Jesscomp-2 In hope of a better life

Hi, this is a short story for Jessica's competition.


1. I write


 7:30 A.M.

It’s a bit…. Ouch, my half burnt face still hurts, right, ah after 2 months 5 days I meet my friend again, today, my pen, yes, who else do I friend in an asylum. I am here to diffuse ink back into the refrained white .I am here to jot down the events that transpired 2 months 6 days back, as my mind drifts back, slowly, the events are coming back to me, yes the doctor’s prescription is working, the two floor plummet, back, the knife in the eye, back, the acid consuming my face, back, the rod hitting the back of my head back, the sleep, back, the party, dead. The communion of the past has switched back to hibernation mode, I am tired, the two hours I’ve spent watchin.. .. t....v….has…sagged…………me…………….

1:30 P.M.                                    

Sorry, the sleep that engorged the communion magnetted unto me too, back to writing. I am a writer, it was that dreadful day that transmogrified me, it was the paper today that reformed me. The words are not coming, I don’t know why, maybe it’s my head. While I was sleeping after my first failed attempt something started nudging my nose, I started rubbing it, that black slimy substance, what do they call it, mucos, no mucuse, yes, ah yes mucose slid out of my nose. I was very hungry so I popped it into my mouth, ah the delicious taste, it’s coming back the words are herding back unto my palms, they are callusing my hands with intellect, no they are swallowing my hands in entirety and they are engorging it, no, I used the word “engorge” in the first line, but the former sentence sucked, they are filing out, oh, they are going back. I’ll kill you. Oh come back you damn bitches, I fucking have a diary to write(table slam, splinters pierce the cheeks, black out)

9:30 P.M

Now I am going to go first person, present happening mode (am I using the right words), I can’t write but I have to write, some great writer said “The best way to write is to combat its block”, so here I write about that treacheros night (I forgot the spelling for treachoros)

That day

Thud, thud, thud yeah the party was great tonight and my dream is composing beats of its own. No. was it not the beat, was it something else, the door, yes, someone’s rapping. Then what happened, I don’t know some hell happened, I am trying to reminisce, yes, this must have happened, but I am not sure, what else could have happened, no I am going astray, this is what happened (or what must have happened), no, I open the door and see a face but I don’t remember their features, contores, ha-ha, I know he’s black, not in color, but he’s in the black side of things. My eyes blur, I try looking from the eye flanks, but I still see no one, but there is a figure standing there. I would have seen him, that’s it yahooooo, I would have seen him(sigh). His hands reach out for his shirt collar and straight out of his back shirts comes out a rod,I can’t write any more, no more “now writing” mode, I am going to narrate in a full sequence. The rod arcs through air, it hits my head at a blinding speed. My eyes go askew, and I fall down. I look up and still they are blurred. But, I know this guy, I slapped him at the party, yes. His zips go down, a half twitched smile plays on his mouth, in a semblance of erotica, he starts jerking his penis. I start running in my penthouse suit, two stories high I can’t hope to descend the stairs. I bolt to my room and latch the doors. Thud, thud, damn he’s banging the door with the rod. I go and hide myself in the underside of the bed. The banging ceases. The rod splatters into the floor, it must have broken. Yes, with a sigh of relief I slump back in the floor, my head starts fizzing. Blood starts gashing out of the back of my head and I pass out.

I open my eyes, and in that hazy instant taken by my eye to adjust, the boy from the party splashes acid in my face. The invading liquid starts eating my face. I lose my eye. With the remaining eye and the paltry sight, I start clawing at him. He laughs at me, and pulls out a knife from his innumerable vault of weapons and tries to drive the knife into my temple. That’s when I try to get up, and the knife goes through my lost eye. The drive was not fast enough so the knife fell on the carpet plucking off my eyeball. With an half burnt face and a bat raped head, I look at him. He smirks and unzips. I feel like an enunciated carcass enslaved for sex.

The French windows are open and I plummet down them. I can hear him laughing, I can hear his jeer. Instead of splaying across the alley’s tarmac, I am deposited on the hood of a convertible. The convertible’s hood slides draining me in the process, and perking his head out of it, IS THE PARTY BOY.



Then I blacked out,. The court deemed me maniac, and I was thrown into the state asylum. The truth dawned to me today, the paper helped me. It showed clippings of the boy and his twin. They were arrested for drug Trafficking

Yes I have written, it. It’s not powerful or visceral, but it’ll do.

10: 30 P.M.

Ah, the doctor scanned the diary pages and we tested its readability, it was a Flesch Kincaid 4. He said it was very high. He said, I was a miracle. But only I know that for all the things he said, this was the worst, a Kincaid 4 meant amateurish. I am going down the drain. It’s not a problem, I’ll pass, I’ll pass, I’ll pass.  

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