Teardrop: The Story of A ***
Stronger through blood, weaker through death
Jenny needed her mother. She needed to tell her.
She ran.
In the trees, Bill was watching with a pair of binoculars. He slowly pulled from his pocket a scrap of paper, sharp and new, with edges like a knife. They cut his finger badly, and the blood welled up onto the paper, meeting a slightly less fresh stain from younger blood, deeper blood. Men didn't bleed that way; they made women do so. Bill reflected that he would just have to make do with blood from his finger.
It was no joke that Jenny could hear voices--she did, all the time. Everywhere. In the supermarket, beyond her window, in the restaurant...everywhere. Everywhere was where Bill was. If he had a mailing address, that's what it would be.
Because Bill was not human; he was madness. He had infected Jenny's mother when he had taken her virginity, and had set Jenny on the same course a few days ago.
Her mother had died a few days ago, when Jenny, weakened by her loss of blood and her young, newly-ripped-apart state, stumbled into the house and met her mother, who had her clothes on the floor and Bill in her arms, being torn apart in the same way.
Not unexpectedly, the child had won. She hadn't been exposed to Bill, to madness and insanity, as long. Her senses were still sharp, her pain still sharp as well.
That had been the fourth bloodstain on the paper.
But the first was most precious, Bill thought to himself. It was the only drop of blood let from Bill's capture of Jenny's mother's husband.
Of course Jenny's mother hadn't killed her husband. Only Bill had known her long enough to know that. She was polishing her knives in a state of peace until he had taken her daughter in the forest, and then her while Jenny was returning home. Then, the insanity creeped in. He took it from the mother long enough to watch her face as she realized she was being murdered by her daughter, a four year-old, wielding the knife her mother was scrubbing and bringing it down while Bill fled, with her four-year-old cry of
"Don't youever cheat on Daddy like that!"
Now, he smiled from the trees as he watched Jenny run to her mother's grave, watched the story unfold and their madness collide and cancel itself out.
He was finished.
Bill stepped behind a tree, folded his arms about himself, and disintegrated into the wind. His work was done. He would never return.
The only thing remaining was a scrap of paper, the blood on it bleached away and slowly forming into words.
She ran.
In the trees, Bill was watching with a pair of binoculars. He slowly pulled from his pocket a scrap of paper, sharp and new, with edges like a knife. They cut his finger badly, and the blood welled up onto the paper, meeting a slightly less fresh stain from younger blood, deeper blood. Men didn't bleed that way; they made women do so. Bill reflected that he would just have to make do with blood from his finger.
It was no joke that Jenny could hear voices--she did, all the time. Everywhere. In the supermarket, beyond her window, in the restaurant...everywhere. Everywhere was where Bill was. If he had a mailing address, that's what it would be.
Because Bill was not human; he was madness. He had infected Jenny's mother when he had taken her virginity, and had set Jenny on the same course a few days ago.
Her mother had died a few days ago, when Jenny, weakened by her loss of blood and her young, newly-ripped-apart state, stumbled into the house and met her mother, who had her clothes on the floor and Bill in her arms, being torn apart in the same way.
Not unexpectedly, the child had won. She hadn't been exposed to Bill, to madness and insanity, as long. Her senses were still sharp, her pain still sharp as well.
That had been the fourth bloodstain on the paper.
But the first was most precious, Bill thought to himself. It was the only drop of blood let from Bill's capture of Jenny's mother's husband.
Of course Jenny's mother hadn't killed her husband. Only Bill had known her long enough to know that. She was polishing her knives in a state of peace until he had taken her daughter in the forest, and then her while Jenny was returning home. Then, the insanity creeped in. He took it from the mother long enough to watch her face as she realized she was being murdered by her daughter, a four year-old, wielding the knife her mother was scrubbing and bringing it down while Bill fled, with her four-year-old cry of
"Don't youever cheat on Daddy like that!"
Now, he smiled from the trees as he watched Jenny run to her mother's grave, watched the story unfold and their madness collide and cancel itself out.
He was finished.
Bill stepped behind a tree, folded his arms about himself, and disintegrated into the wind. His work was done. He would never return.
The only thing remaining was a scrap of paper, the blood on it bleached away and slowly forming into words.