Note from a story

This little story I started working on is essentially about a girl who is so badly tormented by a member of her family that she becomes obsessed with her hatred and the images of his suffering. This is a note she writes in her notebook.

Dear Notebook,


Robert just whipped Chris’s ass bloody with a belt because he threw another one of his screaming, crying tantrums. This time it was over some video game. He broke a vase Robert’s dead mom made for him when he was a boy. After that, Chris said some horrible things to Robert. But, as always, Patricia caved and gave the little bastard what he wants. Now, they’re on their way to the store to get him his video game, because they claim he needs something to work his mind because it’s full of all these great ideas, and he’s so brilliant and wonderful. I don’t know where she gets this shit from. I don’t know if she really believes it. But, Chris isn’t smart or great. He’s a dumbass moron who can hardly spell, can’t add or multiply, and reads slower than old turtles have sex. Honestly, I hope that the car gets smashed by a semi. Not on Patricia’s side, though. Even though I lost some respect for her tonight, I still love her. Even if she is blinded to the Hell spawn she gave birth to. But, I hope a semi rolls over Chris, slowly. Slow enough so he can feel every sensation of his fragile little body being crushed. Starting at his legs, then that precious belly of his, so he can taste his insides as they come up to choke him, then that gross face of his, before finally turning that supposedly great brain of his into nothing but a stringy mush clinging to the tread of the tires. Chris deserves to be reduced to nothing more than a smelly, grotesque, human-splatter mush-pile on the road. He doesn’t deserve to have his body intact, but he should be erased from existence completely. After the semi squashes his body into unrecognizable street slush, they can just come and wash and scrape it off the street and let it drain down into the sewers, where that little piece of rat shit belongs to spend eternity. The only problem I’d have, if it happened, is that I wasn’t there to witness it, so I could watch him thrash in agony as he explodes, and hear the sound of his bloated body pop like a cockroach. I hate him so much.


Sorry for being so harsh, Notebook, but you know how damn evil he has been to me. Besides, that’s what you’re here for, right?


2 thoughts on “Note from a story

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