Hello there fellas!
It has been a rather long time since my last scribble, do excuse me for that (who the hell am I talking to, no one reads this load of shit anyways). Aaaaanywhore, here's something I created for my English class since for once we got to write what ever we wanted.
So here it is, I present to you the latest addition to this remarkable collection of Stories from the Mute stories:
A Stories from the Mute story Hank
Written by Wille Holopainen
A slight sound woke me up, and when
I opened my eyes, I was looking at the face of a lion. I never really
understood my cousin’s fascination to taxidermy. And I certainly do not
understand why anyone would hang a head of a lion on the ceiling.
My
head hurt like hell. It was the whiskey. Ahh whiskey: the cause of (and
solution to) all of life’s problems. Although in my defense I must say that I
needed that liquid courage in order to accept my cousin’s invitation to visit
him. In his manor. In Scotland. During the winter.
“Swell
now, how about that Charleston!?” Those were the words that my cousin bellowed,
accompanied by a horrible Charleston piece from The Boyfriend. God awful stuff.
On top of all that, it was 6.00 am. I was shivering and not only due to the
freezing temperature of 16 degrees Celsius INSIDE, but also because of sheer
rage. “Shut the fuck up you little prick, I’m hungover!” I shouted from the top
of my lungs. “Wow, there is absolutely no reason to get yer bollocks in a twist
mate” said that pretentious bozo. I was getting even more pissed: “Hank, stop
that now, would ya? You’re not even British for god’s sakes!” I was vacillating
whether I’d get out of the bed and rip his tongue out or just stay in bed and
fall back to sleep. I did neither and just rolled about in my bed, wishing my
cousin would perish.
When
I finally got downstairs for breakfast it was already 7.30 am. Hank was sitting
in the library, sipping tea and reading The Guardian. Unfortunately I was
forced to walk through there, which gave Hank a golden opportunity to push my
nerves little closer to the edge of snapping. “Looking a little shaky, eh?” I
glared at him with a look that could vaporize a lake like a flame vaporizes
moisture. Yet he just kept going: “Shouldn’t have had that last Laphroaig. I
think you ought to stick with the carrot juice, you know, like me. You naughty
lad”.
This
same pattern repeatedly haunted me throughout the whole day and every single
time he opened his mouth I wanted to stick a bundle of dynamite up his “arse”, light it up and enjoy the gory
fireworks.
When
it was tome for dinner I had had it. It was my time to act on this nonsense. We
were supposed to eat pot roast, but we never actually got to that point in out
attempt to satisfy our need for nutrition. Mainly because I had another
satisfaction to fulfill. I was sitting at the other end of the table, next to
the meat and there just so conveniently happened to be a bulky chef’s knife
beside my left hand. With fingers tinkling from excitement I grabbed the knife
and started to the other side of the seven-meter table, tossing the knife from
one hand to another. I walked up to Hank, greeted him politely and stabbed him
in the thigh. It felt wonderful.
So
there I was twenty minutes later. There was also Hank, although he was tied up,
so to speak. I was equipped with a variety of power tools from the garage and
an admirably large collection of blades. I liked blades. And there was Hank.
Hank, Hank, Hank. I hated his guts, so I figured I might just pull them out.
That way they perhaps would stop bothering me.
Hank
was not awake, so I decided to put some more life to him by sticking my index
finger to his fresh wound. Surprisingly it worked. Hank was screaming, which
sounded more like a Chihuahua trying to poop out a saw. I liked it.
The
next few hours passed like on wings as I enjoyed the last agonizing moments of
Hank’s pathetic life. To feel how his fingernails gave in under the force of my
pliers was exquisite. To feel how he was fighting me when I dipped his hands in
acid. To feel him biting his lip when I smashed his knee caps. At one point
Hank pulled himself together so we could have a little chat. “Why are you doing
this? Why can’t you just kill me already?” I found that plea for mercy a bit
too cliché, so I decided to torture him a little more. But first I wanted to
finish the chat. “Well, mainly because you irritate me way too much, which
means that just slaughtering you would not be satisfying enough. Slaughtering…
Slaughter… I like that word, but not the meaning. Slaughter…” I got lost in my
thoughts as I let the word dwell in my mouth. I tasted it. I let it take over
my mind. It is a wonderful word; I just don’t like the meaning.
So
as I was saying, time flew. It was a shame to end it all, but Hank just
couldn’t keep up. Although I am a cruel man, I am respectful in certain
matters, so I placed Hank, and the parts that were more or less detached from
his torso, into a chest I found from the library. I took the chest to the
backyard and then I took a leak on it, poured some gasoline and, after lighting
my Churchill piccolo cigar, tossed the lighter on it. I think it is better for
a man to be cremated rather than being eaten by worms.
I
went up to the bedroom and watched the flames from the window. I had called the
police earlier and when I heard the sirens I took a long and enjoyable gulp
from the bottle of 28 years old Laphroaig I had opened. When the warm and fuzzy
feeling from the whiskey running down my throat, I took a moment to think what
I had done and I felt… proud. I felt proud for taking responsibility for my
acts. I also felt peaceful and tranquil. I had a long draw from my cigar and I
let my head drop back. That’s when I saw it: the head of a lion, hanging where
it had hung all the time, except that now it had a neighbor. Hank.
