Innocent
Chapter one.
A regular Friday afternoon in Nevada; grey skies, grey seas, grey winds, and, more importantly, grey anoraks. A typical winter’s afternoon sees a small, lonely guy walk through the quiet but colossal town centre. With his hood up, he allows the wind to take him by its hind legs, with his hood down; he lets the world see his true identity, and he doesn’t want that. Nobody does.
The man quickly reaches his destination, tearing his hood from his scruffy hair, and taking two frantic glances either side of him and one quick dart behind him to check no one was following him. When he saw that he was alone, as usual, he inserted his key into the lock, twisting and turning it to the left, and throwing himself against the navy door before it would budge.
He shut the door closed behind him, and smiled as the warm air hit him. His Old English Sheep Dog, Ben, padded its way across the carpeted floor to greet him with what is only known as a bark; a bark to us, but a warning to him.
Chucking his grey anorak on the banister, the man takes off his trainers – what are only described as old; very old –and walks into his small living room, consisted of a sofa, a small television and box set, a book case, a fire place and a coffee table. The sofa was a ripped, dark navy colour, the television was smaller than the coffee table and was black and white, and the book case looked like it was about to break with the book load perched on each shelf; endlessly filled with books from genre to genre, from crime and horror to science fiction and fantasy; graphic novels to mind and spirit; from mythology to self help. One book lay astray on the floor, its contents which can only be describes as irony.
But the man just smiles. It’s not perfect, but it’s his home. For now.
“Gerry? Oh, Gerry, you’re home! Good, I’m just about to pop out, my friend should be arriving soon but she’s late in traffic. She’s just going to drop some supplies off and then be gone.” His girlfriend ran down the stairs, speed-walking into every room of the house, chucking various items into her bag, and occasionally checking her appearance in one of the dirty mirrors.
“I’ll be back in an hour. I don’t want any dinner put on though, I’ll grab something whilst I’m out,” she says hurriedly, planting a quick kiss on her boyfriend’s face before shouting one last ‘goodbye!’ and running out of the door. She didn’t seem phased by his abnormal behaviour.
He sits on the dark sofa, almost sucked in by reality around him as he digs his hand into his trouser pocket. The blade almost pricks his skin, but it isn’t the only thing that makes his insides turn.
The woman didn’t turn up at the house that night.
He spent his night in the cold, on his squeaky double bed, curled up in a ball, rocking backwards and forwards. He didn’t mean to, he didn’t want to. But he had to.
He wished he hadn’t given in to temptation; he had a girlfriend he loved, and there were no good-looking guys in the club that could satisfy his need, so he went for her. She denied him of course, and threatened to tell his girlfriend.
That’s when the pain struck him.
And her, for that matter.
He fled the scene as quickly as he could, breaking out into a run when he turned the corner of the dark ally. It was okay. He was safe.
And he knew, that although it was the worst thing he’d ever did, he wouldn’t regret it.
The next morning, his girlfriend, who had arrived in the early hours of the morning, lay asleep on the sofa, obviously too kind to disturb her boyfriend even more. He smiled at her and lightly brushed the crimson hair away from her eyes. She shifted in her sleep and a smile spread on her face as she clasped her boyfriend’s hand in her own. He looked down at it and it was as if all the calmness had poured out of his body. All he wanted to do at that moment was break down and cry; cry for the death, cry for the attack, cry for his girlfriend, cry for himself.
With a backpack the size of Texas on his back, he bent down so he was level with her ear, his hand still in his girlfriend’s. He hesitated for a few seconds, hoping the pain wouldn’t show through his voice. No doubt it was showing on his face.
“I…I’m sorry. I never meant for this. Know that I love you for the rest of my life. I will come back for you one day.” He kissed her hand lightly, and then her forehead, before gently removing his hand from her embrace. And with that, the man walked away from her, each step as big as the hole in his heart, until finally, he was out of the door, not even giving her a backwards glance.
The man quickly reaches his destination, tearing his hood from his scruffy hair, and taking two frantic glances either side of him and one quick dart behind him to check no one was following him. When he saw that he was alone, as usual, he inserted his key into the lock, twisting and turning it to the left, and throwing himself against the navy door before it would budge.
He shut the door closed behind him, and smiled as the warm air hit him. His Old English Sheep Dog, Ben, padded its way across the carpeted floor to greet him with what is only known as a bark; a bark to us, but a warning to him.
Chucking his grey anorak on the banister, the man takes off his trainers – what are only described as old; very old –and walks into his small living room, consisted of a sofa, a small television and box set, a book case, a fire place and a coffee table. The sofa was a ripped, dark navy colour, the television was smaller than the coffee table and was black and white, and the book case looked like it was about to break with the book load perched on each shelf; endlessly filled with books from genre to genre, from crime and horror to science fiction and fantasy; graphic novels to mind and spirit; from mythology to self help. One book lay astray on the floor, its contents which can only be describes as irony.
But the man just smiles. It’s not perfect, but it’s his home. For now.
“Gerry? Oh, Gerry, you’re home! Good, I’m just about to pop out, my friend should be arriving soon but she’s late in traffic. She’s just going to drop some supplies off and then be gone.” His girlfriend ran down the stairs, speed-walking into every room of the house, chucking various items into her bag, and occasionally checking her appearance in one of the dirty mirrors.
“I’ll be back in an hour. I don’t want any dinner put on though, I’ll grab something whilst I’m out,” she says hurriedly, planting a quick kiss on her boyfriend’s face before shouting one last ‘goodbye!’ and running out of the door. She didn’t seem phased by his abnormal behaviour.
He sits on the dark sofa, almost sucked in by reality around him as he digs his hand into his trouser pocket. The blade almost pricks his skin, but it isn’t the only thing that makes his insides turn.
The woman didn’t turn up at the house that night.
He spent his night in the cold, on his squeaky double bed, curled up in a ball, rocking backwards and forwards. He didn’t mean to, he didn’t want to. But he had to.
He wished he hadn’t given in to temptation; he had a girlfriend he loved, and there were no good-looking guys in the club that could satisfy his need, so he went for her. She denied him of course, and threatened to tell his girlfriend.
That’s when the pain struck him.
And her, for that matter.
He fled the scene as quickly as he could, breaking out into a run when he turned the corner of the dark ally. It was okay. He was safe.
And he knew, that although it was the worst thing he’d ever did, he wouldn’t regret it.
The next morning, his girlfriend, who had arrived in the early hours of the morning, lay asleep on the sofa, obviously too kind to disturb her boyfriend even more. He smiled at her and lightly brushed the crimson hair away from her eyes. She shifted in her sleep and a smile spread on her face as she clasped her boyfriend’s hand in her own. He looked down at it and it was as if all the calmness had poured out of his body. All he wanted to do at that moment was break down and cry; cry for the death, cry for the attack, cry for his girlfriend, cry for himself.
With a backpack the size of Texas on his back, he bent down so he was level with her ear, his hand still in his girlfriend’s. He hesitated for a few seconds, hoping the pain wouldn’t show through his voice. No doubt it was showing on his face.
“I…I’m sorry. I never meant for this. Know that I love you for the rest of my life. I will come back for you one day.” He kissed her hand lightly, and then her forehead, before gently removing his hand from her embrace. And with that, the man walked away from her, each step as big as the hole in his heart, until finally, he was out of the door, not even giving her a backwards glance.