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Little Boy
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Song for First Half
Song for Second Half
((You'll know when to switch...))

Heaven brings forth innumerable things to help man.
Man has nothing with which to recompense Heaven.
Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.

It was strange, dying alone. He could feel his life sapping away with every single heartbeat. He watched impassively as the blood left his cut wrist, pooling around him in a lake of crimson. His veins were bulging, and he felt clammy and cold. And it still wasn’t enough. Somehow, somewhere deep inside him, a little voice was whispering, growing more frantic with each passing minute.

It isn’t enough. It’s too slow. Bleed more. Bleed more.

Jimmy Brennan lay still as the blood approached him, letting it flow down his throat. He gagged and spit it back up, but it flowed forward relentlessly, and he soon drank, begrudgingly at first, but with a growing sense of urgency. His cracked face was a hopeless mass of bruises and scrapes, glass shards poking from his forehead from when he’d smashed his face across one of the windows. Beneath it, a hungry grin emerged. He eyed his split wrist, watching his hand twitch involuntarily.

He couldn’t feel a thing.

He reached out, and with a dirty hand drove the knife deeper into his wrist, right at the joint. There was little pain as he sliced up, the blade cutting through his flesh with next to no resistance. He made it all the way to his elbow before dropping the knife, tracing his fingers back down his mutilated arm, probing the split wound for an access point. His hand was slick with blood as he jabbed the cut, prodding it open further. He didn’t scream. He felt very tired, very sleepy.

There was something wrong with Jimmy Brennan, something corrupted; something completely fucked up and inhumane. But he still couldn’t feel it. Truly FEEL it. That desperate twang he’d hoped to hear, the last note of the last song, before they’d shut his coffin. So he dug deeper, probing further down, sticking his hand underneath his skin, watching with an almost childlike fascination as his fingers pulled away muscle and fat, exposing the bone. He slid his fingers underneath skin, watching the bumps move beneath, scurrying like burrowing insects.

There was something there, and he was going to find it, and it would be the last thing he’d ever do.

He smiled and began to work. He began scraping at the wound spanning his arm, ripping and gouging, agitated. He was killing himself, but he didn’t care. With a split wrist like this, there was little hope for him. Blood loss was setting in, his arm was mangled and he was intent to do worse. Besides, he liked it.

God, was he ever tired.

He pressed harder, and stabs of pain laced through the murk, through the numbness in his arm. Finally, a reaction. Blood was everywhere. He had no idea just how much blood a person could hold. Phil’s head was an egg, filled with fluid and brain matter. J.J had been better, but even that paled in comparison to this moment. He’d cut a major vein, and blood was pouring from him untapped. He’d be dead in seconds, but he hoped he had a little more left in him.

Pussies died in seconds. The bastards bled out. Bastards died by inches. Jimmy Brennan had started to like that idea; a monster. Driven by nothing but self interest, black hate for everything and everyone. It was too bad he’d slit his arm apart.

He was grunting like an animal, tearing flesh from bone when the stench hit him. He was never exactly fond of the smell of blood, but he’d managed it before. Now it was unbearable, an unyielding aroma that tore through the air, making it impossible to breath. He struggled, trying to inch himself away, but his ruined arm was deadweight. He collapsed back, panting for breath, his eyelids drooping.


Jimmy pulled, feeling something snap in his shoulder. Squirming and kicking he pushed up, coughing up blood and spittle. Just as he thought he was clear the force returned and he slammed back toward the ground, his head smacking with a wet ‘thunk!’ in the puddle of gore. He coughed, letting out a slight whimper, involuntarily.

Now that? That was more then a little unsettling.

He took a ragged breath, keeping his eyes locked on his hand. His heart beat faster just looking at it- He swallowed hard, his gaze unflinching. Sleep... When was the last time he’d slept? It didn’t matter. He was busy, and he wasn’t going to die before the best part. Nothing would stop him, not the smell, not his own fucking body. His fingers seemed to tap out a nervous rhythm on the blood stained floor. Jimmy watched as they continued, independently, as if directed by something else. His curiosity grew.


Do you believe in monsters Jimmy Brennan?

Tap tap tap.

Do you believe in demons?


Because something is waiting for you Jimmy, and it’s really eager to meet you.

A piercing noise sliced through the air. His other hand came around in a jolting motion, slashing at his hand again. The blade was in it, and he cut what little flesh remained to pieces, giggling and panting with every painfully slow stroke. His stomach, long since shrunk from lack of a proper meal, shrivelled further down into his guts, as if trying to hide from his own body. He pounded down again and again, the pain minimal, each hit only bringing on waves of nausea and fatigue.


Jimmy screamed, sawing off hanging chunks of skin It came off easily enough. His skin seemed to disintegrate; the parts that remained resembled a wet rag. He brought his left hand down on the joint, hearing it crack. There was little pain and he brought his fist down again. The noise seemed to increase, reverberating in his chest.

Tap tap tap.

Fucking monster. Fucking horrific piece of shit, that’s what you are. I despite the day you were born kid, the day you took your first steps. Fuck your mother for even giving birth to you; fuck God for dreaming you up. Couldn’t save Rosa, could you? You worthless cunt. She died screaming, and you couldn’t even bother to help. You were off getting your rocks off on your own ego. Because I’m a fucking bastard isn’t that right? A fucking deranged, depraved murderer, but at least I made that choice! Ain’t that right?

Because that’s what real men do, they kill things, they kill- they kill their friends and their enemies, they kill anyone who doubts them. I’m just a man is all. Moxie. Fucking sons of bitches, they gave me MOXIE, thought that was funny right? Saw the kid who was getting picked on- give him the MOXIE. But who’s laughing now? I’m not some slimy little fuck who cries. And that’s why this is happening. Because he’s still in there, and he’s fucking terrified of what we are. Gotta make the kid shut up, gotta carve him out, make him SHUT UP. Then- then we’ll be feeling right on. Then Jimmy can go rest, yeah. Get to rest after that, that’s a good goal isn’t that right? I’ll drink to that. I’ll kill him, then I’ll sleep. I’ll slit his fucking throat, that fucking failure-



He brought his fist down. Like a thunderbolt from above, his arm seemed to split apart, the bone snapping in two at the joint. Jimmy jolted forward, the pain shooting up his body. He let out a choking scream of release, bounding upwards. His broken arm flopped unresponsively at his side as he stumbled back, slamming into a shelf, his heart pounding irregularly, the noise in his ears as loud as a gunshot.


How he was still awake, he’d never know. Jimmy let out a bubbling laugh, and began to drool. Sweat stuck to his brow, and his hair was damp with perspiration. He panted, struggling and failing to get his breath back. He looked around, examining his surroundings for the first time in what felt like hours.

Oh, he’d done it. He’d really done it. The kids at school would be so impressed-

He turned from the scene, stumbling down the aisle toward the front of the store and the double doors. It was an arduous journey, the smell hung in the air like death itself, and he recognized it now. Rotting flesh. How he’d realized it, he didn’t exactly know. It wasn’t a smell he was familiar with, but he knew it all the same. It was as if something had told him it, long ago. It was ingrained in his memory, like the alphabet, or learning to ride a bicycle. Or a song, thumping through his dying heart. He brought his sweater sleeve down, covering up his mangled right arm. The sleeve itself was damp with is blood, but the comfort value was indispensable.

“Remember that day at the rink? Thought I was the top dog, thought I’d just take some punk out, prove my worth. But they wouldn’t have that. They must have known- they must have KNOWN; he must have seen this- S’only explanation. Beat me down. Always beating me down but- but I’d always get back up.” He babbled nonsensically.

“Ain’t that something? Always get back up. ALWAYS GET BACK UP. Something to be proud of, something I had. How’d I get here?”

Jimmy coughed again, trying hard to keep what had happened off his mind. He’d been laying there for a long time, but how long he wasn’t sure. His arm was leaking blood as he walked, like a fucking trail of bread crumbs. He tried to stymie it at first, but soon gave up, laughing at himself for making the effort. If he was going to die soon, he’d leave his mark. He’d bleed until the very end, like a stuck piggy. His gun was laying next to the register, he grabbed it, holding it with his left hand, still coated in his own gore. With seemingly the last of his strength he collapsed against the window, sliding down it, leaving a bloody smear from his ruined right arm. He gave a shuddering breath, his breath steaming up the glass.

Cold. He felt fucking cold. No one had told him it would be cold. But then again, he’d never given them the chance. He grinned again, savouring the memory.

Phillip, choking on the sand. The look in his eyes, second before that stick came down, splitting his face in two. Suddenly, in an instant, his face had looked all wrong. Jimmy let out a nervous chuckle.

It was night outside. There was wind, but precious little rain. Darker then he’d ever thought possible, it seemed as if the surrounding forest was nothing more then varying shades of grey and black. The town was in the other direction, but Jimmy knew there wouldn’t be much variation there. It wasn’t like the town had any power.

“Wake up Jimmy,” He said absentmindedly, looking above him. His words came out slurred, but he took no heed. Spots were dancing before his eyes.

The lights were on, dim, but on. It illuminated the ground around the store for a few paces, but nothing more. Jimmy coughed again and stared out into the dark.

“Clint fucking Eastwood. John fucking Wayne. Whatever it took, least I had them at my back. I’m really them. I don’t need to fake it anymore, do I? Voice alone- presence alone. I’m a legend now. They’ll run when they hear me. Run, not laugh. Why did I ever want anything more?”

He stared down at his ruined arm, his soaked shirt. The metal of the gun was cool against his flesh.

“I hate them.” His voice cracked, a whimper, barely intelligible. “Die, that’s what they’ll do. They’ll go fucking die- and I’ll go it alone. I’ll live alone, and I won’t have to hear their bullshit and lies. I won’t have to worry about loosing any more girls- Heh… or any more blood. They’ll die, and I can listen to nothing for awhile.”

I just wanted to win, for once in my life. I just wanted to feel like a winner.

Something moved. His eyes narrowed, scanning the brush. A dark shape, out of the corner of his eye. Approaching the store. Slowly and carefully he raised up the barrel of the shotgun, tapping on the window. The sound echoed through the empty store.

For the first time Jimmy felt a sharp pang of loneliness and anxiety shoot through him.

He swung around, scanning the aisle. His tomb was silent.

Nothing. No- there had been something out there. But it had moved. Whatever it was, it was on the move. Jimmy backed away from the window, raising his shotgun.

The lights flickered. Jimmy coughed again, watching blankly as bloody drool laced down the front of his shirt. Finally, a noise cut through. His head snapped around, looking toward the ceiling. Static, from the cameras. He groaned and cursed under his breath, his eyes darting around the room. A song rose in his chest, and he began to hum to himself, off beat and far too fast, his fear building.

Whatever it was, it was already inside.

Raindrops on the windows. A storm, years in the making. For the first time in the game, Jimmy felt hunted. There was a predator was waiting to drop out of the shadows, like some cheap jump scare in a slasher film. Jimmy blinked, sorting through the haze before him. His eyes darted around the room, growing unfocused. Thunder boomed overhead. Stepping away from the window, Jimmy went back toward the aisles.

“Oh, so you’re the good guy Jimmy? You’re the good guy? Well make it work. Good guys don’t die in the dark.”

Jimmy held his ruined right arm close to him, advancing slowly. He slowed his breathing, listening… There was something there, hidden below the cracking static of the cameras and his own nervous and sporadic humming. Breathing.

His heart skipped and he halted.

Something else was breathing.

That wouldn’t do at all.

Jimmy turned the corner, peering into the shadows. There was nothing towards the back of the store. The freezers were all smashed from earlier, either from well placed kicks or from his jabs from his fists and head. He advanced slow towards the freezer doors, a shiver running down his spine.

“Shut up you spineless fuck.” He muttered, staring into the reflection.

He saw himself, bruised and battered, and forced a smile across his face. His right arm hung limply at his side, his sweater now damp with blood. He rocked back and forth precariously, looking himself up and down.

The figure behind him was covered in black and blue bruises, her knees scraped to the bone, devoid of skin and matted with dirt. She was stripped naked and her head came forward ever so slightly, giving the appearance of being superimposed upon her body. Her blond hair was stained red with gore, sagging ever so slightly at the side, indicating massive blunt force trauma. Her eyes were gone, blackened pits, the skin surrounding it cracked and leaking pus. Her mouth hung ever so slightly agape, a thin trickle of blood lacing down her chin, dribbling down onto the floor in front of her. The digits on her hands were broken, snapped back at awkward and impossible angles.

He looked up at her, staring into the black pits. There was something there, recognition. A chill swept through him as the creature cocked its head, staring at him. He didn’t dare turn around. Waves of raw emotion seemed to sweep out from it. Anger. Sadness. Terror. Hate.

So much hate. Disgust at existence, disgust towards him.

How dare he stand there, existing.

“They deserved it, didn’t they? And it’s all meant to happen- Phil and J.J. It was going to happen like that. If not me, God would have found someone else, right? So there isn’t really a choice in the matter. Isn’t your fault you killed them. Isn’t your fault you enjoyed it.”

He didn’t take his eyes off her. Fear ran through his words but it didn’t make a move. His gaze finally flickered down toward his gun. No time, he’d never get a shot off. He swallowed hard, fog seeming to settle in around him, muffling even his thundering heartbeat.

Rosa took a step forward.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” He said his voice shaky and cracking. He was back in the woods, running blind and scared. Just a scared little boy, begging to be taken seriously, praying he’d become a monster.

The static was the only noise bleeding through, over his muffled humming, over his heartbeat and heavy breathing. Sweat dripped down his face, and he didn’t blink, didn’t dare take his eyes off again. Finally, anger laced through him, and he exploded, screaming and smashing the silence to pieces-


Impossibly fast, the creature was rushing towards him, the mouth unhinging, widening to an impossible size. He spun, letting out a guttural war cry, pulling the trigger. The gun kicked in his hands as the broken hands flew into his chest, slamming him up against the shattered freezer, through it as muscles broke apart and bones snapped.

His rage turned into cold fear as the creature began to rip at his face, tearing chunk of flesh apart, the jaw swinging up and down as swift as lightening.

She’s eating me. She’s going to fucking eat me-

Jimmy stuck his hands out, trying desperately to shove the creature away. He could feel her hands tightening around his neck, cutting off his screams, throttling him, slamming his head back again and again into the shelf, something cracking-

A wall of noise, blowing through the speakers, uttering guttural curses in countless languages. Blood, his own blood, blinding him, the horrific realization that he his hands were but bloody stumps now, torn to shreds in the frenzied assault. His vocal chords breaking apart, his stinking guts spilling out onto the floor and his pathetic and laughable realization that he couldn’t even hold them in with stumps for hands-

Noise, breaking his ear drums. His screams of fear, and flashes of a crimson drenched Rosa, hacking and biting through the dark, the noise, never stopping, his head smashing open, the bitter realization that he’d soiled himself again, his legs kicking spastically, coming up to try to protect his torn belly, a single word, again and again over the chaos, becoming increasingly garbled and incoherent-



Suddenly he was spinning forward, ground rushing up to meet him. There was a crunching noise and he realized his nose was sideways. He scrambled across the ground, slipping in his own blood and bile, trying to halt the strand of intestines snaking out of his gut with shocking speed.

Something grabbed at his leg, but he couldn’t yell- a bubbling plea escaped his lips as he was dragged down the aisle, his world a blur of red and black, the noise ripping through his cracked head refusing to halt. He wasn’t done. Bastards died by inches.

He was twisted up, thrown onto his back. His head lolled as the figure slowly stepped above him, something glinting in the dark, his gun, his shotgun.

Through everything he managed a gurgling chuckle as Rosa bent down on his chest, forcing the gun through his lips, the barrel pressed against the back of his throat. His body twitched spastically. He coughed, struggling to stay awake, struggling to breath. He convulsed on the floor for a minute longer, Rosa keeping the gun jammed down his throat, blackened sockets staring accusingly down upon him.

I didn’t save you. So I die by inches. Only fair. Only way out, for a failure like me. Failure. I’m a failure, I’m a COWARD. I’m a liar and a horrifying little fucktard, and I deserve every FUCKING blow. Just wait till they get it a turn. Oh just wait-

As if reading his thoughts Rosa forced the gun deeper down his throat-


Violently he threw up, nearly choking on the watery puke. He coughed again and again, swallowing some, the barrel still pressed against the back of his throat. Tears were in his eyes as he looked up toward the girl hovering above him.

Nothing left. Nothing left but hate. I like you girl. I really like you. And I think I could like me too, with time.

A thought came to him, sudden and unwanted. He started to laugh, every unwanted motion just intensifying his agony. The gun barrel left his mouth, hovering above, before pressing up against his head.

Jimmy stared up at Rosa with wild eyes, looking far more like an animal then a man. There was raw hate in his heart, his sole driving force. Everything else could wait. Now, all that mattered was his vengeance. Jimmy had been the first to die, and if he was going to make it out alive, he’d have to step up his game.

No one gets out alive.

He’d never been so happy in his life.

Bring it on world. I’ll be your worst fucking nightmare.

“Clean up on aisle three!” He hollered at the top of his shattered lungs, the words dissolving into a spat of crazed laughter. There was no answer, just a click from above.

There was a flash from above, a terrific rolling boom he knew all too well. Jimmy screamed once more with all he had, before the dark finally took him.
Edited by Little Boy, Jun 26 2011, 10:44 PM.
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