that I was the only one who could protect myself. I turned and backhanded my father, knocking out his teeth, just as he had done me. I leaped and strangled him with all of my might. My mother screamed at me to stop, but I told her everything he had done to me. She was silent. My father drew a knife and thrust it towards me. I formulated in my mind two outcomes; If he stabbed me and pulled the knife out, he would try and stab me again, so I’d have to jump backwards. If he stabbed me and left it in, I won.

He thrust it into my shoulder and I slapped his hand away from the knife. In the blink of an eye, I jerked the knife out of me and jammed it into his head; right between his eyes. I hadn’t seen him cock his fist back for a punch, so I was blind-sighted by the right-hook that knocked me off of him. I yanked the knife out and tossed it towards my mother.

“Do you want to try and kill me, too, Mama?”

She kicked the knife away and wrapped her arms around me.

“Unlike your father, I would never try to take the life of my daughter. I gave my life so you could be born.”
She held on to me until my senses faded to black. When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed. I had stitches on my face and an IV in my arm. I looked up and saw my neighbor sitting next to me and the police officer standing at the foot of the bed.

“Nicky, this police officer is your uncle! He said that he’s going to take care of you from now on. Isn’t that nice?”

I turned toward him and locked eyes with him. I could see in his eyes that his heart was full of nothing but hatred. I could tell; 8 years of constant abuse gave me the ability to read a person’s anger from their eyes alone. He saw in my eyes a dead, cold gray stare. I showed no emotion to him; just silent coldness. He pulled out his gun and shot my neighbor in her legs. He sneered at her screams and pointed the gun at me.

“I know that it was you who killed my brother. I promised him that I would kill you if he died before you. You took away his only reason for living. You deserve to die, Nicky-Simone.”

I knew in my heart that there was only one thing that I could do: kill him before he could kill me. My neighbor threw her body in front of me to block the bullet. Setting my target as his gun hand, I grabbed my neighbor’s arm and used her as a jumping block. I’m sorry, Ms. Lewis, I wish I could have done it a different way. Two shots rang out; the first went into my neighbor’s chest, and the other grazed my leg. I turned in mid-air, that way I’d have enough power to knock the gun out of my uncle’s hand. The third shot went through the window. The gun flew out of his hand, but he swung at me with his other. I took the punch to my face, but I didn’t budge.

“My daddy hit me harder when he had the flu.”

I kicked him in the nose and jetted towards the gun. He lunged towards me, but I jumped, grabbed the gun with one hand, went into a somersault with the other, and shot the gun at my uncle. Bullets 4 and 5 hit him in the chest and stomach. I stared at him with my cold, dead eyes. I saw myself reflected in his widened eyes. I didn’t see a beaten and abused orphan girl. I saw my freedom and my life’s meaning.

“Ms. Lewis? Is there a job where you just kill people?”
“Y…Yes, Nicky. They’re called assassins…”
“Do they get paid to do it?”
“S…some…sometimes. P…people who…who get paid… all the time…are…mercenaries…”
“Good.”

I shot my uncle in the head with Bullet #6. I sat with Ms. Lewis until the orderlies came in. She took the blame for both my father and my uncle’s murders. She died after her “confession” and the orderly who stayed with me covered Ms. Lewis’ body. Tears ran down my face, but I didn’t cry. I don’t think that I could after that. Not for a long time, anyway.

I was made to live with my mother’s sister after that. The state, nor I, for that matter, knew that she run a brothel, but it didn’t really matter; I never told anyone about it. My aunt had never seen me before, but took an instant liking to me. She said that I had her mother’s features. I figured that my dark complexion, apparently, must have come from my grandmother, too. My parents where a light tan. I was the color of “soggy cardboard” as my father had put it. For the next three years, I led a rather modest life. I went to school, continued my gymnastics training that I had practiced in secret before, and did the things that most grade school kids did. Except for one thing; I didn’t make any friends at school. All of my friends where the girls and women at my aunt’s brothel.

She ran it out of the back of her bookstore and explained the girls going in and out as clerks. The beds in the back were closed off by a giant set of bookcases. At night, after closing, she would start up her brothel, and the johns would come in through a door linked to a club on the other street behind he bookstore. All of the johns just assumed that the brothel was a part of the club. Since the age that my aunt started hiring was 13, I had girls close to my age to hang out with. After my 13th birthday, my aunt asked if I could work in her brothel if I wanted. At first, I wasn’t sure, but I decided to wait until my 14th. During the following year, my aunt and the other girls taught me the tricks of the trade, so to speak.

One thing that they stressed was protecting myself, in case if a john got violent. As the time grew closer to my 14th birthday, my aunt taught me how to use weapons. Guns, knives, and swords; if I knew how to use them, I could protect myself. I coupled that my knowledge of gymnastics to add a level of high maneuverability. On the night of my 14th birthday I had my first john. He was fifteen, so I knew that I’d be comfortable with him. His name was Ricardo. The only reason why I remember it is because; A. He popped my cherry and B. He became my partner years later. For the next six years, I lived the life of a somewhat violent brothel worker. I had to kill around 47 johns and 15 random people. My aunt freaked the first time. She thought that I might be traumatized, but I told her I had done it before. She didn’t know about how my father, his brother and Ms. Lewis had died. I blamed myself for her death, so I had somewhat vowed to protect those who got caught in crossfires. That life came to an end a week before my 18th birthday.

After three years of being watched by the new police chief, the police raided the bookstore. My aunt, the girls, and I protected the brothel with all of our might. The bastards set the bookstore on fire; that set my aunt into frenzy. She loved those books as much as she had loved the girls. With a gun in her left and a katana in the right, she tore through the ranks of the police with blinding speed. I was almost frightened at how fast she moved. We beat so many of them that the chief himself came into the fray. He announced his arrival by shooting my aunt in the chest. She stumbled down and bit her bottom lip and grinned.

“Sorry, babe. You missed my heart; my tits are too big!”

She raced towards him and fought. None of us dared help her. She had told us that, if chief himself come, he was her’s deal with. She won, too. The chief emptied three full clips into her before they both died. She cut off his head and he shot her directly in the heart. She went down smiling, though. I ran over to her, in the midst of the fire. She gave me her katana and all of the money that she had that hadn’t been frozen by the police. The girls and I split ways a week later. My best friend at the time, Tiffany, walked me towards the town’s train station.

“I guess this is where we part ways, girl.”
“Yeah, I guess so, Tiff.”
“You sure that you wanna go through with being a merc, Nicky?”
“Yeah. I came to the realization that I was born to be a merc when I was 8.”
“Well, just try and take care of yourself, Nicky-Simone.”
“You too, Tiffany. Good luck in collage.”
“Good Luck in… killing people, I guess.”

The train led me to the life that I lead now. I’ve had to deal with more shit that, honestly, wasn’t worth my time. I’ve had a lot of nicknames, too. “Line 7”, “Ms. Steel Heart”, “Nick Sims”, “Lady Steel Heart”; they’ve all been my names. I prefer a term. Ultraviolent.

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