Babyface: Poseidon writes a dang story.

[Poseidon]

I tried writing this exact thing like a year go, and it never went anywhere. I dug up the old file tonight and made a lot of changes, as well as adding a second part. I kind of want to make this an ongoing story. Writing isn't something I usually do, but I'm having fun with this.

just a little background: This is from the point of view of a very mentally-ill, slow, obsessive man from the southern USA, so read this mostly with a southern accent in mind. He has kidnapped a girl and is holding her captive, torturing her, sort of, but right now he just wants to talk to/at her. Also, there's a part where he kills a bird, so if you're all about animals being alive all the time, you probably won't like that part, js.

HERE WE GO:

PART ONE
“I know I shouldn't be doin' this,” I said, “but I know that you won’t snitch. You can’t. Can’t possibly. As of right now, I ain’t got a thing. Nothin’ to lose.” I don’t know why I did it, but I walked behind the chair you were sitting on. I walked behind it and tightened the ropes. Locked you in. You must’ve been feeling it by then. It must’ve been wearing off. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. “But I have you, I got you. I got you, and I ain’t lettin’ you go.” It wasn’t fair. You couldn’t say anything. “Right now, that seems like a whole helluva lot.” It wasn’t fair, and I’m so sorry.

“You must’a thrown up ten times, I swear. Just when I thought that you didn’t have anything left to give, you surprised me as you retched and heaved again and again, twisting and contorting your tired little body. Did it hurt? Lord Jesus, you looked like a snake strugglin’ to shed its skin. Can’t stop thinking about it; it was gorgeous, the way you moved. Positive. Wish you would’a seen it.” I paused. “Am I talking too much? You know, I always thought you were so pretty...” I leaned down to your face. The dim lights gave it the slightest, prettiest golden-yellow hue, and you had never been more beautiful to me. God, how I wish you were ugly. “Open your eyes. Open your eyes, Lord Jesus, open your pretty little eyes.” Just then, I could’a sworn I heard someone outside. Talking, and then quiet. I lifted the thick cardboard that was covering a small window, just back and to the left of where I had you. Just enough to peek through. From the window I saw two men in suits; black suits and ties. One was on the phone, the other was staring at his shoes, but they were both standing directly in front of my lawn. I’ve never trusted suit-wearing types. What I did then, and mind you, I really hated to do it... I tipped you over and cloaked you under that stained old yellow table cloth; the one I’d been meanin’ to throw out. ‘Course now with all the blood, I’d never use it anyway. “I’ll be back for you, Babyface.” That’s what I called you, now. Babyface. Quietly and real quick-like, I closed the door and locked it. I paused for a moment, squeezing my eyes shut and saying a quick prayer. Maybe they were stopped for something that had nothin’ to do with me. Probably. That was probably true. Nobody had any reason not to trust me. I blinked a few times and wicked the beaded sweat from my forehead. Strangers ain’t welcome here, but I ain’t afraid. “I ain’t afraid,” I said aloud, just so I could believe it, too.

I closed my eyes again and leaned my back against the cold wall. Mother Mary, I need help. I need your guidance, and where’re you at now? I quickly swept those thoughts from my head, then remembered the men out front. Listening hard, breathing hard, and not lettin’ a damn sound slip from my filthy mouth, I slithered along the wall ‘til I reached the den. I swallowed. I ain’t afraid, remember? After I took a brief moment to collect myself, I whipped my head around and glanced out the window. The men were gone. I felt one side of my mouth curl into a sick, ugly smirk. Someone, somewhere, someday is gonna put a bullet straight between my eyes for this smirk, and I can’t wait for that day. I looked at my hands and then back up at the window. My hands felt cool, and I pressed them against my forehead, blinked a few times, and silently started back down the hall, to the kitchen; back to you, almost. The kitchen was an outdated, garish mash of yellow paint and wood paneling, set off in the worst way by a yellow-green oven and refrigerator. Now I knew. Babyface, I knew I was just bein’ paranoid, and I am so sorry for leavin’ you like that.

Now relieved of the pit in my stomach, I leaned over the kitchen sink. I stared into the rust-stained porcelain surrounding the drain as I turned on the water. Honest, I did my best to scrub the dried blood from under my fingernails, but that has never been easy for me. I splashed some water onto my face and into my hair, and I smiled as I noticed my reflection in the window. I smiled real big because now I can be alone with you. I went back to your room, straightened you out, and turned out the light.


PART TWO:
You were still asleep when I came back to your room. Eyes shut tight. I wondered when you’d wake up, but I figured I’d take that opportunity to tell you a story. You were sure to listen, and I wanted you to know me. I wanted you to know me the way I knew you. The way the light would bounce off your eyes, you never had to tell me any of it. I just knew. I started out by apologizing to you, I said, “You are beautiful, and you are the loveliest creature. I never should’a tipped you over. I never should’a hid you, my angel,” I was almost in tears by then.

I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and said to you, “Babyface, when I was small, real small; maybe six or seven, I loved birds. Their colors, their fragile wings, little, tiny bones... So delicate, but so capable. I wanted nothin’ more than to have one of my own. All I would talk about was gettin’ and havin’ a pet bird. A canary, a parakeet, anything. One morning I woke up to a kind of whistling noise. It was so loud, but I knew exactly what it was. My aunt Viv was sittin’ with my momma in the kitchen when I got down there, both smilin’ and lookin’ at me. Then, Aunt Viv says to me, ‘Take a look in the den, baby. Go on!’ I did what she told me, and I saw a tiny, yellow bird in a thin, gilded wire cage. My eyes got real big, and the first thing I did was ask Momma if I could hold the bird. It sat there in its cage, tilting its head with an almost robotic-type motion, whistling its song to me. Momma didn’t hear what I said, so I repeated myself: ‘Momma, can I hold the bird?’ She looked at my Aunt Viv, they both shrugged, and Momma said, ‘Yes, baby, but you need to be gentle with him. He is much smaller than you are.’” I paused and took a breath, staring at you for a minute. I swallowed. You are much smaller than I am. I need to be gentle with you, because you are small. You are fragile, delicate, but capable. You are the bird, and you are in my hand.

I continued, “Since Momma gave me permission to hold the bird, I opened the tiny wire door to the cage. I slipped my hand inside and slowly, carefully closed my fingers around the small yellow bird. I could feel his tiny body wriggling and struggling in my hand. I had never felt that sort of power over another living thing. Momma and Aunt Viv were busy in the kitchen, gossiping and occasionally cackling, and payin’ me no mind. I looked at the bird intently, staring into the beads of reflected light in its eyes. I started squeezing with my tiny hands; gently at first, but just enough to feel the tiny creature’s panic. It felt like my heart was beatin’ as fast as the bird’s. I started to squeeze harder and harder, feelin’ tiny bones crush in my tiny fingers. The poor thing tried to sing its song, but its little body couldn’t take any more. I crushed the bird with my bare hands. Momma screamed when she saw it, and Aunt Viv didn’t visit for months after that. Oh, how I loved birds.” I was smiling, but you were still asleep. The corners of your mouth curled up naturally into a little smile, almost, so I figure it counts. I stood up and stretched a little, and walked around your chair. I leaned down, kissed your soft, bruised cheek, and walked out, closing the door behind me. I’d be sure to tell you my story again when you woke up.

[cinnamonstyx]

I really like the first/second person hybrid and your vernacular usage like it feels fairly authentic. Occasionally excessive but overall it adds to the narrative. Really rad stuff though I hope you continue it because it's like one of the best things on here conceptually.