Fiction: An Exercise in Cruelty

EDIT: The title was rubbish so it's been changed, and there's been a minor alteration to one sentence in the second scene. Blink and you'll miss it. ;) Cheerio!

Hello folks,

Not entirely sure what happened in my brain but this week's flash fiction challenge response is decidedly not my usual style. It's probably nsfw (fair warning: there's quite a bit of swearing) and involves implied violence. I'd say enjoy but that doesn't quite seem fitting... 

An Exercise in Cruelty

The man puts the phone down and turns the envelope over in his gloved hands. This letter is his best so far. It’s neat and professional; makes him feel like an artist instead of an amateur. He’s proud, and rightly so. Carefully, he adjusts his burden, and leaves via the laundry door. He slips the letter in the mailbox on the way to his car.

><><>< 

It’s bone cold when Parker gets back to the precinct. The snow’s coming down harder now and his fingers feel cold and clammy. Griesley follows at his heels, huffing and swearing like a sailor.

“Fucking hell,” Griesley says, tumbling through their office door and shedding his raincoat. “I fucking hate anonymous tipoffs. I fucking hate bloody serial killers with stupid fucking leather masks and weird patterns and—fuck, I fucking hate fucking snow.”

Griesley is Australian. It shows.

“We all do, Griese, we all do.”

Parker kneels down to hold his hands out in front of the mini-heater he’d bought when they got sick of the AC breaking down, and which Griesley had promptly named ‘George’.

“It’s not bloody right. We were supposed to knock off hours ago. Fucking wankers and their fucking tipoffs.” Griesley exhales and turns back to his partner. “Are you heading home?”

Parker nods and Griesley sits beside him with all the grace of a baby giraffe.

“My place tomorrow?”

“Can’t,” Parker says, slouching. “I’m sorry. I’ve got Mia this week. Karen’s already irritated about me working tonight.”

Parker opens his mouth to apologise again but shuts it when Griesley pulls him closer and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“Hey, it’s fine. I get it.”

Griesley squeezes him briefly before releasing him. Parker understands; there’s a window set into the door behind them. Better not to risk it. He stands.

“I’d best head off then,” he says, brushing carpet fluff off his knees. “It’s nearly one…”

“Yeah, alright.”

Parker collects his things and leaves with a last smile and nod. It’s not enough for either of them.

><><>< 

Parker arrives home to silence. He pauses at the door, waiting for the hurried pattering of socked feet that reveals an evening spent playing Pageant Star (a vicious children’s game of simulated beauty pageants that he hadn’t figured out how to block yet) on his computer instead of sleeping. He ducks in to check on Mia on his way past, but stubs his toe on her miniature pink rocking chair as he’s approaching her bed and has to bite his lip to hold back a torrent of swear words that would undoubtedly wake Mia and make Karen very, very angry with him. Neither prospect is particularly appealing. He beats a hasty retreat.

><><>< 

The morning comes too quickly for Parker, who flails sluggishly for the snooze button no less than three times before dragging himself out of bed to get Mia ready for school. He shuffles into the kitchen and puts the kettle on with practiced inattention, wondering abstractly if the odd noise it emits when he flicks the switch is something he should be worried about. Yawning, he pulls a bowl out of the cupboard and sets it down next to the unopened carton of some horrifically sugary breakfast cereal that Karen probably wouldn’t let within two feet of their daughter.

Ten minutes later, Parker has drunk half of his cup of tea (and is feeling a little more human, if only a very little) and has begun going through the post when his phone rings.

“Parker, they’ve found another one.”

Parker feels as though the milky tea in his stomach has curdled.

“Where?”

The underling—Frank or Fred something like that—tells him.

Swearing, Parker writes down the address and hangs up. Scribbling a quick note for Mia and leaving a voicemail on Karen’s phone, he slaps the next letter—a neat professional looking thing that makes him think it must’ve been meant for the accountant next door—back down on the counter and almost flies out of the house.

><><>< 

Griesley’s there when Parker arrives. There’s an officer standing by the yellow crime scene tape. He flashes his badge—the officer nods—and ducks under the tape.

“Why the fuck would you call him?” Parker can hear Griesley yelling. Parker frowns. “Fucking hell—”

Griesley turns away from the unfortunate underling and catches sight of him. Their eyes lock and Griesley’s face goes the colour of porridge. Then he’s moving towards Parker like reaching him is the most important thing he’ll ever do.

“What’s going on?”

“You shouldn’t be here. Fuck. I don’t—” Griesley is pushing him away but Parker doesn’t move. “You don’t want to see this, Parks, please—”

“See what?” Parker says, giving Griesley an odd look and trying to step around him.

“No!”

Griesley tries to turn him away but it’s too late. Parker’s eyes fix on a point behind Griesley’s head and for a full minute he just stares, insensible to everything. He can barely feel Griesley’s hands pressing at him, or hear his voice breaking as he begs Parker to leave. It’s as if he’s been plunged underwater. Everything is suddenly very far away, like the world has receded to exist only on the fringes of his awareness.

His eyes trail upwards slowly, from the tiny camel-coloured ugg boots, to the cuffs of a pair of pink flannelette pyjamas, and up and up until he’s staring at the ropes that bind the girl to the road sign, and then further and oh god he doesn’t want to see this but he can’t stop himself and her face is obscured by a curtain of strawberry blonde hair but he still knows, he still fucking knows—and the world comes back. It rushes in, filling his senses, and everything is too loud and too bright and he thinks he’s going to vomit and then, very suddenly, there is nothing but blackness.

END.

Fiction: Marooned

Greetings!

Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge this week was called Down The TV Tropes Rabbit Hole. It took me about zero-point-six seconds to decide that answering it would be much, much more entertaining than doing my Classics essay. No prizes for figuring out what got written first. Miraculously, Marooned clocked in just under the 1k target at 999 words. The trope I used can be found here, but it's probably best to read the story first. Enjoy!

Marooned

Dodderidge Marsh surveyed her guest with ill-concealed apathy. His dark hair was wild and unkempt, his shirtsleeves hung open at the cuffs—the buttons had snapped—and he was barefoot, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. If she’d been thirty years younger, she might have thought him rather dashing, but she wasn’t; all she could think of was that she’d liked him much better when he was half-dead and incapable of speech.

“This is ridiculous,” he was saying, running his fingers through his hair—really not helping matters there, son, she thought—as if it might stimulate a latent brilliance for escapology. “Who gets shipwrecked these days anyway?”

“I don’t think it counts as shipwrecked if the ship didn’t wash up on shore with you,” Dodderidge said reasonably.

“What? Oh fine. Marooned on an island, if it suits you better.”

“It does.”

“Very well, but that’s hardly very important—um, Dudley was it?”

“Dodderidge.”

“Right. Dodderidge. Thomas Fletcher,” he gestured haphazardly to himself. “Are you sure you don’t have a phone or a radio or something?”

“Dead sure.”

“What about a telegraph?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

There was a moment of blessed silence.

“You don’t happen to know how to send smoke signals, do you?”

“No.”

“Do you have any way at all of communicating with the rest of the world?”

“Let me think about that…” Dodderidge began slowly. “No, oddly enough, I haven’t acquired any telecommunications devices at all since the last time you asked.”

“For heaven’s sake, Dodderidge, we can’t afford to be petty in a time like this.”

“On the contrary, Mr Fletcher. You might have forgotten but you drifted ashore onto my beach. I have a beach; I can afford a great deal of pettiness.”

Thomas looked at her severely. She quirked an eyebrow, leaned back in her chair and smiled cheerfully.

“But I also have a hut; maybe I can afford some sarcasm to go with my triviality.”

Thomas sighed. “Look here, Dodderidge, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. I don’t mean to insult you; I just want to get off this island.”

“And believe me, boy, there’s little I want more than to help you do just that, but the fact is that I can’t. Not right now.”

“…Is this the part where you lie and tell me that it’s impossible to leave the island because you think I need to rediscover myself before I can click my heels and go home? Because I just think you should know that I really don’t care about the state of my soul—”

“That makes two of us.”

“—also, I hate meditation, I don’t drink tea, and I did karate when I was twelve; believe me, there is no inner ninja hidden under this pasty white flesh.”

“I have absolutely no interest in your inner anything, so sit down and shut up.” Thomas perched gingerly on the side of Dodderidge’s bed. “Have some brandy,” she offered. “It’ll pass the time.”

Thomas stared at Dodderidge, mouth agape. “You cannot be serious,” he spluttered. “I am not going to sit around here, drinking brandy, for however long it takes to develop alcohol poisoning and die!”

“You don’t like brandy?”

“Nobody likes brandy!”

“I like brandy,” Dodderidge said, offended.

“You don’t count.”

“And why not?”

“Because—” Thomas faltered. “Oh, it’s not important. Look, we’ve just got to—”

“Thomas,” Dodderidge interrupted him. “How long do you think I’ve been here?”

Thomas’ mouth wriggled as he considered. 

“I’ve no idea,” he said finally.

“Twenty-three years.”

“…With the brandy?”

“With the brandy,” she confirmed. “And I’m not dead yet, am I?”

“So I’ve got at least twenty-three years left!” Thomas smiled in a way that portended unpleasant, possibly hysterical, conversation. Dodderidge cringed. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Did I give the impression of wanting to make you feel better? I apologise; that was not my intention.”

“You cannot possibly expect me to stay here—indefinitely!” Thomas spluttered desperately.

“Certainly not!” Dodderidge exclaimed, appalled by the very thought.

“Oh,” Thomas said faintly, staring at Dodderidge—he was doing a lot of that and she was getting quite fed up of it—as if some great secret had revealed itself in her crow’s feet.

“What the matter, boy?” Dodderidge barked, shifting under his continued scrutiny. Thomas didn’t answer for a long moment, and then he began to laugh. Dodderidge’s face contorted in alarm; it would be just her luck to get a mad one.

“It’s just—” he said, giggling oddly. “I’ve just realised, you see. You must’ve known this whole time, but I’ve only just realised…”

“Realised what, you wanker?”

“Well, you’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

Dodderidge closed her eyes, lamenting her choice to help the bastard.

“Alright,” she said straightening in her chair and fixing Thomas with a firm glare. “I’ve had about enough of this. You pipe down with the histrionics, and I’ll tell you what’s what. Understood?”

Thomas nodded.

“Firstly: I’m not going to kill you, even if you are the most irritating thing this side of the equator. Secondly: I’m not stuck here; I’m a hermit—”

“A hermit?” Thomas exclaimed, with the kind of shock that might have been reasonable if she’d just declared that she was involved in an amorous relationship with a penguin, but was quite unnecessary here.

“Yes. A recluse, an eremite, whatever you want to call it—”

“But why?”

“This might’ve escaped your notice, but I don’t like people. But don’t worry, you’re not trapped here—well, only for a few hours. At about half past seven tonight we’ll have low tide; there’s a sandbar that runs from here to the main island. You can walk over then, easy as you please.”

Thomas blinked. “Oh.”

“Yes. Now don’t you feel silly?” Dodderidge said smartly, reaching down to pick up her discarded copy of War and Peace. “You young people…One catastrophe after the next. Now shut up, I’m reading.”

END