FICTIONAL FRIGHTS: Jerry Smith’s “I’M TIRED OF DYING (Who killed me?!)”

jerrymanWell, I figure since we’ve been able to kick off our FICTIONAL FRIGHTS series with two very entertaining short stories, courtesy of Sean Keller and David Martin, that it was time for me to throw my hat into the ring, so to speak. The reason I started FICTIONAL FRIGHTS, was to give writers an outlet to showcase their talents, and though I’m far from one of those guys when it comes to talent, I’ve got a few stories that I’ve been dying to share with you fright fanatics.

So, sit back, pull up your laptop or sit at your PC, and give “I’m Tired of Dying” a read. It’s a story that I’ve been sitting on for quite some time, and what better way to share it than on here, and what better time, than now? I hope you all enjoy it.

*Warning: I don’t condone drug use or murdering people, just sayin…NSFW. 


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I’m Tired of Dying (WHO KILLED ME?!)

I’ve been laying here, in a warm pool of blood for what seems like days, but I’m pretty sure we’re still in a matter of minutes since whatever got me here, well,..whoever got me here. My mind keeps spinning and I honestly have no idea how I got here. Flashes come and go, and given the life I tend to lead and my wonderfully responsible decisions, I really have no idea whether I did this to myself or someone else did this to me. Did I kill myself?, Did I really go through with it this time? God, I’ve tried so many times, but was this the time I just DID it, or did I just piss off the wrong person? Maybe I drank their beer, did their coke or hell, I don’t know, maybe I fucked their girlfriend/wife? I never have been great at being a good guy, but holy shit, it’s so unclear right now.

Wait wait wait,.let’s see..
I think I remember..a face?
yeah, that’s it, a face. A beautiful one. Long hair, beautiful smile, eyes that look like the ocean.

I would smile at the thought of her right now, if I could only move my face..if I had a face still. Whoever DID this to me sure did it good. Shot me right in the face, a blast that knocked me back. Goddammit, who DID THIS to me?! Remember, just remember…

Oh shit, here it comes. A swarm of recollection, a memory maybe? Yeah, a memory. I’m running down the alley, scared as shit. Why am I running in this one? My feet and legs feel like 100 pound weights are attached to them, and I feel high as fuck right now. What am I on? This isn’t the typical Norco painkiller high, the “talk fast and feel a little dizzy” feeling I usually go for. No, I think this might be something more in the pick me up area of pharmaceuticals. It would probably be safe to say that in this memory, there HAS to be a lot of cocaine involved.

Ok, So I remember that much. I was running from something, while loaded on something. Great job, idiot. You’re sitting here in a pool of blood, with half of your face missing, dying…and you remember running?! Wait..that running was years ago, fuck. Wrong memory. We’re really not going to solve shit with these kind of memories. I need something else. Think…just fucking think.

Sheets, silk sheets to be exact, those I remember. The way her breasts felt and how her neck had somewhat of a salty taste to it. Who is this, the girl from my earlier memory? It felt so good being next to her, to be holding her, tasting her, inside of her. This memory is a good one, I’d like to to stay here..

“I know you’re afraid of what we could become, but I won’t hurt you, I promise”. I said that, I’m sure of that.
“It’s not you that I’m afraid of, it’s me, I’m afraid of hurting you.”
“It’s worth the risk.”
“I love being with you, we have fun, but I don’t know how much of myself I can offer up to you, without you getting hurt.”
“Why do you keep talking about hurting me?, if you are afraid of hurting me, it’s easy: don’t hurt me”.
“It’s not that easy.”
“How is it not?”
“It’s…complicated”.
“Look, I like you, you like me, we have fun, right?”
“Yeah, a lot of fun, I love being around you.”
“Then just go with it. I’m not in need of much, just being near you is fine by me…oh, and one more thing: do you want some more coke?”

Our nights were filled with sex, drugs and the best of times. Strolling down streets, walking down Hollywood Blvd., admiring the dirty yet beautiful appearance of this monumentally fucked up and addictive city. Hand in hand, we made our way past the street preachers, past the homeless people just looking for a place to sleep. She’d get cat calls and I didn’t have to pull someone out of their car window and stomp on their face, because this girl was one of the biggest badasses I knew…it was perfect.It was a good couple of months.

My head is so dizzy, I can see the blood pouring out…but man, hold the fuck onto this one…

We ate some of the best tacos in the world, somewhere on Hollywood, I remember that. Tacos, then going to an apartment? Yeah, her “friend’s” apartment. I can recall the loud indie music, blasting out of the closed windows, god that stuff is fucking awful. Ex-hardcore or punk kids discovering a banjo and…wait, stay on course man, who cares about indie bands, you’re fucking dying, idiot. Ok, so yes, the apartment. We were let in, and what was happening in the living room is almost reason enough for me to pull my half face up and go for round two, if only that was an option.
The living room was full of young party-goers, slamming beers, fucking each other against the living room walls, smoking pot and doing lines of coke off of each other, all while god knows what else was happening. Wait, I remember exactly what was happening. As we walked in, they all turned and looked at us, and..

Fuck, I can hear someone in the room with me. Should I try to move? Should I? I’ll just stay here, face turned to the side, blood still oozing out of my gunshot blast. Play dead bud, we’ll get through and eventually, after this memory finally connects to why I’m here, we can go to hell together, finally.

After doing what I recall being enough cocaine to kill a horse, and slamming a whole bottle of tequila together, she and I made our way to one of the only two rooms in the entire apartment, hoping it was vacant.
“Is anybody in here?” she asked, knocking on the door.
“Yeah, fuck off!” whoever was inside said quite pleasantly (I’m kidding, it was a prickish yell..why would it be pleasant people, c’mon..).

And that’s when she opened the door, ran up to the naked couple still in the middle of having quite the session of party fucking, and pulled a knife on them.

“You have ten seconds to get the fuck out of here.”
..and they didn’t even take seven of those seconds to grab their clothes and run out.

“Shut the door, let’s have some fun,” she said to me. I like to listen, especially when there is a gorgeous woman in front of me. Door locked, four second later, I’m on the bed, ready for whatever she has in mind.

“Undo your shirt,” she requested, and the shirt was unbuttoned with haste.
“Wanna do something crazy?”
Who was I to deny some crazy fun?
“Yeah, of course.”

She pulled her knife out, and put it to my chest.

“Will you bleed for me?”, she asked.
“Yes.”
“How much are you willing to give?”
“Enough to satisfy you.”
“Then close your eyes”, she said. An eerie tone in her voice, but I was still high and drunk as much as anyone could possibly be without dying (the irony), so I was game.

..and then, I passed out.

MOTHERFUCKER! I’m fading. Remember what happened, REMEMBER YOU DYING PIECE OF SHIT, REMEMBER!! I can hear the footsteps around me. WHO FUCKING KILLED ME?! Two voices began to fill the air but my ears couldn’t decipher much.
“This one is going to be hard to clean up…”
“Well, yeah, shooting the fucker in the face isn’t typically part of it.”
“Yeah, but you were there, he was a beautiful fucking monster..”
“A beautiful monster?”
“Yes, he was the best one yet”.

I was a monster? What does that even mean? I can feel this “thing”, this darkening of everything around me..this is it, I’m dying. I’m dying without knowing what happened, and that’s it for me, I’ll be nothing. Just another body, buried or hidden somewhere for someone to find. Another murder, fuck, that’s how it ends for me? I really thought I’d go out a little bett…wait…one more memory…

I opened my eyes, my long-sleeved shirt unbuttoned. Candlelight filled the room, in a creepy and ominous way, this was odd. She stood above me with her knife and behind her…stood four hooded figures, their faces blurred by my drug and booze-clouded vision.

“What is all of this?”
“You said that you would bleed for me”, she replied.
“Is this a joke?”, of course it had to be, right?

But then she stabbed me in the stomach. Her blade pushed through my skin and flesh and right into me. She let go of the blade and took a single step back.
Before I had a chance to scream, all four hooded figures were above me, each one holding a knife of their own.

“I don’t want to die.”

They all began stabbing me, my head getting even cloudier than it was after the first stab.

I grabbed her knife and did what I could, stabbing back. I cut two of their throats, their blood gushing out, onto the bed and onto me. One of the remaining two stabbed at me, the blade going completely through my hand.

This isn’t how I wanted to go out, I kept stabbing with my right hand, shoving my knife directly into the eye of one of them and then stabbing the last one in the neck.

The bed, walls and floor were covered in blood, the candles still illuminating the room. I struggled to get up, holding my stomach with one hand and with a knife stuck completely into the other hand. I didn’t have enough energy to take it out.

I stumbled into the hallway, into where the party was just a mere fifteen or so minutes before, but everyone was gone. Stumbling through the hallway, I looked down, and saw..my intestines were fighting to come out. Holding them in, I continued walking, until I came to the living room wall, and as I stumbled across the corner, all that I heard was a gunshot. My vision went black and as I fell down, I saw her…holding the gun.

Goddamn. That’s how it ends. With my intestines pouring out and one gorgeous woman blasting half of my face off. Life sure is a bitch, right?


We hope you liked this weird story, and we’ll have another story coming later this week, so keep on reading, we’ve got some cool people submitting stories of their own. Until then, have a great one, you fright fanatics!-Jerry

 

Comments
2 Responses to “FICTIONAL FRIGHTS: Jerry Smith’s “I’M TIRED OF DYING (Who killed me?!)””
  1. Danni Winn says:

    Really dug it…….flows effortlessly just like those conversations you hold with yourself in your head. Great story.

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