#Fake Identities with a Fowling Piece | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

albrightmcintosh7 · 2 years

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stevensonthestrup88 · 2 years

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gibsongeisler45 · 2 years

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Online Shopping For Fashion, Imitation, Synthetic Jewellery For Women

A 1' 2 reales Replica Atocha coin with a big shackle bail. A replica Atocha is set into a clean extensive bezel frame with a shackle bail. A 4 Reales Replica Atocha coin is in a novel 1 5/8" setting. https://skel.io/replica-designer-belts/hermes-belts-replica.html The inside setting... It is true that many individuals do not quite know why fake watches are unlawful, or that they are illegal. The downside with the FHH's campaign of "Fake Watches Are For Fake People" is that the message totally skews what is mistaken with fake watches. Fake watches are a poor buy determination as a end result of they are illegal and because they're often crap. Queen Elizabeth will often lend jewelry in her collection to other members of the royal household for extended intervals of time. Evoke the timeless beauty of a freshly picked rose with this beautiful lariat necklace from Danai. A pure white blossom is placed in blue dye, which travels up the stem to the petals and highlights... Coral at Menjangan reveals its pearl treasure in the extraordinary design of this necklace. Each piece of knickknack is handmade by master artisans from historic designs - every earring shaped, detailed and embellished utilizing the identical age-old strategies as have goldsmiths and lapidaries through the ages. As excessive as "actual" watch prices are, there is a quality that comes with them when it comes to the metal, the movements, dials, straps, and the bracelets that merely can't be matched through low-cost alternatives. Luxury watches price a lot to make, that is a simple market truth. If you want to turn out to be a reseller of our products, whether it is domestically, in your hair salon or spa or local jewelry store, we might love to hear from you. There is a legal version of a duplicate watch and it's referred to as an "homage." A number of small web communities and boards are devoted to producing, reviewing, and discussing homage watches. wikipedia belt These are timepieces produced to be as similar as possible to typically historic watches, however the protected names and logos aren't reproduced. Our high-end replica jewelry is made with the finest supplies and craftsmanship to make you feel like one million bucks. We offer kinds that can't be found at odd mall stores, all at prices that will make you love to buy many times. Our unique number of replica jewelry has something for any event, or simply add an additional sparkle to your on a daily basis type. From the elegant necklaces of the Renaissance to iron and stone from earlier instances, our authentic items are the perfect praise for costumes in addition to daily wear. Replica or recreated items are designed as an authentic-looking duplicate. Such fowl representations can be found fairly often on this period and have been widespread within the Germanic space. The filigree Viking Age jewelry in the shape of ravens is made according to an historical find from Jaroslav in Russia dates again to the tenth century. The chook brooch in all probability represents a raven, which have often been discussed within the Iron Age and Viking Age in art and jewellery as a companion of the god Odin.

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magenetratranslations · 3 years

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youtube

Here is this week’s upload! This time, a very new song from a producer that definitely deserves some more attention. We just have a few more collaborations to get through, and after that we will be holding another raffle!

Lyrics:

たかが百四十字噛んでもないのに長い百四十時間は鬱の中　嗚呼 It’s merely 140 characters* and I barely even stuttered, but a long 140 hours have been spent depressed, argh

くだらねぇさ　未来(さき)もねぇさ莫迦な小鳥だと笑えばいい “It’s all worthless,” “there’s no future in it” Yea sure, why don’t you mock the dumb little bird

暴言ばっか渋滞で絶対正義「私」肯定なんか見つかんねぇよ　嫌になるぜ好き勝手振舞って博愛主義なピエロさうっせえうっせえ口を「塞ぐぞ？」 The place is packed with offensive words “I” am always in the right You ain’t finding validation here, god I hate it all Acting as you please, you’re all philanthropic clowns I’ll shut up, shut up that mouth “literally”

過去を消したら十字架に呪われて情緒は嘘だらけ腐る夜中の銃時　壁は解かれない Delete the past and you’ll be bearing a cross, painting your emotions with lies At rotten gun (ten)** o’clock in the night, the wall still blocks you off

負けの連鎖　分からねぇさなのになぜかまた舞い戻る It’s a negative chain reaction, I don’t get it Yet we still come fluttering back

夢追い続け　頑張れば笑われ叶えば妬まれ　嫌になるぜ好き勝手振舞ってプレゼントは火傷さ痛ってぇ痛ってぇ　逃げ場なんかない You’ll be laughed at if you chase your dreams and try your best Then once it comes true you’re resented, god I hate it all Act as you please and you’ll be gifted a burn *** Ow, ow, fuck there’s nowhere to escape to

「何の為に？」 “For what purpose?”

安全圏の信奉者　知らぬ間カタマリ The worshipers have gathered up in their safe place before you knew it

名声ばっか青天井　少数見下されて転生だって有効なんか　嫌になるぜ好き勝手振舞って始めたはずのライフさ痛ってぇ痛ってぇ　すでに…「死にかけなんだよ」　 Only your fame skyrockets while the minority gets looked down upon Oh, you’re even allowed to reincarnate too, god I hate it all Acting as you please, that's supposed to be how you came to begin this life but Ow, ow, fuck can’t you see I’m already “on the verge of dying” ________________________________________________________________ Translation Notes: Fowling Piece is a shotgun that was used for bird hunting *140 characters is the maximum character count for a Japanese tweet **Gun and Ten are pronounced the same in Japanese so the lyric says Gun ***A burn most likely from getting flamed online

#vocaloid #SeaWind Sun #Flower #鳥銃擬我 #Fake Identities with a Fowling Piece #translation

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brunboel16 · 2 years

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benson11benson · 2 years

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theunseeliemperoress · 7 years

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Nanowrimo Day 1: Don’t take sweets from number 36.

I was supposed to write this on Halloween but I never got round to it so here you go.

(It's pretty long) Word count: 2′078

Don’t take sweets from number 36. That’s what all the grownups would say every year at Halloween. Number 36 is where the Pratt’s live. Or at least everyone thinks they live. No one’s seen them for years. The windows are so covered in grime no one can see through and the garden path is so covered in weeds it is hidden from sight. All year long the door is firmly locked only to be opened on Halloween.

Meint, Tzivah and Melissa had all grown up hearing that same phrase every year. It was honestly getting tired, especially as whenever they asked why their parent’s wouldn’t answer. In fact none of the grownups would say anything about it. Which lead to kids coming up with their own ideas of why they were meant to stay away from house 36. Some said the Pratt’s poisoned their sweets. Others say they died and their ghosts continue to haunt their old house. The three friends were determined to find out the truth, and this year they would. This was the first year they were old enough to go Trick or Treating without their parents. They all met at Meint’s house where their parents were planning on spending the evening drinking and talking while they waited for the kids to return. At 5:46pm the three said goodbye to their parents and left. Melissa was wearing a blouse and a dark skirt and vampire fangs, with a bit of fake blood dribbling down her cheek. Meint had put even less effort into his costume. Wearing his own clothes, his older brothers worn bomber jacket and one of those plain looking mask they sell for children to decorate. He felt he was a little too old for Halloween and was only coming along because he knew where they were going. Tzivah had put the most effort into his costume. While the clothes were nothing special, just jeans and a torn over sized jumper with his hiking boots. He had gotten his stepsister, who was a makeup artist for the local theatre group, to do his makeup. It had taken all day but when she was done it looked horrifying. She had made it look as if his mouth had been carved into a one sidded smile and added a fake scar over his right eye. She had even given him a coloured contact lens from her collection which made that eye look dead. Lastly she painted burn scars on the left side of his body. Staring at his neck and shoulder and ending at his hand and upper back. They started walking down the street knocking on any houses that were decorated; they had learnt not to bother with undecorated houses. A few people slammed the door in their faces when they saw three teenagers standing on their doorstep though most were friendly. Eventually they reached number 36. For what seemed like forever the three stood staring at the front door not daring to approach. ‘So...’ Meint began. ‘Who wants to knock?’ The other two took a rather exaggerated step backwards. ‘Seriously?’ ‘Well you did ask.’ Tzivah signed. Melissa nodded in agreement. Meint rolled his eyes, not that they could see behind his mask, and turned to face the house again. He took a deep breath and began to make his way up the path. Taking large exaggerated steps to avoid tripping over the plants that caked the paving slabs. When he reached the front door he looked back to see his two friends were close behind. Taking a deep breath he raised his hand and began knocking, nothing. ‘Try opening it.’ Tzivah signed. ‘Thanks genius. I was going to start looking for a hidden panel.’ Tzivah stuck out his tongue. ‘Boys.’ Melissa warned. Meint reached for the handle and twisted it. There was a loud click as it swung open with ease. He looked back at the other two before stepping inside, taking care not to step on any rotting floor boards that might give way beneath them. The walls were caked in mould and the furniture sat caked in dust, faces stared back at them through cobwebs that had been spun over photo frames. ‘Hello.’ Melissa called. There was no response. Meint gestured for them to follow him and made his way down the hall. They crept into the first room. A decent sized living room with two armchairs facing a slightly old fashioned TV set. In the corner by the window was an old sewing machine, a piece of fabric still sat under the needle, the pattern completely lost to time. ‘Nothing.’ Melissa said. The boys nodded in agreement. They moved on to the next room. It was a kitchen with a small table and two chairs sat in the middle. A bowl sat in the middle of the table filled with a fowl smelling liquid they knew was rotten fruit. ‘Check the fridge.’ Tzivah signed. Meint walked over to the fridge and pulled it open, only to jump back when the smell or rotting meat hit his nose. It was all he could do not to vomit on the spot. ‘Gross!’ Melissa shrieked. ‘Well what did you expect?’ Meint muttered. The other two giggled nervously. ‘Look this is stupid let’s go.’ Tzivah shook his head. ‘We should check upstairs.’ Tzivah signed. ‘We might find some corpses.’ Melissa pulled a face. ‘You’re gross Tzivah Fine we’ll check upstairs. Then we’re leaving.’ The other two nodded and they headed up the stairs. The first door opened into a bathroom, not very interesting, so they moved on to the next room. ‘Nursery.’ Melissa gasped when she saw what was in the room. It was indeed a nursery. Meint’s torch light fell across a wooden cradle that sat in the middle of the room. He moved it to illuminate a shelf full of stuffed toys and figurines. In the corner of the room sat a large grey teddy almost as big as them, though they suspected it used to be white. Tzivah stepped into the room and made his way over to the cradle. Peering inside he could see the blankets were placed neatly, the name Miela sewn into the bottom of the blanket in flowery lettering. He was about to reach in for the teddy, that lay on its face on the pillow when he heard a noise. Quickly he turned to his left towards the noise, his friends doing the same. They all stared as a infants toy lit up and began to play a tune similar to Mary, Mary quite contrary, if the nursery rhyme was played at half speed by someone playing an instrument designed to mock a xylophones pleasant tones. ‘Look.’ Melissa gasped pointing to the cradle. Tzivah jumped back in horror when he saw it was moving, rocking from side to side. Not in as if he’d knocked it, but as if someone had a hand on it and was gently moving in side to side. He began to walk backwards hurriedly. Creak! He froze. There was a pause before he a sound like a crying infant filled the room. He turned to face his friends who looked at him with identical expressions of horror. The expression only grew when they heard movement from the next room. Without missing a beat the three of them bolted down the stairs. Tzivah raced after his friends out the front door. He had nearly got away when he found himself flying through the air before smacking his face on the ground. He looked up to see his friends had gone. ‘Oh dear are you ok?’ He looked around to see an elderly lady standing in the doorway. ‘Oh I hope we didn’t scare you kids too badly.’ She smiled at him. ‘Here you dropped your sweets.’ She held out his bucket of sweets. ‘Thanks’ he signed cautiously making his way over to her. ‘Oh dear can you not hear?’ she asked. He shook his head and tapped his lips. ‘Oh you’re mute.’ Tzivah nodded. ‘Well I hope your friends will be ok. We pull this little prank every year though no one’s reacted as badly as you three.’ He took the bucket and gave her a thumbs up, hoping she’d understand what it meant. She walked back into her house closing the door behind her as he made his way back down the path, this time a little more cautiously. Once he was through the front gate he bolted down the street to catch up with his friends. It didn’t take him long to find them. ‘Where have you been?’ Mient half asked half demanded. ‘Worried.’ Melissa added in agreement. Tzivah explained everything to them. ‘You mean this whole thing was a prank by two old people.’ ‘Seems so.’ Mient let out a groan of exasperation. ‘So it was all for nothing.’ ‘No.’ Melissa cried. ‘Good scare.’ The two boys grinned, it was a good scare. ‘Wonder how they did it?’ Tzivah signed. The others shrugged they had no clue.

That same evening after his dad had walked him home Tzivah sat in the living room counting out his sweets. He had a couple of packets of Haribo, some lollypops, a chocolate bar, a lozenge for some weird reason, a couple of candy bracelets and two red sweets in semi transparent wrapping, the kind grannies seem to carry around despite the fact you never see them in the shops. Weird he thought, I don’t remember getting these. They must be from the Pratt’s. He unwrapped one and popped it in his mouth. They were his favourites after all. As he sucked he began to feel dizzy. Wow I’m more tired than I thought. He stood up and headed for the door. ‘You ok Ziv?’ his older half brother asked. ‘Yeah.’ He signed. ‘Just going to bed.’ ‘Ok cool. Hey can I have your candy bracelets?’ ‘Sure.’ He turned and left. But instead of walking up the stairs like he’d intended he found himself walking into the kitchen. What was going on!? He tried to stop but he just kept walking. As if he was being controlled by some unseen force he made his way to the cupboard under the sink. He beant down and picked up a bottle of some cleaning product. He couldn’t see what it was but he saw the words highly flammable. Crying at this point he twisted the lid off and poured the liquid onto his neck and shoulder. He was trying desperately to open his mouth to scream for help but his jaw wouldn’t move. Shaking he put down the bottle and picked up a knife that sat on the draining board. Please no, he thought. He saw the knife coming for him. Pain erupted across his face as he thrust it into his face and dragged it down across his eye. Screaming through clenched teeth he carved one side of his mouth. Sobbing and shaking violently by now he reached for his dads lighter and held it to his shirt sleeve. The flammable liquid went up in a flash drenching him in fire. Almost that same second whatever was stopping him from moving released him. Tzivah opened his mouth and let out the loudest scream ever to come from his mouth. His brother came rushing in closely followed by his dad and stepsister. ‘What happened!? What’s going... Oh shit!’ His dad yelled when he saw the state of his youngest child. ‘Get on the floor now! Vijay fill that pan with water and pour it on him! Acacia call an ambulance. The two older kids rushed to do as they were told putting the fire out as quickly as possible. Tzivah lay on the floor sobbing in pain. ‘Shh it’s ok Ziv.’ His brother shushed him. ‘You’ll be ok. Just...’ he looked up at their dad. ‘Tell him dad. Tell him he’ll be ok.’ ‘You went to number 36 didn’t you?’ the two boys stared at him. Children who eat sweets from number 36 always get hurt like this.’ ‘How?’ Vijay snapped. Their dad sat down and began smoothing Tzivah’s hair. ‘No one knows. The only reason we don’t tell you kids is because you wouldn’t believe us. It’s easier to just say because I said so.’ The three sat there in the kitchen listening to the sound of sirens approaching Tzivah sobbing loudly. At least his friends didn’t take any sweets from that old witch.

#nanowrimo #horror #horror story #short horror stories #self harm mention #implied infant death #self mutalition #i stayed up untill midnight writing this.#*until

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wellmeaningshutin · 7 years

Text

Short Story #67: Monster.

Written: 3/15/2017 Backwards Week

The hosts and the set of the morning talk show are all done up in a light blue and yellow color scheme, in an attempt to make their subject matter seem less depressing. At first the show existed to only discuss uplifting subjects, like puppies that were up for adoption and community projects led by third graders, but one of the executive producer learned that death, violence, rape, disease, and hatred were subjects that brought in more views, and more money, so the show quickly shifted gears, and gave itself a more lighter and playful look. Looking like they were girl’s dolls that had somehow come alive, the two hosts, a blond man and woman, sat on a large, sunflower yellow couch and discussed the biggest story for the past week.

“It seems like Killer Claire,” the woman announced, unsure if she should look at her co-host or the camera, so she awkwardly did both, “might finally have given indisputable proof of how evil of a person she truly is.” The male co-host stared at the camera with a Vaseline smile. “After what happened yesterday, her strongest supporters will have to think twice about claiming her innocence.”

“I hope she gets sent into prison, and never leaves.” Giving a forced laugh, the male turned to his co-host, staring at the side of her face as she stared into the camera. “People like that are just too dangerous, and they really need to be locked up. There is just no reason to have a sociopath like her walking around the streets, after she ruthlessly killed her own wife like that.”

“The thing is, I don’t just blame her. There is no doubt, it is a fact, that she is as evil as they get. But you really have to question her wife, too. I mean, what type of person would choose to marry such a horrible woman? Could you really call her death a tragedy, since she should have known that it was coming?”

It was also discovered, by the same producer who altered the subject matter, that it was easier to just have attractive people who had no idea what they talked about, instead of average looking people who were well informed. So, the original hosts were fired, and he gave their jobs to two escorts he found at a renowned, European film festival. They were a hard find, mainly because he had to find American escorts. It turned out that people preferred to listen to Americans instead of foreigners.

“Well, that’s how they just work. You can never tell who is a sociopath, and who isn’t, its like they are demons walking around in the skin of the average person. So, there was just no way for that poor woman to know who she was marrying, and the whole situation is like a modern day horror movie, all happening in real life.”

Attempting to look horrified, but instead just looking as if she was yawing, “There has to be some way to tell.”

Looking past the cameras, lost, the male host looked for somebody to give him assistance. The only information he was going off of was just a couple sentences from an article he half red, and he wasn’t even fully sure what sociopaths were. Somebody wrote on a piece of paper, and held it up for him to see, it read: Make something up. “Uh, well, you know.” He smiled past the camera, she still stared at his face, now also smiling. Another paper came up, it read: People don’t care if you’re correct, just lie. “Well,” turning to look into the camera, “I read an article, it was about a scientific study done by many of the top scientists.”

Off camera, somebody whispered to the female host, “Just stare at the camera.” She obeyed.

“Top scientists?” She asked, full of surprise. “Which ones?”

“Oh you know,” he rubbed his hands together, to settle his nerves, “A lot of them. The important ones. They said that the only way you can tell a sociopath from a real person, is by their blood.”

“Their blood?”

“Yes. Apparently, their blood has more concentrated evil in it, and can actually corrode metal. There even was a video, somewhere, of an officer of the law-”

“You have to love our boys in blue.” A producer gave her a thumbs up, then signaled her, like a stage mother, to smile.

“You sure do. The officer got blood all over him when he shot the sociopath, and it actually melted his face right off.”

“That is scary stuff, and knowing this now, I hope that Killer Clair gets the chair.”

Another paper was held up, and the guy read it. “Hashtag, Chair for Claire.” ———————————————————————————————————

They put a coat over her head to hide her identity, but it was of no use since the assault had been televised. As they marched cuffed Claire out of the studio, they were greeted by a vast crowd of reporters, all trying to get coverage of the arrest. Even though she was unable to see any of it, Claire understood the intensity of the crow, just by the effort the arresting officers had to put in to get to their car. The wall of noise, that came from the reporters trying to get their questions answered, was deafening, she could hardly pick out any specifics.

Normally, she would have loved to be in this scenario, to have all of this publicity, but now that she had it she was only agitated. If her hands weren’t cuffed she probably would have swung at somebody, maybe would have tried to smash any of their television cameras. She wanted to scream at them, but knew there was no point in it, so she just had to wait to get into the safety of the car.

Ten minutes passed before the police were able to fight their way through, and when they shoved her into the backseat, her head banged against the roof. There was a scrape, some blood, a dull pain, but Claire didn’t care. “I can’t believe we were the ones to finally do you in.” One of the officers said, she didn’t bother to look at him, Claire just stared at her feet. “You’re one sick son of a bitch, you know that?”

“I don’t think she can understand that,” the other chimed in, “that’s how these fuckers work.”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong. They do know, I think, but they just don’t care. Like, she knew it was fucked up that she cut the breaks on her wife’s car, but she just didn’t give a shit.”

“Isn’t that psychopaths?”

“No, I think.. Wait. I think psychopaths don’t understand, and sociopaths do understand. And she’s the latter, right?”

“No, I think, psychopaths are the ones that harm people, but sociopaths manipulate people. Like, when you hear the word psycho, what pops into your head?”

“Blood covered man, holding a chain saw.”

“Exactly, and when you hear society, what do you imagine then?”

“Bunch of people talking with each other.”

“So,” the officer announced proudly, proving his misguided point, “psychopaths are the violent ones, while sociopaths are the ones who manipulate and shit. Cutting the breaks on somebody’s car isn’t violent, because she didn’t hit anyone, and when you think about it, she was just manipulating the car.”

“But she just strangled somebody on national television, isn’t that violent.”

Thinking deeply about this for a second, the other officer came to a conclusion, “She must be a hybrid then.” Looking back at her, eyes full of fear and hatred, “We should be very careful about her then. For all we know, she could have wanted to have been arrested.”

“So you’re saying that this could just be a part some sick plan?”

“I have no doubt about it.” For added measure, he removed his gun and held it in his hand, just in case. “Who knows what is going on in her head.”

Claire, who tuned out somewhere during the argument over the distinctions between psycho and sociopaths, was trying to remember the words to the MASH theme song. Although the instrumentation was clear in her mind, the lyrics eluded her. ———————————————————————————————————

“Alright, welcome back, America.” The host, a man with a receding hairline, button up shirt, tie, and suspenders, announced to the camera. “We’re here with the woman known as “Killer Claire”, who has been accused of cutting the breaks on her wife's car, which led to the woman’s death. Police suspect the motives may have been to collect life and car insurance, in addition to a clear lack of morals. What do you have to say about this Claire?”

Was she supposed to smile and defend herself, showing that she didn’t care about their accusations? Or was she supposed to act grief stricken about the loss of her wife, because that might be how regular people would react. In the end, she decided to go with something safe, and talked slow and sad, while looking at the hands in her lap, occasionally making brief eye contact with the host. “Well, I’m innocent. I don’t have any idea of how the breaks were cut in the first place.”

Behind her, and the host, there was a screen that displayed Tweets from the show’s viewers. One read: Crocodile tears from a lying bitch.

“What about the reports, claiming that you have been formally diagnosed as a sociopath? Doesn’t that show that there is a strong chance that you killed her? How could you be one of those, and not kill your wife?”

This probably isn’t the first time she killed. She probably drowned those kids that were found in that abandoned pool the other day #LockHerUp

This accusation was enough for her to stare directly at him, giving up her fake routine, forgetting to blink. “What I was actually diagnosed with was antisocial personality disorder. And having that doesn’t mean I’m some psycho killer. I loved my wife.”

So she’s trying to claim that she is shy? Why does her story keep changing?

Is she trying to claim that she doesn’t love her wife anymore? What an awful human being.

“How could we trust you when you say that you aren’t a psycho killer, when you are diagnosed as a psychopath?” Her left eye twitched. “Also, wouldn’t the police only suspect you if they had good reasons to do so? Are you trying to claim that you, a manipulative, morally bankrupt human being, is more trustworthy than the men who put their lives on the line every day, just to keep this country safe? Are you trying to say-”

“Look, Chet, they didn’t even suspect fowl play until a family member of mine mentioned the ASPD. At first they thought that it was just a malfunction, an accident, so I’m not calling them liars, I’m just saying that their views are clouded by prejudice.”

She’s trying to do the calm and reasonable routine. Chet, don’t let her trick you into becoming aggravated.

The host saw this message, and said into the camera, “Don’t worry America, I won’t let her get me all flustered. I’m a professional. Now, Claire, let me ask you a simple question. How can we trust you?”

“What?”

“Well, lying and being manipulative are a part of your disorder, are they not?”

“Well-”

“So, since you have been professionally diagnosed as being a compulsive liar, a wolf in sheep's clothing, somebody who cannot feel remorse or shame, how can we trust you?”

She’s sweating! Oh man, he’s got her cornered, what a fucking pro

Claire wondered if this was some sort of nightmare, but the pain she received from digging her nails into her forearm proved that it was indeed real. “I didn’t kill my wife. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“That’s for the courtrooms, this is television.”

They should water board her for what she did, how could anybody do that to a human being?

You have to be morally bankrupt to kill somebody, obviously she’s evil. I volunteer to shoot that bitch dead.

I hope she tries to flee so that there can be a manhunt. I would love to see her get torn apart by police dogs.

Does anybody know where Chet gets his ties?

Wondering why she agreed to do the interview in the first place, Claire began to stand up and remove the microphone from her clothing. “I don’t need this bullshit.”

“Please don’t swear on air.”

Placing the mic close to her mouth, “Go fuck yourself Chet, I’m leaving.”

“Well, America, it looks like she has nothing to say. It looks like she’s not that big of a sociopath anyways, but then again, we ask the hard questions, and even the coldest killer is hard pressed to find a way out of our verbal judo. By being unable to answer any of these questions, she has essentially proven her guilt, and it wont be long until we’ll see her on death row. Remember, lock your doors, make sure your children are safe, because Killer Claire is still on the loose, she has not-”

I’m serious about that tie. He always has great ties, but I can never figure out what brand they are.

They should cut her tongue out so that she never lies again.

As she walked away, knowing that she didn’t need any of the bullshit, something shifted Clair’s carefree attitude into pure anger. Looking back on this moment, she wasn’t sure if it was the comment advising people to protect their families, maybe it was the way that the audience leered at her, but most likely, it was both of those combined with a memory of the last beach trip she went on with her wife. A thought sprung into her head, and impulsively, she acted on it. Turning around, slowly and coolly walking towards Chet, Claire appeared back on the camera.

Snidely turning to her, the host asked, “Are you ready for round-” Claire quickly grabbed the back of his head, and slammed his face down into his desk. Nose bleeding, looking terrified, he raised his head, unsure of what was happening, and then she placed her hands around his throat. Wondering how it would feel to crush throat, to feel it break under the pressure she provided, Claire was able to stare at his frightened, bleeding, dying face for about twenty seconds until the camera men rushed in to pull her off of him. Everyone else in the studio was frozen in disbelief.

Delilah, will you marry me? ———————————————————————————————————

Surprised to hear the doorbell ring, Claire began to make her way to the front door. Everyone had been giving her space to grieve, and she wondered if they thought that there had been enough time for her to return to the world. It wasn’t clear how long grieving was supposed to last, and it seemed like the only times she cried was when she forced herself to. Basically, she had to think over and over about how sad it was that her wife died, and if she focused long enough like this then a couple tears would come out. If she was able to maintain focus for long enough, she would be able to enter a state of real sobbing, but she mainly only did this once a day, just because she felt like it was what she was supposed to do.

Also, it just felt nice to cry, because it was like it proved that she was still a tiny bit human inside, even if she stopped being sad when something else caught her attention. It was just nice to know that, in some capacity, she still had emotions.

When she answered the door, she was surprised to see a man and a woman who she assumed were detectives. The woman was the only one who spoke for the whole visit, and she assumed that this might have been because they felt like she may be more willing to open up to someone of the same gender. “Is it okay if we come inside?”

Keeping the door cracked open, guardedly staring out, Claire did not like where this was going. “What is this about?”

“We wanted to talk to you about your wife’s death.”

“That was an accident.”

“We thought so too, but we heard that you are diagnosed as antisocial, so we decided to look further into the case.”

“Who told you?”

“So you are not denying this?”

“What are you implying right now?”

“We have reason to believe that you may have been responsible for the death of your wife. Now, the car was totaled, so there is no way to know that the breaks weren’t cut, but-”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No, ma’am, we-”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“No, we-”

“Then fuck off.” ———————————————————————————————————

When she got home from work the house had been empty. It was a little unusual, because her wife was normally home at this time, but it was also reasonable assume that she was out, doing some sort of errands. Maybe she was talking to some old friends. Later, unbeknownst to Claire, people would think that it was a sign of guilt that she watched television until eleven at night, never attempting to contact her wife, but really Claire knew that she was her own person, and if she wanted to call she would call.

The call did finally come, but it wasn’t the one she expected. She didn’t even recognize the number, but something told her that she should answer. “Are you Claire, uh, Beth’s wife?”

“Yeah, who is this?”

“This is her friend, uh, its unimportant. We’re all wondering, well, are you planning on seeing her tonight?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Really?” Her voice sounded alarmed, confused, nothing good.

“What’s going on?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“No, wait, what’s?”

“Oh god, do I have to be the one to tell you? Shit. I should’ve made somebody else, oh well. She’s dead?”

Cold and indifferent, “Really?”

“Yes, they think the breaks stopped working, there was a crash, its all-”

“Hm. Send me the location, and I’ll drive over I guess.”

The moment was strange for Claire, mainly because she realized that she should’ve assumed something was wrong. At least, she was sure that a normal person would assume something was wrong. Although she never showed it, in her voice or her body language, from that moment on she had given up on caring about life. Who did she have to impress anymore, who did she have to act normal for? All of the friends she made had been dull, but she stayed in contact with them because that was what Beth needed. Her whole social life had formed, because that’s what Beth needed. If it was up to her, they would forget about the outside world, and just spend most of their time with each other, but she knew that her wife had different needs than her, so she changed to satisfy those needs.

Most people would have trouble changing, but Claire believed that was because they all had firm ideas of who they were, and it was unquestionable for them to be any different. She saw a lot of people suffer, only because their self images were shattered. When she was a child, her father always talked about his martial arts classes, and how he would be able to take anybody in a fight, but one night he was mugged in a back alley, and ended up being hospitalized. After that, he became miserable, and not because of the hospital bills or the injury, but because he had lost a fight to somebody he thought was below him. Throughout her life she had seen plenty of other people experience this sort of loss of identity, and she never understood why she never suffered that, until one day she realized she had no identity. She altered herself depending on who she talked to, never being genuine, never caring about the person she spoke to.

And then she met Beth, and realized that in a way, she could become genuine. When they talked, she realized that she wasn’t picking her words carefully, she wasn’t trying to guess what Beth wanted to hear, she just spoke. When she experienced that connection for the first time, it somehow made her feel whole, made her feel real, and it was the first and only genuine connection she would ever have with another person. Sure, she made an effort to become liked by her Wife’s friends, but this was more of a romantic gesture than anything, it was genuine in the sense that she was only doing it because she wanted her wife to be happy. Isn’t that love

Although, she ended up not going to see the body, it was because she was too busy thinking about all of this. She wanted to spend that night with the memory of her dead wife, instead of going and seeing the remains. What could she possibly gain from seeing a corpse? It wasn’t her wife, it was just an object. Her wife was gone, but the memory wasn’t, so she decided to stay home with that, and she figured everyone would understand.

#Free Write #Short Story #Writers on Tumblr #Antisocial #Media

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