mirror of https://github.com/nealey/Horrors2
66 lines
3.3 KiB
TeX
66 lines
3.3 KiB
TeX
\chapimg{Discount\_Bees}{art/Discount_Bees-Artist.jpg}
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\chapauth{Ben Biddick}
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\chapter{The Artist}
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The satisfied young child sat on his favorite chair with his pens and
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pencils. He squinted at the pain in his punched-in black eye. He shook
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it off and began to draw. The boy was the age of a third-grader. The
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silhouette of a man fell to the paper from the magic of his artistic
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hand. His expression was dim and solemn. Happy at being dim and
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solemn. His appearance was dim and shadowy. His hair matched his
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apparel: black. The color of night.
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The boy was talented. He could draw with the ability of a veteran. He
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had drawn since the first time his hand, equipped with pencil, scratched
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on the piece of clear, lineless paper. There were endless things to make
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with paper and pencil. Anything. He had progressed in his ability with
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every drawing he drew. Most sketches were of lonely, sad, grotesque, or
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terrible scenes.
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The figure on the paper was now fully drawn. It was a shadowy and dark
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figure. His long robe fluttered against him. He had a tail. The tail was
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a lashing terror and pain deliverer. The figure had an expression that
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cut right through you, right through you to your soul. The creature of a
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man held a head. It was bleeding and had the expression of fear, frozen
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there eternally with the instance of death. Now the boy had to draw the
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exact details of his bullying tormentor and the house in which his
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tormentor lived and the bully would be as good as dead.
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James McDaniels sat at home on the couch. His father lay there on his
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recliner, drinking a beer. He was drunk four Coors ago, but kept
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drinking. He always did. James stood and went out the door. He picked up
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a rock and threw it. He had to blow off some steam. His father's steam,
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which had been given to James with the drinking of each beer his father
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drank. A young kid walking up the road passed the house.
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``C'mere kid,'' James smirked.
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The boy reluctantly started to run. James ran to him and quickly caught
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him. James hit the boy as soon as the victim was in punching
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distance. James hit the boy just like the other three he had blown off
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steam with. After James was done, he let the boy up. Blood was running
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from the victim's nose and mouth. He got up and ran as fast as he could
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this time. James smiled. Soon enough though, James' happiness turned to
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sadness- his father was swearing at Jame's mother. He sat on the grass
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and began to cry.
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Just then, the door slammed behind him. James began to turn around. He
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hoped to God that it wasn't his father. He hoped it was his mother so
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they could run away from their father's publicly known case of
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alcoholism. It wasn't his mother. It wasn't his father. It was a large
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dark, shadowy man with a tail and a terrible expression. James
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stood. The man smiled smugly.
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James garbled, ``Who are y-you?''
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The weird man's tail answered the question for him. It flung at James
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with the speed of a lightning bolt. It struck James's face with the
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force of a semi hitting him at the speed of fifty-five miles an
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hour. James's head was completely torn off his neck. Blood showered the
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front of the house and the newly cut lawn. His headless body was thrown
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to the ground. Blood spewed from the neck as the torn blood vessels
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vomited their liquid.
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``Compliments of The Artist,'' the figure said as it walked away.
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