‹ Prequel: Suffer All The Children
Status: Active. Thank you to everyone for the 10 stars that this story just got!
For the Monsters that I've Been.
Introduction.
The bells jingled on the diner door. A waitress observed as two men walked in. The first was tall and lanky. He wore glasses and a black beanie over his sandy, brown hair and dressed in a black jacket, torn skinny jeans, Chuck Taylor’s and a studded belt. The fingers of one of his spindly hands were around the wrist of a man considerably shorter than him. This man had darker hair and dressed similarly to the first except that he was wearing a sweater with the hood pulled up on his head, so he was harder to take in. The waitress actually had little time to observe him as, once in the door, the taller man shoved the shorter into the first booth they came to.
The waitress sighed and looked at the clock. 6:23. It was too early for this. But that was what she got for working at the diner off the highway and that was the time that these weird types kept. They must have been truckers. She didn’t know. She didn’t really care, but she tacked on the best smile she could for the hour that it was and approached the table. “What can I get you boys?”
She tried not to shrink back as the taller man looked up at her. He had grotesque dots surrounding his mouth protruding something that looked horribly like blood and his eyes were shallow and sunken, dirty, like the rest of his face or like death itself. It was clear that beyond these frightening features, he would have been rather attractive, but at his current state, he repulsed her, but she tried not to let her smile falter too much as he spoke in a quiet voice that didn’t seem fitting for the monstrous appearance that he adorned. “Coffee. He’ll have a water.”
The waitress looked to the other man, whose eyes were fixed on the table. Now that she was closer, she could see that one of his eyes was purple with bruising and there was a bit of blood on a lip that looked newly busted. His cheeks were tinged red and his eyes carried a similar hue. Two lines progressing down his cheeks made her assume that he was lamenting over something. Maybe they weren’t truckers after all. They looked more like drug dealers, now that she thought about it. The taller man was rather skinny and sunken, almost strung-out looking. And now, as she looked back to him, his eyes were narrow, his lip snarled and he the blood from the dots on his lips made her eyes pop slightly, convinced that the man was setting in for a fresh kill.
A soft, but horrible voice made the waitress jump. “Did I stutter?”
“N-no. I’m sorry, honey, long shift,” she lied, “Did you want cream or sugar with that coffee?”
“No.” He replied simply and his attention turned from her. She blinked, then walked away slowly to prepare the drinks, but not before hearing a whimper of pain followed by that soft, horrible voice this time whispering: “Go to the bathroom and clean your fucking face off, Frank. You look like a little girl.”
The waitress sighed and looked at the clock. 6:23. It was too early for this. But that was what she got for working at the diner off the highway and that was the time that these weird types kept. They must have been truckers. She didn’t know. She didn’t really care, but she tacked on the best smile she could for the hour that it was and approached the table. “What can I get you boys?”
She tried not to shrink back as the taller man looked up at her. He had grotesque dots surrounding his mouth protruding something that looked horribly like blood and his eyes were shallow and sunken, dirty, like the rest of his face or like death itself. It was clear that beyond these frightening features, he would have been rather attractive, but at his current state, he repulsed her, but she tried not to let her smile falter too much as he spoke in a quiet voice that didn’t seem fitting for the monstrous appearance that he adorned. “Coffee. He’ll have a water.”
The waitress looked to the other man, whose eyes were fixed on the table. Now that she was closer, she could see that one of his eyes was purple with bruising and there was a bit of blood on a lip that looked newly busted. His cheeks were tinged red and his eyes carried a similar hue. Two lines progressing down his cheeks made her assume that he was lamenting over something. Maybe they weren’t truckers after all. They looked more like drug dealers, now that she thought about it. The taller man was rather skinny and sunken, almost strung-out looking. And now, as she looked back to him, his eyes were narrow, his lip snarled and he the blood from the dots on his lips made her eyes pop slightly, convinced that the man was setting in for a fresh kill.
A soft, but horrible voice made the waitress jump. “Did I stutter?”
“N-no. I’m sorry, honey, long shift,” she lied, “Did you want cream or sugar with that coffee?”
“No.” He replied simply and his attention turned from her. She blinked, then walked away slowly to prepare the drinks, but not before hearing a whimper of pain followed by that soft, horrible voice this time whispering: “Go to the bathroom and clean your fucking face off, Frank. You look like a little girl.”