Voices
3/5
Once Gerard had left the room Frank instantly shuffled back into his position in the corner, so fast that if Gerard was wanting to look through the window on the door he wouldn’t have had the time to raise the plastic covering first.
(good, now continue to stare ahead of you and don’t move) the voice commanded and Frank did as told.
The walls around him weren’t the same as the walls around everyone else. To Frank the walls were a dark blood red colour, so realistic that Frank actually believed it to be blood
(perhaps it is, what you gonna do about it?) and the bed in the far corner wasn’t just an empty bed, but a bed with the corpse of his father laying on it. The father that he had killed when he was 13 years old.
The father that he had gone to with a pick axe, straight to the head.
(good boy, you just keep staring)
The father who had bled and bled and bled, as Frank screamed and screamed and screamed.
(mommy wasn’t around then, was she? no, she was too busy screwing the local paper boy)
Frank’s mother had been a whore, plain as day, while Frank’s father had been an abuser. He had always abused both Frank and his mother. And one day Frank had just had enough, swinging the pick axe that he found in the garage full blow at the back of his fathers head. Blood had gone everywhere, pouring out of his father’s body and spurting over Frank’s clothes. Blood had covered the walls of the outer house shed, which was where Frank had found him.
(and a good job you did, too, son. you killed him real good.)
The room Frank was in was like hell for him, the table in the middle was also covered in blood, only this time it was his own. From the days when Frank would sit at his bedroom desk, hacking away at the flesh on his thighs with a pair of nail scissors. Cutting away at his skin, not caring that the pain was so great he could hardly move his legs the next day, nor that the pair of scissors was so badly covered in blood that it had rusted in multiple places.
(mm, good boy. get rid of that ugly skin, such ugly skin you have. get it gone.)
The only thing that the room was missing was the actual objects Frank had used in his self mutilation and murder tools, the axe and the nail scissors. To make this actual hell for Frank, those two items would need to be placed somewhere else in the room, perhaps hanging on the blood soaked walls, or on the blood drenched sheets his dead father lay on.
The eyes of his father were still open, staring up at the ceiling forever more and Frank was too scared to close his eyes, too scared to move, in fear of the voice in his head
(i’ll move that body. i’ll move it and i’ll put it next to you, you know i can do that)moving the body of his father.
(good, now continue to stare ahead of you and don’t move) the voice commanded and Frank did as told.
The walls around him weren’t the same as the walls around everyone else. To Frank the walls were a dark blood red colour, so realistic that Frank actually believed it to be blood
(perhaps it is, what you gonna do about it?) and the bed in the far corner wasn’t just an empty bed, but a bed with the corpse of his father laying on it. The father that he had killed when he was 13 years old.
The father that he had gone to with a pick axe, straight to the head.
(good boy, you just keep staring)
The father who had bled and bled and bled, as Frank screamed and screamed and screamed.
(mommy wasn’t around then, was she? no, she was too busy screwing the local paper boy)
Frank’s mother had been a whore, plain as day, while Frank’s father had been an abuser. He had always abused both Frank and his mother. And one day Frank had just had enough, swinging the pick axe that he found in the garage full blow at the back of his fathers head. Blood had gone everywhere, pouring out of his father’s body and spurting over Frank’s clothes. Blood had covered the walls of the outer house shed, which was where Frank had found him.
(and a good job you did, too, son. you killed him real good.)
The room Frank was in was like hell for him, the table in the middle was also covered in blood, only this time it was his own. From the days when Frank would sit at his bedroom desk, hacking away at the flesh on his thighs with a pair of nail scissors. Cutting away at his skin, not caring that the pain was so great he could hardly move his legs the next day, nor that the pair of scissors was so badly covered in blood that it had rusted in multiple places.
(mm, good boy. get rid of that ugly skin, such ugly skin you have. get it gone.)
The only thing that the room was missing was the actual objects Frank had used in his self mutilation and murder tools, the axe and the nail scissors. To make this actual hell for Frank, those two items would need to be placed somewhere else in the room, perhaps hanging on the blood soaked walls, or on the blood drenched sheets his dead father lay on.
The eyes of his father were still open, staring up at the ceiling forever more and Frank was too scared to close his eyes, too scared to move, in fear of the voice in his head
(i’ll move that body. i’ll move it and i’ll put it next to you, you know i can do that)moving the body of his father.