H-Day Part 1: Pray For Mercy

Remember, these are a very rough draft and not even close to final. They are more like the initial ideas I get and quickly spew out. I hope you enjoy it for what it is!

R

WARNING: The story that follows is full of senseless violence, gratuitous sexual descriptions, and blood; lots and lots of blood!

Oh, how I love Halloween!

Ding Dong

From inside the house Dominique Maigny reached for the cold hard steel doorknob. The large wooden door creaked and groaned as it swung open.

“Peter, what are you doing here?” She asked as she stepped outside and closed the door all, but a crack.

“You said your parents were going out tonight so I thought you might like a little late night Pete treat,” He said as a grin came over his face.

“My parents are gone, but my sister is still awake,” Dominique said. Small bits of her French accent poked to the surface as she stood and squirmed in place and hoped that none of the neighbors were watching especially the Sinclair’s who lived right next door.

“Dom, is that Mommy?” The voice was muffled and coming from just inside the door.

“You have to get out of here,” she whispered. “Call me later!”

Peter shook his head and turned around slowly.

“No, Sara. Wrong number — I mean it’s just a salesman at the wrong house.” Dominique watched as Peter walked down the sidewalk, his ass looking fine in his black jeans. She felt her insides warming up, she gave one last look, turned and walked back inside.

“You, Little Missy, need to go get you pajamas on.” Dominique said as she playfully chased her 5 year old sister up the front stairway.

Ding Dong

“I’ll get it,” she said. “You finish putting these on and then go brush your teeth. I’ll be right back.”

Dominique rushed down the stairs to the front door and flung it open. “Peter, you better –”

The wind was beginning to pick up and there was a chill in the air; the kind of damp chill that happens just before a thunder storm arrives. In the distant she heard the faint rumbling of thunder.

She wrapped her arms around herself to fend away the chill as she looked all around the front yard for her teenage lover, Peter. “Where are you, Peter? Stop messing around. The neighbors are going to get pissed if you step on their flowers. Peter? Are you out there?”

Dominique took one last look down the street in both directions. A small plastic Wal-Mart bag road the wind up, up, and away before getting snagged in the crooked old maple that stood tall and proud in the Washington’s front yard. Once again she closed the door and turned back towards the stairs.

“Sara, I don’t hear the water running –”

Ding Dong — Ding Dong — Ding Dong went the doorbell in rapid succession.

“What the hell,” she said at the midway point of the stairway. “That boy is going to get it good!” She thought to herself.

Once again she grabbed the cold steel doorknob and turned it to open the door. “Peter this better be –”

She felt a warm, almost hot, sensation where the dull edge of the cleaver split her sternum in two.

He braced his left hand on her ample chest and removed the blade. It made a loud, wet SQUISH sound when it left her body. The tip snagged on her black Fallout Boy t-shirt. The same one that Peter had given her over the Summer. The hulking figure before her grabbed the shirt and ripped it open from the neck down to her pierced bellybutton exposing her stark white bra that was beginning to absorb the thick, dark red blood that rushed from her open wound.

She reached up with her right hand and felt the syrupy fluid. With her left hand she touched the new hole in her chest and then raised both hands before her face. She slowly felt the life running out of her body as it pooled on the cold concrete steps below her. A slow rain began to fall and the drops splashed in the red puddle.

Her last thought was of Sara. She turned to go back inside, but it was over. Her last ounce of energy, her last bit of life drained away mixing with the the rain, the wind, and into the night.

She was gone.

Her lifeless body fell fast to the ground and her hands left the classic trail of smeared blood down the front of the door.

Young Sara Maigny stood at the base of the stairs. “Dommy, you out there? I’m telling Daddy if you’re out there with Peter.” She crept slowly towards the door. “Dommy,” she said as her small hand grabbed the cold steel doorknob and pushed outward. The door moved about a foot before clunking into something solid. Sara cautiously slid her head through the crack and into the cool night air.

Her scream pierced the thunder that was now not so far away. Sara saw her older sister in a crumpled pile. Her white bra was no completely red and she was wet from the rain that had grown stronger in the last few minutes.

Sara quickly slammed the door and ran towards the back of the house as far away from the carnage as she could.

WHOOOOO-BOOOOOOOM!

Thunder shook the house. The lights flickered, dimmed, then died.

Sara froze in her tracks and stood in the darkness of the kitchen.

With the lights out she could see almost perfectly into the backyard all the way to her tree house, although the steady rain blurred the lines.

Another crack of lighting flashed illuminating the surrounding area. In that brief instant Sara Maigny, who just five minutes ago had been brushing her teeth and preparing to go to bed, saw the lifeless body of Peter Wilson swinging from the tree in the backyard. The tire on her swing had been cut off and replaced with the neck of her sister’s boyfriend. The wind pushed and spun his body in slow circles like a macabre pinata.

Sara collapsed on the ground. Her Little Princess pajamas became saturated with urine as she passed out on the cold tile floor where her head hit with a thunk; the same sound a watermelon makes when you thump it for freshness.

In the hedges that separate the Maigny yard from the Sinclair yard stood a large figure. The rain cascaded down his face. Steam rose from his head as he stood breathing deep, almost orgasmic, breathes. What little light there was reflected in the thick steel of the cleaver that he held up to his face. He brought the blade up to his nose and smelled the death that dripped and dropped off of the edge and down onto his worn work boots.

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~ by ryanmastersonline on October 26, 2007.

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