The Dark: An Excerpt
Hello gentle readers! Today, I thought I would change up my normal offerings and instead submit an excerpt from a psychological thriller I have been working on. Please enjoy!
I am a monster. From the time I was small, I knew I wasn’t like other children, nor was my family life like that of other children. It was always different, in a non-comprehensible way. I can remember little of my mother, as she passed away when I was quite young. My father, on the other hand, was the one who should have died early. I hated him then, and I still hate him now. I am a monster because although I know it is wrong to kill, I cannot help but to feed the Dark gnawing away inside me. The Dark, as I call it, had shaped my being and impacted my life ever since it surfaced. My father created the Dark within me, and the devastation I have since visited upon the unsuspecting people I sacrifice have only but to thank him in their own version of hell. The Dark has made me the monster I am. I am the boogeyman in your closet, the nightmare on your street, the evil you cannot deny. I am the soul stealer, the life-changer- Alpha and Omega; judge, jury, executioner. I am omnipotent; I am an avenging angel…I am a god.[bctt tweet=”I am the soul stealer, the life-changer. I am a god. #darkfiction #ourwriteside #amreading” username=”OurWriteSide”]
My story begins as most children’s does: a modest home with mother and father who still strove for the finer things life had to offer. That is where my story begins to be so very different. My family wasn’t like the Jonses next door, or the Krolls down the block. Their children didn’t wear blackened eyes. Their mothers didn’t have broken bones They were obsessed with conformity, and never worried about hiding the drunken abuse the animal who fathered me routinely put us through. I suppose in retrospect, there was no other ending my mother could have come to.
Once, she had tried to leave, carefully buckling my seat belt and trying to start the engine. She frantically turned the key in the ignition over and over, crying as she became more terrified. Her hopes were dashed when the drunken bastard stepped outside onto the front porch, holding the spark plug wires from her car in one hand, and laughing maniacally as he jeered at her. Even now, the piteous screams haunt my thoughts when I drift back into the past. She didn’t recover for weeks. When she died, I knew he had killed her, and I vowed I would make it right.