Roger laughed—a hollow, grating sound—and leered at Stein.
“It doesn't matter now, but just wait.”
Stein pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead, over his left eye. “Fuck,” he growled. His head was throbbing, like a bad drug-induced trip, and the wave took him completely by surprise, knocking him flat on his back before the sky fell in. Undulations of red bloody falls and crushed blue velvet dropped into view and a mad rush of sound, like air escaping a hatch, enveloped his senses. It was a vacuum, and he felt the breath sucked from his useless lungs. He couldn't speak or move. His body visibly vibrated with the sudden onslaught (such power) like Heroin, like horse, and chocolate martinis and lipstick-stained champagne glasses. A banner of blasting rays, so blazingly light he felt as if the skin would simply slide down his skull, and reveal gaping hollowed eye sockets.
Wait. Who the fuck was Marquez?
“Marq,” Roger said, echoing his thoughts. Stein clenched his fists so tight his fingernails dug bloody grooves into his (glass covered) palms.
It was exhilaration, like none he'd ever experienced, a sticky residue of cocaine trapped at the bottom of a jar of buzzing flies. A dead carcass, and Ramona's body lay in among the slaughtered cattle.
Who was she?
“It doesn't matter,” Roger said. Stein opened his eyes. He felt he could run a million miles in any given direction and never stop. He felt like flying and diving and swooping on a deep downdraft, over mountains and valleys and streams...
I'm babbling. Jibberish. Who the fuck was Ramona? Where did she go? Why did she disappear?
His mouth gave no speech but Roger smirked.
“She's gone Cristein. Inside you. Gone forever. Can't you feel the power? Can't you just imagine your energy lighting a metropolitan city at this very moment?”
“I feel like a million bucks,” Stein said hoarsely and rose to hunch over pointed knees. He hugged his legs and pressed his cheek there. His mouth was dry. Crunchy.
“The glass again? So soon,” Roger said, almost apologetically.
“What happened to Ramona?”
Roger sighed through his nose. “Get up. You'll find no answers there sitting on the ground.”
Stein rose to his feet and rolled his head back on his shoulders. He looked at his hands, unmarked by blood or glass.
“You took her into you. Her energy became yours.”
“Bullshit,” Stein said, pushing Roger away from him. Roger was hotter than hot, but he didn't care. He wanted to be alone. To understand and digest what had just happened. “I didn't eat her.”
“Just her soul,” Roger said, that same sardonic grin on his face. His sharp teeth glittered in the dying sun.
“I can’t eat souls.”
“It would seem you are mistaken Cristein.”
“If I ate her soul, that would make her—“
“Gone,” Roger finished, “Yes. Gone. Food for you. Too bad for her. Hers was an innocent soul.”
“Stop saying that,” Stein said, “I don't eat souls. I'm not one of your damn minions or what the fuck ever you call them.”
“You are a soul eater.”
“Fuck you Roger.”
“It's time to tell you some things I only suspected up until now. Yours is not a human soul. Yours is not of the living world. You are a soul-eater, and that is that. You feed on the dead souls.”
“I'm human goddamnit.”
“Oh I love the way you believe in a God.”
“There is a God.”
“Is there Cristein?” Roger extended an arm to indicate the barren landscape. The house was gone, reduced to smoldering ashes. “Not here. There is no God here in this place.”
“I don't eat souls. I was a living man.”
“You know very well now that there is something different about you. You stole your sister's life, damning her soul forever.”
Stein pressed his lips so hard together; he felt they would spurt blood. His hands unclenched to press the heel of his palm into his left eye.
“I am human. I had a life. My name was Cristein Chamberlain.”
“Your body is human. You, Cristein, are not. You never were. You never will be. Accept this and we'll move on.”
“Mother. Fucker,” Stein snarled and shoved Roger down, pouncing on his chest afterwards. He held his scalding wrists high over his head.
“I am human.”
“You are not.”
With a roar of defiance, Stein punched Roger in the jaw.
“You can't hurt me Cristein.”
Isobel sat sentient at the edge of the clearing, her silent headlights giving no acknowledgment.
Welcome to my reading room. The works showcased here will most likely be first draft. Red pencils are most certainly welcome.
The 500 concept story begins here.
The 500 concept story begins here.
These works may have shocking content, whether it be sexual, graphic or otherwise twisted. That said, if you aren't much of a horror fan, Carrie Clevenger's Reading Room is probably not for you.
All of these works are copyright, all rights reserved by Carrie Clevenger. I will electrocute. Promise.
Enjoy your stay.
"500" WIP Installments in Order:
Hell's Kitchen (Light Graphic Content)
Cocktail (Light Graphic Content)