Writing Pasts of Sinner

[Mitch]

[color=red][size=1] Well, this is pretty rough. But the main story is there. I plan to revise this and the first Sinner, and even possible create a "Futures of Sinner". I also have another idea for a story in my head, along with another I need to finish, too. I think too much, heh.[/size]

[b]"Pasts of Sinner"(Rough)[/b]
By: Mitchell Smith

It was way back then, way before it all. Back when I was of the steady age of fifteen. Back when everything else had been surefire, when everything had been something more. I relive this day and all its moments over and over again in the fiery depths of my damnation. They forever call to me, they forever bind me. They forever are, and forever will. How one moment can define a lifetime; how one moment can define the very outcroppings of the entirety of the future. I know it. I know it too well, I know it too less.

My Father drove our run-down old truck, his eyes fixed directly on the road. He was rugged and rough, his face covered in a mish and mash of rough-ended and otherwise whisky curls of dark black facial hair. His eyes were narrow, seemingly focused at only one point at one time. And as I sat there, just staring off into nothingness, the night-ridden world ruffling through my hair, I was happy. As the wind blew through my jet-black hair, I was content as I have ever been.

"When will we get there?" I said, my voice so far away in the blackness and utter peace of the night. My Father strayed a look at me as he sipped from his can of Miller Light.

"Soon we be there, boy, soon," he said, his voice slightly slurred. "I say 'bout four hours most, boy."

He had always had quite a taste for liquor. Quite a taste. It was the main reason I suppose my parents had divorced when I was only three. But his alcoholism was only a part of it all. When he was drunk as drunk can be, he sure wasn't a nice Father to be around. I had learned that lesson over and over again, I had had it beaten into my skin and out the entire other edge of all my other feeling. The bruises and cuts were only a reason for the pain, but the damage inside was far more defining and flinching. The damage inside was what really broke me into pieces. The day-by-day wear down of my sanity's sanity, the strive to survive. It's all beaten into me.

I hated him for who he was, and loved him for it all at once. It was quite a strange feeling. It was as if he was two faces intermixed at once, each fighting with one another. Each tearing at another and gnawing away perpetually. The faces, of course, were him sober, and him drunk. Very rarely would he go an hour of consciousness without a beer at hand. It was only as his body passed him out from dying that he would finally stop and rest. His tendency was becoming so high that he'd need more and more each and everyday. There were those times, though, when he'd put off the beer, and then the real him would come out of the shell. And him sober, he was sure a completely different person. He actually loved, he actually cared. Very rarely, though, would he go to such extremes. He would rather drink his life away for all he cared.

Because of this, we rarely had enough money but enough to get by. He'd even take my child support from my mother and throw it all into his wreckless drinking binges. Sometimes I almost just ran away, sometimes I wished I could've lived with someone else. But what I was given I lived with as long as I could. I would've killed him if I'd had the chance, I know that as a certainty. And I did kill him. Maybe it was fate that killed him, but maybe it was my desire in part. I will never know.

But I do know that the roller-coaster ride was certainly going to spiral into abyssful nothingness at the end one way another. Sometime it would collapse and clash on the steel rails, falling forever and never turning back. And as I stared off into the night and eventually fell into a tired sleep, I never even imagined that the end of the roller coaster's run would be so short lived as it was.

I peeked open my eyes. Somewhere far off I heard a familiar voice screech, I felt my body being shook. Awakening, the sun bracing the view from my eyes, I focused on the face blocking and staring at me with blood-shot eyes. I focused on what it was saying. Focused on the blurring noise.

"Wake'n up, boy, wake'n up! " the voice said as it shook me intentionally and forcefully. "Wake'n up, we got huntin' to do, boy."

"Mmm," I muttered, my eyes adjusting to the sun-lit light. The shaking stopped and I lifted my head, getting my surroundings, getting where I was. Reality rushed back to me as I peered around the interior of the same worn-out truck. I stretched, flailing my arms into the air.

"Took you long 'nough, Jice my boy," my Father's familiar voice said, still slurred slightly. "'Bout time you woke'n smelled the sun." He took a sip from another can of Miller Light clasped glazedly in his hand. "We's gonna hunt, Jice my boy."

Trying to adjust my blurred, tired eyes, I looked out the frosted window and peered into stank nothingness. The only thing I could see from the blurred, frostedly window was white snow poking and sprinkling intermixed on a dirt-brown ground. I tried harder to see as I peered more intensely out from the frosted window. I could see thin, crisp white flakes falling from a gray and dull cloudy sky. Snow. I rubbed my hand on the frosted window, making a small circle. The glass's sharpness and crystalline clarity shone outwardly through the small circle, and I eyed in, looking outside in the dreary day. As I looked, a rigid and cold touch poked at my shoulder. I turned around, expecting to see my Father staring directly at me.

My Father was still sitting reflectively sipping from his steel-tinted can of Miller Light. Slightly frightened, I tried to break the slight tinge of obscurity by breaking the noiseless silence. "So are you about ready to hunt, then?" I said chirpedly and loud, wanting the clatter and clang of my voice to break the thin ice of cold and dank silence. He turned slowly, very slowly, and opened his mouth.

"Yesh, Jice my boy, I said we's gonna hunt. We gotta get sumthin' for our worth," he paused and took another swig from his beer, chugging the remaining liquid in the can down. He burped. "Let's go then, we's got lots ta do anyways."

I nodded. He then instructed me to take the shotgun shells from underneath his seat and load the two shotguns we had rented fully with ammunition. After slowly and cautiously doing it, we then stepped out into the cold and nipping outside. My door clanged shut mechanically behind me as I closed it with a habitual back push of my hand. I looked up at the sky, my breath flurrying and misting as I did. The cloud cover was all over, not a single speck of blue. All a dull, bland gray.

My eyes went over to the familiar noise of my Dad opening a can of beer. Taking one last momentary view of the sky, I walked over to him, my feet crunching and tracking in the snow as I did. He handed me one of the shotguns as he took a sip from his fresh can of Miller Light. I quickly checked to make sure the safety was on on my gun. No, it wasn't. I flicked it on and I followed my Dad as he motioned.

He sneakily walked over and knelt down beside some foliage, placing his gun upward on the ground. His breath breathed quickly in and out, the carbon dioxide coming out like the exhaust of a car. His eyes were focused heavily, looking through the patterned and branching leaves of the bush he was centered behind. I knelt beside him, viewing through the tangle of leaves. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was still awake. To make sure it wasn't some mirage.

There stood the biggest deer I had ever seen in my life. I gasped as I looked at its powerful legs, its wonder a glamour. I couldn't believe what a beauty it was. We stood there just staring for minutes and minutes, and then my Father made his move. I stood quietly and rapidly up, taking a stray sip of his Miller Light, setting it down. He picked up his gun from the ground. I stood up, too, as we edged slowly closer to the wonderful and utterly breath-inducing doe.

Once within distance, my Dad squinted his eye and focused in on the doe's head with the shotgun. His hand swayed and shook as he tried to get his shot just right. The doe was moving quite erratically, making the shot hard to get. I stood up, moving to get a better vantage point. As I stood up, I tripped on something, and began falling. I looked over as I fell. I saw a small silver glint, and I knew exactly what it had been.

As I fell, I grasped out at my Dad's leg. He let out a startled yelp and began falling with me. There was a loud and gut-wrenching bang as his hand slipped on the trigger of the shotgun and fired. The gun flew from his hand, landing with a cringe on the snow-covered ground. Once gravity had done its work, my Dad and I recollected ourselves, and I cowered back, sitting stupidly in the corner. He turned and gave me a purely hateful snarl.

"Boy, Do you have any idea what'n hell's name you just done? Do you's got any idea? Do you?" he said, his voice full of pure and utter hateful rage. I looked at him, tears watering the sides of my eyes.

"I...I'm...sor...ry," was all I managed. The tears began running down my cheeks in smeared, wind-washed waves. My Father pointed behind him, where the doe had been.

"You ain't sorry, I sure as hell know that! Just lookit what you done. It gone and scattered!" he gave me another smug grin, and began approaching me. He held out his arm like a steel bat, readying to beat me to hell and back.

I moved quickly, and found the gun on the ground where it had fallen. I held it out at him, shaking crazily and half shutting my eyes. I began scooting and crawling slowly away from him, not wanting to be beaten into a bloody pulp. He looked at me, he looked at the butt of the gun, and then he became a blur of motion.

"Two can play tha' game, Jice. Two can play," he said as he picked up my gun from the cold, snowy ground. "And ya know I'll shoot. Ya know."

I actually didn't believe he would. He aimed slightly away from me, and fired at almost point blank range. I flew back, utterly and wholly scared and startled out of my wits. And as I landed on the cool ground, there was only a small click click. And I remembered. I had left the safety on. Realizing this, I quickly stood up.

"What, why the hell di'n't i' fire? Wha' the hell," he said, looking wide-eyed at the gun. His eyes squinted in realization. And I knew my time was thin. It was either him or me, I figured.

Running with the last of my wit and rancor, I charged at him in as fast of a pace I could, meaning to butt him with the gun and hopefully knock him unconscious. He looked at me, his blood-shot eyes pulsing and looking. His breath freezing in and out.

Everything shook as I ran; everything waddled up and down in loops and twirls. And then the impact. I felt everything yank and twinge at me, pulling me down. Everything was a blur of motion. I saw my dad's hand holding the barrel of the gun, pushing it upwards. I saw everything fly by in a momentary lapse of a few milliseconds. I felt the gun fling out of my hands, and I felt my finger bridge the tip of something. It was cold as snow and warm as blood.

My finger ran, and the shotgun's barrel was shocked as the bullets dislodged from safety. Bang. And it was all over just like that. One loud and elongated strikingly heart-felt lunge. One twiddle and pull of the joints and muscles of my finger. Boom. The shot rang out and my ears became dead and numb. I fell.

Everything blacked out. Moments flew by, they were nothing to me. A red light. I opened my eyes to see the high afternoon sun zapping down red and warm waves. I rubbed my head, it felt like I had been hit by a car. Recollecting myself, I leaned up in a sitting position. There lay my life. There lay my reasons. There lay it all.

I looked at my Father. I looked at what had been him. His face had been blown off, the skull reflected back at me dismally and surreally. The now melted ground was covered with dry blood. The gun lay right beside him quietly on the ground. And I cried tears, but they meant nothing. They were just there. They were there on my cheeks, pelting the sides. They flew into my mouth, salty and bitter. I sat there and cried for hours. I sat there, and I still am. It would be hours before any help would come. And it will be forever until the distinctions and the vividly parallels will ever die.

I looked at my Father, and I died that day.[/color]

[Lady Asphyxia]

[color=darkred]Whoa. I should stop accidentally skipping paragraphs. ^^" I confused myself and had to go back and read it all, but I understand now. Heh.

I like the structure, and the background at the beginning really helps to develop the Father's character into a 3-Dimensional person. It makes you understand why the father acts that way, and I'm really impressed with the sober/non-sober differences in personalities. A lot of people think that if the person beats you, they're mean all the time, so I'm glad that you had that.

All in all, I'd say well done.[/color]